she shall not repent it.  Please God, from this day forth, I'll--"
He stopped, and for the first time in his life the doubt of himself
crossed his mind.  As I sat watching him, the joy died out of his face,
and the first hint of age passed over it.

"I seem to have been 'tidying up and starting afresh' all my life," he
said wearily; "I'm beginning to see where the untidiness lies, and the
only way to get rid of it."

I did not understand the meaning of his words at the time, but learnt it
later on.

He strove, according to his strength, and fell.  But by a miracle his
transgression was not discovered.  The facts came to light long
afterwards, but at the time there were only two who knew.

It was his last failure.  Late one evening I received a
hurriedly-scrawled note from his wife, begging me to come round.

"A terrible thing has happened," it ran; "Charley went up to his study
after dinner, saying he had some 'tidying up,' as he calls it, to do, and
did not wish to be disturbed.  In clearing out his desk he must have
handled carelessly the revolver that he always keeps there, not
remembering, I suppose, that it was loaded.  We heard a report, and on
rushing into the room found him lying dead on the floor.  The bullet had
passed right through his heart."

Hardly the type of man for a hero!  And yet I do not know.  Perhaps he
fought harder than many a man who conquers.  In the world's courts, we
are compelled to judge on circumstantial evidence only, and the chief
witness, the man's soul, cannot very well be called.

I remember the subject of bravery being discussed one evening at a dinner
party, when a German gentleman present related an anecdote, the hero of
which was a young Prussian officer.

"I cannot give you his name," our German friend explained--"the man
himself told me the story in confidence; and though he personally, by
virtue of his after record, could afford to have it known, there are
other reasons why it should not be bruited about.

"How I learnt it was in this way.  For a dashing exploit performed during
the brief war against Austria he had been presented with the Iron Cross.
This, as you are well aware, is the most highly-prized decoration in our
army; men who have earned it are usually conceited about it, and, indeed,
have some excuse for being so.  He, on the contrary, kept his locked in a
drawer of his desk, and never wore it except when compelled by official
etiquette.  The mere sight of it seemed to be painful to him.  One day I
asked him the reason.  We are very old and close friends, and he told me.

"The incident occurred when he was a young lieutenant.  Indeed, it was
his first engagement.  By some means or another he had become separated
from his company, and, unable to regain it, had attached himself to a
line regiment stationed at the extreme right of the Prussian lines.

"The enemy's effort was mainly directed against the left centre, and for
a while our young lieutenant was nothing more than a distant spectator of
the battle.  Suddenly, however, the attack shifted, and the regiment
found itself occupying an extremely important and critical position.  The
shells began to fall unpleasantly near, and the order was given to
'grass.'

"The men fell upon their faces and waited.  The shells ploughed the
ground around them, smothering them with dirt.  A horrible, griping pain
started in my young friend's stomach, and began creeping upwards.  His
head and heart both seemed to be shrinking and growing cold.  A shot tore
off the head of the man next to him, sending the blood spurting into his
face; a minute later another ripped open the back of a poor fellow lying
to the front of him.

"His body seemed not to belong to himself at all.  A strange, shrivelled
creature had taken possession of it.  He raised his head and peered about
him.  He and three soldiers--youngsters, like himself, who had never
before been under fire--appeared to be utterly alone in that hell.  They
were the end men of the regiment, and the configuration of the ground
completely hid them from their comrades.

"They glanced at each other, these four, and read one another's thoughts.
Leaving their rifles lying on the grass, they commenced to crawl
stealthily upon their bellies, the lieutenant leading, the other three
following.

"Some few hundred yards in front of them rose a small, steep hill.  If
they could reach this it would shut them out of sight.  They hastened on,
pausing every thirty yards or so to lie still and pant for breath, then
hurrying on again, quicker than before, tearing their flesh against the
broken ground.

"At last they reached the base of the slope, and slinking a little way
round it, raised their heads and looked back.  Where they were it was
impossible for them to be seen from the Prussian lines.

"They sprang to their feet and broke into a wild race.  A dozen steps
further they came face to face with an Austrian field battery.

"The demon that had taken possession of them had been growing stronger
the further they had fled.  They were not men, they were animals mad with
fear.  Driven by the same frenzy that prompted other panic-stricken
creatures to once rush down a steep place into the sea, these four men,
with a yell, flung themselves, sword in hand, upon the whole battery; and
the whole battery, bewildered by the suddenness and unexpectedness of the
attack, thinking the entire battalion was upon them, gave way, and rushed
pell-mell down the hill.

"With the sight of those flying Austrians the fear, as independently as
it had come to him, left him, and he felt only a desire to hack and kill.
The four Prussians flew after them, cutting and stabbing at them as they
ran; and when the Prussian cavalry came thundering up, they found my
young lieutenant and his three friends had captured two guns and
accounted for half a score of the enemy.

"Next day, he was summoned to headquarters.

"'Will you be good enough to remember for the future, sir,' said the
Chief of the Staff, 'that His Majesty does not require his lieutenants to
execute manoeuvres on their own responsibility, and also that to attack a
battery with three men is not war, but damned tomfoolery.  You ought to
be court-martialled, sir!'

"Then, in somewhat different tones, the old soldier added, his face
softening into a smile: 'However, alertness and daring, my young friend,
are good qualities, especially when crowned with success.  If the
Austrians had once succeeded in planting a battery on that hill it might
have been difficult to dislodge them.  Perhaps, under the circumstances,
His Majesty may overlook your indiscretion.'

"'His Majesty not only overlooked it, but bestowed upon me the Iron
Cross,' concluded my friend.  'For the credit of the army, I judged it
better to keep quiet and take it.  But, as you can understand, the sight
of it does not recall very pleasurable reflections.'"

* * * * *

To return to my diary, I see that on November 14th we held another
meeting.  But at this there were present only "Jephson, MacShaughnassy,
and Self"; and of Brown's name I find henceforth no further trace.  On
Christmas eve we three met again, and my notes inform me that
MacShaughnassy brewed some whiskey-punch, according to a recipe of his
own, a record suggestive of a sad Christmas for all three of us.  No
particular business appears to have been accomplished on either occasion.

Then there is a break until February 8th, and the assemblage has shrunk
to "Jephson and Self."  With a final flicker, as of a dying candle, my
diary at this point, however, grows luminous, shedding much light upon
that evening's conversation.

Our talk seems to have been of many things--of most things, in fact,
except our novel.  Among other subjects we spoke of literature generally.

"I am tired of this eternal cackle about books," said Jephson; "these
columns of criticism to every line of writing; these endless books about
books; these shrill praises and shrill denunciations; this silly worship
of novelist Tom; this silly hate of poet Dick; this silly squabbling over
playwright Harry.  There is no soberness, no sense in it all.  One would
think, to listen to the High Priests of Culture, that man was made for
literature, not literature for man.  Thought existed before the Printing
Press; and the men who wrote the best hundred books never read them.
Books have their place in the world, but they are not its purpose.  They
are things side by side with beef and mutton, the scent of the sea, the
touch of a hand, the memory of a hope, and all the other items in the sum-
total of our three-score years and ten.  Yet we speak of them as though
they were the voice of Life instead of merely its faint echo.  Tales are
delightful _as_ tales--sweet as primroses after the long winter, restful
as the cawing of rooks at sunset.  But we do not write 'tales' now; we
prepare 'human documents' and dissect souls."

He broke off abruptly in the midst of his tirade.  "Do you know what
these 'psychological studies,' that are so fashionable just now, always
make me think of?" he said.  "One monkey examining another monkey for
fleas.

"And what, after all, does our dissecting pen lay bare?" he continued.
"Human nature? or merely some more or less unsavoury undergarment,
disguising and disfiguring human nature?  There is a story told of an
elderly tramp, who, overtaken by misfortune, was compelled to retire for
a while to the seclusion of Portland.  His hosts, desiring to see as much
as possible of their guest during his limited stay with them, proceeded
to bath him.  They bathed him twice a day for a week, each time learning
more of him; until at last they reached a flannel shirt.  And with that
they had to be content, soap and water proving powerless to go further.

"That tramp appears to me symbolical of mankind.  Human Nature has worn
its conventions for so long that its habit has grown on to it.  In this
nineteenth century it is impossible to say where the clothes of custom
end and the natural man begins.  Our virtues are taught to us as a branch
of 'Deportment'; our vices are the recognised vices of our reign and set.
Our religion hangs ready-made beside our cradle to be buttoned upon us by
loving hands.  Our tastes we acquire, with difficulty; our sentiments we
learn by rote.  At cost of infinite suffering, we study to love whiskey
and cigars, high art and classical music.  In one age we admire Byron and
drink sweet champagne: twenty years later it is more fashionable to
prefer Shelley, and we like our champagne dry.  At school we are told
that Shakespeare is a great poet, and that the Venus di Medici is a fine
piece of sculpture; and so for the rest of our lives we go about saying
what a great poet we think Shakespeare, and that there is no piece of
sculpture, in our opinion, so fine as the Venus di Medici.  If we are
Frenchmen we adore our mother; if Englishmen we love dogs and virtue.  We
grieve for the death of a near relative twelve months; but for a second
cousin we sorrow only three.  The good man has his regulation
excellencies to strive after, his regulation sins to repent of.  I knew a
good man who was quite troubled because he was not proud, and could not,
therefore, with any reasonableness, pray for humility.  In society one
must needs be cynical and mildly wicked: in Bohemia, orthodoxly
unorthodox.  I remember my mother expostulating with a friend, an
actress, who had left a devoted husband and eloped with a disagreeable,
ugly, little low comedian (I am speaking of long, long ago).

"'You must be mad,' said my mother; 'what on earth induced you to take
such a step?'

"'My dear Emma,' replied the lady; 'what else was there for me?  You know
I can't act.  I had to do _something_ to show I was 'an artiste!'

"We are dressed-up marionettes.  Our voice is the voice of the unseen
showman, Convention; our very movements of passion and pain are but in
answer to his jerk.  A man resembles one of those gigantic bundles that
one sees in nursemaids' arms.  It is very bulky and very long; it looks a
mass of delicate lace and rich fur and fine woven stuffs; and somewhere,
hidden out of sight among the finery, there is a tiny red bit of
bewildered humanity, with no voice but a foolish cry.

"There is but one story," he went on, after a long pause, uttering his
own thoughts aloud rather than speaking to me.  "We sit at our desks and
think and think, and write and write, but the story is ever the same.  Men
told it and men listened to it many years ago; we are telling it to one
another to-day; we shall be telling it to one another a thousand years
hence; and the story is: 'Once upon a time there lived a man, and a woman
who loved him.'  The little critic cries that it is not new, and asks for
something fresh, thinking--as children do--that there are strange things
in the world."

* * * * *

At that point my notes end, and there is nothing in the book beyond.
Whether any of us thought any more of the novel, whether we ever met
again to discuss it, whether it were ever begun, whether it were ever
abandoned--I cannot say.  There is a fairy story that I read many, many
years ago that has never ceased to haunt me.  It told how a little boy
once climbed a rainbow.  And at the end of the rainbow, just behind the
clouds, he found a wondrous city.  Its houses were of gold, and its
streets were paved with silver, and the light that shone upon it was as
the light that lies upon the sleeping world at dawn.  In this city there
were palaces so beautiful that merely to look upon them satisfied all
desires; temples so perfect that they who once knelt therein were
cleansed of sin.  And all the men who dwelt in this wondrous city were
great and good, and the women fairer than the women of a young man's
dreams.  And the name of the city was, "The city of the things men meant
to do."