CHAPTER VII:  SIGNS OF THE NEW ORDER OF THINGS CATCH MY FATHER’S EYE ON EVERY SIDE

He had not gone far before a turn in the path—­now rapidly widening—­showed him two high towers, seemingly some two miles off; these he felt sure must be at Sunch’ston, he therefore stepped out, lest he should find the shops shut before he got there.

On his former visit he had seen little of the town, for he was in prison during his whole stay.  He had had a glimpse of it on being brought there by the people of the village where he had spent his first night in Erewhon—­a village which he had seen at some little distance on his right hand, but which it would have been out of his way to visit, even if he had wished to do so; and he had seen the Museum of old machines, but on leaving the prison he had been blindfolded.  Nevertheless he felt sure that if the towers had been there he should have seen them, and rightly guessed that they must belong to the temple which was to be dedicated to himself on Sunday.

When he had passed through the suburbs he found himself in the main street.  Space will not allow me to dwell on more than a few of the things which caught his eye, and assured him that the change in Erewhonian habits and opinions had been even more cataclysmic than he had already divined.  The first important building that he came to proclaimed itself as the College of Spiritual Athletics, and in the window of a shop that was evidently affiliated to the college he saw an announcement that moral try-your-strengths, suitable for every kind of ordinary temptation, would be provided on the shortest notice.  Some of those that aimed at the more common kinds of temptation were kept in stock, but these consisted chiefly of trials to the temper.  On dropping, for example, a penny into a slot, you could have a jet of fine pepper, flour, or brickdust, whichever you might prefer, thrown on to your face, and thus discover whether your composure stood in need of further development or no.  My father gathered this from the writing that was pasted on to the try-your-strength, but he had no time to go inside the shop and test either the machine or his own temper.  Other temptations to irritability required the agency of living people, or at any rate living beings.  Crying children, screaming parrots, a spiteful monkey, might be hired on ridiculously easy terms.  He saw one advertisement, nicely framed, which ran as follows:-

   “Mrs. Tantrums, Nagger, certificated by the College of Spiritual
   Athletics.  Terms for ordinary nagging, two shillings and sixpence per
   hour.  Hysterics extra.”

Then followed a series of testimonials—­for example:-

“Dear Mrs. Tantrums,—­I have for years been tortured with a husband of unusually peevish, irritable temper, who made my life so intolerable that I sometimes answered him in a way that led to his using personal violence towards me.  After taking a course of twelve sittings from you, I found my husband’s temper comparatively angelic, and we have ever since lived together in complete harmony.”

Another was from a husband:-

“Mr. —–­ presents his compliments to Mrs. Tantrums, and begs to assure her that her extra special hysterics have so far surpassed anything his wife can do, as to render him callous to those attacks which he had formerly found so distressing.”

There were many others of a like purport, but time did not permit my father to do more than glance at them.  He contented himself with the two following, of which the first ran:-

“He did try it at last.  A little correction of the right kind taken at the right moment is invaluable.  No more swearing.  No more bad language of any kind.  A lamb-like temper ensured in about twenty minutes, by a single dose of one of our spiritual indigestion tabloids.  In cases of all the more ordinary moral ailments, from simple lying, to homicidal mania, in cases again of tendency to hatred, malice, and uncharitableness; of atrophy or hypertrophy of the conscience, of costiveness or diarrhoea of the sympathetic instincts, &c., &c., our spiritual indigestion tabloids will afford unfailing and immediate relief.

   “N.B.—­A bottle or two of our Sunchild Cordial will assist the
   operation of the tabloids.”

The second and last that I can give was as follows:-

“All else is useless.  If you wish to be a social success, make yourself a good listener.  There is no short cut to this.  A would-be listener must learn the rudiments of his art and go through the mill like other people.  If he would develop a power of suffering fools gladly, he must begin by suffering them without the gladness.  Professor Proser, ex-straightener, certificated bore, pragmatic or coruscating, with or without anecdotes, attends pupils at their own houses.  Terms moderate.

“Mrs. Proser, whose success as a professional mind-dresser is so well- known that lengthened advertisement is unnecessary, prepares ladies or gentlemen with appropriate remarks to be made at dinner-parties or at- homes.  Mrs. P. keeps herself well up to date with all the latest scandals.”

“Poor, poor, straighteners!” said my father to himself.  “Alas! that it should have been my fate to ruin you—­for I suppose your occupation is gone.”

Tearing himself away from the College of Spiritual Athletics and its affiliated shop, he passed on a few doors, only to find himself looking in at what was neither more nor less than a chemist’s shop.  In the window there were advertisements which showed that the practice of medicine was now legal, but my father could not stay to copy a single one of the fantastic announcements that a hurried glance revealed to him.

It was also plain here, as from the shop already more fully described, that the edicts against machines had been repealed, for there were physical try-your-strengths, as in the other shop there had been moral ones, and such machines under the old law would not have been tolerated for a moment.

My father made his purchases just as the last shops were closing.  He noticed that almost all of them were full of articles labelled “Dedication.”  There was Dedication gingerbread, stamped with a moulded representation of the new temple; there were Dedication syrups, Dedication pocket-handkerchiefs, also shewing the temple, and in one corner giving a highly idealised portrait of my father himself.  The chariot and the horses figured largely, and in the confectioners’ shops there were models of the newly discovered relic—­made, so my father thought, with a little heap of cherries or strawberries, smothered in chocolate.  Outside one tailor’s shop he saw a flaring advertisement which can only be translated, “Try our Dedication trousers, price ten shillings and sixpence.”

Presently he passed the new temple, but it was too dark for him to do more than see that it was a vast fane, and must have cost an untold amount of money.  At every turn he found himself more and more shocked, as he realised more and more fully the mischief he had already occasioned, and the certainty that this was small as compared with that which would grow up hereafter.

“What,” he said to me, very coherently and quietly, “was I to do?  I had struck a bargain with that dear fellow, though he knew not what I meant, to the effect that I should try to undo the harm I had done, by standing up before the people on Sunday and saying who I was.  True, they would not believe me.  They would look at my hair and see it black, whereas it should be very light.  On this they would look no further, but very likely tear me in pieces then and there.  Suppose that the authorities held a post-mortem examination, and that many who knew me (let alone that all my measurements and marks were recorded twenty years ago) identified the body as mine:  would those in power admit that I was the Sunchild?  Not they.  The interests vested in my being now in the palace of the sun are too great to allow of my having been torn to pieces in Sunch’ston, no matter how truly I had been torn; the whole thing would be hushed up, and the utmost that could come of it would be a heresy which would in time be crushed.

“On the other hand, what business have I with ‘would be’ or ’would not be?’ Should I not speak out, come what may, when I see a whole people being led astray by those who are merely exploiting them for their own ends?  Though I could do but little, ought I not to do that little?  What did that good fellow’s instinct—­so straight from heaven, so true, so healthy—­tell him?  What did my own instinct answer?  What would the conscience of any honourable man answer?  Who can doubt?

“And yet, is there not reason? and is it not God-given as much as instinct?  I remember having heard an anthem in my young days, ’O where shall wisdom be found? the deep saith it is not in me.’  As the singers kept on repeating the question, I kept on saying sorrowfully to myself—­’Ah, where, where, where?’ and when the triumphant answer came, ’The fear of the Lord, that is wisdom, and to depart from evil is understanding,’ I shrunk ashamed into myself for not having foreseen it.  In later life, when I have tried to use this answer as a light by which I could walk, I found it served but to the raising of another question, ‘What is the fear of the Lord, and what is evil in this particular case?’ And my easy method with spiritual dilemmas proved to be but a case of ignotum per ignotius.

“If Satan himself is at times transformed into an angel of light, are not angels of light sometimes transformed into the likeness of Satan?  If the devil is not so black as he is painted, is God always so white?  And is there not another place in which it is said, ’The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom,’ as though it were not the last word upon the subject?  If a man should not do evil that good may come, so neither should he do good that evil may come; and though it were good for me to speak out, should I not do better by refraining?

“Such were the lawless and uncertain thoughts that tortured me very cruelly, so that I did what I had not done for many a long year—­I prayed for guidance.  ‘Shew me Thy will, O Lord,’ I cried in great distress, ‘and strengthen me to do it when Thou hast shewn it me.’  But there was no answer.  Instinct tore me one way and reason another.  Whereon I settled that I would obey the reason with which God had endowed me, unless the instinct He had also given me should thrash it out of me.  I could get no further than this, that the Lord hath mercy on whom He will have mercy, and whom He willeth He hardeneth; and again I prayed that I might be among those on whom He would shew His mercy.

“This was the strongest internal conflict that I ever remember to have felt, and it was at the end of it that I perceived the first, but as yet very faint, symptoms of that sickness from which I shall not recover.  Whether this be a token of mercy or no, my Father which is in heaven knows, but I know not.”

From what my father afterwards told me, I do not think the above reflections had engrossed him for more than three or four minutes; the giddiness which had for some seconds compelled him to lay hold of the first thing he could catch at in order to avoid falling, passed away without leaving a trace behind it, and his path seemed to become comfortably clear before him.  He settled it that the proper thing to do would be to buy some food, start back at once while his permit was still valid, help himself to the property which he had sold the Professors, leaving the Erewhonians to wrestle as they best might with the lot that it had pleased Heaven to send them.

This, however, was too heroic a course.  He was tired, and wanted a night’s rest in a bed; he was hungry, and wanted a substantial meal; he was curious, moreover, to see the temple dedicated to himself, and hear Hanky’s sermon; there was also this further difficulty, he should have to take what he had sold the Professors without returning them their 4 pounds, 10s., for he could not do without his blanket, &c.; and even if he left a bag of nuggets made fast to the sucker, he must either place it where it could be seen so easily that it would very likely get stolen, or hide it so cleverly that the Professors would never find it.  He therefore compromised by concluding that he would sup and sleep in Sunch’ston, get through the morrow as he best could without attracting attention, deepen the stain on his face and hair, and rely on the change so made in his appearance to prevent his being recognised at the dedication of the temple.  He would do nothing to disillusion the people—­to do this would only be making bad worse.  As soon as the service was over, he would set out towards the preserves, and, when it was well dark, make for the statues.  He hoped that on such a great day the rangers might be many of them in Sunch’ston; if there were any about, he must trust the moonless night and his own quick eyes and ears to get him through the preserves safely.

The shops were by this time closed, but the keepers of a few stalls were trying by lamplight to sell the wares they had not yet got rid of.  One of these was a bookstall, and, running his eye over some of the volumes, my father saw one entitled—­

“The Sayings of the Sunchild during his stay in Erewhon, to which is added a true account of his return to the palace of the sun with his Erewhonian bride.  This is the only version authorised by the Presidents and Vice-Presidents of the Musical Banks; all other versions being imperfect and inaccurate.—­Bridgeford, XVIII., 150 pp. 8vo.  Price 3s.

The reader will understand that I am giving the prices as nearly as I can in their English equivalents.  Another title was—­

   “The Sacrament of Divorce:  an Occasional Sermon preached by Dr.
   Gurgoyle, President of the Musical Banks for the Province of
   Sunch’ston. 8vo, 16 pp. 6d.

Other titles ran—­

   “Counsels of Imperfection.” 8vo, 20 pp. 6d.

   “Hygiene; or, How to Diagnose your Doctor. 8vo, 10 pp. 3d.

   “The Physics of Vicarious Existence,” by Dr. Gurgoyle, President of
   the Musical Banks for the Province of Sunch’ston. 8vo, 20 pp. 6d.

There were many other books whose titles would probably have attracted my father as much as those that I have given, but he was too tired and hungry to look at more.  Finding that he could buy all the foregoing for 4s. 9d., he bought them and stuffed them into the valise that he had just bought.  His purchases in all had now amounted to a little over 1 pound, 10s. (silver), leaving him about 3 pounds (silver), including the money for which he had sold the quails, to carry him on till Sunday afternoon.  He intended to spend say 2 pounds (silver), and keep the rest of the money in order to give it to the British Museum.

He now began to search for an inn, and walked about the less fashionable parts of the town till he found an unpretending tavern, which he thought would suit him.  Here, on importunity, he was given a servant’s room at the top of the house, all others being engaged by visitors who had come for the dedication.  He ordered a meal, of which he stood in great need, and having eaten it, he retired early for the night.  But he smoked a pipe surreptitiously up the chimney before he got into bed.

Meanwhile other things were happening, of which, happily for his repose, he was still ignorant, and which he did not learn till a few days later.  Not to depart from chronological order I will deal with them in my next chapter.

CHAPTER VIII:  YRAM, NOW MAYORESS, GIVES A DINNER-PARTY, IN THE COURSE OF WHICH SHE IS DISQUIETED BY WHAT SHE LEARNS FROM PROFESSOR HANKY:  SHE SENDS FOR HER SON GEORGE AND QUESTIONS HIM

The Professors, returning to their hotel early on the Friday morning, found a note from the Mayoress urging them to be her guests during the remainder of their visit, and to meet other friends at dinner on this same evening.  They accepted, and then went to bed; for they had passed the night under the tree in which they had hidden their purchase, and, as may be imagined, had slept but little.  They rested all day, and transferred themselves and their belongings to the Mayor’s house in time to dress for dinner.

When they came down into the drawing-room they found a brilliant company assembled, chiefly Musical-Bankical like themselves.  There was Dr. Downie, Professor of Logomachy, and perhaps the most subtle dialectician in Erewhon.  He could say nothing in more words than any man of his generation.  His text-book on the “Art of Obscuring Issues” had passed through ten or twelve editions, and was in the hands of all aspirants for academic distinction.  He had earned a high reputation for sobriety of judgement by resolutely refusing to have definite views on any subject; so safe a man was he considered, that while still quite young he had been appointed to the lucrative post of Thinker in Ordinary to the Royal Family.  There was Mr. Principal Crank, with his sister Mrs. Quack; Professors Gabb and Bawl, with their wives and two or three erudite daughters.

Old Mrs. Humdrum (of whom more anon) was there of course, with her venerable white hair and rich black satin dress, looking the very ideal of all that a stately old dowager ought to be.  In society she was commonly known as Ydgrun, so perfectly did she correspond with the conception of this strange goddess formed by the Erewhonians.  She was one of those who had visited my father when he was in prison twenty years earlier.  When he told me that she was now called Ydgrun, he said, “I am sure that the Erinyes were only Mrs. Humdrums, and that they were delightful people when you came to know them.  I do not believe they did the awful things we say they did.  I think, but am not quite sure, that they let Orestes off; but even though they had not pardoned him, I doubt whether they would have done anything more dreadful to him than issue a mot d’ordre that he was not to be asked to any more afternoon teas.  This, however, would be down-right torture to some people.  At any rate,” he continued, “be it the Erinyes, or Mrs. Grundy, or Ydgrun, in all times and places it is woman who decides whether society is to condone an offence or no.”

Among the most attractive ladies present was one for whose Erewhonian name I can find no English equivalent, and whom I must therefore call Miss La Frime.  She was Lady President of the principal establishment for the higher education of young ladies, and so celebrated was she, that pupils flocked to her from all parts of the surrounding country.  Her primer (written for the Erewhonian Arts and Science Series) on the Art of Man-killing, was the most complete thing of the kind that had yet been done; but ill-natured people had been heard to say that she had killed all her own admirers so effectually that not one of them had ever lived to marry her.  According to Erewhonian custom the successful marriages of the pupils are inscribed yearly on the oak paneling of the college refectory, and a reprint from these in pamphlet form accompanies all the prospectuses that are sent out to parents.  It was alleged that no other ladies’ seminary in Erewhon could show such a brilliant record during all the years of Miss La Frime’s presidency.  Many other guests of less note were there, but the lions of the evening were the two Professors whom we have already met with, and more particularly Hanky, who took the Mayoress in to dinner.  Panky, of course, wore his clothes reversed, as did Principal Crank and Professor Gabb; the others were dressed English fashion.

Everything hung upon the hostess, for the host was little more than a still handsome figure-head.  He had been remarkable for his good looks as a young man, and Strong is the nearest approach I can get to a translation of his Erewhonian name.  His face inspired confidence at once, but he was a man of few words, and had little of that grace which in his wife set every one instantly at his or her ease.  He knew that all would go well so long as he left everything to her, and kept himself as far as might be in the background.

Before dinner was announced there was the usual buzz of conversation, chiefly occupied with salutations, good wishes for Sunday’s weather, and admiration for the extreme beauty of the Mayoress’s three daughters, the two elder of whom were already out; while the third, though only thirteen, might have passed for a year or two older.  Their mother was so much engrossed with receiving her guests that it was not till they were all at table that she was able to ask Hanky what he thought of the statues, which she had heard that he and Professor Panky had been to see.  She was told how much interested he had been with them, and how unable he had been to form any theory as to their date or object.  He then added, appealing to Panky, who was on the Mayoress’s left hand, “but we had rather a strange adventure on our way down, had we not, Panky?  We got lost, and were benighted in the forest.  Happily we fell in with one of the rangers who had lit a fire.”

“Do I understand, then,” said Yram, as I suppose we may as well call her, “that you were out all last night?  How tired you must be!  But I hope you had enough provisions with you?”

“Indeed we were out all night.  We staid by the ranger’s fire till midnight, and then tried to find our way down, but we gave it up soon after we had got out of the forest, and then waited under a large chestnut tree till four or five this morning.  As for food, we had not so much as a mouthful from about three in the afternoon till we got to our inn early this morning.”

“Oh, you poor, poor people! how tired you must be.”

“No; we made a good breakfast as soon as we got in, and then went to bed, where we staid till it was time for us to come to your house.”

Here Panky gave his friend a significant look, as much as to say that he had said enough.

This set Hanky on at once.  “Strange to say, the ranger was wearing the old Erewhonian dress.  It did me good to see it again after all these years.  It seems your son lets his men wear what few of the old clothes they may still have, so long as they keep well away from the town.  But fancy how carefully these poor fellows husband them; why, it must be seventeen years since the dress was forbidden!”

We all of us have skeletons, large or small, in some cupboard of our lives, but a well regulated skeleton that will stay in its cupboard quietly does not much matter.  There are skeletons, however, which can never be quite trusted not to open the cupboard door at some awkward moment, go down stairs, ring the hall-door bell, with grinning face announce themselves as the skeleton, and ask whether the master or mistress is at home.  This kind of skeleton, though no bigger than a rabbit, will sometimes loom large as that of a dinotherium.  My father was Yram’s skeleton.  True, he was a mere skeleton of a skeleton, for the chances were thousands to one that he and my mother had perished long years ago; and even though he rang at the bell, there was no harm that he either could or would now do to her or hers; still, so long as she did not certainly know that he was dead, or otherwise precluded from returning, she could not be sure that he would not one day come back by the way that he would alone know, and she had rather he should not do so.

Hence, on hearing from Professor Hanky that a man had been seen between the statues and Sunch’ston wearing the old Erewhonian dress, she was disquieted and perplexed.  The excuse he had evidently made to the Professors aggravated her uneasiness, for it was an obvious attempt to escape from an unexpected difficulty.  There could be no truth in it.  Her son would as soon think of wearing the old dress himself as of letting his men do so; and as for having old clothes still to wear out after seventeen years, no one but a Bridgeford Professor would accept this.  She saw, therefore, that she must keep her wits about her, and lead her guests on to tell her as much as they could be induced to do.

“My son,” she said innocently, “is always considerate to his men, and that is why they are so devoted to him.  I wonder which of them it was?  In what part of the preserves did you fall in with him?”

Hanky described the place, and gave the best idea he could of my father’s appearance.

“Of course he was swarthy like the rest of us?”

“I saw nothing remarkable about him, except that his eyes were blue and his eyelashes nearly white, which, as you know, is rare in Erewhon.  Indeed, I do not remember ever before to have seen a man with dark hair and complexion but light eyelashes.  Nature is always doing something unusual.”

“I have no doubt,” said Yram, “that he was the man they call Blacksheep, but I never noticed this peculiarity in him.  If he was Blacksheep, I am afraid you must have found him none too civil; he is a rough diamond, and you would hardly be able to understand his uncouth Sunch’ston dialect.”

“On the contrary, he was most kind and thoughtful—­even so far as to take our permit from us, and thus save us the trouble of giving it up at your son’s office.  As for his dialect, his grammar was often at fault, but we could quite understand him.”

“I am glad to hear he behaved better than I could have expected.  Did he say in what part of the preserves he had been?”

“He had been catching quails between the place where we saw him and the statues; he was to deliver three dozen to your son this afternoon for the Mayor’s banquet on Sunday.”

This was worse and worse.  She had urged her son to provide her with a supply of quails for Sunday’s banquet, but he had begged her not to insist on having them.  There was no close time for them in Erewhon, but he set his face against their being seen at table in spring and summer.  During the winter, when any great occasion arose, he had allowed a few brace to be provided.

“I asked my son to let me have some,” said Yram, who was now on full scent.  She laughed genially as she added, “Can you throw any light upon the question whether I am likely to get my three dozen?  I have had no news as yet.”

“The man had taken a good many; we saw them but did not count them.  He started about midnight for the ranger’s shelter, where he said he should sleep till daybreak, so as to make up his full tale betimes.”

Yram had heard her son complain that there were no shelters on the preserves, and state his intention of having some built before the winter.  Here too, then, the man’s story must be false.  She changed the conversation for the moment, but quietly told a servant to send high and low in search of her son, and if he could be found, to bid him come to her at once.  She then returned to her previous subject.

“And did not this heartless wretch, knowing how hungry you must both be, let you have a quail or two as an act of pardonable charity?”

“My dear Mayoress, how can you ask such a question?  We knew you would want all you could get; moreover, our permit threatened us with all sorts of horrors if we so much as ate a single quail.  I assure you we never even allowed a thought of eating one of them to cross our minds.”

“Then,” said Yram to herself, “they gorged upon them.”  What could she think?  A man who wore the old dress, and therefore who had almost certainly been in Erewhon, but had been many years away from it; who spoke the language well, but whose grammar was defective—­hence, again, one who had spent some time in Erewhon; who knew nothing of the afforesting law now long since enacted, for how else would he have dared to light a fire and be seen with quails in his possession; an adroit liar, who on gleaning information from the Professors had hazarded an excuse for immediately retracing his steps; a man, too, with blue eyes and light eyelashes.  What did it matter about his hair being dark and his complexion swarthy—­Higgs was far too clever to attempt a second visit to Erewhon without dyeing his hair and staining his face and hands.  And he had got their permit out of the Professors before he left them; clearly, then, he meant coming back, and coming back at once before the permit had expired.  How could she doubt?  My father, she felt sure, must by this time be in Sunch’ston.  He would go back to change his clothes, which would not be very far down on the other side the pass, for he would not put on his old Erewhonian dress till he was on the point of entering Erewhon; and he would hide his English dress rather than throw it away, for he would want it when he went back again.  It would be quite possible, then, for him to get through the forest before the permit was void, and he would be sure to go on to Sunch’ston for the night.

She chatted unconcernedly, now with one guest now with another, while they in their turn chatted unconcernedly with one another.

Miss La Frime to Mrs. Humdrum:  “You know how he got his professorship?  No?  I thought every one knew that.  The question the candidates had to answer was, whether it was wiser during a long stay at a hotel to tip the servants pretty early, or to wait till the stay was ended.  All the other candidates took one side or the other, and argued their case in full.  Hanky sent in three lines to the effect that the proper thing to do would be to promise at the beginning, and go away without giving.  The King, with whom the appointment rested, was so much pleased with this answer that he gave Hanky the professorship without so much as looking . . . “

Professor Gabb to Mrs. Humdrum:  “Oh no, I can assure you there is no truth in it.  What happened was this.  There was the usual crowd, and the people cheered Professor after Professor, as he stood before them in the great Bridgeford theatre and satisfied them that a lump of butter which had been put into his mouth would not melt in it.  When Hanky’s turn came he was taken suddenly unwell, and had to leave the theatre, on which there was a report in the house that the butter had melted; this was at once stopped by the return of the Professor.  Another piece of butter was put into his mouth, and on being taken out after the usual time, was found to shew no signs of having . . . “

Miss Bawl to Mr. Principal Crank:  . . .  “The Manager was so tall, you know, and then there was that little mite of an assistant manager—­it was so funny.  For the assistant manager’s voice was ever so much louder than the . . . “

Mrs. Bawl to Professor Gabb:  . . .  “Live for art!  If I had to choose whether I would lose either art or science, I have not the smallest hesitation in saying that I would lose . . . “

The Mayor and Dr. Downie:  . . .  “That you are to be canonised at the close of the year along with Professors Hanky and Panky?”

“I believe it is his Majesty’s intention that the Professors and myself are to head the list of the Sunchild’s Saints, but we have all of us got to . . . “

And so on, and so on, buzz, buzz, buzz, over the whole table.  Presently Yram turned to Hanky and said—­

“By the way, Professor, you must have found it very cold up at the statues, did you not?  But I suppose the snow is all gone by this time?”

“Yes, it was cold, and though the winter’s snow is melted, there had been a recent fall.  Strange to say, we saw fresh footprints in it, as of some one who had come up from the other side.  But thereon hangs a tale, about which I believe I should say nothing.”

“Then say nothing, my dear Professor,” said Yram with a frank smile.  “Above all,” she added quietly and gravely, “say nothing to the Mayor, nor to my son, till after Sunday.  Even a whisper of some one coming over from the other side disquiets them, and they have enough on hand for the moment.”

Panky, who had been growing more and more restive at his friend’s outspokenness, but who had encouraged it more than once by vainly trying to check it, was relieved at hearing his hostess do for him what he could not do for himself.  As for Yram, she had got enough out of the Professor to be now fully dissatisfied, and mentally informed them that they might leave the witness-box.  During the rest of dinner she let the subject of their adventure severely alone.

It seemed to her as though dinner was never going to end; but in the course of time it did so, and presently the ladies withdrew.  As they were entering the drawing-room a servant told her that her son had been found more easily than was expected, and was now in his own room dressing.

“Tell him,” she said, “to stay there till I come, which I will do directly.”

She remained for a few minutes with her guests, and then, excusing herself quietly to Mrs. Humdrum, she stepped out and hastened to her son’s room.  She told him that Professors Hanky and Panky were staying in the house, and that during dinner they had told her something he ought to know, but which there was no time to tell him until her guests were gone.  “I had rather,” she said, “tell you about it before you see the Professors, for if you see them the whole thing will be reopened, and you are sure to let them see how much more there is in it than they suspect.  I want everything hushed up for the moment; do not, therefore, join us.  Have dinner sent to you in your father’s study.  I will come to you about midnight.”

“But, my dear mother,” said George, “I have seen Panky already.  I walked down with him a good long way this afternoon.”

Yram had not expected this, but she kept her countenance.  “How did you know,” said she, “that he was Professor Panky?  Did he tell you so?”

“Certainly he did.  He showed me his permit, which was made out in favour of Professors Hanky and Panky, or either of them.  He said Hanky had been unable to come with him, and that he was himself Professor Panky.”

Yram again smiled very sweetly.  “Then, my dear boy,” she said, “I am all the more anxious that you should not see him now.  See nobody but the servants and your brothers, and wait till I can enlighten you.  I must not stay another moment; but tell me this much, have you seen any signs of poachers lately?”

“Yes; there were three last night.”

“In what part of the preserves?”

Her son described the place.

“You are sure they had been killing quails?”

“Yes, and eating them—­two on one side of a fire they had lit, and one on the other; this last man had done all the plucking.”

“Good!”

She kissed him with more than even her usual tenderness, and returned to the drawing-room.

During the rest of the evening she was engaged in earnest conversation with Mrs. Humdrum, leaving her other guests to her daughters and to themselves.  Mrs. Humdrum had been her closest friend for many years, and carried more weight than any one else in Sunch’ston, except, perhaps, Yram herself.  “Tell him everything,” she said to Yram at the close of their conversation; “we all dote upon him; trust him frankly, as you trusted your husband before you let him marry you.  No lies, no reserve, no tears, and all will come right.  As for me, command me,” and the good old lady rose to take her leave with as kind a look on her face as ever irradiated saint or angel.  “I go early,” she added, “for the others will go when they see me do so, and the sooner you are alone the better.”

By half an hour before midnight her guests had gone.  Hanky and Panky were given to understand that they must still be tired, and had better go to bed.  So was the Mayor; so were her sons and daughters, except of course George, who was waiting for her with some anxiety, for he had seen that she had something serious to tell him.  Then she went down into the study.  Her son embraced her as she entered, and moved an easy chair for her, but she would not have it.

“No; I will have an upright one.”  Then, sitting composedly down on the one her son placed for her, she said—­

“And now to business.  But let me first tell you that the Mayor was told, twenty years ago, all the more important part of what you will now hear.  He does not yet know what has happened within the last few hours, but either you or I will tell him to-morrow.”