Classic Audiobook Collection - Initiation by Robert Hugh Benson ~ Full Audiobook [drama]

Episode Date: April 4, 2025

Initiation by Robert Hugh Benson audiobook. Genre: drama Set in aristocratic England in the years before the First World War, Initiation follows young Sir Nevill Fanning, a man who calls himself Catholic yet lives as if faith were only a family custom. He has charm, money, and a future secured by his devoted Aunt Ann, but his interior life is thin, and he instinctively dodges anything that smells of sacrifice. When Nevill falls in love with a Protestant woman, the easy assumptions of his upbringing are challenged, and the question of what belief truly costs begins to press in. At the same time, a worsening physical affliction forces him into unfamiliar dependence and weakness, exposing fears he has long kept buried: fear of pain, fear of God, and fear of a life shaped by obedience rather than preference. As Nevill and Aunt Ann each face their own trials, the quiet presence of Mr. Morpeth, a wise priest and spiritual counselor, offers a counterpoint to Nevill's restless self-protection. Moving between drawing rooms, sickrooms, and moments of stark solitude, Benson builds a searching portrait of redemption through suffering, and of a man being initiated into real humility, compassion, and spiritual adulthood. For ad-free listening try our premium subscription Chapters (Approximate) (00:00:00) Chapter 01 (00:26:29) Chapter 02 (00:54:54) Chapter 03 (01:17:00) Chapter 04 (01:45:02) Chapter 05 (02:02:10) Chapter 06 (02:27:38) Chapter 07 (02:52:00) Chapter 08 (03:07:47) Chapter 09 (03:29:04) Chapter 10 (03:47:41) Chapter 11 (04:05:30) Chapter 12 (04:27:24) Chapter 13 (04:36:59) Chapter 14 (05:01:50) Chapter 15 (05:19:24) Chapter 16 (05:30:27) Chapter 17 (05:50:59) Chapter 18 (06:00:40) Chapter 19 (06:18:41) Chapter 20 (06:31:28) Chapter 21 (06:51:42) Chapter 22 (07:10:17) Chapter 23 (07:33:50) Chapter 24 (07:52:45) Chapter 25 (08:11:13) Chapter 26 (08:33:12) Chapter 27 (08:53:30) Chapter 28 (09:11:13) Chapter 29 (09:29:31) Chapter 30 (09:43:50) Chapter 31 (10:11:16) Chapter 32 (10:27:29) Chapter 33 (10:48:01) Chapter 34 (11:00:37) Chapter 35 (11:12:38) Chapter 36 (11:29:27) Chapter 37 (11:51:24) Chapter 38 (12:07:56) Chapter 39 (12:26:23) Chapter 40 (12:47:19) Chapter 41 (13:13:05) Chapter 42 Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Initiation by Robert Hugh Benson Chapter 1, Section 1 Sir Neville Fanning was doing at least three things at once in the private dining room of the Hotel Emmanueli in the Via Veneto in the city of Rome. He was eating an excellent luncheon, he was observing his fellow guests, and he was giving as much attention to Mrs. Bessington's conversation

as that lady required. It cannot be said that Mrs. Bessington was easy to talk talk to. In fact, that was an impossible feat. He had tried it in the first days of his acquaintance with her, and even now, when he forgot, tried it still. But he had found that she neither needed his remarks nor even wished for them. All she required was silence, noddings of the head, and very occasional ascent or monosyllabic questions. She did all the rest. It was a little stupefying at first to be pelted with such an interminable. torrent of words. He had at first resisted a little, seriously believing that she might

possibly wish to hear what he had to say. Then he had grown a little impatient, and then the divine gift of humour had saved him. And henceforth, except, as has been said when he forgot, he sat still, now marvelling at the spate of talk that flowed forth so sedately, now deliberately thinking about other things, now occasionally, playing a sort of intellectual, actual solitaire, which consisted in counting her full stops. There had only been five during the whole of the Karadet course from the moment she took up a fork to the moment she laid it down again, and once with an exquisite joy, switching her on to the Martianess daily, his hostess, who sat on his left and whose horsepower, so to speak, very nearly, but not quite, rivaled Mrs. Bessington's.

He believed that she was talking now about a cousin of hers who lived in Corfu. but he was not sure. If it was not she, it was Selva, the actress, who was in Rome just now. Certainly, a female cousin had been mentioned a while ago, and so had Corfu. But an aunt had shot up from the horizon once or twice, and he was not certain, therefore, as to which occupied the place of honour at present. A scotchmaid of hers, too, called Macpherson, not the scotchmaid she had now, but another one, had certainly been spoken of, but it surely could not be she who was now curtseeing to the late king of Greece and tripping over her train as she did so. Most interesting, said Sir Neville, bringing his eyes back from their excursion.

How very—ah, but that's not the end, pursued Mrs. Bessington, undismayed. It was a fortnight after that. No, it couldn't have been that fortnight, because I know she called Influencer, from having to wait about for the carriage, and she was laid up for three weeks. it must have been she was off again, and once more the young man began to look gingerly about him. He could not quite make out his hostess. He had a lamentable habit of pigeonholing his new acquaintances, and each pigeonhole had a little label over it with a sort of inscription. Into these then he was accustomed to place people.

At first he had been inclined, in view of their common possession of an almost infinite store of words and opinions on every side, subject, to place the papal marchioness and Mrs. Bessington together. They both talked unceasingly. They both wore a glassy expression of inattention when anyone compelled them to listen in return. The encounter between the two had been a glorious experience. He had been stung by the splendor of the prospect and have wondered which would win. It was the ancient dilemma of striking impenetrable armour with a sword that could pierce everything. He had blinked a little as the two ladies discharged their conversational hoses across him. But he had enjoyed it. Mrs. Bessington had won. The impenetrability of her inattention

had prevailed over the shrill and ceaseless arrows of the Martianess high voice, and she had been left discoursing on her favourite clergyman at the American Episcopal Church, while the Martianess sulked. But he was beginning to discern a difference between them. Mrs Bessington was always amiable. She never gravely attacked people's characters. She was harmless and bland, though quite shrewd in her opinions. While the marchioness had an undercurrent of acidity, and seemed to take a kind of peevish delight in discerning

and thrusting a pin through little cracks and holes in reputations. He saw that plainly now. It was evident that they could not be put in the same pigeonhole. superficially they might have been twins fundamentally they were not even sisters he scarcely knew how he happened to be here to-day he had come out all alone to rome three weeks ago without realizing the potency of his name in the visitors list then the cards had begun he had rashly returned some of these calls and had even accepted an invitation to tea at which two cardinals were to be present and there he had found himself a lion in a den of damp The Cardinals have been magnificent, of course, grave, princely men, extremely gracious to this young Catholic baronet, and seeming to understand that he, no more than themselves, really liked this screaming parrot house. One of them had even bidden him use his name with Monseigneur Bisletti, if he should wish for a private audience with the Holy Father.

But of course, Sir Neville, he had added, with scarcely a trace of an Italian accent, he will find no difficulty in any case. But the rest of the company he did not like so much. It was not that it was different from any other similar company elsewhere. People screamed and gossiped and smelt of furs and odour cologne. There were meek and trim young men with shining hair. There were tiresome old men who bellowed. There were shy girls, fully as much in London as in Rome.

Only he had not expected it in Rome somehow. He had had a faint idea that things would be primitive. and quiet here, that he could moon about and look at Basilicas now and then, that he could poke round in curiosity shops, in a word, that he could be free here, as he could not in London, and he had found the same old parrot house. It was at this tea party that the Marcus Daly had captured him and introduced him to his wife, and it was here that she had asked him to choose any day in the following week to come to lunch, so soon as she had first caught him saying that he was going to Frascati, but hadn't settled which day. Then you shall lunch with us first, if you will,

Sir Neville. Choose your own day, and we'll all go out to Frosgati together. Well, here he was. He did not in the least wish to go out to Fruscati with all these people. But there was no escape. Here he was. And Mrs. Bessington was telling him about. her cousin in Corfu. He was sure now that it could not have been Miss McPherson. Meanwhile, he was observing the company. Section 2. It had better be said at once that there was a single star in all this gloom of well-discayered boredom. The name of the star was Enid, who sat opposite him. The Bessington's mother and daughter had been present when the Martianess had cornered him four days ago, and the fact that Mrs. Bessington had added that

Enid also wished to see Frascati again had been the one consideration that had prevented him from being rather rude to the Martianess, and saying, untruthfully, that after all it wasn't Frasgarti, but Tivoli, and that he had promised to go with someone else. He had brought her an ice a few minutes before, and had sat by her, himself eating another, and she had been to him for five minutes like a breath of air in a stuffy room. First, she was extremely pretty, but this, honestly, was not the point. The point was that she had been cool and refreshing and quiet,

entirely at her ease, though she could not be more than 19, and had said one or two odd little things that had been intimate without being familiar. He had forgotten what they were. They were of no importance, but he had perceived that she knew what he was feeling, and that she felt like it too. Then a princess had wished him to be presented to her

and the thing had ended until the invitation. And he had accepted that invitation, aware that he would have prevaricated himself out of it if he had not talked to Enid first. She was nearly opposite him now. She seemed even prettier than he had thought her. She had heavy brown hair, an extremely clear, pale complexion.

Big grey eyes and quiet, well-cut lips. She had a large black hat with primroses in it and a black lace dress, as she was still in mourning for her father. He watched her hands once or twice. He had a theory about hands, and they satisfied him. They were sufficiently large, quite white and quite strong. Certainly it would be pleasant to go with her to Frascati. His eyes wandered along the other face.

next to Enid, on the Martianess left, was an Italian priest, the Lenton preacher at a church in the Corso. Neville did not make much of him. He was a new type to the young man of a very recollected, a very well-bred heir, as of a guardsman who has become a seminarian. Incidentally, he was a count in his own right, but Neville, with truly British superiority, did not think much of Italian counts. The priest had been quite polished, quite detached, and rather superior in the few words he had with him before they sat down. On the other side of Enid sat Mr. Hecker, an extremely wealthy American, and the husband of Mrs. Hecker. These were his two discernible points, for Mrs. Hecker, who sat on Neville's side of the table at the further end, was one blaze of intelligence, so bright as to obscure all in her immediate circle. She was really astonishing, thought the boy, as brilliant and as hard too as electric light.

He had talked to her a few minutes before lunch, and she had summed up her impressions of Rome simply admirably, touching exactly the right points. The small ancient dignity of the less-known basilicas, the flamboyant triumph of St. Peter's, and the domino houses, as she called them, of the modern municipality. and certainly these large white flat-faced buildings set with rows of even windows were extraordinarily like dominoes set on end, only it had not struck him before. Next to him, beyond Mrs. Bessington, was a sleek-haired young man of about his own age, Mr. Clough, who presented precisely the right front to all calls upon him, and who appeared to have nothing whatever behind his front. Neville had put him away all right after three minutes in a pigeonhole already full to bursting.

Last but one opposite Mrs. Hecker was the Princess Moreski, a small faded lady, rather like a pale Queen Victoria, quite plainly and even shabbily dressed, with an unmistakable dignity, who lived with her imbecile daughter in an enormous palace. The friend of Cardinals, Blackest of the Black, pious, zealous, and resolute a replica in an Italian disguise

of unmarried evangelical daughters and sisters of ancient English dukes. Only she was a Catholic and talked four languages with equal ease, and they but one. At last came the Marquis d'Ary himself, the host, whom Neville had put straight into the pigeonhole that contained persons not of his sort, as he would have said, a brisk, anxious man, intensely absorbed in social ambitions and never quite a disease anywhere. A papal chamberlain, a papal marquess,

without children or estates, pathetically eager to entertain personages so long as they had any kind of claim to distinction and were not militantly anti-Catholic. Such was the company. Neville ran round them mentally once more, wondering when this interminable festivity would be over. How very nice of her?

He said suddenly, perceiving a pause in Mrs. Bessington's conversation, and remembering again the word Corfu. Section 3. What Enid saw, as she made opportunity now and again between the remarks of her Italian priest and the quiet repressed sentences of her American, was a very bright, fresh young man, black-haired and black-eyed,

with an indefinable look of slight ill-health. She had liked him instantly. As soon as he had sat down beside her with his ice the other day in the window seat and had remarked how very odd it was that some ices were so much hotter than others. If you will consider it carefully, she had said, with illustrations, I think you will find that it is entirely a matter of texture. It's the hard ones that are cold. He had paused to reflect with excellent gravity.

That's perfectly true, he had said. it never occurred to me before. The ones that are like frozen soundstone, aren't they? Now, about colours, why is Cardinals Scarlet so extraordinarily like flame? Yet it's not the colour of any flame I've ever seen. That was the kind of thing they said at first. He didn't seem at all bored today either, in spite of his situation between the Martianess and Enid's own mother.

her. Enid had no illusions at all about her mother's conversation. For herself, she did not find it boring, because she had long ago established an understanding, as she would have called it, that she was to go her own way and not to be talked to like that. But she had watched others under it. This young man, however, seemed to preserve his elasticity well enough. Certainly his eyes roved a good deal, but always came back to attention in time.

Twice their eyes had met, and she thought she had read a humorous good temper into their glance, yet not enough to be offensive to her mother's daughter. So much for his outward appearance. He seemed natural, breezy and fresh, in spite of his rather delicate look. He was dressed properly in grey with a little bunch of violets. She thought he looked sympathico.

What she knew about him was very nearly as important. She had learned it from overhearing her mother talking to other people. First, he was a baronet, the fourth of the line, without brothers or sisters, and unmarried. He was aged 23. He was an hereditary Catholic and had been educated at Stonyhurst. His father had died four years ago, and his father's sister-in-law, a week of a week. widow, had kept house ever since at Hartley, and was still doing so. This lady had one boy called Jim, age seven.

Hartley was a fine place in Sussex, and they went with it another big house in Elizabeth Street. That was about the sum of it. Obviously, he was a tolerably wealthy man. There were innumerable other details, too, which her mother had spread abroad, but these were unimportant. For instance, it was said that he was rather delicate and suffered from headaches. That though a Catholic, he was not at all bigoted. That his father had been no better than he should be, though he too had died in the faith. That he was just five feet and eleven and a half inches tall in his stocking feet.

That he had broken the public school record for the quarter mile, and that he was one of the six or seven possessors of a tennis court, the real thing, not the pretender in England, and that he had not distinguished himself at present in any other way whatever, but that it was presumed he would stand for Parliament when he had had time to look about him a bit. Well, these things were not essential. The point was himself, his personality and his general bearing.

Beezas, as has been said, in it found sympathetic. She was quite glad he was going with them to Frascati this afternoon. She, too, was finding Rome a little trying. It was her third visit, and the least satisfactory. She too liked the old better, so far as three years ago could be called old. She liked the deep courts with the iron railings before the crumbling church entrances, with the square of blue sky, the old brickwork displaying all the colours of the scale,

if you looked for them. The cobblestones, the broken angles of ancient buildings seen against the blue. At least she liked these things so far as she liked anything in a city. And she hated the domino-faced houses and the bulging carved white stone pretensions, and the bell-ringing trams and the Vittorio Emanuelli monument. Yet it seemed to be her fate, she told herself ruefully, to live in cities. Her mother and she left England always in October and came by stages out to Rome, where they remained till Easter.

At least they had done so for the last three years. Then, by parallel stages, with intervals at Cannes and Paris, they returned to England about the beginning of June. They were quite well to do. There was no anxiety about money. She had an allowance of 300 a year on her own, yet they lived only in a small flat in London, which they let furnished from October to June,

and took a country cottage as well. This last was what she most enjoyed, or thought she did, and she would have named us her paradise on earth that she'd been asked, to live always in the English country and to devote herself to nature. But her mother always prevailed somehow, in a blank sort of way, and Paris, Cam, Rome, Cam, Paris was there round for the winter. Yes, she said gravely, in answer to Mr. Heger's last remark.

I think Italy is just too fascinating, as you say. She had decided ten minutes ago that she must play up to the American. He would merely think her unintelligent if she didn't agree on such points. The atmosphere is extraordinary. Mrs. Hecker was saying something about it, about all the strata, the paganism and primitive Christianity, and the papacy and cinematographs all laid one on top of the other. "'It's all wonderful to us,' said Mr. Hecker, with submissive admiration. "'But, of course, for you Europeans, it's part of the air you breathe all the time.'

She assented in precisely the right terms, and caught so. Neville's eye again, and a delightful little thrill went through her. Obviously he had overheard, and, no less obviously, had understood her position. Enid was a lonely soul, and she could not understand why. She had every possible charm, and no drawbacks so far as she knew. But it appeared to her that people were disappointing. They took to her violently. They called her by her Christian name remarkably soon, and she also, she thought, took to them. And then something happened once, especially when an engagement had been broken off, they misunderstood, or they found grave offence where she had intended none. They sheared off. She was not yet cynical, but she wondered

sometimes whether she were not in danger of becoming so. People were oddly disappointing and fickle. She was beginning to take refuge in a kind of mystical solitude. Such was the account of herself and the world that she would have given, in all honesty, if there had been anyone she could confide in. But at present there was nobody. I must remember that if I ever go to Corfu. She heard the young man opposite say,

It's extremely, no, no, Sir Neville, not Corfu. She had that experience at Greenwich. I always say, across the flow that once more poured forth, she heard hasty apologies beginning, unheard, and for the life of her, could not help glancing up. He was plainly a little agitated. Once more his eyes flickered up and met her own, and there was an amused kind of consternation in them. She permitted herself a delicate little smile. She knew so perfectly what was happening. She had so often witnessed it before, under stress of her mother's conversation. Section 4

He was beside her with an admirable easy art so soon as he had deposited her mother in the adjoining sitting-room. The marquis was most particular to follow the Italian custom of sending everyone out in pairs as they had come in. And she felt a gentle pleasure in his kind, frank eyes, that looked so simply into her own. Round them rose again the noise of the parrot house. "'My word is warm,' he said.

"'They were standing in the window, half hidden, "'by the heavy damask curtains deemed proper to Roman hotels. "'The motors are ten minutes late already,' she said. "'Or perhaps it's us. We were to start at two.' "'You know Frascati, don't you?' "'Oh, yes.' "'I wish you'd show me round,' he said. "'When we get there, I—I somehow luncheon parties, however pleasant,

he stopped in slight confusion. It was plain that he suddenly remembered that Mrs. Bessington was her mother. She smiled with delicious frankness. Yes, my mother does talk, doesn't she? A very faint look of surprise came into his face. But she's simply a dear, isn't she? She went on without perceptible pause. She was quite aware of her desire to please this young man.

Perhaps she had been a shade too precipitate In seeming to criticize her mother to him So she was relieved to see his face change again I could hardly say that could I he said She seems to have travelled a lot For foo you know and places like that Again she smiled Really they were getting on very well

Eni thought to herself rather subtle And it was a pleasure to perceive how quickly his personality answered hers. The relief from the convention she had found it necessary to assume with Mr. Hecker was considerable. Well, it's Frascati now

anyhow, isn't it? Mother always forgets whether she means Albano or not. It's Tivoli with me, said the boy. I know there's a waterfall there and a villa, but I forget whether it's

the Des de One or Hadrians. It's very confusing, don't you think? She set him right, deliberately and clearly. He was to keep firmly in his mind that Frascati had had an English cardinal as its bishop, to, in fact, the steward and the other. Their arms were all over the place, and there was Cicero's school too that he mustn't forget. That was up in the woods. Well, you'll give me all the information when we get there, won't you?

I can't think. He stopped, as if a little confused. I think I know what you were going to say, said Enid. You couldn't, possibly. Well, wasn't it that it's the things that matter and not the information about them? His face showed a pleased bewilderment. That's simply extraordinary, he said.

That's precisely what I was going to say. How could you tell? She looked him fairly in the face for a perceptible pause. Oh, it's obvious that that's what you feel about things, she said. Then the mark was proclaimed from the door that the motors were round and intuitively attached herself to her mother again. End of Chapter 1, Part 1 Chapter 1 Part 2 of Initiation.

This is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org Initiation by Robert Hugh Benson Chapter 1, Part 2 5 It was the one period of the year

at which the Campagna looks hopeful. In summer it is an oven of desolate beauty, thirsty and hot. In winter it is a corpse of magnificent dignity. In autumn it is as tragic as the deathbed of a king. But in early spring, it is possible to believe that even the Campagna can hope again,

and at least try on garments of rejoicing, as if her brooding memory for once was dormant, and her expectancy awake. Everywhere today, as they roared and swished over the long roads, there was a thrill in the air. It was impossible to make out details, so fast the motors went, but under the grey flats burned a faint glimmer of young green. The low hills on the horizon wore a haze of living blue. It had a curious effect upon the young man as he sat on the back seat,

once more the receptacle into which Mrs. Bessington poured the stream of her talk. There had been simply no evading her if he was to keep anywhere near her daughter, and while he stood irresolute on the pavement, she had simply announced that he was to come in their car. So here he sat, screwed slightly sideways, watching Rome recede into the distance past Mrs. Bessington's bonneted head, and scarcely permitting himself a single glance at her daughter at her side.

Beside the chauffeur he knew sat Mr. Hecker, attentive and trim. Motoring immediately after lunch, especially if one sits on a back seat, and is unable to smoke, and it was out of the question here, produces in certain constitutions a strange, receptive kind of coma. After ten minutes from the city gate, Neville felt entirely stupid. He was whirling backwards. He could not stretch his legs. The pace was so swift, that he had to hold his hat in his hand.

And Mrs. Bessington was talking about clergymen. Fortunately, he had enough humor to keep him polite. He nodded and assented and said, Just so. And she said, what? And he said, I only said just so. And meanwhile, he was taking in impressions. He saw and remembered the long,

of the Campagna, resembling the long waves of mid-ocean, the strange, ruined yellow stucco houses, the sudden signs of little wayside ins, the monstrous masses of old Roman brickwork. But a headache was beginning again, and he longed for repose. Certainly, it would be pleasant to stroll through budding woods presently, as Mrs. Bessington had promised him. he glanced at enid she was motionless and apparently thoughtful she had not spoken at all since they had left the city and there's rascati at last observed mrs bessington without the faintest pause from her appreciative discussion of the parish clergyman who had been her pastor at the time she had been confirmed by the bishop of worcester it always looks so royal i think and you know sir neville that stuartinal was bishop here once the duke of york wasn't he the grandson i think of the first pretender but i'm not sure of the relationship but at any rate george the fourth or perhaps it was the third always recognized him and paid him a pension regularly which i think was very nice of him and so he put up his arms here in the cathedral which we must mind to go and see

because so often people forget to do that as it's not my idea of a cathedral at all so small you know and not at all the sort of architecture you think a cathedral ought to be of besides having no choir or anything to sing except just a few men and boys with voices like tin kettles, because I remember being out here for Sunday once, and how much disappointed I was, and to see them misbehaving, too, when the cannons weren't looking at them. And the cannons, too, took snuff, you know, which I really don't think looks very nice, in spite of what people say. But of course, I forgot you were a Roman Catholic, or I wouldn't have said such things, because, you know, I always think we ought to make the best of one another. As I often tell Enid, don't I, my dear, when she seems to find fault sometimes, I don't mean seriously, of course, because I'm sure she wouldn't do such a thing. Oh, I wish

he wouldn't go so fast over a bump in the road, but we're really there at last. Because don't you think it's really wonderful how we cover the ground nowadays, from the days in which we used to drive out here with a pair of horses, and took two hours over it, too? But there's the the Marquis, holding up his hand for our man to stop. So I suppose we'd better get out here, if you wouldn't mind telling him, Sir Neville? She ceased. Six.

This is absolutely perfect, said Neville. Regard me those curved steps, and the little balcony at the top, and those, those delicious trees. He spoke rather breathlessly. It had been a long pull. I knew you'd like it, she said. We'll sit down at the top and look at the view.

They really had managed admirably. The bustle in Frascati had been deafening. First, there had assembled round them, at the top of the sort of embanked boulevard where they had left their cars, five or six cabs, all of whose drivers, in rapid Italian, with strange cries,

interpreted by Enid as English exclamations, had recommended each his own cab, pointing with whirling whip to the erect pheasant's feathers that crowned each horse's head as a guarantee of good faith. Next, there had been the guides, one of whom persuaded that the party was German, had addressed them eloquently and uninterruptedly in that loud and effective tongue,

and all these had agreed together with one voice, that to visit Frascati without a guide was the merest foolishness. Thirdly, there had been the flying squadron of small boys who, imitating the drivers, had chanted in chorus such words as, Yesa, all righta. Good morning, sir. And in the midst, the leaders held forth. The Martianess was the loudest, in a shrill tone in system. that things must be visited in the proper order, and that there was no time for the Capuchin Church if Cicero's school was to be seen.

And Mrs. Bessington serenely contributed an unceasing flow of experiences there on previous visits, singing a kind of alto, so to speak, to her hostess's soprano, while the marquis looked nervously from one to the other and attempted to reduce them to assist them. This had been the chance of these two. Mr. Clough was already beginning to stroll beside Mrs. Hecker under the clipped trees. His hands clasped behind him about his ebony stick. Mr. Hecker was inspecting the front of a small shop outside of which hung a tattered chascible. And Enid turned to Neville.

Let's walk on, she said. They can catch us up. He nodded, and she went forward into the circle and spoke to her mother. Then she came out again. I told her, but I don't suppose she heard. Have you ever heard such a noise in all your life? A guide ran after them, displaying a badge as they moved upwards towards the cathedral square. Me very good guide, he said.

He speak English not like those others fellas. Avanti, said Neville firmly. I tell you, began the guide. Enid suddenly laughed rather sharply. Avanti means come in, she said. She turned to the guide and spoke sharply and emphatically. He fell back, suddenly dismayed. I thought it was a sort of general dismissal, said

Neville. How well you do it. What did you say to him? I told him I knew Frascati several years before his grandfather was born, said the girl gravely. It's the only way. You must exaggerate as much as they do, or they won't take you seriously. I also told him he was badly educated. What's the word? Maleducato, said the girl. Let's see the cathedral. Let's see the cathedral. Let's see the as we come down again. We're all to meet where we left the cars at half-past five. There'll be lots of time. The walk up was quite perfectly Italian.

The sort of road, up which the girl said, carriages really did come, leading upwards from the town from behind the cathedral, ran between high walls of stained stone and stucco, straight into the heart of the woods. There were queerly, little houses with minute terraces in front of them on the left for the first couple of of hundred yards built into the wall. The right was unbroken. As they rose higher, the road

became even wilder, and all the time Neville had a deliciously tantalizing sense that the view over the Campagna, at present shut out, must be growing more superb with every step. Then they had come to a high archway, with cypresses beyond it, and the beginning of a drive and a kind of lodge, all of Greystone, eloquently ancient. That's a villa in there, said the girl. I forget the name, it's a show-place. Let's leave that too, till afterwards.

So they had risen higher and higher, and the woods loomed dark above them. them. It was so steep that they did not talk much. Each said, once or twice, that the carriages would soon catch them up, and Neville, at least, as he turned to sea, was conscious of an agreeable disappointment that nothing was in sight, except a somnolent old man who had eyed them maliciously five minutes ago, as they came up past the steps on which he was lying in the sun. Then the sweet aromas of the woods

began to breathe down on them, sharp and wholesome as the smell of the sea, and the sound of running water reached them. Then they had entered the woods, and turned up to the left, and still ascending, had seen presently the long-stepped slope, with the ancient curved steps at the end,

and the terrace of the cappuccini, all under the arch of high trees. 7. It was an astoundingly beautiful view when they had crossed the terrace before the shabby old church and cloister, climbed a convenient heap of stones, and sat down sideways on the stone wall that looked towards Rome. Again, the foreground was incredibly shabby. Immediately beneath them was the wire roof of a very dirty foul enclosure, closed on the

right by the precipitous wall of the friary. Hens were picking with a spasmodic kind of eagerness, broken by melancholy listlessness, at stripped cabbage stalks, 20 feet below where the two were sitting, and a dishevelled cock stepped, lordly, on their outskirts. But it simply did not matter, as such things do not matter in Italy. For below the foul enclosure, the ground fell away in a considerable cliff of grass and rock, almost straight down, first to a fringe of woods,

then to the tumbled roofs of Frascati, all mellow and ancient, and finally, far below Frascati, to the wide, hazy stretch of the Campagna, patched and lined, and washed in, so to say, by great streaks and slopes of color, blue, greenish, gray, brown, infinitely significant, and melancholy, or suggestive. There it lay, that tattered carpet of old Roman civilization, crossed by iron roads, softened into curves, dotted with sparse shadows,

right away to wear a faint wall of pale gray and gray and, blue, showed the mighty city herself, closing the horizon, as if Rome were still that place in which all roads, and indeed all wildernesses too, must find their end. The warm sunlight lay over all, and a tender blue sky finished the picture. Well, said the girl gently, after a minute or two of silence. "'It's simply gorgeous,' said the boy. "'But, you know,' he stopped. "'Yes?'

"'It's not the last word. "'Or perhaps I'd say, it isn't the first word. "'There's Rome still, you know.' She nodded two or three times. "'I understand perfectly,' she said. "'Nevel had a thrill of pleasure.' I believe you do, he said. But, Lord, what a prig I must seem.

May I smoke? It may relieve matters, because I wish to make some observations. A delicious laughter shone all through her face, though her lips scarcely moved. It was as if a flame danced suddenly within her soul. Really, she was exceedingly pretty, thought never. Please smoke, and please make all the observations you wish.

I rather think I shall agree, you know. He lighted his cigarette, first holding his case towards her, with a question in his eyebrows, but in silence. She shook her head. Then he began. It's all too tamed, he said. There's that Campagna, you know. It looks wild, but it isn't.

It's all been trampled down and bedded out once. You can't forget that. Look at those woods, for instance. They're holding it down all the time. And look at those shadows, which I suppose are houses. They don't even trouble to rebuild them. They're so certain the Campania can't rise against them. It's beaten. It's dead.

And then, here are we. And here are those old friars, like lords of the manor, looking down on it all. They've even stuck their old fowl house down bang in front. Why, in England, we should have the drawing-room here to get the view, to be allowed to admire it. Here they don't care a brass farthing. They know it's theirs. Poor old Campagna. And then, you know, there's Rome, planted bang down in the middle, quite happy.

and content. She knows the Campagna's beaten and done for. She's not afraid of her. Poor old Campagna. He paused, astonished at his eloquence. He had no idea he could talk like this. He looked at her. She nodded gravely twice. That's it. Go on, please, she said softly. He cleared his throat, dramatically, and threw a leg over the wall. Well, ladies and gentlemen, the next point to notice is that here in these woods, he waved his hand at them.

The situations quite different. The mountains aren't beaten yet. They're above the friars and the foul house, and even old Rome. I know they've stuck their villas here, and Cicero's school, or whatever it is, Or is that Tivoli? No, you're quite right.

Go on. Tivoli's the waterfall, and the Villa d'Este. Yes, well, well, those villas and things are only here like a sort of garrison. The woods own them, not they the woods. Look at those slopes up there, and those trees. They're on top, as Mrs. Hecker would say. They're the real thing. They're alive.

Look at all those flowers like stars and the daisies. You don't get flowers like that in the Campagna, or if you do, they don't belong. They aren't characteristic. Isn't that so? Perfectly. Well, up here, they're all right, went on Neville, feeling he'd about come to an end of his observations.

Am I talking rot, Miss Bessington? For a moment she did not move. He saw her clean profile, very straight-lined and sharp from nose to chin, still looking out over the haze of the Campagna. Then she turned slowly and looked directly at him, with an intent and yet detached sort of interest. He was taken aback a little by her directness. I think you've summed it up perfectly.

she said. But there's one thing you haven't said. Dear me, I thought I'd been exhaustive. Her mouth trembled with laughter, and then grew grave again. You haven't said on which side you yourself are. I think I know, but... But I'd like to hear you say it.

Why, on the side of the woods, of course. He sighed audibly. How I do hate luncheon parties, he added. Even when... When I'm sitting by Mrs. Bessington. Thank you very much, she said, completely grave. Eight. You don't look very well, she said an hour later,

as they began to find their way downwards again, by another path. You look tired out. There had been no sign of the rest of the party, though the two had waited within view of a patch of the road which, so far as Enid knew, was the only one into the woods up which a carriage could come, and it was quite certain that the marchioness would not walk. They had talked at ease,

with those meditative silences that are the highest compliment that each could pay to the other, about Rome and life and nature, and the meaning of things, and indirectly, of course, of themselves all through. Neville had been pretty frank, and Enid no less, or scarcely less. He had said suddenly, after one of his pauses, that he was a Catholic, and could never possibly be anything else,

and had proceeded to say that he was afraid he wasn't a very good one. But he had been brought up to it, and had a chapel and a chapel and a pre-a-lawful. priest at home, and all that. And the girl had nodded in her sympathetic way, and said that she supposed that she was Church of England, and had then begun to say that she couldn't ever be a Catholic, for several reasons, but had omitted to state what these were, and he had not pressed her. It was all very satisfactory then. It was evident to both of them that there was

something much deeper in life than conventional religion, that dogmas did not really solve difficulties, but rather increased them, and that the real secret lay somewhere else. Neither of them had said anything as to the passage of time. Indeed, it was probable that neither understood how very quickly time passes under the charm of such conversations as these. Girl's eyes wandered three or four times, rather intently down upon the section of Stony Road that was in sight a hundred feet below. And at last, Neville stood up.

We must be going, he had said, and had then wasted five minutes more in crowing like a cock, to the furious agitation of the genuine creature below in the enclosure. When the cock, after half a dozen vindictive answers, had begun to peck his wives, the two moved off. Neville did not seem to like being told he looked unwell. I'm not very well, he said shortly, and I hate and loathe it. She looked concerned. I'm sorry, she said. I didn't know.

What's the matter? Nothing but headaches, he said. But why should I have them? I simply can't see sometimes when they're bad. It seems to me unfair. You mean? I mean I can't fit that kind of thing into my philosophy. I try to bear them decently, of course,

but I don't submit in the slightest. I resent that kind of thing furiously, exactly as I resent cruelty to animals. She said nothing for a minute. They were approaching a fork in the path. Overhead the trees, still leafless, yet covered, when looked at en masse, with a faint purplish haze that revealed the strong life welling up their fiber,

nearly met in an archway. On either side, up on this, down on the other, stretched the tumbled, slopes of the mountain, a light with bluebells, and the star-flowers he had spoken of a while ago. The whole place was full of scent and vigor and youth, redolent and suggestive. To their right and still far beneath lay the roofs of the little town, extraordinarily golden in the light as the sun sank downwards. As they came slowly towards the fork in the path, a piece of crumbed, a piece of crumbed, a stumbling wall that stood at the juncture of the ways,

began to disclose itself as the back of one of those shrines that stand here and there in the frascati woods. They turned the angle of it, and stopped. It was a particularly realistic pietta. Behind the wire netting that was stretched across its face, there was the group of the mother and son, painted in crude colors, lately renovated. The mother, in an indigo cloak, sitting with upraised face, supported the ghastly body across her knees. The hands and feet ran with crimson. The mouth

appeared to grin in a horrible contortion. The limbs were grotesquely elongated and emaciated. Stuck into the meshes of the wiring in front was a small bunch of wilted, dandelions. The whole picture was painted in fresco, on plaster, that had peeled in places, and was half-sheltered by a broken pent-roof of stone. The two looked at it in silence. They moved on, still in silence. Then the boy broke out.

There, he said, that was exactly what I meant. I think such things are poor. perfectly horrible. What possible good can that do to anyone? It's completely out of harmony, too. The very colors are wrong. And, besides, why put it in the woods where things are fresh and clean? And that's exactly why I don't like talking about my headaches.

Of course, the thing's a fact. But isn't it better? He stopped suddenly, and again for a few yards. The girl did not speak. I won't ask about your headaches again, she said, with a tremor in her voice that might be humor or a deeper emotion. I agree with every word you say, you know. And you agree about that, that thing up there?

Of course I do. End of Chapter 1, Part 2. Chapter 2 Part 1 This is a little. Libravox recording. All Libravox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Libravox.org. Read by Leslie Langston. Initiation by Robert Hugh Benson. Subsection 1. The air was of that peculiar freshness of an Italian spring morning, as three days later Neville drove out alone in a little Victoria.

with his man on the box for the sensation of a mass in a catacomb. There are just a few things that are inevitable in Rome. He had already done three of them. He had visited St. Peter's. He had trailed after a guide through the forum. He had visited Frascati. When therefore the Marquist Daly assured him that no one could leave Rome without hearing mass in a catacomb, that such a mass had been arranged for by the priest whom he had met at lunch,

that the Bessington's were going because Enid had never had the experience, and that the entire party would be most pleased if he cared to join them there at half-past seven at the entrance to the catacomb of St. Calyxtus. There was only one possible answer. The return from Frascati three days ago had been uneventful enough. He and Enid had spied a remnant of the party five minutes after leaving the wayside shrine and had learned that they had scarcely been missed. Mrs. Bessington, it appeared, had prevailed on a majority to visit the cathedral.

A minority had got as far as the villa whose entrance the two had passed on their way up into the woods. Mr. Hecker alone had penetrated to Cicero's school and returned again, damp but triumphant. For the journey back to Rome, Neville had found himself with the princess and Mr. Clough, and Enid was seen no more. Neville was quite aware that something was happening to him. He would at this period have thought it ridiculous to say that he was in the least in love with Enid. It was not that at all, he assured himself. It was rather that he began to see that women were not what he had thought them.

He had thought them hitherto, as most wholesome and well-bred Yudmen think them, to be not much otherwise than rather imperfect men. He thought them just a little odd and rather silly, or, if not silly, at least very gravely handicapped by a peculiar constitution of mind. They were emotional in the wrong way, he thought. They could not reason coolly. There was a trace of dishonorable. or, to put it more mildly, their code of honor was not the same as that of men.

Above all, they lacked the quality of comradeship. One could like them rather and be friendly with them, and very courteous. One could even marry them. He supposed this would have to be done someday, but a woman could not be a comrade to a man. She could be almost anything else, but not that. He was thinking gently about all this as he drove out along the stony-walled way that leads from Rome to St. Calyxta Cemetery. Overhead, the pale sky brightened like a slow smile, and the larks were singing somewhere up in its luminosity.

Curious and Italian spectacles presented themselves. Now a wine cart coming in from the Campania, splendidly barbaric with faded paint, hooded on high. Now a team of mules straining to drag a load of cut stone blocks. Now a group of brown-faced, brown-legged children stared at him from a doorway. The early air was cold and strong like wine, full of vitality. It produced in him a strange sense of slight intoxication, for he had had nothing but a cup of coffee. He was to breakfast with the rest in the trappist. lodge for tourists. He was comparing then his former ideas with his new ones. He began to see that

comradeship was quite possible with the woman. Indeed, he was beginning to wonder whether or not it was possible in a manner impossible with a man, for he had never before met with such complete understanding. She had even told him what he was going to say that day, at lunch, before he had fully fore formulated it to himself. She had understood him, and not only understood him, but inspired him to understand as well as express himself again and again during the hour's talk in the Frascati woods. He had found himself more subtle than he thought.

She had drawn out his convictions as sunlight draws out the power of the seed. He held his opinions before, of course, but he had never quite put them so well, even to himself, he thought. Was not that comradeship? Then if this were so, he had been wrong about women. They were not inferior,

but just different, and in that difference there lay their power. Then he reflected with apparent in consequence that it would be pleasant to be at mass with Enid. Subsection 2. The group which he found waiting for him just within the gate of the enclosure consisted chiefly of people whom he knew. Yes, the Bessington's were there all right, rather in the background. The dailies obviously had charge of the party from the official point of view, and Mrs. Hecker from the intellectual. And this is all too lovely, she said, so truly

Catholic, and Sir Neville, you make it just complete. You stand for, for England, you know, and the feudal system, and you've brought your retainer with you, I see. Neville said that it was certainly his manservant, if that would do. Yes, pursued Miss Hecker, in a kind of ecstasy of intelligence, and here's the trappist monk. She indicated a meek, bearded man, in a brown frock who waited patiently a few yards away, to take us back to silence. We're all here, a microcosm, you might say, but what I want to know is,

what does all this say to me? She waved an admirably gloved hand round the tangled garden wilderness. What's in its message to me right now? What am I to take away with me that I hadn't before. It was all too bright and nickel-plated, thought Neville. She put so explicitly and adequately the thoughts which other people were content to reflect about.

I think the brother is waiting, said the Marquess a little anxiously. Father Mertinelli will have vested by now. He led the way, faintly reminiscent in his movements of a dancing master, toward the little arched building that protected the entrance to the catacomb. Neville tried to get near the Bessington's as the group began to string itself out for the descent, but it was hopeless. He could hear Mrs. Bessington's voice trickling gently on, somewhere in front. He wondered whether it was about clergymen or Corfu,

and to whom she believed herself to be talking, but that was all. Mr. Hecker's gray coat and neat trousered legs and trim hair was the only object immediately before him, descending tranquilly and steady down the long flight of steps into the mysterious darkness beneath, lit by the ruddy light of three or four tapers. He had never been in a catacomb before, and he presently found himself quite interested. Floor, roof, and walls of the tunnel seemed all alike, of a curious, powdery texture. Here and there he could make out slabs of stone, engraved with letters. There was also a powdery sort of taste in the air, as of the last and ultimate essence of dryness.

He did not know much about catacombs, but he was aware, from fragments of Mrs. Bessington's conversation on a previous day, that they were, all told, strung out end to end, about 800 miles long, and that they had been in the days of persecution, at once the hiding holes of Christians, their places of worship, and their cemeteries. Certainly that was interesting, even if a little stuffy. He did not quite know why he had got up so early to come to them, though. In the next instant, with a flash of clear-sightedness, he knew very well why he had come. when he found himself settled at last in his place, kneeling since the others knelt too on the powdery floor,

the romance and mysteriousness of it all came on him suddenly. It was an excavated chapel in which they all knelt, perhaps 15 feet high, but with a long funnel coming down from the upper air far above, shedding an oddly unreal kind of bluish light which met but did not mix with the yellow light of the tapers. The walls were dim and dark, but here and there upon them showed incised slabs, marking he thought, the last resting places of men and women who had lived and died at least

sixteen hundred years ago. There was one cleared space not far from him, as if the foot of the wall had been excavated, whence came a soft light as of burning lamps. He supposed this must be the place where St. Cecilia's body had been found lying as if she slept. So much he knew from a hurried glance at Bidecker last night, in bed. The little chapel was nearly full of worshippers, but the light was so odd that he could not identify at first more than three or four of them. Neither could he see where Enid knelt. A few faces were brightly and softly illuminated. The rest were hooded shadows. Above all, however, rose the crimson. and figure of the priest in the midst.

Neville could catch his profile now and again, a fine Italian profile of a complexion at once dark and clear, and the glimmer of silver hair or two about his ear and temple. The only sound down here was the steady murmur of his voice. There was a faint aromatic smell as of crushed box or bay.

The effect of all this was, of course, inevitable, The romance was unmistakable, for here, reproduced before his senses, was a scene that might have been presented 1600 years ago. Here was the same liturgy, most of it verbally the same, repeated by a priest whose descent, both spiritual and physical, was direct. Here were the worshippers. Here was the very place, the vestments, the tapers, the altar, the mystic bread, the wine of God. and the faith that looked on them. The very dresses of the women in this half-light, the bandaged heads, the loose cloaks,

these might have been the common disguise of Christian slaves and freed women of nearly 2,000 years ago. Yet the suggestion of all this met in him with a real resistance. It was true that he was a Catholic, that he could never be anything else, that there ran in his veins the blood of his Catholic, like forefathers, that he had a chapel at home and a priest and all that, that he went to the sacraments at least once a year. Yet he was in that mental state so characteristic of his

age in which his interior interest was not that of Catholicism. He was not consciously insincere, he was not probably insincere even unconsciously. If he had been confronted with a crisis, he would have adhere to Catholicism and accepted its dogmas with his will, even if not eminently with his intellect. But to his imagination, it meant little or nothing. And it was in his imagination that he lived just now. With his imagination that he felt that the ultimate secret of things was beneath all dogma. That was a solution of everything to which nature corresponded rather than grace or revelation. Joy, he felt, was the fundamental emotion of life, not the passion or the cross,

and Catholicism meant to him the cross. He was perfectly correct, of course, in his bearing. He remained passive, on his knees. He even took out a string of beads from his pocket, but he left them idle in his hands. He bowed his head as the bell tinkled. He lifted up his face to see the glimbinger, host as it rose between the priest's fingers. He even murmured soundlessly,

My Lord and my God. There was an indulgence attached to that, he thought. But his central soul was in another region, in that region for which the mountains above for Scotty stood, in the purely material plain, for which Enid was beginning to stand in the realm of humanity, the region of youthfulness and health and running water and clean joy and star-flower. and golden sunlight. It was not in the dull yellow light of the tapers, in crimson vestments, in underground chapels,

however romantic that for him, revelation embodied itself. Then, as the priest drank the last ablution and the knee-weary worshippers shifted a little into easier attitudes, he suddenly saw in his face against the darkness, as clear as a flower, and her great dark eyes. subsection three well said mrs hecker with enormous emphasis i think that's all just too wonderful it's an experience isn't that so henry they were out again in the sunshine and the tangled garden was incredibly fair on all sides amongst the monuments and arch tavernacles and mighty stones blazed the spring flowers as glorious as a resurrection

The sun stood higher and the morning air glowed warm beneath him, in vivid contrast to the strange supercral atmosphere of the catacomb, at once dry and chilly. And there's old Rome, she said, just as always. Mrs. Hecker always saw the dramatic element a shade quicker than anyone else. It had begun to annoy Neville a little that this was so. Certainly Rome being there just as always, was exactly the next point.

He had come out of the catacomb from the ghosts of the ages and the homes of the dead, in the midst of which the living sacrifice had been presented, and there, sure enough, was Rome again, blue and distant,

with a bubble of St. Peter's Dome to protect it, the ancient city that was eternally young. So those long dead slaves and women must have come out, perhaps with guards about them, from their house of reference, and hope to see the city of their passion awaiting them in stolid glory.

One might almost forget Rome and the city of life down there in the noiseless gloom, but it would not be forgotten for long. It was there again, just as always. Well, I guess breakfast is the next engagement, went on, Miss Hecker. It's very carnal and earthly and all that, of course, and I guess I'm no more carnal than other folks, But I want my breakfast. Here again, this was precisely the next emotion, and the most exalté there could not deny it. There was no more to be said.

They must go to breakfast. The Marquis Daly, who was responsible for the arrangements, had been very particular about breakfast. Fully two-thirds of the worshippers of his party were non-Catholics, and it was necessary to propitiate these by physical as well as spiritual comforts. Yet he dreaded the Trappist omelets. Eighteen boiled eggs then, awaited the company, laid in two slop basins, with nine egg cups, one for each,

set amid saucers of a curious pink-looking preserve, piles of bread and nine teacups. All ranged on a long table within the very bare and rather cold restaurant provided at the edge of the cemetery that was nearest Rome. Two large chromolithographs of Leo the 13th, and Pius X, the Tenth, respectively, blessed the party from the walls. Neville had not a chance with Enid, even now. Mrs. Bessington secured him at her side,

and began to describe to him the ways of the hall-porter of the flats where she and her daughter had their headquarters in London. Neville decided, in the intervals of his assenting to her, that her secret lay in the fact that she said out loud what other people thought. Everyone has foolishly inconsequent trains of thought, selections from which are manifested in speech, but Mrs. Bessington manifested the whole. She gave him presently an admirable illustration of his theory. He always goes off duty at ten o'clock, she was saying, when the night porter comes on and even wears the same cap, because one evening, Parkinson, that's the name of the day porter, got impatient,

I suppose when Martin wasn't in time, and as I came in from an early dinner somewhere or other, I saw Parkinson's cap lying there on the table, because I know it was his as when I went in to see if any letters had come. I peeped inside the cap, and there was his name in red ink on the white lining. And as I was there, Martin came in late, as I said, and was in a great hurry. So he hung up his coat, just as I was going out, and as I went past the little window, I saw him putting on the cap. So I knew it was the one, and it always seemed to me very odd that the people of the flat, in Kedogan Lane, because that's where it is, whoever they are, did not provide a cap for each one of the porters, instead making them all wear the same one. As I suppose these poor monks

do with their habits, which must be very unhealthy, I should think, as well as all their living underground so much, and running up and down all those stairs and never speaking, except the ones, I suppose, that look after visitors, because this one this morning talked a good deal and told us to mind our heads. I remember as we went under that low place in the tunnel, because I think she proceeded to give her views on the trappist vocation. Neville was getting really adept at doing three or four things at once. He attended quite adequately to Mrs. Bessington, and gave an answer now and then to the most startling opinions

which she expressed as to the Trappist and indeed monks in general, and at the same time, greatly daring, set himself to discover what other people were talking about. Mrs. Hecker was, of course, stating in wonderfully adequate terms the message that the catacombs had for her, and not the superficial message either, but quite a thoughtful one. Neville could not catch the whole of it, but its main purport was that the simple things were the greatest and the most worth coming to terms with. The Martianess Daly was describing a reputed conversation of hers with the Secretary of State, in which that

prelate, it appeared, took her advice in every particular and begged that he might have the advantage of it always in the future. The Marquis Daly was discussing intolerable Italian with the priest who had just said mass, some recent researchers in some newly discovered catacombs. Two more ladies, names unknown, were planning out the rest of their week, and Enid was silent. End of subsection 3. Chapter 2, Part 2 of initiation. This is a Librivox recording. This is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org. Initiation by Robert Hugh Benson.

Chapter 2 Part 2. 4. He saw his chance after breakfast and took it with marked promptitude. She had slipped out alone. He saw that, for he was becoming very conscious of her indeed. And as Mrs. Bessington, still discoursing, turned to answer a question from one of the unknown ladies, he produced his cigarette case as a kind of guarantee of good faith to any who might be observing his movement, and slipped out also. She was already halfway up the tiny path, but he was with her before she had reached the end.

They sat down presently with their backs to a broken wall, a little way off from the path. Neville was aware with considerable satisfaction that there would be quite a good time before they need go, as the party, generally speaking, was due to undertake a small exploration in the catacomb under the guidance of the Trappist lay brother. But he thought he would make sure of his good fortune. You don't want to go down again, he said. She shook her head. No, I think I've seen enough to...

To get its message, she said, smiling. Besides, Mrs. Hecker has interpreted it all for us, hasn't she? There was just a tinge of bitterness in her voice. And... And I don't... like, she stopped. What do you think of it all? It's your first visit, isn't it?

Neville drew out a cigarette before answering. Yes, it's my first visit. Of course, it's very interesting, and romantic. I suppose everybody feels that. But I still feel what I said the other day. Yes? Well, I quite see the drama of it all. The very same service performed in the very same language and all that,

in the very same place where the slaves and so on heard it all those ages ago. And, of course, as a Catholic, go on, she said quietly. Well, of course, as a Catholic, I think it very sacred and all that. but, you know, it seems to me they've missed the point somehow. I can't imagine what I should have done if I'd been a Christian in those days, he added, rather irrelevantly. Don't you think that it was fresh and new then,

in the same way that, that other things are fresh and new now? We, we should both have been Christians, I mean, really fervent Christians, then, I think. By George, said Neville, I believe you've hit it. You mean that since we don't live in those days, Christianity seems, well, rather stale, that, that it is stale. I don't mean that it isn't true, he went on rather anxiously. That's different, but that the spirit of it is stale.

and, and conventional, and that the point just now lies somewhere else. She bowed her head in a scent. His delight was deepening into something rather like ecstasy. Never in the whole of his life had he met anyone who understood, as she did, this particular side of his nature. More than that, she illuminated it and made it coherent, it seemed. His deep little convictions half-formed and inchoate, his views about health and freshness and solitude,

even of qualified solitude, those were coming out from him, one by one, drawn by the warmth of her presence, and really they were not so bad after all. It appeared to him that she must be extraordinarily spiritual and good to understand like this. He had had no conception that women could be like this, so delicately strong, so resonant, so to speak, instead of flabby. He turned to look at her a little more lowly, excited by his pleasure, and what he saw

flushed his intellectual happiness with an even more elementary emotion. She was leaning back again now, against the old likened wall, with her head thrown back and her big grey eyes looking out across the sunlit garden.

She had unbound her hat, and the scarf lay in her lap, and the broad, soft black straw cast a mystical shawl, cast a mystical shawl, down to her well-marked eyebrows. Her complexion was perfect of its kind. Her face and her slender throat were of an uniform pallor,

but without a hint of ill health. Her long, ungloved hands lay half-twisted in the gauze over her knees. Behind her, brightening her as an appropriate frame sets off a good picture, was a sheet of tall lily heads, and beyond them the garden, and beyond the garden, once more, Rome.

He looked at this for an instant. Then he went on. Well, all that fits in, doesn't it, with what we agreed about the other day? We don't want this sort of thing now. I suppose there are some people who must have it, all the morbid and dark side. But, but, but,

it isn't the best. After all, the catacombs are underground, and we aren't, not yet. I'd much sooner be buried at sea as a matter of fact, wouldn't you? I know what you mean, she said. Of course, death and so on are facts. I'm not a fool, or a Christian scientist. But why in the world think about them? Least of all in anything that resembles religion. I can't help thinking, How are your headaches, by the way? Oh, I promised not to ask, didn't I? He made an impatient movement with his cigarette, flicking off the ash. She had turned

abruptly to ask her question and was still looking at him. Oh, they're all right. At least I take my medicine regularly. You take medicine? They're as bad as that? You've seen a doctor? What did he say? She asked sharply and concernedly. It gave him a little thrill of delight in spite of his words. Oh, let's leave all that. No, but tell me, and then I won't ask anymore. I went a couple of months ago. He told me that, that I had headaches, and then he told me to take some medicine. and then I paid him a guinea, no, too, because it was my first visit,

and he told me to come again as soon as I got back from Rome. Did he, did he seem to think it's serious? Lord, no, not nearly so serious as I thought it myself anyhow. I told him so, too. What did he say? He laughed.

Who was he? Matheson, the brain man. You see, the local doctor recommended him. He's supposed to know everything that is to be known about the inside of all our heads. He's a surgeon, isn't he? I believe so. He didn't search me, anyhow, or even hint at it. That would be a bit too much, to make a hole in your head to let out a headache.

I hate doctors. Yes, I see. Well, I hate being reminded of that sort of thing. I believe the way to keep well is not to think about it. You went, though. Well, I couldn't stand the thing anymore. Now, Miss Bessington, for heaven's sake, let's leave that, and— But you'll go and see him again, won't you, as soon as you get back as he told you?

Her voice trembled, ever so little, and even the head. heaviest fool could not have helped being flattered by it, and Neville was not a fool at all. He turned and looked straight at her. He knew it was unfair, yet the chance of making a tiny advance towards yet further intimacy was too tempting. You wish me to, he said. She flushed divinely, and then It was her turn to switch back the conversation. Of course I wish all my friends to go and see doctors, if they're ill. I'm not a Christian scientist either, you know.

Now go on with what you were saying. So then they sat and talked in the sunlight. Voices came and went from beyond the wall, now and again. Once a bearded lay brother went past them in silence. as they sat there, not even turning his eyes. It gave Neville another little text, and when the footsteps had died away,

he made his remarks. Now there's another illustration. Of course I know they're very holy people and all that, and I've not the slightest doubt that they think all the rest of us very worldly and all that. And yet, you know, I'm as convinced as convinced

as much as I'm convinced of anything in the world, that that's not the way to do it. If they lived up here in the garden all the time, it would be another matter. But they don't. They have their endless services, out of books, and meditate on death, and deliberately give themselves pain.

Pain's a kind of physical sin, don't you think? said Enid suddenly. That's exactly it, he cried in delight. It's a thing to be resisted. It's hateful and detestable. I'd make acts of contrition for my headaches if, if I thought that was the best way to repent of them. And as for amendment?

Well, I'm sure I ask nothing better. Five. He walked up from his hotel to see the sunset from the Pincean that evening. And his mood was such that, viewing from afar the spruce figures of Mr. Hecker and Mr. Clow advancing towards him, as he came up towards the Church of the Trinita, he slipped swiftly into a small curiosity shop in order to avoid them. Thence, as in the dark interior he examined a plate of rings and charms on the counter, he saw them go briskly past.

He still determined to give them two or three minutes to get well out of sight, and then, for very shame, felt himself obliged to buy something. He had almost decided on a small silver crucifix when something else caught his eye, and he held it up, demanding what it was. That is a seal, sir, said the man in broken French. Neville said he knew that, but what was the device? That is the snake of Esculap, said the man, the god of health. I'll take that, said Neville.

The view was superb when he reached it. The crowd on the top of the facade of the Pinsian was so dense that he made no attempt to penetrate it, but he moved on to a comparatively empty space beyond and sat down. First he looked at the view. Far beneath him stretched Rome. Roofs, towers, spires here and there broken by wide spaces, and the Gulf of narrow streets, lay in one huddled mass, glorious in the evening light. Yet these appeared almost small, so tremendous and dominant was the great dome,

which this morning he had seen so tiny, yet even then dominant, from the enclosure of St. Calyxtus' cemetery. There it hung, of an indescribable blue, floating, it seemed, rather than supported from beneath, floating, and transfused in a very sea of splendor, since the western sky not only lay behind it, but streamed through it, shining clear through the windows beneath the dome, as if light dwelt within, as well as without the tabernacle, in which the body of Peter, the fisherman, lay enshrined.

It was this, of course, on which his eyes dwelt. They came back and back to it. There seemed no escape. The Jews had done their best, yet the dome of the great synagogue resembled a vulgar Nouveau-Riche beside this kingly dignity. The government was doing its best, yet the huge palace of justice seemed a house of cards.

There was no question about it. St. Peter's remained inviolate. And then the boy's eyes fell on another sight, and he almost sighed with relief. For out to the right, poised on some tall hill, of which he did not know the name, was a line of umbrella pines, as fine as lace, incredibly distinct, since every branch, and it appeared from here almost every twig, stood against the soft, rosy flush of the heavens. They, at least, were rivals of the dome, and they lived, while the dome enshrined at the very best, only the dead body of a saint. He turned presently, and looked at the crowd. They were of every nationality, yet their nationalities did not divide them.

One line only cut them sharply into two camps. There were the ecclesiastics, and there were the laity. That, he thought he understood, was the essential difference. It is true that they were mingling. physically. Yet it appeared to the young man as if an unspanable gulf lay between them. There went a serpent of black-cacked seminarians, younger men even than himself probably, going swiftly and steadily back, with flying sleeves towards their college before Ave Maria should ring. And there played a group of children with shrill cries about a trimmed black poodle,

who barked in the midst. There, an old priest leaned on the parapet, melancholy and brooding. And within a yard of him came a well-fed townsman, bold-eyed, light-bearded, in a well-cut suit, twirling a stick. There were the two camps. The former, with a terrible adequateness,

preached and insisted upon pain and death as elements of life, as symbolized, it might be said, by the sign of the cross. Those, however, inadequately, stood for the joy of life and simplicity and naturalness. It was not that Neville liked the town type. He hated it. Yet it was the nearer to the essential system of things, he thought, because more unstudied than the precise definitions of theology. So he sat, and so he considered.

And mingled with all his considerations was the image of the girl with whom he had talked, as he had never talked with any other. There was his aunt at home. He was exceedingly fond of her, and there were certain kinds of things on which he could talk with her with utter confidence. If people were in trouble, he could imagine no more soothing comforter, than Aunt Anna. Once or twice, lately, since he had come into his estate,

he had had cases to deal with. There was a girl who needed an advisor. There was a mother who had lost her only son. Well, obviously, Aunt Anna was indicated. Or there were the Jesuit fathers at his old school. There was the Jesuit father at Farm Street, whom he occasionally consulted spiritually. Well, he could say things to those priests he could say to no one else.

But he could not say the kind of things to them he had said to Enid. They simply would not understand. They would produce some dogma. They would argue that it was scarcely likely that the Catholic philosophers, even apart from dogma, were wrong and the pagan right. They would be sympathetic and kindly and understanding. understanding that is, down to a certain level, yet utterly incapable of penetrating a hair's breath below that level. At the most, they would just sum him up as tainted by modern

agnosticism. Finally, there were the men he knew, many of whom had been with him at Stonyhurst, and to those, perhaps least of all, could he give his confidences? He could be genial, and familiar with them, he could lend them five pounds or borrow them. But the relationship was really extraordinarily artificial. He could not possibly touch on certain things. And even if he could, he knew what the response would be. One type would clap him on the back and tell him to go and take a blue pill. The other type would be grave, and tell him to go and talk to four.

father so-and-so, whereas with Enid, and he had scarcely known her more than ten days, as the sky deepened and glowed above him, and as the evening chill began to drive home the prudent Roman crowd, ten minutes ago, the last child had been towed away by a voluble nurse, as the lights began to glimmer in the city beneath, and the Ilex leaves above, him to shiver in the faint breeze, which, like the sigh of a man as sleep begins to win upon him, marked the last movement of life before the stillness of the night. He began to see, he thought, the unity of all this. It was like a silent presence coming into a room which just now had been filled by conversationalists. All these minute and diverse details,

even the roll of the wheels from the great cobbled circus beneath, clearer and sharper than even ten minutes ago. The tossing rustle of the leaves, the lights that winked went out and then kindled again. Those things seemed to him merged and fused together by the encompassing sky that was darkening so swiftly into one coherent spirit, a spirit of calm and assurance,

and freshness. And as he saw this, he saw too, he thought, that this was what he had found in Enid. She had silences like these, slight yet infinitely significant movements, as when she turned and said something, looking at him as she spoke,

and then silences again. It was all one, one great and quiet spirit that penetrated the very depths of his heart, a spirituality that depended upon no forms, and therefore was limited by none, a comprehension that needed no words to express itself in. Then, as he looked out over the shadowy dome at the sky, passing itself even as he watched, from luminousness to opatism, There came out a single star that shook for an instant, like a light he had seen just now in the city,

and then, again like that light, settled down into steadiness. The great spirit had gathered itself to a point. 6. He went up to his private sitting-room, almost immediately after a cup of coffee and a cigarette in the lounge of his hotel. The sight of all these people became a burden. What were they all about? A couple of men talked over cigars in a discreet manner in one corner,

eyeing all the while every movement among the rest, following with their eyes a particularly superb-looking lady who wore an orange velvet dress. A very domestic party, with an Anglican clerical father in the midst, laughed and talked with true British reserve over some ridiculous card game. Two old ladies in caps with ribbons bent their old heads together

and murmured gossip, no doubt, over their crochet work. They all appeared to him like marionettes, like shadow figures on a screen that jerked about with a semblance of life, but had no insides, so to speak. They were not really alive at all. they knew nothing worth knowing. So he went upstairs. It was an excellent room, so far as hotel

rooms can be excellent, and he had done what he could to improve it. A bronze of Antinous he had bought during his second day in Rome stood on a pedestal of carved wood he had bought for it at the same time. A couple of old oil paintings rested on the mantel shelf, A gorgeous piece of antique silk, emblazoned all over with bees, and, in the midst, with a cardinal's hat and arms, lay over the corner of the screen. All those would be sent straight back to Hartley when he left. His riding table, too, looked homely. A couple of big silver frames held photographs,

the one of a passionate-looking old man, the other of a middle-aged woman, grey-haired with a yellow-haired with a young man, young face, with a boy in a sailor suit. These were, respectively, his father and his aunt Anna, with Jim, her son. He stood looking at the second of these for a few seconds. Then he went through into his bedroom, turning on the light as he did so, and hunted about on his dressing table, but he could not find what he wanted. He came back into the sitting-room and touched the bell,

and then before it could be answered, sat down at his writing-table, took out a sheet of paper, and prepared to write. Yes, sir, came a discreet voice presently. Oh, uh, Charlson, did you turn a seal out of my waistcoat pockets, the waistcoat I wore this afternoon? Yes, sir, put it into the drawer, of the dressing-table, Sir Neville. Oh, get it, will you? I couldn't find it.

Yes, Sir Neville. The man came back presently, and laid it by his elbow. Anything more, Sir Neville? No. Oh, yes, I said we'd leave on Easter Monday. I've changed my plans. I'm not sure. I'll let you know when we'll go. Yes, sir. And, Charlson. Yes, sir? I shall leave a note here with a little box when I go to bed.

See that they're both taken tomorrow morning early to the address. That's all. I shan't want you again, Charleston. Good night. Thank you, Sir Neville. Good night, Sir Neville. End of Chapter 2, Part 2. Chapter 3, Part 2.

1 of initiation. This is a Libervox recording. All Libervox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Libervox.org. Read by Jamie Kurzweig, initiation by Robert Hugh Benson. Subsection 1. The spring sunshine slept peacefully on the wide graveled space in front of Hartley front door, and two collies who had just been out for a run, slept upon the strip of turf just out of the sunshine, with their long tongues hanging out. Easter fell late this year, and the trees were, so to speak, just dressed again. The crocuses were out, such at least as had escaped the busy sparrows, and the wallflowers were out, for it was close on Pentecost. To the right and left of the solemn grey house, ran the wide belt of woods,

like outstretched arms, between which looked the stone-framed windows like meditative eyes, right across the flat stretch of Meadowland, bisected by the straight drive that led up to the great porch from the double lodge gates half a mile away. The house was of an Elizabethan foundation, though most of the Tudor work had been supplanted by Caroline. Up in the attics were still the criss-cross black beams, the uneven floors, and the low ceilings, but the rest of the place wore the stately air that is characteristic of the century after. The porch would have been pretentious if it had not been so genuine. Stone men looked over the parapet, as if further to guard the solemn emblazoned coat

that was already guarded by a couple of ramping beasts. Two long rows of tall windows ran the length of the house, above which peered out the dormer windows of the earlier date. The roofs of stable and laundry showed at one end, and to the north the high gable of the tennis court above the plantations, into which merged the woods. Finally, to the right hand of the house, in a little cleared space, there stood, rather to the west of the west front, the domestic chapel of Hartley, in the midst of a rather sombre-looking small churchyard, decked with cypresses, and behind it, the roof of the more recently built

chaplain's house. As a whole, it was an exceedingly respectable place, not to be reckoned, of course, among the greater domestic shrines, yet entirely good of its kind. It appeared to be as much part of the landscape as the woods themselves, or as the solemn lines of the downs discernible away to the south. It seemed that the woods clothed the house, rather than that the house was built in the woods. The little river that ran as the boundary of the southeastern gardens on the other side appeared to have been placed there by design, rather than that the gardens had been laid out according to its course. The collies were so deeply asleep that when their mistress came out at last

to see where they were, they never moved. She stood in the shadow looking at them an instant with a faint smile on her face. They were splashed in the black mud all along their undersides, now brazenly displayed to the world, and all up their delicate, frilled legs. Jack's face was quiet and solemn, as befitted a male. Jill was still panting in her sleep, as was proper to her hysterical femininity. Their entire attitude was one of complete and exhausted abandonment. Oh, you pigs, she said suddenly, in quite a low voice. Jack opened an eye as if to reassure her he was still alive and thumped the end of his tail twice. Jill leapt up and began to cry aloud with delight. There, that's enough, said the woman. Come on round to the gardens, and then you shall go to the stables.

Stables, you pigs! No, Jill, don't be so. so silly, not yet, afterwards. She moved round to the left, and Jack, with his middle-aged and masculine sedateness, followed her dutifully. Jill, after unfitting her tail from between her hind legs, where she had immediately hidden it upon hearing the fatal place named, consented to come after, but plainly a little nervous in spite of the promise. "'Mummy,' said a voice suddenly from overhead, "'Where are you going?' the woman stopped and her face twinkled with pleasure as she looked up to the end window of the first floor where the upper half of a boy appeared over the sill entirely without any clothes on but brandishing a towel and with all his hair on end to the gardens she said oh are the dogs there yes they're a perfect disgrace where in the world did you find all that mud oh i think it was in the kestern woods there was a pond there and there was a water-hend there

and Jill, you see? Yes, I quite see, thanks. Well, they can't come into the house until they're clean. Oh, mummy. Yes. It's not their fault, you know. It was mine. You see, I sent in Jack at one end, while Jill went round to the other, and so... The woman laughed suddenly. Oh, you child, she said. Now get changed quick. I shall be in the pavilion if you want me. Mr. Morpeth's coming to lunch. oh and is miss morpeth go along jim and get changed just think if she came along and saw you like that the white apparition vanished subsection two The gardens on the eastern side of the house gave a very considerable surprise to anyone who called at the house for the first time. The west side, as has been seen, were in aspect of a certain severity. There were the solemn front, the Cypress Churchyard, the flat lawns cut by the straight drive,

and not a flower to be seen except beneath the edge of the plantations on either side. But the eastern side was very different. First, there came a wide stone terrace, flagged underfoot, bounded by a low wall along which stood great stone flower-pots. This was approached from the house, so great was the fall of the ground, by a double flight of stairs leading down in a curve from the door of the hall which ran the whole depth of the building. Beneath the terrace ran a wide gravel path from end to end of the house, and beyond that again, a vast lawn, here broken by a circle of three, flower beds, here by a couple of cedars, here again unbroken and as soft as velvet. Then again, further out, came a gravel walk, and again a low wall, and then the river. This river, perhaps 20 feet across, ran swiftly from north to south, as clear as crystal in its chalk bed.

Two or three steps in the wall, straight opposite the hall door, led down to it, and a punt usually rested here. Forty yards further along, a stone pavilion was built out, half over the river, perched in the wall, and was entered by half a dozen steps leading up from the gravel walk. To this pavilion, then, across the wide lawn between the cedars and the flower beds, came Mrs. Fanning, as she usually did about the time of the second post. Sometimes she brought her letters with her, sometimes they were taken out to her. If she were not in her own room, it was generally understood that she would be here from about twelve to half-past one. The collies, of course, had made instantly for the water gate and were noisily drinking, but even Jack was a little nervous,

if he were surprised here, for more than once he had been pushed in suddenly from behind by the boy who had conversed out of the window just now. When they had quite done, they proceeded to the pavilion, where the sacred dog's mat lay to the left of the entrance, pushed open the nearly closed door, and resumed their slumbers. The pavilion was an ideal place for a sunny hour in the morning, even in winter. A wide, high window ran in a great semicircle over the river and was furnished inside with a long, deep window seat. Until about four o'clock in summer and until sunset in winter, all the sunlight that there was streamed in from the south. The chuckling sound of running water from the current that rushed by beneath was delicious in summer, and not unpleasant in winter.

A sensible round table, really firm upon its legs, and furnished with writing material, stood in the middle of the circular floor. Two well-filled bookcases hung on either side of the door. Three or four deep basket chairs stood here and there. The ceiling was a plastered dome within and a cone without, all of solid gray stone. The floor, adequately tiled, was covered with rugs. Anna Fanning had sat down upon the window seat as soon as she had made sure that the letters were not waiting for her on the table and was looking out of the window. By turning her head, she could look right up the river for a quarter of a mile and down it beyond the stone bridge for about a hundred yards. At these two extremities, the woods came down and hid it.

Beyond the woods to the south, however, showed the line of the downs. Even straight out across the river, the view had its charm, for here was the park proper, long rolling grasslands broken by copses, stretching for about two miles, and rising gradually towards the foot of the heather hills of Ashdown. here and there were the cattle, feeding resolutely in the sun, and there, under the shadow of a group of tall trees, she could make out the brown bodies of the deer, resting, just outside the bracken, a part and exclusive like the aristocrats that they were. Anna Fanning was just 41 years old, and for the last year she had considered herself middle-aged. She had married, just before she was 30, old Sir Neville's younger brother Robert, and four years later, Jim had been born. They had lived in town for the most part, coming down here again and again, till when her husband had died a year after Jim's birth, she had come here altogether six years ago to keep house for his brother. Then again, four years ago, he too had died, and young Neville had asked her to stay on. She was 41 years old, as has been said, and sometimes she looked a good deal more, and sometimes a good deal less. For first, her hair was quite grey, though as abundant as ever,

it had begun to go grey as was almost the accepted custom in her family soon after her twenty-fifth year and had continued to do so remorselessly ever since and there were of course lines in her face though still delicate and slight especially about her eyes since she would no more have dreamed of massaging her face than of dyeing her hair yet on the other side she could still flush like a girl she still kept her figure and she still carried herself superbly she was not in the least pretty but she was quite beautiful she had very bright grey eyes she had finely cut lips that continually smiled a little but not much she had a very straight and good profile since her husband's death she had been proposed to at least four times but always by men near sixty than fifty and she had never had even a moment's hesitation in refusing them it appeared to her that life at hartley with a dutiful month or two in london so long as she was allowed to be at Hartley for the Rhododendron season, was an entirely ideal life. Of course, it could not continue indefinitely. She had been quite clear to Neville that when he married, it must end, and had laughed frankly at a statement that he would probably never marry at all. However, here she lived for the present with Jim, and it was all extremely nice. Jim would go to school next year, to the Benedictines,

she thought, and she would continue to keep house even more tranquilly during school time, unless, indeed, Neville married. Here she had her beautiful house, her stone pavilion to sit in, her horse to ride, her church within a stone's throw, her village to visit in, and just a very few neighbors with whom ordinary courtesies must be exchanged. And then, when Neville married, she would consider the question as to whether she would take the dower house,

as he had suggested, at the further end of the park, or take a flattened town, or a little house near downside, so as to be close to Jim. she rather thought the last plan would be best but there was no hurry there never was any hurry with mrs fanning things would arrange themselves tranquilly when the time came subsection three they approached as she sat regarding the landscape through the big curved window in that almost motionless attitude that was so completely characteristic of her the sound of weighty footsteps anna turned her head as they came up the stairs and saw that she had been right and that it was so completely characteristic of her own wayty footsteps anna turned her head as they came up the stairs and saw that she had been right and that it was was Masterson himself who was bringing out her letters. This, she considered to be very nearly an honour, for there was no one in the whole world, she believed, quite like Masterson. He had taken service under old Sir Neville as his body-servant, at least thirty years ago, and such was his

genius, had not only remained in it as butler, but had so impressed himself on the place that Hartley without Masterson simply would not be Hartley. One might as well blow up the porch or the pavilion at once. His tact had been infinite when she had first come here to Kiev House. He had begged her pardon one morning soon after her official arrival, and had requested to know whether Madame wished or did not wish him to give her some kind of an idea as to how things were done at Hartley. His air of deferential detachment from any personal feeling in the matter had been so superb that the idea of impertinence was simply not to be entertained for an instant. His manner resembled that of one general who had been superseded by another in the conduct of a campaign,

but who had vanquished every pulse of resentment. He merely desired to be of service to his successor if it were wished, not unless. Of course, she had thanked him very humbly and gravely. He had proceeded then, still with a magnificent deference, to point out one or two little matters that were not quite satisfactory, and then, begging pardon again, had departed. He had renewed his instructions later, on several occasions, had sketched for her the weaknesses as well as the virtues of Mrs. Canning, the housekeeper, and had suggested one or two little improvements. Then gradually these instructions had ceased, when Anna had been properly formed. And finally, he had manifested his entire acceptance of her rule by admitting her to the number of his superiors to whom he permitted

himself to be brusk in private. This was the last distinction he could confer. He was never, for instance, brusque to the priest. He had never been brusk to her own husband. He never was brusk to anyone except his obvious superiors, and to them only in this strictest privacy. Well, here he was, coming in at the door, a large figure of a man, grey-haired and rosy, with a fringe of white below his chin, in a swallow-tail coat with a V-shaped shirt front. She wondered why he was here. The letters, Masterson? Yes'm. Letter from Sir Nevilleum. He extended a to her, and there, on the top, was the envelope addressed in Neville's neat upright hand, with the Italian stamp in the corner. That explained Masterson's ceremonial then.

She took it at once, with a certain eagerness. She had not had a line from him, since the note in Easter week, which announced that he wanted to stay a little longer than he had at first intended. It was just like Masterson, she thought, to have scrutinized the letters, and to have remarked on it so frankly, but she knew the cause to be sheer loyalty. Masterson retired to the door and stood there waiting. Jack, thinking that something was required of him, thumped his tail again three or four times, but his friend regarded him severely.

It would be entirely as incorrect for him to recognize Jack in public as to allow the familiarities under the same circumstances to Jim, which he would permit in the pantry. Jack ceased and closed his eyes with a sigh. There was a minute of silence in the pavilion after Neville's letter had been opened, broken only by the chuckle of the river beneath the pavilion window. Anna remembered afterwards the significant little silence. Then she looked up sharply.

Yes, Masterson, is there anything? He raised his eyes for a moment and then dropped them again. No, no news of when Sir Neville returns. Hmm? She seemed days a little. No, I don't know. I'll tell you when I've read it. he he she broke off again again came the silence as she turned back once more to the first page then jill sat up and uttered a loud melodious yawn masterson still lingered an instant and then turned and went out

end of chapter three part one chapter three part two of initiation this is a libravox recording all libravox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer, please visit librivox.org. Read by Jamie Kurzweig, initiation by Robert Hugh Benson. Subsection 4. So it had come at last, the news of Neville's engagement for which she had waited so long. She had told herself again and again that it might come at any time, and that it must come sometime. Yet, now that it had come, it brought to her a greater shock than she had anticipated. it seemed curiously disappointing that it should have come in such a way without the faintest indication of its approach she had thought somehow that she would have been a witness of the first stages of the affair that she would know the girl herself that she would watch neville and see how matters developed perhaps even that she would be the confidante of the girl two or three names had passed before her mind as possibilities for that kind of thing she had been ready enough she had rehearsed smiling faintly to herself little scenes that might have happened she had even thought that neville might come and tell her in this very pavilion

well he had told her here after all or rather his letter had told her but it had not been as she had rehearsed it she read the name again enid bessington no she had never heard of enid bessington it appeared to her curiously disconcerting that any one could have never heard of enid besington it appeared to her curiously disconcerting that any one could have been a man called Enid Bessington, should be engaged to her nephew Neville. A second disappointment lay in the news that she was not a Catholic, and she made haste to take refuge in this. It was quite a sharp little blow that this was so. Of course, she had faced the possibility, but a possibility is very different from an assured fact. Of course, too, Neville said that she was thoroughly broad-minded, that she had definitely made to him the promises, as regarded, the Catholic-Urifice, upbringing of the children, if there were any, which she afterwards would renew before the marriage was celebrated. He even said that he thought she might very likely become a Catholic herself,

but all young men in love thought that kind of thing. So Anna fixed upon this point as her principal little grievance, as the explanation of her very sharp dismay at the whole news. For she would not have been human, after all, unless there had always remained in the background of her mind a consciousness that, in spite of probabilities to the contrary, Neville really might not marry. Never for a moment had she ever permitted herself to wish that he would not. It was entirely right that he should. She had expressly urged it, again and again. Yet she was the mother of Jim, after all, and Jim certainly had been heir-presumptive ever since he had been born, was in fact still the air-presumptive. Her humanity, therefore, made its subconscious protest, and experienced.

its subconscious dismay, but it was wholly subconscious. She would not, even this moment of surprise, allow it to be more. Two points only did she permit to dwell on her mind as disconcerting. One that Enid Bessington was entirely unknown to her, and the other that Enid Bessington was not a Catholic. And then, as she turned the last page of the four, she perceived that she must not allow those to be grievances. Neville was ahead of the house. he was perfectly free he must follow his heart mummy she looked up suddenly and the air presumptive stood in the doorway he really was a picture he had been out riding for a good two hours this morning on a small and very determined little pony that was for all that not so determined as his rider and he was still flushed from that strenuous exercise and from the cold bath that had followed it he was close on eight years old as upright as his mother he had a singularly fair complexion and straight golden hair cut like a fourteenth century pages it was deplorable to think that by this time next year it would have to be cropped instead bright gray eyes like her own and an exceedingly resolute mouth

he was back in his sailor suit now barefooted instead of in the perfectly ridiculous and perfectly charming little riding suit and boots in which he had come to breakfast poor little air presumptive yes my darling may i come in he said it like a sort of a side but it was strictly according to rule that he must ask this always when she was here with her letters he was beaming on the collies as he asked it yes come in she watched him first sit down suddenly between the collies and then roll over in a kind of ecstasy bringing an arm round each shaggy neck and dragging each long nose down into the back of his head an indescribable sound rose from the entangled group of scratching claw loud excited moans from Jill, the steady good-humored growling of Jack, and long whines of pleasure from the boy. She watched them meditatively. Well, be dirty again if you like, she said. But remember, you'll have to wash and brush your hair all over again. He sat up, his whole face screwed tight with delight, and with the physical ecstasy of having been scratched and nosed all over the back of his neck.

Oh, mummy, he began. No, Jill, go away. I don't want you. He pushed her violently in the chest. Come up here if you want to keep clean. Get down, Jill. He climbed up beside his mother and threw his arms around her waist. Oh, mummy, he said. How jolly it all is. At moments like this, a kind of joy ran through her that very nearly terrified her. Jim's superabundant vitality continually broke out in violent caresses. He would suddenly embrace his pony's nose before mounting, and kiss him between the eyes, or he would roll on the ground,

as just now, between the collies, or again it was his mother now and then, whom he fiercely embraced. He was just one tingling four foot of life that burst out irrepressibly. He had, of course, as such natures do have, long meditative intervals in which he stared, steadily and unseen, at some entirely familiar thing, and when questioned, gave what seemed a wholly inadequate subject to occupy his mind so utterly. And then, as abruptly and as inconsequently, he would set his small teeth in a passion of affection and seize his mother, or even Masterson's trouser'd leg would do, and say how jolly it all was. But at this moment, breaking upon the news that she had just had, and at her knowledge of the amazing change that it

registered in his fortunes, his embrace was like a sword for pain. She felt herself suddenly flushed, and then she too seized him, pulled him round and kissed him almost savagely between the eyes. Then, ashamed, she recovered herself. There, my dear, and now pick up that letter you've just knocked down and give it to me. It's from Cousin Neville, and he's coming back on Saturday. Quick, or Jill'll get it. Subsection 5. Mr. Morpeth, who was coming to lunch, as she had reminded Jim half an hour ago,

and in whose honor, therefore, he must be even more speckless than usual, was a man she was beginning to like particularly. At first, he had been a name to her in nothing else. In the long run, she managed most of the estate of which Neville was the official owner, and it was to her, therefore, that the agent had come and reported, six months ago, that an exceedingly desirable tenant had applied for the dower house, and that he was a Catholic with one daughter, that he was a retired businessman of tolerable wealth, that he had made no difficulties at all, and that, while he would have preferred a longer lease, he was perfectly willing to sign one for a year only,

with the first option of renewing it at the same rent every year for ten years at least. Neville had insisted on these terms in case Aunt Anna might want the house herself. For the first three months after his arrival, she had seen no more of him than absolute courtesy demanded. He and his daughter dined with him once and no more. Ella, the daughter, was just ordinary, who seemed to make no demands on anyone. and her father had appeared to be exactly what he was a sensible quiet sort of man of almost sixty who had obviously been in business and now no less obviously was glad to be out of it and at peace in the country anna could have said no more of him than that she was just aware that he was paying a good deal of attention to his garden then there had been some trouble about a son of one of the keepers who had been arrested for poaching he was a wild hopeless kind of boy exceedingly independent and irresponsible She had met Mr. Morpeth one day after Mass, and she happened to mention to him her difficulty about the lad.

She had talked to him, she said, without the smallest effect, and was in despair as to his future. Then, she scarcely knew how, it had been arranged that Mr. Morpeth was to see him. He had done so, and a day or two later came up to report his success. That success, it appeared, had been complete. Dick had capitulated, had promised to enter regular employment, and was to come up to apologize in person. This he did next day. But that was not all. It was the character of a few remarks that Mr. Morpeth had made to herself, that had made her for the first time regard him with interest. This whiskered gentleman, it appeared, knew a considerable amount more

about human nature than she did, and his manner of speaking of Almighty God, too, had been peculiar. So, little by little, she had begun to understand that Mr. Morpeth was, well, a little beyond her power of understanding. She knew as yet hardly more than that, but she was aware that she would like to know a good deal more. He interested her quite remarkably. Among other things, she had come to the conclusion that he was exactly what she meant by a gentleman, and she meant a good deal by that. Jim had gone in to make himself ready for the second time, and she was still sitting with Neville's letter in her hand, and the rest unopened, when she saw Mr. Morpeth coming across the lawn.

She was conscious of a sudden pleasure at the sight of him. Somehow it was reassuring. She stood up riskily to greet him. Come in, Mr. Morpeth, she said. The bell hasn't rung yet. Good morning. He looked very ordinary indeed as he came up the steps. He was in his usual grey tailored suit

and carried his Panama hat in one hand and his handkerchief in the other, his high-balled forehead, shown with heat, and he was a little flushed with walking. There was nothing what ever noticeable about him, except his kindly eyes, and these were not anything extraordinary. Good morning, he said. Yes, it's quite warm, isn't it? I came across the grass. The swifts are beginning to build, by the way. You know all about that kind of thing, don't you? She said.

I love it, too, but I don't know anything. He carefully wiped his forehead once more, and then the inside of his hat, and set hat and handkerchief together on the floor by his chair. Jack rose solemnly and put his nose to them. Then he placed that same nose on Mr. Morpeth's knee and regarded him contemplatively. Mr. Morpeth put a hand on the dog's head. Yes, he said, that kind of thing and almighty God. Those, I may say, are my business just now. It was just that sort of sentence that had first attracted Anna's attention.

At first she had thought it the peculiar kind of thing converts did say, but she had begun to perceive that it was characteristic of this individual rather than of any general type. He said it quite simply and unaffectedly. She smiled a little and nodded in the scent. I've just heard from Neville, she said. He's coming back on Saturday. I hope he's better, said Mr. Morbeth politely. Well, he doesn't say anything about his headaches,

and he seems to have been doing a good lot, so I should think he was. He saw a doctor before he went abroad, you said, I think. Yes, indeed, I made him, and he must see him when he comes back, too, but... She stopped. Neville had said nothing about keeping the engagement private, and yet she was not quite sure whether he meant her to speak of it. Yes, you were going to say? She suddenly decided she would speak of it. That was the kind of effect that this man's presence did have on her. He seemed to her, in his soul at least, to be rather like an experience priest or a wise doctor. His persuasiveness lay in his eyes, she thought. They were not at all

perfect in shape, or exceptionally large, and anything of that kind, but they were narrow and very blue and exceedingly kindly looking. Mr. Morpeth, she said, I may as well tell you. Of course you understand it's confidential until you hear of it from outside, but Nevels engaged himself to be married. Yes? It's what I've always told him to do, of course, but... But naturally, it's rather a shock. Now it has come, because of your boy. That pricked her sharply, and she started. For an instant, she thought herself offended. I quite see that. I cannot imagine it being otherwise, continued Mr. Morpeth tranquilly. Oh, dear me, she said. Yes, of course you're right. That does come in, but that's not all. She's probably a Protestant, observed Mr. Morpeth.

Beth next. Then indeed she was startled. How in the world did you know? she asked. My dear Mrs. Fanning, it's quite simple. First, you aren't quite happy about it, and next, well, Sir Neville was almost sure to marry a Protestant. You haven't met her, I expect, and that's another point. She laughed outright. Well, you'd better give me the news instead, she said with an air of mock resignation. I suppose you can't guess her name. That's quite beyond me. You must tell me, she cried. How do you guess I hadn't met her? And what in the world do you mean by saying that Neville would be sure to marry a Protestant?

Well, I guessed you hadn't met her, partly because you didn't mention her name, and I think you would have mentioned it first of all if you knew her. And then, I thought from your manner that there was another point you did not quite like, and I could think of nothing else. Well, it was a very brilliant shot, and perfectly right. And now about the other? for a moment Mr. Morpeth did not speak. He dropped his eyes to Jack and passed his hand over the smooth head two or three times. There was no look in his face as if he were aware that he had been at all clever. He was quite natural and quiet. Then he spoke. Well, he said, it's most impertinent of me, but since you ask me, I should say simply that Sir Neville struck me, on the one or two occasions I've met him, as being that kind of young man. He's a little restless, you know, he rather resents being in prison as he thinks it and he's very independent really well that kind of man usually does marry a protestant partly because there are a good many more protestants than catholics in england and partly because he would be attracted by their appearance of independence

sir neville is not initiated if i may use the phrase up to the last sentence she understood him perfectly and agreed with him though never before had she so put it to herself but she perceived it to her be quite true. But the last sentence was beyond her. What do you mean by initiated? she asked gently. Again he waited an instant before answering. His hand passed rhythmically over the head, still passive on his knee, and beneath the ears. His eyes wandered out for a moment through the open door to the lawns and the great house. Then Jill, who had been watching the caresses with liquid-paint eyes, whined suddenly. There, go and lie down, he said softly. Your white,

getting jealous. Inundiated, Mrs. Fanning? Well, I hardly know what other word to use. Well, the difference between your nephew and yourself, if I may venture to say so. As his eyes came round to hers, she was conscious of a sudden flush of pleasure across her bewilderment, and simultaneously understood, or thought she understood what he meant. Yet it surely was an odd phrase. Please be more explicit, she said smiling.

"'Well, you know,' said Mr. Morbeth, "'of course I don't profess to say there's a hard and fast line, "'but it's quite plain, surely, that there is one class of persons on one side "'and another on the other. "'The one accepts what happens as soon as it really has happened, "'and the other does not. "'The one knows that the past is inevitable, "'and the other is not sure.

"'The one is not surprised at things, "'and therefore does not resent them. "'He is behind the scenes, so to speak, "'and understands what it is all about, even if he cannot quite make out the details, and the other looks on from the stalls, and knows nothing except what he sees. I suppose that is more or less what I meant just now. But Neville's a Catholic, said the woman rather inconsequently, as she thought. Oh, yes, and I cannot imagine his being anything else, but for all that he struck me as not

initiated. She opened her lips to speak, and then closed them again. Simultaneously, the stable bell began to ring. Well, shall we go to lunch? She said. Subsection 6. It was nearly four o'clock before she found herself alone again in the pavilion, and, somehow or other, the situation were a very different complexion from that of this morning. At lunch, of course, they had talked of all the things that did not matter. Ella, it appeared, was not yet back from town. The garden of the Dower House was shaping really excellently. Dick Fotrell, the gamekeeper's turbulent son, was doing well on the railway. Jim, too, so admirable was his behavior, demanded a certain amount of conversation. He did not interrupt once while high and grown up matters were being discussed.

But his look of pathetic self-repression made it entirely necessary for the history of the water hen incident of this morning to be thoroughly reviewed, and for reassurances to be given to the authorities that neither Jack nor Jill had shown any signs of having disturbed a possible nest. Plans also had to be sketched, with a view to Cousin Neville's return on Saturday, and the probabilities debated as to whether he might not possibly, seeing that Jim's eighth birthday came in June, forestall that event by giving him his first lesson in tennis, promised so soon as that date should be reached.

Jim too had come out with them for coffee into the pavilion afterwards, for the performance of the usual ceremonies with Jack and Jill, who were allowed to lick the inside of the coffee cups, clean of sugar, on condition that Jim carefully dirtied them again afterwards. It was Jim's peculiar delight, because it was so beastly, to smell those cups after the dogs had licked them, and indeed the odor of coffee and dog mixed is as startling as a chord crashed on a piano. When at last, Jim was gone away to see if Charles the footman would consent to come and bowl to him at the net, the two had begun again. It became more and more astonishing to Anna to find how quickly she was understood by this prosaic old gentleman. Not only

did he seem to understand her instantly, but he seemed to be familiar too with the processes and grounds that underlay what she had always thought to be small fancies of her own. For instance, she had spoken of the death of Neville's father as being one of the most impressive and terrible scenes she had ever witnessed. It was pretty notorious that he had lived an exceptionally wild life, and that he had died comparatively young in consequence, so she was guilty of no indiscretion in what she said. What astonished me most, she said, was my nephew's splendid behavior. His father clung to him, you know, very much at the end. He was simply terrified at the thought of death. Even the priest, It was old Father Benedict we had then, you know.

Even the priest seemed rather taken aback by some of the things that happened. But Neville, my nephew, I mean, was splendid. He never faltered or showed the least sign of fear, you know. Now what do you make of that, Mr. Morpeth? He was the strongest person there. The old man nodded quietly, without speaking. No, but tell me, she had said eagerly. Doesn't that look as if he was initiated, as you call it?

He looked up at her questioningly. Yes, I mean it, she said. Tell me. Well, I should think it was his paganism that supported him, not his Christianity. Yes, that was exactly true. She perceived it the moment he had said it. It was certainly not Neville's grip of what lay beyond death that had been his strength. He loathed death in pain and had said so again and again.

But it was a fine sort of defiance that had inspired him. Simply, he would not be beaten. She had fallen silent when Mr. Morpeth had said that. She had gone on to describe presently, so extraordinarily sympathetic did she find this old man, another incident connected with that deathbed. Just before the end, she said, he was a little quieter. It was up in the big room, in the front, you know.

We haven't used it at all since then. Well, just before the end, he said a rather dreadful thing. He was holding on to my nephew with both hands. He kept his strength, you know, extraordinarily. That was partly what made it all so much more terrible. Well, he seemed to think that Neville would suffer for him somehow, that it was sure to be so. Well, but Neville took him up and said that he only hoped he would. Of course, he didn't mean it.

I don't think any of us knew what we were saying, but it was a fine thing to say, wasn't it? It was quite a fine thing to say, repeated Mr. Morpeth tranquilly. She bit her lips sharply. I see what you mean, she said. You mean that he didn't mean it. You thought so too, though, he said gently. Well, I did, and I do still. But do you think that kind of thing really does happen?

People offering themselves for others? Why, yes, he said as gently as ever. The old law even said that it would be so, and the new law underlined it, surely. I don't understand. Well, the sins of the fathers, are visited upon the children, that is in nature, as we say, and the new law says that the children ought to be ready to accept it willingly. That is the whole idea of a torment, is it not? It seemed

very simple put like that, thought Anna. But you don't think in this case, she began, suddenly a little afraid. He spread his hands in a small gesture. Who in the world can tell, he said. We know the principles of things, but no more. In any case, it will be all perfectly well. Somehow then, when he left her an hour later, she felt reassured all round. This morning, for the few minutes after the opening of Neville's letter, and before the old gentleman's arrival, she had been conscious of a considerable interior disturbance. Now, though he had uttered scarcely a word to reassure her directly, though even he had superficially corroborated all her fears, she was aware of comfort. It was not that he had taken anything away, rather he had drawn

pointed attention to the facts. But he had seemed to present them in a new sort of setting, and they looked quite different. There remained Enid Bessington, there remained Jim's altered position and prospects, there remained even more than a suspicion that Neville was not entirely satisfactory, yet the air had changed. She sat again in the window seat, staring out at a dancing mayfly that had rashly left the far bank to adventure himself into the gardens whose scent perhaps was drawing him she was thinking steadily and with a restored tranquillity of this new setting of ideas and simultaneously had her own attention fixed on the mayfly he was dancing up and down in a frenzy of delight now for a fleeting instant he tapped the glassy surface of the stream now he whirled a couple of feet above it it'll be all right she whispered to herself thinking of the engagement. The mayfly was nearing safety. One more whirl would land him on the grass, but once more for the last time he dipped, close to the bank, and as he dipped, a swirl rose to meet him.

A dark nose showed for a moment in the midst of the glass and was gone again, and so was the mayfly. She caught her breath for the fraction of a second. But it's all part of the scheme, she said aloud. End of Chapter 3, Part 2. of initiation. This is a Liverpool's recording. All Riverwalks recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibreWarks.orgs. Read by Verda

Initiation by Robert Hugh Benson Chapter 4 Part 1 Subsection 1 Anna sat in the hall, late on the Saturday night, waiting for the wheels that would bring her nephew home. It was a great room, this, in which he set, running the whole depth of the house from front to back, from the double doors that opened on the porch on the west, to the double doors that opened upon the curved stairway into the garden on the east.

The lower half of the hall was panelled, some twelve feet up, and above hung the long fanning portrait, a very nearly complete set from the days of the second child's, tilted a little forward with a shaded electric light at the head of each on the north side of the hole opened three doors dining-room servant staircase and smoking-room on the south side two doors the one nearer to the front led to the drawing-rooms then came the open fireplace then the door of the big square morning-room and beyond it again close to the garden entrance rose up the great staircase that turned twice and ended in a hanging gallery that led right round the square from this again opened out the bedrooms and first four passengers tall windows above and below the gallery four in each wall lighted the hall and in sunshine showed even the high painted roof that was on a level with the top of the first floor it was then a room of very great dignity the furniture was big and splendid the floor under the rugs in between was laid with flagstones there was some good armour of cavalier days

between the portraits a little copper and silver and a glass cabinet or a tour of china lit up the dark corners an organ stood between the fireplace and the door of the morning-room and there were high tapestritures about the hearth in one of these sat anna she always looked singularly young in evening dress her hair seemed as if powdered her arms and throat were smooth and white but she had not in the least the air of trying to appear younger than her years she wore plenty of jewellery and a little fall of black lace as if to make quite sure of this she had dined alone an hour ago and had suggested to musterson to bring the table of black lace as if to make quite sure of this she had dined alone an hour ago and had suggested to musterson to bring the tray in here so soon as a traveler arrived. Newell had wired from Folkstone that the boat was late and that he would dine in town. It was, of course, quite dark by now, but she had told the men to leave the windows uncurtained, as it was a still night of stars. Partly she wanted to look at these, and partly she thought it would be pleasant for Neville if he cared to look, to see the four windows all aglow with welcome.

She had had a wood fire lighted on the earth, an ennevelled big bedroom upstairs. She had quite a strong instinct that everything must be very alluring and pleasant for his homecoming, particularly under these circumstances. She had had plenty of time during these last four days to study herself for the encounter.

Mr. Morpeth had undoubtedly set her attitude. She must just take it as done. Neville was doing nothing that needed protest. He was his own master. He had every possible right to get married, and it was not in the least necessary that his aunt should give her opinion. He must settle such things for himself. There must not therefore be allowed to show even the shadow of a grievance.

She must be entirely sympathetic and optimistic. She must congratulate him. Really congratulate him. and be interested in an end. She must show that she was really satisfied. And then, when all that had been done, she must begin to make her own arrangements and ask his advice, but she was feeling quite sure that the Dower House would not do.

It was much too near. She was very pensive for all her resolution, as she sat quite still and listened for the wheels. She had put down her book half an hour ago, and had so set ever since, looking tranquilly into the fire. Jim was asleep long ago, of course. She had looked in immediately after dinner into his room, which was next her own, and he had resembled an angel.

Sometimes he stood in his sleep as she bent over him. Tonight he had not. The house, too, was as quiet as such a house ever can be. The servants were still at supper, the night was windless and the fire won noiseless glow. She seemed to herself to be in a kind of parenthesis in more ways than one, the day of gym and small duties, and going out to the pavilion and back again.

This was all over, and Neville was not yet calm. Presently, she knew the bell would ring from the lodge gate half a mile away as the carriage went by, then there would break out footsteps and the sound. of doors. Master soon would come through and unlock the front door. There would be the sound of skirts overhead as a maid went for a last look at the young man's bedroom fire. Then there would come the sound of trotting, then the roll of wheels, and then, and then Neville would be here again, in this hall. It must her come home, and nothing would be the same ever again.

As you thought of these things, the silence suddenly impressed itself. upon her as a presence. She became aware with a sudden movement of her mind, not of the mere negative effect of the absence of sound, but of the positive effect of the presence of silence. The situation, viewed dramatically, as she had just viewed it, seemed to have tightened up her nerves and her intuitions. It appeared to her as if silence had just spoken, and there ran a little shiver of apprehensiveness through her. She turned her head, ashamed of herself, to look round the great dusky hall,

let only by hidden lights high up behind the cornice. It was all solemn and dignified and large, yet even the hall had a kind of significance. She did not know of what. It seemed as if it too waited, like a set scene, for an actor to speak and move. And then, with a sudden shrug, Sharp thrill of real fear.

She became aware of the great, cornice door at the head of the stairs. Kept luck now, she knew, ever since Neville's father had died behind it, in the big bed, gripping the hand of his son. She had passed that door for a few months after the tragedy of that death, but a distinct sense of discomfort, every time she went upstairs or down, particularly after nightfall.

But she had got over that more than three years ago, She had even gone in one night, alone, with her candle in her hand, and looked round the room at the great, harsh-like bed. Yet here again was the same sudden thrill of terror, sharp and strong, like the blade of a sword laid against the throat. This would never do. She shifted her position in her chair, turned her head deliberately, and stared up to where the gallery began. There was the high-carved banister, black against the pale wall, the great cornice over the door beyond it, and of course there was no one there, leaning over the banister with crossed arms, in a certain flowered dressing-gown. It was all as empty as, as she knew it was. A swing door banged somewhere out of sight, her heart leaps for an instant and then raced, for footsteps, came along the passage from the servant's quarters and the middle door opened and then there was musterson exactly as she had rehearsed and charles behind him the large bells just rung him said musterson on his way to the front door subsection two

the young man looked really extraordinarily well she thought as she sat and watched him at his little supper he had refused to go upstairs and watch him at his little supper he had refused to go upstairs and watch his hands. He had said that half the pleasure of coming home lay in doing exactly what he liked instantly. And what he wanted at that instant were two and chloe sandwiches, such as those he saw before him, and a whiskey, and soda. Then he wanted a cigarette, and then he desired to talk. You must just sit up for once, Aunt Anna, he said, and that's all about it. After all, it's sour house, isn't it? And if we choose to have breakfast with sausages and coffee and marmelled at a quarter past three tomorrow, who's to forbid us? Her heart gave her a little painful prick of happiness, as he said, Our House. Just for the present, it was true, more or less,

but it would not be so for long. Tomorrow Sunday, she said, Father Richardson would have a word to say if he didn't appear before a quarter past three. So he would. I forgot. And I bet he'd say it too. He spoke with just the faintest touch of bitterness. He did not much like Father Richardson. It was a curious mingling of pain and pleasure that she felt as she watched him.

He looked better, she thought, than when he had gone away three months ago, there was a line or two under his black eyes, but that was to be expected. after a journey, and his hair somehow always reassured her. It looked so springy and curly, and so very black. It was not in the least characteristic of an invalid. Certainly he was in high spirits at getting home. He talked very pleasant nonsense about the crossing from Bolognais, and a sporting Frenchman who had started very spry and chivalrous

and had ended very limp. His face was quite great. still, even on folk stone platform, said Neville, and he had seen him shadow visibly at the sight of a cup of very strong station tea that was thrust before him by his wife. "'And you've been well?' said Anna. "'Good Lord, yes,' said Neville. "'I love to see.' "'I meant generally.

A shadow of annoyance came over his face, but passed again like a shadow. "'Oh, yes,' he said indifferently. "'Please don't ask me my symptoms. I hate health.' "'You mean?' "'No, I don't. I mean health, Aunt Anna. It ceases to be health if you think about it.' "'But really, no more headaches?' "'No, do tell me, and then I won't ask any more.' "'They're much better,' said Neville deliberately, lighting his cigarette.

"'Now, really?' "'Hello?' As he turned to throw away his match, his eyes caught a small white phantom at the end of the gallery overhead, where the southern bedrooms lay. "'It's only me, Cousin Neville,' said a rather doubtful voice from the gloom. "'You see, I heard you talking and—' "'Jim, how dare you?' cried his mother. "'I told you distinctly that you weren't to come downstairs.' "'But I haven't, Mommy. I'm upstairs.'

so I thought, Go straight back to bed this instant. But, Mommy, go straight back to bed. Neville raised his eyebrows to her in a question, and his lips just moved in a whisper. She nodded slightly. Do what you told, old chap, he said, and don't argue.

I'll come and see you in bed if your mother says I may. The small pajamaid figure leaned passionately forward. May he, Mommy? Oh, do tell me, and then I'll— Yes, now go. The phantom vanished. A little silence fell between the two who sat below. To Anna, the apparition of her little son came as a startling symbol of the matter that still had to be discussed between Neville and herself.

If Newell had instantly spoken, it would have been all natural enough, but he did not. She stole a glance at him, and he was smoking. rather violently, and his eyelids drooped ever so slightly, as he always did when he was uneasy, or anxious, or just a shade out of temper. By the way, he said rather abruptly, after that tiny pause, have he told him? She did not pretend not to understand. That was not her way. No, she said, of course he's always known perfectly well that this wasn't his home. I mean, she corrected herself.

that it wasn't his own home i don't suppose he's ever dreamt of anything else but i haven't told him about your letter i thought i wonder if you'd like me too said neville she smiled he'd love it particularly if you told him as a secret he loves secrets you know have you told anybody she hesitated i've told one person she said i dare say you'll think it very odd of me But, you know, you didn't say I wasn't too? That's all right. It isn't a secret, though nothing's gone to the papers yet. Whom did you tell, by the way? Well, you'll think it's very odd, but I told Mr. Morpitt. What?

That old chap at the Dower House, isn't he? Why in the world did you? Neville, I like him. I like him very much. I can't think why. I simply had to tell him. I knew he'd be as discreet. creed as a grave anyhow, and he happened to come to lunch just after I'd got your letter.

Oh, well, it's all right anyhow. Aunt Anna? Yes. Look here, do you mind? Mind. Why, I'm delighted, haven't I said again and again? Yes, of course. All that. But I mean that it came so suddenly, and that you don't know her, and all that? She smiled delightfully. My dear boy, she. She's to be your wife, not mine. I'm perfectly certain that she's everything you think of.

And if she isn't, why you'll soon make her so? She's a Protestant, you know? Well, of course. If other things were equal, at sooner she'd be Catholic. But one can't have everything. The point is that you care for her, isn't it? Then he too smiled, and the very slight look of doubtfulness that had been on his face just now, passed again.

"'Yes. That is the point, isn't it? At least it's one half. And—and the other point's all right, too, I think. "'Look here, Aunt Anna. I simply must tell you about her. It's a dreadful thing to do, I know. But I shall burst if I don't. "'My dear boy, what do you think I'm here for? I'll gladly stay up till four in the morning if you'll talk about her. "'Don't you see I'm dying to hear?' He settled himself back in his chair. She thought she had never seen him so radiant, and at that side the last shred of hope, that thing was not absolutely subtle, left even the lowest reaches of her subconsciousness. He first drew a cabinet photograph out of his breast pocket. There, he said, handing it across to her, that's number one.

She took it eagerly, tilted it a little to catch the light, and looked at it. It presented in it an evening dress, standing on silhouette. The light was exquisitely managed, and every line of her profile told, there was a silence. Well, said Neville, her face rose to his, full of feeling. She's extraordinarily beautiful, she said quietly. Now go on? No, let me hold this. I want to look at it while you talk. She leaned back, resting the photograph on her knee, to listen.

i told you about her people in my letter he began i needn't say that all over again her father lost most of his money as i said when she was a child and his place is norfolk and all that but her mother is quite well off and there aren't any other children however that doesn't matter anyhow the point is ended he lit another cigarette from the stump of the other and tossed the stump in the fire well she's exactly your sort he began again i don't in the least want to flatter you aunt anna but you know what i mean she's deep in the right way she doesn't care a hang about society and joying and tea-parties she lotes them as much as i do and very nearly as much as you do that was how we made friends at first Then she's religious. She isn't a Catholic, as I said, though of course she may become one. But I shan't press her to in the least. She's got the real thing that's underneath all religions. She said one or two extraordinarily good things about that, by the way.

When I told her what she would have to promise on all that, I told her that before I actually put my proposal into words of course. What did she say? asked Anna without the movement of a muscle. She said that she could not conceive that being any difficulty to anyone who understood. I didn't see quite what she meant at first. Then I saw. She meant that real religion was quite independent of those things, that Catholicism was quite as good as an external system, as anything else, if not better.

In fact, I know she does think it the best of all. She said once she wished she'd been born a Catholic. He paused. Anna did not move. Well, that's the main thing, he went on. That kind of thing matters more than anything. If that's all right, everything else will be. Then she is extraordinarily fond of outdoor things,

just like you want, Anna. She told me how she hated the flat in town where she and her mother live sometimes and about the garden of their country cottage. She'll simply love this place, you know. By the way, I promise to send her all the picture of postcards, of it there are. Have you got a set to spare? Oh yes, said Aunt Anna. Well, she and her mother are coming down at the end of the month, just for a few days. That'll be all right, won't it? Why, my dear boy,

of course. Well, then, that's all right. Where was I? Oh, yes, about, out-of-door things. I told about the pavilion here, and she said that was exactly what she had always wanted. What's the matter, Aunt Anna? Nothing, my dear, nothing. I was only changing my position. Go on. I love to hear it. I told her how much you liked it, too.

She wants to meet you dreadfully, you know. She said she only wished you'd stay on here, but that she was perfectly certain you wouldn't, because the really nice people always went away just when you wanted them. That was nice, wasn't it? Very nice. said Aunt Anna. "'I suppose you won't stay, will you?'

She shook her head, smiling straight at him. "'My dear, it's perfectly beautiful of you to want me, and of her too, and I shall remember that always, but it wouldn't do for a single second. Why not?' "'Oh, do go on. We can talk all that out later. I want to hear about—about inert.' Again, his face beamed all.

over with pleasure, and again it came upon her, as it already had three or four times since he had begun to talk. How curiously and deliciously stupid men were sometimes. They were all just large additions of Jim. The measures of their subtlety would let even camels march through. Well, he said, I really don't know what else to say. You see, I'm in love with her. You dear boy, you've said quite enough.

She's just right, I know. And how clever you are to say she's like me? Where did you learn your diplomacy? No, but she really is, you know? I say, Montana, you look dark tired, what a beast I am. A clock began to strike, solemn and sonorous strokes, from a tall clock under the stairs.

That's eleven, he said, and you always go to bed at half-past ten, and I promise to see Jim. well i think i'll go to bed she said i think there's thunder about you won't wake jim will you if he's asleep he grinned as he rose i think i'd bet ten pounds jim won't be he's a determined child by the way i'll take my own time to tell him if you don't mind she nodded she was standing now and looking straight at her nephew at his upright square-shouldered figure and his bronzed face. You look a shade tired yourself, she said. Now I'll look at you.

No headache? Just a touch, he said, but only train headache. Well, I shall tell them not to call you. She moved across to the bell. Nonsense, Antenna, I tell you, and I say nonsense, too, she said. You must do as you're told, like Jim. By the way, Masterson was so angry. when you didn't write, he brought me your letter when you did, and stood over me like a goler, till I could see there was no bad news.

You mean that letter? Yes, the one I opened in the pavilion, you know. And you'll swear you didn't? Didn't think it bad news? You silly boy, the best in the world! Here's Masterson. Masterson, so Neville mustn't be disturbed to-morrow till he rings. he'll tell charlson if he wants breakfast in bed aunt anna you understand masterson don't you yes am and you'll remember too charleston yes am

well good-night my dear he bent his head to her and she kissed him lightly on the forehead as her custom was end of chapter four part one chapter four part two of initiation this is a librawark's recording. All Libravox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibraWox.org. Read by Freda. Initiation by Robert Hugh Benson. Chapter 4, Part 2, subsection 4. He stood waiting until he heard her skirts go rustling along the gallery towards her room. Then he kissed his hand to her. What a darling she was, he thought. and how any would love her. Then he turned to Masterson, who was solemnly removing the tray, not out of the hall, because Charles missed you that,

but onto a sight-table near the entrance to the servant's passage. Well, Masterson, I'm glad to be home again. Yes, Sir Neville. You don't think much are foreign parts, Charlton told me. Musterson set the tray down emphatically. No, I don't, he said. without the faintest difference, as his manner was with the select few who were his idols. And I don't know whatever you find to stay out there so long.

Neville smiled delightedly. This was indeed a homecoming. Masterson, he said, I want to tell you something, but you're not to tell anybody else till it's public. Masterston regarded him stiffly. You've put your finger on the spot, Masterston. As usual, I found a wife. I mean she's going to be. That's what kept me in foreign part so long. Mastison grew positively, rigid.

I've told you as an old friend, continued Neville. I've told nobody else in England, but Mrs. Fanning. Now then, what have you got to say? Mastison's grim lips moved, but no sound came from them. Shake hands, Masterson, and wish me luck. masterson took the hand in a violent grip his mouth shook with emotion but he said nothing he wheeled and went out neville was content he understood the other well enough upstairs in the passage outside jim's room and his mother's a single shaded light was still turned on showing the boy's door to be open neville pushed upon it with infinite delicacy and it made a little brushing sound over the carpet inside "'Cousin Neville, I'm awake,' sounded a small voice from within.

Neville went in, but still cautiously. "'You little disobedient brute,' he said, "'I'm sure your mother told you to go to sleep. "'Where are you?' "'I'm here.' He made his way across towards the voice and presently found the edge of the bed with his shin and drew his breath swiftly with the exquisite pain,

but he had no time to recover himself. A pair of arms seized him round the neck and dragged him sideways onto the bed. Then he felt himself violently kissed all over his ear. Put your head down on the pillow by me, Cousin Neville? Oh, how ripping this is. He did what he was told, but his headache was certainly a little worse than it had been ten minutes ago. Then in the gloom he began to feel the warm, sweet breath of this child on his face.

The small hands were again clasped behind his head. "'And tell me everything, Cousin Neville,' whispered the voice. "'My dear, I can't possibly. I can't breathe.' I chuckle of laughter sounded, and the hand slightly relaxed. "'You can. Go on. Did you see the Pope?' "'Yes, of course I did. What's he like?' "'He's just an old man in white.' "'Did you kiss his toe?'

"'No, no one does nowadays?' "'Oh.' "'Did you see the wolves?' "'What wolves?' "'The Romulus and Ramos wolves. "'I mean, they're children.' "'No, I didn't know there were any. "'Of course there are,' Miss Marge told me last week.

"'Did you see the king?' "'I—' "'Yes, I did. "'In a dog-cart.' "'Oh, is he very tall?' No, very small. Oh, I thought he was big. Are you sure you saw him?

Of course I'm sure. Oh, Jim, don't pinch so. And you know, I only came to say good night. His headache was indeed in full blast now. It beat intolerably, and every pulse was pain. He allowed to himself that this was not a train headache after all. It was the real crust-door brand, he told himself. Well, one more thing.

Will you teach me tennis tomorrow afternoon? I... I should think so. Why shouldn't I? He had entirely forgotten the solemn arrangement of waiting till Jim's eighth birthday. The entire body of Jim jumped with delight, like a newly caught trout on the grass, and every bounce shook Neville's tormented head.

The headache was growing like a strong. storm. Oh, Jim, do let go. Um, I'm not very well. Aren't you? Were you seasick? Noel sat up, and in the dark pressed his hands on his temples. No, I wasn't seasick at all, but I must go, Jim.

See you tomorrow. Well, kiss me, can't you? Neville bent and kissed him. Good night, Cousin Neville. Good night, my dear. At the door, once more the voice reached him. good night cousin newell good night old chap leave the door open won't you or else the cat can't get in all right old chap good night good night subsection five he blinked as he came out into the light of the passage again and still more when he reached the gallery looking over the hall for the lights were not yet turned out though he could hear footsteps moving about in one of the rooms that opened out of it moving about now

no doubt on that mysterious business that always takes servants round a house lasting at night. For the moment the light seemed to relieve his eyes, perhaps as a kind of counter-rotation, and he waited here, looking down into the hall before going on to his room that was next his father's old room on the other side. The hall looked very big and majestic from here, and as earlier in the evening to Anna, it appeared to him to resemble a stage, set for some play. The tall tapestry chairs in which the two had set a while ago were still in the positions they had left them in, and the little table was between. The red light of the wood fire, now sunk to a steady glow, glimmered on the

carving here and there, and then he suddenly thought of what a perfect setting all this would be for an it, how perfectly she would fit into the picture. He remembered her long dress, and that has seemed to him curiously antique. The thin chain of pearls she wore round her neck, her masses of hair. In these two chairs, perhaps they would be sitting together probably a few months hence. Antana would be gone, no doubt. That was a pity, and yet perhaps, just for the first year or two, it might be better. How exquisitely too, and its slow movements would suit this place.

A bustling girl in a tweed skirt would be as much out of place as a tourist in a cathedral. He glanced down at one of the portraits he could see under the gallery to his right. That was Lady Brightington, he remembered, who had married his great-grandfather. He thought there was something offended in her pose, not of course the least in face or expression, but just in her still manner and dignity. Then he remembered that Aunt Anna had not given him the photograph back and clapped his hand to his pocket. He must ask her for it tomorrow.

As he stood upright again from leaning on the banisters, his eyes fell, as again Anna's had done a couple of hours earlier, on the great corner store that was the entrance to what had been his father's room. And to him too came a memory of the tragedy that had been played behind it, and a touch of the fear that had been so vivid to him too at the sight of it for the first month or two after his father's death. Again, the house was quiet, the footsteps below had ceased. The servant had probably gone out at the further end of whatever room he had been in. Nalwell stared a moment or two longer at the door.

His pain was coming back now, in swift strides. The pulses that were like stabbing knives in the front and at the top of his head, were prevailing more and more swiftly over the pulses that were comparatively painless. Yet, even through that pain, a strange fear made itself felt. To him, too, it seemed, for a perceptible space of time, that if he kept his attention fixed on that door for a little longer, it might open, and a figure come out, in a florid dressing-gown with the bandages that held the eyes like a terrible crown about the head,

or, or perhaps even now, the door was open, and the figure was there, looking at him, it was only that he could not see it. And then the pain drove all else away, as physical sensation can eliminate, if it be but sharp enough, the more delicate tremors of the mind of soul, and he went to his room, telling himself that he was a ridiculous ass, and that he must see to it that the room was opened again properly, and inhabited once more. Perhaps he himself had better take it, and have done with it. Meanwhile, here was the headache to be reckoned with.

Subsection 6. Two hours later, he still was awake. The usual programme was being carried faithfully through. He had taken his medicine with Charleston had set out, according to custom on his dressing table, and had then bathed his forehead, frozen in stinging hot water, and then with Eudic Cologne. Then he had got ready for bed, and when all was ready,

had once more soaked his handkerchief and tied it around his forehead. Then he had got into bed, turned out the light, and pretended that he was going to sleep. Then the interior drama had begun. It was first a galloping horse that approached from the immeasurable distance to which the hot water and Eau de Cologne had temporarily back, vanished the agony, that approached to announce to him that they were all coming back, as fast as they could. This horse galloped slowly and rhythmically, at a steady rate of progress, and the beat of his fur-hoofs altogether marked the blows of pain that he experienced.

The horse came nearer and nearer, growing as was but natural, in weight as he approached, until he was really there, so to speak. He remained there a few seconds, never longer than about a minute, apparently prancing to the same rhythm, in the same place, without otherwise moving at all. Then he began to recede again on the other side, intolerably slow. It was true, but yet it was very nearly pleasure that he should recede at all. It was as this movement began that Neville really resolved to go to sleep before the next, again and again he reached the point of no longer feeling his limbs in the bedclothes, and once even he thought that Antana was by his bed,

looking down on him with an expression he could not make out. But at that moment, two horses began to gallop again in the immeasurable distance, and the worst of it all was that they would not keep in step. These two then punctually pursued the course of their forerunner. They approached, they arrived, They remained steadily prancing, the four feet of each rising and falling, not quite together. They began to recede. Then three horses came, then four, then five, and then a regiment.

He tried to count them sometimes, in a kind of bitter humour, but they were unrecognable. They kept tolerably in step. That was one comfort, but they took longer to arrive, and remained longer, prancing. It was very nearly interesting when they all pranced together. They looked almost ludicrous, this long line from horizon to horizon. The horizons, of course, were his own temples, rising and falling together like performers in a circus. Then even these began to recede very slowly. It is true, yet they receded further and further until the thunder of their hoof was no more than a murmur.

And at last, silence. Neville began to breathe very carefully through his nostrils. He had already arranged his attitude. He turned on his side always as soon as the troop began to move off. Until that he lay on his face with a pillow clasped about his ears. He did so, that is generally after the group of three began to approach. He lay then, softly, afraid to stir, lest a horse should begin to gallop up again to see what he was doing, and sometimes he managed really to go to sleep.

But tonight, it was useless. In spite of every conceivable precaution, the single horse began to suspect something, as he fed there miles away in the prairies, scarcely stirring the ground as he moved. He began to trot, he began to canter, to gallop, and the hunt was up. It was as a clock struck half-past one in the hall below that Neville set up in bed, where he nearly delirious with pain.

This is perfectly ludicrous, he said aloud to the listening night. Subsection 7, Go very quietly past Cousin Neville's room as you go downstairs, said Aunt Anna to Jim. Coming in about 8 o'clock before he was dressed, Cousin Newell's only just gone to sleep. He's been awake all night with headache.

Oh, has he? Won't he be able to teach me tennis today? No. Now, I'm going to Mass, or I shall be late. Mind you say your prayer for Cousin Neville when you get up. Yes, Mommy. And you mustn't bring the dogs upstairs all day. Not if I make them walk on tiptoe?

No, not even if you make them walk on tiptoe. End of Chapter 4, Part 2. Chapter 5, Part 1 of Initiation. This is a Librivox recording. All Librevox recording. are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit libybox dot org initiation by robert hughed benson section nine subsection one come in old tom tins advanced from the door by which he had partly entered with a sullen awe on his face it had been impressed upon him at last by his mother that neville really did not want the dogs to be brought in to cheer him and when once he had grafted this. He had concluded that Neville must be very ill indeed. At the same time, it was gratifying

to be sent for immediately after lunch in order to see the invalid. The boy's eyes wondered vaguely round the room as he paused halfway to the bed. The room had the same mysterious splendor that it always had when Cousin Neville was at home. A splendor it had lacked terribly during these last three months. There was the mysterious row of boats in their little shelf, the sick dressing gown hanging up by the bed, and above all the shining array of implements, silver and steel and glass ranged on the white cupboard dressing table between the windows. There was a funny smell in the room, too, very interesting and suggestive. Then his eyes came back to Neville beneath the canopy. Are you going to die, cousin Neville? Certainly not, said Neville. I shouldn't dream of such a thing.

Why do you ask? Jim's round eyes roved again and came back. Oh! then perhaps you like the dogs i've got them chained up in the hole on purpose and i don't think we'll have the dogs i couldn't make them jump on the bed suggested jim i think not even on the bed come round where i can see you and say good morning he was feeling considerably more cheerful after sleep and lunch and of course a cigarette about seven he had rung his bell in despair and when charon had appeared had asked for tea up to that point he had really not slept at all the galloping horses had been far too busy he had not been aware that there were so many horses in the world nor that they could be so untiring they had galloped with short bosses for over seven hours and his head fell bruised all over after a cup of tea he had fallen asleep and charlson re-entering from the bathroom on tiptoe had retired still more on tiptoe and informed mr mastersson and mr mastersson had informed mrs anna herself had peeped in about a quarter to eleven just before taking jim to mass and again at twelve and still neville slept a little before one he rang his bell again and demanded shaving water hypocritical charlson had said yes sir without comment and had immediately informed mrs fanning in person this time and a quarter of an hour later anna herself had come in just as neville was getting impatient you are not going to have any shaving water she said i have given orders for all shaving water to be locked up you are going to launch here and go to sleep again afterwards how do you feel my dear

she sat down on the chair by his bedside i'm perfectly well said neville and i wish to know whether i am or am not the master of the house well if you wish to know you're not master soon is the master and i am the mistress and we say you're not to get up. Why in the world are the curtains drawn back? I told Charleston too. I can't bear the dark. Look here, Atana, this is ridiculous. I mask it up. This is simply ridiculous. Lunch will be up in ten minutes. I ordered it, and Jim and I will eat what's left. I will lean back. Well, all right, he said, for these ones, but I assure you I shall get up afterwards. Don't let's argue anymore. I've given in. So finally, it was arranged. Jim was to come and see him at two o'clock, and then, if he really felt all right, he might get up. Here, then, Jim sat, with secret instructions to amuse Cousin Neville as long as possible,

until he, Cousin Neville, looked sleepy. Then Jim was to retire, in good water, and very quietly, and not banged the door behind him. How funny you look, said Jim presently, when he had cautiously kissed Cousin Nebel, and sat down again with his bare, sandaled legs dangling. Funny? Why? Well, you are all.

dirty on the chin with hair, I mean. Oh, no worse than that. And your eyes look funny. Neville was silent a moment. Jim, old man, is the wardrobe door open or shut? Jim regarded the wardrobe. Why? Open, of course. That's all right then, said Neville. I thought so. Are you going blind, cousin Neville? No, of course not. Why do you want to know? Oh, then why do you ask about the wardrobe? Can you see for yourself? Of course. I can,' said Neville a little sharply. Didn't I say that it was open? Oh, said Jim, yes, so you did. Neville felt a brick of compunction, but he really had not been quite sure.

He had noticed two or three times since he had awakened, that he did not seem to see very well, but it was certainly passing again. Sorry, old sharp if I spoke sharply. I didn't mean to. Jim regarded him anxiously. I don't know what you mean, he said. that's all right then how are the dogs jim did not answer his medit ad viploc had come on him and he was gazing endlessly it appeared at nevo's hands that lay clasped on the silk coverlet anything wrong this time with my hands old chap the rest seems pretty wrong doesn't it i was thinking observed jim with such gravity that nevo was a little startled what were you thinking about i was thinking whether it might get up on the bed why were you thinking that

because my legs are cold said jim but mummy said i mustn't disturb you that's all right jump up it was curiously soothing to his nerves to have this child with him the very frankness of his inquiries as to dying and going blind was pleasant and still more pleasant was the abrupt change of subjects he wondered whether this would not be rather a good opportunity to tell jim about the future jim arranged himself with great care he first sat on the pillow within a foot of neville's head and then he drew up the coverlet over his own knees oh that's you've your face cousin neville a stifle voice answered that it looked rather like it jim annesely rearranged the coverlet so that neville could breed that's right he said now we are comfortable jim said the young man i want to talk to you are you attending yes of course well look here you're to go to school next year, aren't you? Mommy says so. Well, what Mommy says always comes true, you know. How would you like to go a bit sooner?

I wouldn't mind, said Jim meditatively. Then there's something else. How would you like to live in a house of your own, just you and your mother? And not you? No, not me, old chap. Unless you asked me to come and stay with you sometimes. Would it be a nice house? The man that Jane prudently.

Ever so nice. Perhaps it would be the doubt. house that's not far is it the bed began to jump violently whatever's the matter asked neville i like that what the townhouse why there's a well there said jim without a talk to it i throw a stone down one day and you wouldn't really mind leaving here i'd come and see you sometimes of course you would as often as ever you like i could come you know explained jimmy carefully if you wanted me if i hadn't anything else to do you wouldn't mind you would so much then would you mind what why not living here any more neville sighed with relief that was half his task done but he must be very careful no that would be right he said besides i should have someone else here you know i'm going to me marry jim what do you think of that it's not mother is it asked him tranquilly no nephews can't marry the reins you know oh and it's not miss morpeth no why miss morpeth I want to marry her myself, said Jim. Well, that's all right. I won't stand in your way.

How old is Miss Morpeth, by the way? I think she's nearly twenty, said Jim. But I shall be twenty sometime, too, you know? That'll make it all right, then. By the way, you are sure you understand what I've been saying. All about your going away and all that? Oh, yes, said Jim, indifferently. And you don't really mind not having this as your house anymore.

There was dead silence. Neville suddenly felt nervous. Was it really possible that he had misunderstood and that Jim did mind? That would be horrible. Jim, old chap? There was no answer. Neville couldn't see the boy's face. It was both behind and above him.

He tried to screw himself round, but the arranged coverlet beneath his chin gripped him like a straight waistcoat. Jim! Oh, yes? What are you thinking about? I was thinking whether you couldn't get up and come out and teach me ten. Tennis. Subsection 2

T.E. was in the pavilion, Massison informed him, when he came downstairs at last, a little after four. He had told Jim that he was really very sorry about the tennis and that a promise was certainly a promise, but then a headache was a headache. The promise should be redeemed this week, however. He felt remarkably light and cheerful as he came out into the garden. He did not recognize, however, that it was of the nerve of the nerve of kind of lightness, which passes rapidly into irritation. He perceived it was so, however, so soon as he caught sight of a long-coated black figure walking up and down with Anna. He did not

much like Father Richardson, his chaplain and parish priest. The relationship between traditional Catholics and priests is a very peculiar one indeed. On the one hand, there is the extraordinary reverence for the priesthood, quite incomprehensible to members of other religions, a reverence sufficiently strong in some countries, though not in England, to have formed a custom of allowing the priest to leave a room before ladies, and in England, strong enough to make a pompous choir of sixty years old, and a landowner, to stand up instantly when a young priest comes in, and out of doors to take his head off emphatically, when he sees him even in the distance, every possible reverence. Therefore, on the official side is a short and

taken for granted. The Pompous Squire will kneel humbly in the confessional and submit his judgment to doubt of his newly ordained chaplain without hesitation. And in the Catholic Church, it must be remembered, the priest may very easily be the eldest son of the squire's neighbour's gardener. But the social side is quite another matter. It has even been known in such a traditional Catholic household when the priest was of humble origin that he should take his meals in the housekeeper's room without offence be either intended or taken. The two sides are there, emphatically. The man is a priest of the most tied god, and he may also be quite ill-bred, and some very pretty problems, therefore sometimes resolved.

Now, Neville did not like his chaplain at all. He took off his hat to him like a man, he obediently sat in his pew and listened to his pastor's discourses. He even occasionally went to confession to him. He sent him game half a dozen times every winter and fruit and vegetables all the summer. He provided his house for him and kept it in repair. He paid him 110 pounds a year. He paid all the expenses of the church and put half a sovereign into the plate each Sunday morning and five pounds on Easter day. And there he drew the line. He did not in the least consider himself bound to consort with him, nor to encourage him to run in and out of the house when he liked.

The man was his priest, but not his friend. An extraordinarily tactful chaplain, or a naturally very well-bred one, might perhaps have seen the difficulty. Father Richardson did not. He had large powers, at least he had had them for about eighteen months, but he did not quite see where their limits lay. He was jealous of his dignity as priest, and was rather quick to think that what he considered a rebuff or a negligence was an insult to his priesthood. He had now called this afternoon to deliver a rebuke that he considered necessary. He was a small, very dark man, very blue about the chin and lips. He wore a flat hat and a coat that was neither long nor short.

His trousers were well-moulded to his legs. Neville, as he approached, regarded him with growing disfavor. he had three or four slight encounters with him on the more or less neutral ground between the clergyman's priesthood and manhood and had not forgotten them neville had no hat on so he could not raise it but he lifted his hand in ari salutation good afternoon father here i am you see the priest gravely inclined his head good afternoon sir neville back again you see neville went on as he fell into state with the other two as they turned back towards the pavilion and i hope to be here for a month or two at least i'm very glad to hear it said the priest emphatically it makes a great difference when the squires away there appeared to be a shadow of reproach in his voice neville wondered whether a trap expected him to stay at home all year round in order to give a good example of church going the gambit of conversation was a singularly unhappy one for it gave the priest precisely the opening he wanted. Father Richardson had a fine working conscience and a large sense of personal dignity to supply its mooted power, and he had come here today expressly in order to rebuke the squire for not being present at mass that morning. As they came up the steps into the pavilion, he seized the opportunity. He preceded Neville and followed Anna, and upon reaching the top step, turned round to relieve their conscience of his. fact was that Neville remained on a lower step as if being lectured from a rostrum.

I know you'll forgive me saying so, Sir Neville, but I felt I must tell you what a very bad impression you are not being at mass this morning will have given to your Catholic tenants. Neville was completely taken aback. This was a more direct assault than he had ever received. Yet, if he had but known it, it really cost the poor priest a considerable effort to deliver such a rebuke. It was partly because he so feared it that he had said about it so instantly. I beg your pardon, father, I was ill. The priest's face worked a little with narrowsness, but he was not to be put off like this. So, Mrs. Funning was telling me, but I scarcely think, over the priest's shoulder, never caught a glimpse of Anna's amazed countenance, but his irritation

searched up, if you'll have the goodness to let me come in and sit down, Father, instead of keeping me on the steps, perhaps the priest stood aside, and Neville went by, hot with resentment. Sit down, Father. He himself went across and sat by Anna in the window seat. Father, began Anna with a little tremor in her voice, I don't think you quite understood what I was. Aunt Anna interrupted Neville quite firmly.

Please let me deal with this. What are you complaining of, Father? the priest's little pointed face was very pale but he sustained himself by his sense of duty and dignity i do not think that is quite the way to speak to a priest i beg your pardon father said neville i sleep polite if i was not courteous i did not mean to be this courteous nor do i understand now what i have said that i should not your manner sir neville we will discuss my manners presently then but let us first dispose of, Father, cried Anna utterly miserable, I must tell you, no, Neville, I will speak. Father, I was going to tell you that Sir Neville passed an entirely sleepless night through pain. He fell asleep about seven, and, Aunt Anna, I'm sorry to interrupt, but that is not, in the least, to the point. I want Father Richardson to tell me why he came here to find fault with me, as if I were a

schoolboy, before he took the trouble to ask whether or or not I was ill. I also wish to know whether he does not think that he exceeds his authority in coming here to scold me for a matter that in any case is not quite his business. The priest swallowed in his throat. Then he seized a such nature's will upon the single point that seemed in his favour. I imagine it to be my duty as pastor to speak to anyone of my flock, however exalted his position who does not do his duty as Catholic. The phrase

however exalted his position jarred like a file across the teeth. Anna perceptibly winced. Neville drew his breath in with a perceptible sound. I'm quite unaware, he said, of not having done my duty as a Catholic. I do not think I have missed Mass on a single occasion on Sundays

or holidays of obligation for the last five years. without a valid excuse. You are very seldom at benediction, said the priest desperately. He began to see that he was in a tight corner, but it would never do to acknowledge it, he thought. His dignity might suffer.

His motto, as he had confided to his fellow priests, more than once, was, never apolitise. I beg your pardon again, Father, said Neville sweetly, but I thought you spoke of my duty as a Catholic. I was unaware. that attendance at benediction was an obligation laid down by the church.

I meant, of course, as a Catholic landowner, said the priest. Neville was thoroughly worked up. He knew he had his pastor penned up. He could not bear him now. If you will, kindly give me any reputable theologian who lays down as amongst the duties of a Catholic landowner that he should be present at benediction every Sunday, I will gladly yield, but the priest's dignity was suffering terribly, but he would not withdraw. We are quite off the point, Sir Noble. I began by speaking of your absence from us this morning, and Mrs. Fanning and myself have had the honour of informing you that I was too ill to be present. Is there anything more you wish to say? If even now the priest had frankly apologised,

or burst out laughing first and apologised later. would have been wholly healed. Neville's code was spurn tedious. A frank apology to him simply ended the matter. But Father Richardson was quite unable to meet him there, and he said, instead, exactly the wrong thing. His desperation entirely blinded him to its insolence. You seem very well and strong, now, Sir Neville, at any rate,

Anna gasped. Neville leaned back tranquilly and began to play with a curtain tassel. Aunt Anna, he said, we needn't say anything more. Father Richardson does not believe our word. What a charming afternoon it is, Father. It is very nearly as warm as it was in Rome last week. Have you ever been to Rome, Father? The priest looked dazed.

He was beginning to see what he had said, and he was completely taken aback by his host's extreme composure, and this serene change of subject, he tried to follow suit. seemed the most demified thing to do. I was a danger, she novel. I... There came a torrent of noises from the loan, yelps and screams.

And the next moment, Jack and Jill entered at full speed with Jim behind, trailing a chain to which were attached two colors. End of Section 9, read by Claudia Caldi. Chapter 5. Part 2 of initiation. This is a Libervox recording. All Libervox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visitlibrovox.org.

Read by Caleb Schroeder Initiation by Robert Hugh Benson Section 10 Subsection 3 There's no more to be said, and Anna, observed Neville a half hour later, as their pastor went down the garden towards the church. He's impossible. Haven't I always said so?

Jim, too, was gone, and minds could be spoken. Poor Father Richardson had made matters even worse, if that's conceivable. If he had simply said goodbye when the entrance of Jim and the Collies gave him an opening, at any rate, that would have shown some faint sense that a breach had opened. Or if, even then, he had said he was sorry for having spoken, as he had, and that his last remark, above all others, was quite indefensible, as in his heart he knew it to be. Even then, the decencies would have been observed. But he stayed on to tea.

He talked, as he thought, intelligently and easily. He allowed Neville, who had war in his heart, to hand him the buttered tea cake. And he had helped himself to appease him to a piece. of cake. And he had done all this believing that somehow it mended matters, and thinking that if Sir Neville could talk smoothly about Rome and the weather, he himself could not do better than follow his example. He went away at last then, certainly perturbed by the memory of the previous scene, and quite aware that he had been exceedingly indiscreet. And yet, on the whole, reassured by the naturalness, of the other two, and especially glad that he had not been obliged to apologize.

It would all blow over, he told himself. Besides, he was a priest, and his rights could not possibly be encroached upon. It might have lowered his dignity to have apologized. He was tolerably content then, as he went back to his house and began to get his sermon ready for the evening. Anna made no answer to her nephew's remark. Indeed, there was not much answer to make. You see, cousin Neville continued, it's no kind of good being decent to a man like that. As it is, I shouldn't be in the least surprised

if he denounced me from the altar or preached against insolence and discurtesy to God's priests. Neville, of course he won't. I'm certain that he's perfectly miserable, Not in the very least, said Neville. He is congratulating himself on the contrary on having been brave enough to beard people of an exalted position. Exalted position. Don't, my dear, Neville was silent a moment.

And to think that that man will be chaplain here when Enid comes, it's unthinkable. All right to the bishop, said Anna. That's no good. He hasn't done anything to disgrace himself. technically. At least he thinks he hasn't. When he first came, the bishop wrote to tell me I was very lucky to get such a man. Antana! She lifted her pensive eyes from the floor. She was just about as unhappy as she could be. Yes, my dear? Do you see now why I'm not exactly, well, keen on religion? He told us we were liars. Liars, Aunt Anna. Do you realize that? My dear boy,

Please don't. Well, you see now, don't you? I don't want to rub it in, but it's hardly likely that I should be very keen with a chap like that. Of course, I go to mass and all that. Oh, I forgot. I don't even do that. I shame illness, don't I?

And then I lie about it. Neville, please! All right. Well, you see now, anyhow. I don't know what to say, said Anna. and of course I shall go on sending him game and fruit and paying him every quarter and settling the candle and oil bill. That's the privilege of us of the Catholic laity, you know. He told his soul from the Pope at once, you remember, and he'll wolf it all down and,

Neville, I can't bear it. Oh, good Lord! Burst out the young man banging the tassel on the window ledge, and that's supposed to be religion? Why, there's more religion in, in a daisy-growing. at Frascati, or a cock that pecks his hens when you crow at him. I haven't told you about the cock, aunt. No, you haven't, said Anna mechanically. Well, he pecked his hands when I crowed at him. That's all, at Frascati. That was when I had my first long talk with Enid. My word, that was a day. What did you do? Oh, we went out to Frascati, and Edith and I went up into the woods, and we

Jod. Heaven's how we jod. And there was a pieta there. Yes, said Anna looking up. Oh, it was there. That was all. And we saw we didn't like it. And we didn't. It was just a blot on the landscape like that little man who'd just gone away. I don't understand. Oh, yes, you do, aunt. You know perfectly well what I think about that kind of thing. It's quite hateful. Why can't they keep those locked up in churches with the priests? That little man who's just gone away would think it's beautiful. Lord, fancy a pietta on the lawn. He looked out through the still open door beyond the tea things. The evening sunlight was golden here. Out of the shadow of the house and in the shadow of light was growing faintly blue. Through it towered the tall, stately east front, with its solemn windows

and its carved balustrated terrace, and its great stone vases dripping with greenery. As he looked, the dignified figure of Masterson came out at the hall and began to descend the steps. He was coming to clear away the tea-things. Certainly a pietta would be singularly inharmonious upon this stage of smooth and wealthy peace. Neville watched Masterson's approach in silence. The old butler's arms swung stiffly from the shoulders, and he moved with that peculiar air of dignity, of which such personages alone have the secret.

As he came up the steps, Neville had a surge of anger again and the memory of the priest, and he took swift decision. Masterson! Yes, Sir Neville. If Father Richardson should call again at any future time, please don't show him straight into either of us. Tell him to wait, and then come and ask if we're at home or not, just as you would with anyone else.

Yes, Sir Neville, said Masterson, with an immovable countenance, standing like a decrepit statue. Neville saw Aunt Anna's agonized countenance, but he was determined to have his way. Tell the other servants the same, won't you? And if Father Richardson should want to come and see for himself, if we're in the garden, for instance, just tell him what your orders are. Tell him it's the same for everybody who calls. Do you understand? Masterson's eyes gleamed a little. He entirely disliked the priest, and indeed all priests. He was not a Catholic. Yes, Sir Neville.

Subsection 4. When the butler was halfway by. back across the lawn with the tea-tray, Anna spoke. Neville saw that a strong protest was coming and braced himself to meet it. My dear boy, she said, do you quite realize what you've done? He'll think it fearfully rude. I can't help it. I've let him run in and out up to now, because I didn't quite know how to stop it, but if he chooses to ride the high horse and claim the privilege of being a priest, all right. Let him be a priest, and have them all, down to the last farthing, but he shan't have any more.

He'll never forgive you. That's a matter for his own conscious, then. He can do as he likes about that, so long as he's priest here, he shall have his rights. But if he says a word, I shall ask him if the council of Trent that he's always appealing to says anything about the Catholic laity, even of exalted position. Letting priests run in and out of their house, just as they please. I had him nicely over that lawnmower business, didn't I? I wish you wouldn't. Then Neville blazed a little again.

My dear Aunt Anna, you forget Enid. I know you'd stand anything. You're a Catholic, you see, and a saint, and a few other things. She's a saint, too, but of another kind. And she certainly wouldn't stand a bounder like that. I beg his pardon. I mean a clergyman like that. that. Coming and going exactly as he pleases. Even if she would stand it, I won't let her,

and I may as well settle it once and for all and get the row over before she comes, if there's to be one. Oh, I see, said Aunt Anna slowly. That's why, is it? That and other things, but this last business has brought it to a point. I'm rather glad it has. I dares say I'd have let things drift otherwise, but this has finished it. It's a good job. My dear boy. Well, what would you have? cried the young man dramatically. What else can you suggest?

I don't know. Can't you give him another chance? No, I can't, Aunt Anna, and I won't. There's a limit, and he's past it. He told us we were liars. And it isn't the first time. He's never called you a liar before? No, of course he hasn't, said Neville a trifle-peevishly,

and I'll bet he won't again. But he's done a half a dozen things nearly as bad. Don't you remember when he preached against Bridge? Just after we've had the Levisons down here and played till one in the morning, and all the winnings went into the plate the Sunday after too. I remember well, because I remember well, because I won nine pounds and had to fork up. Well, he knew perfectly well we'd been playing,

and he knew perfectly well it wasn't a sin, or, if he didn't, he ought to go back to school again. That was number one. Then there was, oh, don't go on about that, protested anaphiboli. Well, you know it's all true, but this really is the limit. There's no more to be said. There was silence again. then Neville once more broke out.

And to think that religion comes down to that sort of thing, Oh, you will love Enid, Aunt Anna. She's so, so fresh and big and out of doors, and spiritual. She was asking me about stipends for masses one day, and upon my word, I didn't know what to say to her. Why? began Anna dutifully. You know perfectly well that, you don't pay for the...

Oh, I know the stock answer, of course, but stock answers won't do with Enid. She goes right down to things. She hasn't a stock answer in the world. There's only counters, you know, and she uses gold only. But my dear... Oh, don't go on about that.

That's not the point. When you see Enid, you'll know what I mean. She's... She's like a great wind. And yet she's so... Still, too, you, you, you, what an ass you must think of me. He was all flushed with enthusiasm and his eyes shone. There seemed not a trace of illness about him.

Anna stood up. You're a dear boy, she said softly, and I, I hope, Enid, she could not go on. And you're a dear aunt, said Neville, give me a kiss. she went across and kissed him gently on the forehead laying her hands on his temples she kissed him very slowly she didn't want him to see her brimming eyes there said neville and now it's pacts about father richardson if he behaves himself that is to say and you'll let him come in and out as usual i will not said neville what i have said i have said i have said i only will only meant that I wouldn't, after all, go and tell him precisely what I think of him. I had meant to, you know. Till when?

Till you kissed me. She turned away to the steps. Where are you going? I'm going to get ready for church, she said, with her face still averted. You're going to church, after all that? Of course I am. What difference does it make? Come, too.

by George shall I What a gorgeous slap in the face Neville lowered his legs from the window seat As if in hesitation Do, but not as a slap in the face Neville replaced his legs No, he said firmly I shall not come to church

It would be extremely unchristian To slap him in the face And what's worse, he wouldn't feel it He'd think he'd brought me to a better mind no. She laughed a little in spite of herself, a little bubble of laughter. Well, I must go. There are the bells. Pray for me, said Neville, as she went down the steps, and she turned and nodded to him slowly. Subsection 5. He sat on a few minutes, listening to the bells. There were only three in number,

but their jangle was very pleasant and very Sunday-ish, dimmed as it was by a the great bulk of the house and high-roofed tennis court that lay between the church and the pavilion. The shadow has crept across by now, and lay even on the pavilion itself, and the river, too, that chuckled so coolly beneath the open window at which he lay, was no longer shot with lines and planes of golden light. It was soft and liquid glass, into which he looked faintly tinged here with brown and there with green, so gently blended that one tint faded into another without abruptness. He could see two or three dark shadows, poised at the bottom, motionless it appeared, except for the shifting lines that swayed above them. Far out across the park as he turned to sea, the sunlight

still lingered both on the higher slopes and on the motionless tops of the nearer trees. He could see a couple coming down from the direction of the Dower House. That would be Mr. Morpeth, no doubt, and his daughter, Ella. They were the only Catholics so far as he knew, who lived in that direction. The village itself was completely on the other side, beyond the front lodge gates through which he had driven last night. It was an evening of great silences and spaces, wholly tranquil, and while the bells considered in themselves were soft and melodious. This signified something, he thought, completely out of harmony with the evening. They were psychologically considered a kind of interruption.

He pictured the interior of the little church, the stations of the cross round the walls, the sheaves of burning candles above the gilded altar, the sparse congregation, Father Richardson's voice, his personality, his narrow views, and his lack breeding. And yet Enid was to come down here,

not only on the visit she was to pay three weeks hence, but as a permanent mistress of it all. How would she fit in? Well, she would fit into perfection with the park and the spaces and the stillness and the great house, but scarcely with that for which the church bells stood. On the whole, now, he did most emphatically not think that she would be a Catholic.

It was growing a little chilly, and he shivered once or twice. Then he thought that he had better go in. Certainly his headache was all right, and he could see again as well as ever. but it was best to take no risks. He would go and see where Jim was. Perhaps if he wasn't at church, he would like a lesson at billiards. End of Section 10. Chapter 6 Part 1 of Initiation. This is a Libravox recording. All Libervox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Libravox.org. Read by Christine Rucker, May 5th,

2022, Westford, Massachusetts. Initiation by Robert Hugh Benson, Chapter 6, Part 1. By the worst luck in the world, it was a day of squalls and rain when Enid and her mother came down for the last week in May. Neville was raging with annoyance. He had decided it was to be a perfectly fine day with a few clouds and a gentle wind, but Providence thought otherwise, and an hour before the arrival, the sky was overcast. It was rather cold, and the hall windows were spattered with drops. Like the fire in here, said Neville heavily to Masterson, as the butler came in to announce that he supposed tea would not be put on the pavilion after all. Neville was sunk in a chair, with his arms dangling down. Aunt Anna was standing up. She had just said she must be going.

My dear boy, remonstrated Anna. Neville groaned. Yes, I'm behaving discreetly. "'Aisily, aren't I, Masterton? I'm a sulky brute.' "'You wish the fire to be lighted, sir, Neville?' asked Masterson with a dangerous calm. "'Yes.' "'Then I will inform Charles, Sir Neville,' said Masterson, yet more icily. A conscious stricken silence followed him out into the passage. "'Oh, Lord,' said Neville, now Masterson's offended. "'You are all in a conspiracy.

How am I supposed to know whose business it is to light the beastly fire. You're not fit to have any servants, remarked on Anna. Aunt, I shall burst into tears if you speak to me like that. Go away. Leave me to myself. I shall be stronger soon. Anna was finding it quite hard to keep entirely composed. She could not have conceived that it would be so difficult to behave well. After all the time she had had to get ready, she assured herself that jealousy was absolutely the last of all the emotions that could possibly affect her. It was incredible that she could be jealous.

No, it was simple anxiety that Neville should have chosen well. She cared for nothing else so much as that. But she found it rather a relief to take him at his word. Yes, I shall certainly go away, she said, after that exhibition. Besides, I got half a hundred things to see to. You said tulips for tonight at dinner, didn't you? I think tulips, said Neville. Oh, I am so frightened on Anna.

Suppose she thinks it all perfectly beastly. I wish I hadn't bragged so much about the house. And why did I send those picture postcards? Picture postcards idealized so terribly. Suppose she says I've decided her. Oh, by the way, before you go. Yes. Don't forget about her mother.

Engage her in conversation. Just start her on anything. It doesn't matter in the least what. You've never been to Corfu, have you? Corfu? No, why? That'll do just as well. Tell her you haven't been there and ask her what it's like.

She's great on Corfu. Why do you want her to talk about Corfu? I don't understand a word you're saying. Oh, you're not clever today, Aunt Anna. Why I want to talk to Enid, of course. What do you suppose I've asked her here for? But clergymen'll do just as well, if you've any objections to Corfu. She's tremendous on clergymen.

Do you know any? I once knew an archdeacon, said Anna meditatively. He'll do perfectly. Was he an evangelical archdeacon? I haven't the slightest idea. What difference does that make? Oh, evangelical ones are her sort. Did he have whiskers?

forget. Well, it's very important to remember because if he hadn't, he's sure to have been high church and she can't bear those. For goodness sake, don't go and put your foot in it on Anna and mix up high church and evangelical. The difference is vital, I understand. Vital. I don't know what would happen if you went and mix them up. I don't indeed. Oh dear, I feel so miserable. Where's Jim. Jim's out in the rain with the collies. Don't let them jump up on Enid, will you? When they come in? Mrs. Bezington doesn't matter so much. Yes, on second thoughts, I think you might let them jump up on Mrs. Besington. That would start her all right. Bye, George. I think she was bitten by one once. Or was it her cousin who lives in Corfu?

Anyhow, that's not material. It'll do anyhow, yes. My name. My name. And you encourage the Collies to jump up on Mrs. Besington's dress with all their muddy paws. Don't forget, will you? Tulips, Corfu, clergyman, not high church. Collies, cousin. Any more orders? No, that's enough for the present, my dear aunt. Oh, you are a dear. She moved away rather quickly as he turned towards her.

Her whole soul seemed to knit tight in some strange emotion. She simply could not have touched him just then. Where are you going? Tulips, she said, and went swiftly through the door that led to the servant's quarters. Subsection 2. She was behind her window curtains as the carriage drove up, and utterly ashamed of herself she watched intently as the door of the Broan opened. Then she saw Neville's curly head in the rain,

and then two female figures emerge. Then all three vanished swiftly. into the porch. She thought she would give them ten minutes. Her rosary took her ten minutes, so she lifted this from her pre-year and knelt down with it in her hands. Then she found herself after three or four decades contemplating the agony in the garden and stopped. Then she bowed her head on her hands and clenched those until they grew as white as bone. Then she went to the mirror with her sponge in her hands, looked at her face carefully, passed the sponge over her eyes two or three times, opened the door, and went out. It was the guard at Victoria, who looked so extraordinarily

like my uncle Henry, not the guard of our train, but the one who was looking after the train labeled Crystal Palace, at the next platform with his beard cut quite square. Remembering it, Don't you? Such were the words Aunt Anna heard as she passed round the gallery and began to come downstairs. Then the angle cut off the distinctness of the speaker's words, but the mumble went steadily on. She bit her lower lip fiercely to keep back her laughter. She felt a little hysterical. She knew now that she understood all about Corfu and clergymen. As she came down the last slight, the three looked up all together and stopped talking. She felt like a child at her first party overwhelmed with shyness. She heard Neville saying something, and the next instant felt her hand

grasped, and saw the kindly eyes of a middle-aged woman looking into her own. Then still more confused, she released her hands, and turned and found herself face to face with Enid. For a moment she hesitated, her swift woman's wit took in, not indeed every detail, but the effect of the whole, was a splendid pale face, crowned with masses of hair under a big hat, and the face was lit by a pair of radiant eyes. A thin silk mantle hung from the shapely shoulders. Then Aunt Anna put out her hands and felt the girl's hands in hers, drew the girl to herself, and, without a word, kissed her slowly on the lips. It was what she had decided upstairs to do if it were at all possible when the moment came. It really is a shame, she heard herself saying,

presently, that the weather should be like this. Neville had given orders for a completely different sort of day and tea in the pavilion, and it is, oh, look at that fire. Indeed, the fire seemed very feeble indeed. She took down a pair of bellows and kneeled before it. Oh, on Anna, she heard Neville's voice begin. She was recovering so finally now. Give her 30 seconds more at the bellows, and she would be all right. There, she said, and stood up again. I think it's perfectly glorious, said Enid. Oh yes, indeed, she was lovely, thought on Anna. She was standing and looking slowly around the grade hall. There could be no question at all about her beauty. The photograph had not lied.

Neville, said the girl, and at the name Aunt Anna set her teeth like a vice. Neville, you never gave me the slightest idea. That's all right then, said Neville. But the pavilions, the point, you know, Aunt Anna. Where are you going, Aunt Anna? Only to ring for tea, my dear. I can't think why. I can't think why they haven't brought it up. As she came back, Mrs. Bessington moved slowly towards her. I was telling Neville, you won't mind my calling him that, will you, my dear? You see, well, I was telling him about the guard, that it was so like my Uncle Henry. It was when we were at Victoria Station.

The hunt was up. Anna recognized it in a moment, and with the deepest relief, she would not be required to say anything. She knew the type. Very tactfully, she steered Mrs. Bessington, to a tall chair and maneuvered her into it and herself into another close by the tea table. The Crystal Palace was the subject by the time that tea came in, and Mrs. Bessington was relating the first occasion on which she had taken Enid there, quite 12 years ago, when Enid was only a little dot, and so on.

Aunt Anna ministered the tea admirably. She put in the hot water at the right time. She remembered to put in Neville's cream before the... tea. She even succeeded in learning whether the two guests wanted sugar. Interminably, the affair went on. Little by little, the two others seemed to disappear from her range of vision. Now and then, their voices were heard across the gentle torrent in her own ears. Now and again, they were silent. Two or three minutes ago, the voices sounded quite far off, and she caught Lady Brightington's name. Evidently Neville was showing her the portraits.

Then there followed a long silence. Mrs. Bezington was talking about coffee now. Did you say Corfu? asked Anna, as she desperately and recklessly turned round away from Mrs. Bezington. The hall was empty. The two others were gone. She had played her part nobly. No, my dear, coffee. But what about Corfu? I was there once in 1889 and in the spring of 1890. I was there in the year that

Subsection 3 The garden was exquisite as spring itself After the rain By a swift caprice While Mrs. Bessington was discoursing And the two lovers were edging Slowly round the portraits The wind had dropped

The sun looked out and the rain stopped And when the two With infinite and careful discretion slipped out upon the value-strotted platform above the steps. The whole place shone and sparkled like a fairy stream. Oh, said Enid and sighed once deeply. Come down quietly, whispered Neville, or they'll hear us. The lawn was wet, so it was obvious that they must pass along the path by the house and

right round so as to get to the pavilion. What's that? asked Enid suddenly, as a bell rang three strokes and was silent again. Anglis. said Neville. Father Richardson rings it himself at five. That's the chaplain, isn't it? Yes. The girl looked at him as they turned across towards the terrace. You don't like him, I thought so in Rome, she said. That won't do a bit. One ought to like people. I suppose that is so, said Neville dispassionately. I shall make friends, she said. I'll manage him. What's he been doing?

Oh, well, I suppose one might call it being tiresome. Well, if you won't, you won't, said Enid. My dear girl, I am much too angry. Let's talk about something else. There you are. There's the pavilion. If ever the coast could be clear, Father Richardson had thought it would surely be

for at least an hour after the arrival of guests. He had seen the Brolem drive up from the presbytery window. He had finished his own tea and rung the Angelus, and it had occurred to him while he was doing so that here was an evident opportunity for him to look in the pavilion for a little pocketbook, which he was convinced he must have left there a day or two before, when he had gone across to see Mrs. Fanning

about some small matter connected with the chapel flowers. The guests had scarcely come, he thought. The garden was wet. It was obvious that he would interrupt, nothing and nobody. He wasted a few minutes searching the Presbytery once more for his book, and then, without misgiving, slipped out through the back gate of the Presbytery and went across the gardens. He went rather quickly with his head down, straight up the steps of the pavilion, and stood confounded. Good evening, father, said Neville. The priest's eyes wandered past him to the

beautiful girl who sat in the window seat. Neville was standing. Neville was standing. but it was sufficiently plain that he had also been sitting on the window seat until he heard the steps. I beg your pardon, Sir Neville. I had no idea. I came to look for a book I think I must have left here. Again his eyes moved round as if searching for his book, and again they rested an instant on the girl's face. Neville hesitated a moment. May I introduce you to Miss Bessington? He said. Father Richardson. The girl bowed a little. I saw your church as I came up, she said. What a charming place you have here. Er, yes, said Father Richardson. I am staying a few days, said the girl. I wonder if I may come and see the church. I'm not a Catholic father, but I know Rome very well. I shall be delighted, said the priest. There fell a little pause.

Well, the book, said Neville. We must have. We must. the book was searched for and was not found the priest apologized once more and departed he looks very nice said enid i wish you'd tell me why you don't like him neville sat down by her he felt entirely annoyed this perpetual running in and out of the priest as if the place belonged to him as neville expressed it to himself was beginning to get on his nerves what in the world was the use of leaving a scathing message with Masterson if the man simply walked through without question. Yet he hesitated, with the habitual reserve of his class and his religion, to discuss him openly, even with Enid. He's just rather trying, my dear. He gets on my nerves. You mustn't let him. Does he come

and go just as he pleases all over the place? That's exactly the point, burst out Neville. At least it's one of them, he's got his own presbytery in his garden and the whole park. Yet that doesn't seem enough. He doesn't seem to understand. Enid smiled a little. Poor dear man, she said. He simply doesn't know. I'll make friends with him and then. My darling, that's exactly what I don't want. We've been too good to him already. Enid's eyes narrowed a little, with gentle laughter. Well, you'll see. she said, by the way, does he know about, about not a word, at least I haven't told him. I've sent nothing to the papers either, you know, as you told me. Well, look here, said Enid. I foresee all kinds of difficulties if he doesn't know.

Tell him this evening, will you? And then I'll go and see the church tomorrow morning, if I may. That'll all be open and straightforward then. You don't know how to manage him, I expect. She smiled again at her lover. End of section 11. Chapter 6, part 2 of initiation. This is a Libravox recording. All Libravox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visitlibrovox.org.

Read by Christine Rucker. Initiation by Robert Hugh Benson. Chapter 6, Part 2. Section 4. An hour later, Neville was ringing the Presbytery bell. He had had a good hour with Enid till Mrs. Bessington had routed them out. Poor Anna had done her best. She had received a completely exhaustive account of Corfu.

She had played her archdeacon, views unknown, and had been answered by a number of little biographies of other clergymen. She had listened, when more personal matters had been approached, to long descriptions of Rome and the character. of the food to be obtained there, with parentheses on Neville and Enid that had made her wince more than once. And then, with the suddenness to which she had no Perry, Mrs. Bessington had informed her that it was time to see what the others were doing, and that Enid must come indoors, and which was the way to the famous pavilion, because she was convinced that they were there.

So like a native guide attached to the attacking General Sturip, Anna had had, had led her all round by the pass, because the lawn was still wet and up the steps. It was then that Enid had nodded to Neville to go, and he had left, hearing as he went, the exhortium of a discourse upon the poorest character of red tiles and the harborage they offered to damp. Mrs. Bessington's capacity for not seeing the wood for the trees, for missing the beauty or the interest of a place, and fastening instead upon a its least important detail was abnormal. One of the very few advantages of the Presbytery to Father Richardson's mind lay in the fact that when the bell was wrong, the inhabitant could peep swiftly

through the sitting-room window and see who was there. Neville then, after seeing the priest's head dark like a bird's, between the lace curtains next saw him standing within the front door, which he had just opened to his visitor. Come inside, Sir Neville, said. the priest, what can I do for you? Devil followed him into the sitting room. To his mind, the sitting room was abhorrent. There were religious pictures round the wall of what appeared to him exactly the wrong type. A frightful little chipped statue of the curé d'Ars stood on top of the writing desk.

A sham sheepskin mat lay before the hearth. A very small shelf of theological books hung near the window. A bicycle stood along one wall. Father Richardson had more than once hinted at the desirability of a proper bicycle shed for the Presbytery. A white plaster crucifix hung above the fireplace and a rack of pipes convenient to hand of one who sat in the deep basket chair. A rather bright Brussels carpet chosen last year by the priest and paved. for by Neville covered the floor, except where rather sticky-looking varnished boards appeared below the wainscoting. A cheerful paper with hard-looking bunches of flowers that sprang, so to speak,

to meet the eye, covered the walls. This also last year had been chosen by the priest and paid for by Neville. The entire aspect of the room ratified and emphasized, once more the opinion so rapidly forming in Neville's mind that the inhabitant of it was stuffy, second-rate, and impossible. He sat down in the basket chair, becoming aware that the seat of it was unduly depressed in one place, and prepared himself to begin. Found the pocketbook, father? The priest said that he had. It was in the breast pocket of his coat all the while.

Now Neville had determined to be rather stiff. Expansiveness had not succeeded. So he plunged straight into his subject. Now that Miss Bessington has come with her mother to stay a few days, I thought I had better come around at once and tell you how matters stand. I think she is the lady you are engaged to, is she not? Said the priest smoothly. Neville glanced up sharply.

How did you know that? he said. Father Richardson smiled a little. He would not have been human if he had not been conscious that he was getting his own back for the defeat he had suffered the other day. I heard it two or three days ago, he said. It seems to be known in the village. Two or three people have asked me whether it were true. I said that I was not in your confidence, Sir Neville. Neville was conscious of a very sharp and unpleasant pang of compunction. He hastily ran over in his mind the number of people he had told. Masterson, Jim, Aunt Anna, and Aunt Anna had told Mr. Morpeth.

Then there were the people in Rome. It might have leaked out in a half a dozen ways, and yet he had not told his own chaplain in Paris priest. Yet he was conscious of another prick of anger too. Why could not the man have taken it more courteously? What need was there to be so pointed? However he saw he must eat humble pie. I am very sorry, Father, you did not hear it from me direct.

I had no idea that anyone knew. Beyond my very closest friends, I must apologize. The priest bowed very slightly with a faint smile. Well, it's a fact, went on Neville. I was coming to you in any case in a day or two with regard to the dispensation. No dates are settled yet, but I suppose that the preliminaries may as well be set on foot. If you will give me the particulars, said the priest, I shall be happy to make the application. Neville repressed his rising annoyance. He was convinced that the other was delighted with his own magnanimity.

Thank you, Father. Miss Bessington very much wishes to see the church tomorrow morning. Perhaps you might have the papers ready then? I will do so, said Father Richardson. About 11. o'clock then? That will do perfectly. Neville stood up. He perceived that he must make yet further amends. Miss Bessington and her mother will be staying a few days. I hope you will come and dine with us one evening. Thank you, Sir Neville. I'll let you know then. His eyes fell on the bicycle. I've thought over that bicycle shed scheme, father. I think perhaps it would be best to build one. It would all always be useful. Just as you please, Sir Neville. Again, Neville had to check his resentment. He understood perfectly that this extraordinary detachment of manner on the part of the priest

was intended as a cold and courteous rebuke. Why on earth could not the man be more genial about it? Well, if you sketch out what you think best, I'll send it to the agent. Thank you, Sir Neville. Hopeless, said the young man ten minutes later as he met Enid in the hall. I've told him, but he's furious. It seems he heard gossip in the village about it. Lord knows how it got out. Was he rude? No, too beastly polite by half.

Now come round the house. We've loads of time before dressing. Subsection 5. Aunt Anna felt towards noon next day that with all the goodwill in the world she could not bear Mrs. Bessington any more at all just for the present. Mrs. Bessington found her it appeared a thoroughly sympathetic listener and made the most of it. It would be an impossible task to set out in order all the subjects discussed at breakfast, but the effect upon Anna, who had to bear it all, was that it seemed as if she were trying to pour out tea

and to see that people help themselves, and that Jim did not spill the marmalade as if she were doing these things in a kind of hailstorm. The conversation seemed to stream and beat upon her brain in an unending clatter, not loud, but universal, so to say. Beneath it, in glimpses of intelligence, she perceived other people doing things. Jim, very polite and awed, watching first one guest, than the other, and then when observed, devoting himself to his plate again with a demure innocence. Jim had made his bow, so to say, officially last night, when the gong sounded, that was a signal for the company to dress and for Jim to go to bed. He had submitted to be kissed with his usual courtesy, looking a little disconcertingly after each caress at the caresser, as if to see

how she liked it. Then he had gone gravely upstairs without turning his head. head. Mrs. Bessington had improved upon the situation by relating at great length the history of a niece of hers who had suffered from water on the brain some time in the last century. But Jim had his opportunity since then to observe the visitors. He had sat next to Enid at breakfast, and she had paid him the most delicate compliment that can be paid to a child. She treated him as a grown-up person, conversing with him without a single meaning glance at anyone else. Mrs. Bessington had, of course, spoken to him as if you were deaf, and never waited for an answer to her remarks.

Jim had disappeared after breakfast, and there had been no opportunity of finding out what he thought of the visitors. About noon then, when Anna, after suitable excuses, had gone off to the pavilion with her letters, and had made unsuccessful attempts to answer them, and as she turned, with the end of her pen in her mouth, had seen Jim quite alone, with his hands in his pockets,

strolling across the lawn, she called to him to come in. Jim, still strolling, came up the steps. Yes, mummy? Come in and talk to me. I can't write anymore. Jim sat down politely. What shall I talk about?

He seemed a little depressed, thought his mother. Well, and so was she. Where have they all gone? The old lady, he said, was very sleepy in the hall. Cousin Neville's taken the other one to see the church. Why didn't you go with them? I think they didn't want me. And you see, I know the church quite well.

Father Richardson's there too. Jim's polite self-possession was complete. Anna felt quite sure he was depressed. He crossed one brown leg over the other and contemplated his sandal. Then he began to whistle very gently. Do you like them? She asked suddenly. Oh yes, said Jim, with a superb indifference.

And at that his mother thought it better to probe no further. Subsection 6. Neville was not quite as radiant as usual thought his aunt, as they met for lunch. It was not that he did not talk. He talked readily and easily and suggested a run in the motor down to. to the sea. But there seemed to be over him a veil, as thin as a very thin cloud over the sun on a hot summer's day. By the end of lunch it had practically vanished, but Aunt Anna remembered that it had been there. It was not until after tea in the pavilion when the two guests with Neville on the back

seat and Jim beside the chauffeur had come back from the shore that she even began to suspect the reason. Mrs. Bessington had gone back to the house to fetch a book on Phoenician coins. She was full of surprises like that. When Enid gave the clue, Mrs. Fanning, she said, we want to appeal to you. Neville and I had an argument. Her face shone with pleasantness. The drive had kindled a faint even flush in her face and brightened her eyes. Her beauty certainly grew on one, thought Anna.

me, said Anna, you know I shall probably agree with my nephew. Well, if you don't like a person, isn't it best to make friends with them instead of trying to look over the top of their head? Don't interrupt, Neville, please. You shall have your side presently. Neville subsided. That depends, said Aunt Anna judiciously. Oh, don't say that. That sounds prudent. I mean, generally speaking, supposing you had to live with somebody, for instance, whom you couldn't bear, wouldn't it be far better to try to understand them and get at their good points and so on, rather than to be very cold and polite? That sounds reasonable, said Anna.

Enid turned a slow smile to Neville. What did I say? She said, now, put your side if you think I'm not fair. Look here, said Neville. It's no good. beating about the bush. Put it like this. Suppose you hadn't actually got to live with a person, but had a very close neighbor. Say we were talking about Father Richardson, he said brilliantly, or anyone who could make things very unpleasant if he was tiresome. And suppose you had tried

being very pleasant and all that end, and things didn't go well. Then I maintain you'd better try the other thing. I'm speaking quite generally, of course. Oh, the guileless stupidity of this man thought Aunt Anna. Neville's very device of mentioning the priest's name put the final touch on her certitude that he was exactly the person in point. Obviously, the visit to the church this morning had been the origin of this puzzle. And yet, what was she to say? She hated to take Enid's side against Neville,

and yet Enid's advice had been exactly hers. She hesitated an instant. It's no good, my dear boy, she said, you know exactly what I think. I think Miss Bessington's theory is perfectly right. Well, began Neville. Why, what's up? He was sitting in the window seat facing the door, and Anna saw his eyes change to a sudden gravity as he looked past her.

She turned quickly and there across the lawn came Masterson at an ambling run, with a kind of desperate consternation in his gait and face. Neville was up and at the door before Anna could move. What is it? she heard him say. Miss Morpess, an accident, want to know if they can bring her here outriding. He spoke brusquely and roughly without a word of respect. She could only catch a few words, but she caught enough,

then she too was by Neville. Of course, Masterson, Anything. Tell them I'll come. Is Mr. Morpeth there? Subsection 7. It was a very strange and subdued dinner at which the four sat that night. The tragedy had come and gone with an overwhelming swiftness, visiting the house and leaving it again, all within a couple of hours. First, there had come the tragic burden, born between four men, the hurdle torn from the hedge into which the girl's horse had bolted after an alive. alarm from a motor just outside the village, the hurdle on which lay a still figure with open eyes.

Anna had taken command with all the adequateness of which a sensitive woman alone has the secret. Enid had come forward, white-faced and excited, as the stretcher was carried in, and lifted one of the hands that hung dangling, and Aunt Anna scarcely knowing how sharply she spoke, yet with a true commander's instinct had bidden her leave it alone. Then she had had the hurdle carried into the morning room and the girl's body shifted with infinite care onto the wide chintz covered sofa. It looked terribly like death, yet she was not absolutely sure. She had tried to force Brandy into the pale lips and had failed. Then five minutes later, the little gray-bearded doctor had come. It's all over, he said after two minutes' examination.

The neck was broken. Death must have been instantaneous. And then Mr. Morpeth had come, fetched across the park by the house motor. It was perhaps the sharpest agony that Anna had ever experienced. This watching of the curious old man, whom she was learning to like and respect so greatly. It was she who had met him in the hall.

and told him with a word. Neville had gone straight off for him himself, a minute before the doctor's arrival. Then she had followed him into the room where his daughter lay dead, still in her habit and boots. Anna had not dared to remove anything. She watched him go straight across to the sofa, without a tremor, and kneeled down there without a word. From the room overhead came the soft sound of footsteps walking to. and fro. A starling was twittering sharply, like a child's little musical instrument. Then, after a space of absolute silence, he had risen, kissed his daughter's forehead slowly and lingeringly, and faced round. His complexion was ashy white, but his lips were steady and his voice perfectly controlled. If you will allow me, he had said, I will take my daughter's body home,

at once. She had nodded, but she could not speak. Half an hour later, the house was empty of death, but it was still, strangely still. Anna could scarcely talk at all at dinner, and, with all the goodwill in the world, there were long silences. Enid was in black. Anna somehow did not like that, and yet thought herself unreasonable for it. Even Mrs. Besington fell, a mused, again and again. They rested on them all the shadow of a tragedy and a grief that were not their own. Neville had scarcely ever seen the dead girl before except once or twice at dinner, and Anna herself hardly more often. It was wholly of the father that she was thinking. He was alone now in that house of theirs across the park, and his daughter lay dead upstairs. There was no coherence then in the

party. They drank coffee together in the hall, scarcely speaking, and presently Enid strolled without a word out onto the Balustradd Terrace that opened on to the gardens. After a minute or two, Neville joined her. Aunt Anna heard their voices talking together in a low tone. Then the voices grew fainter, and she heard the crunch of gravel. Outside the night had fallen still, and the sky was full of stars, against which rose up on one side as the two paced along the walk the great blotting masses of the cedars and on the other the façade of the house with lighted windows here and there neither of them spoke till they had turned the corner behind the presbytery had passed down towards the river and were standing there looking out over the low wall and listening to the rush and sway of the starlit water beyond a great fish rose suddenly and enid shivered little. It's terrible, she said. But, but how splendid the night is. Did you know her well? No, my darling. I hardly ever saw her. I think she dined with us twice. And the father? You know him? Hardly at all either. My aunt likes him very much, I believe. She leaned suddenly against him and put her

hand on his shoulder. As he turned a little, he could see her face and throat glimmering palely between her dark hair and her black dress. Neville, she said, I think your aunt is wonderful. How, how splendidly she took charge of everything this afternoon. She's like that, said Neville. Won't she hate going from here? It must be very hard. She's been so nice to me, too. I want to ask you something. Yes. Do you think I might call her on Anna too? End of chapter six. Chapter 7, part one of initiation. This is a Librevox recording. All Libervox recordings are in a public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librevox.org. Read by Natana. Initiation by Robert Hugh Benson, Section 13. Chapter 7, subsection 1.

It had been an extraordinarily happy week for Neville, though, broken abruptly by the girl's death, and when the Thursday dawned that was to take the Bessington's back to town, he awoke in the mood in which a schoolboy wakes on the last day of the holidays. Yet it was to be a very short term. In a fortnight, he was to go up to town and stay there at least three weeks, without Aunt Anna indeed, who had been very resolute about remaining in the country, but with the Bessington's flat, not further than a couple of streets away. There they would all three spend three weeks at least, least. There were mysterious legal arrangements to make and a large number of amusements to be visited. Until the lawyers had been consulted, the date of the wedding cannot be fixed. October was the

month provisionally decided upon. Immediately after breakfast again, with the schoolboy's determination to make the most of the time, Neville had unashamedly made his demand as he followed the three ladies into the hall. Enid, he said, I'm going to be quite plain with you. He will kindly go upstairs immediately and make every arrangement that you will have to make before you go. It will be down here again in half an hour's time, and I shall then conduct you to the woods. We shall remain there till it is necessary to return for lunch, and at five minutes past two, the motor will be at the door to take you to the station.

Cousin Neville, said a small voice. Don't bother me, my dear. I'm talking. Well, Enid bowed. It shall be done, she said. Aunt Anna saw them go. She was in the housekeeper's room as they crossed the garden. They disappeared. Then she heard, the distant clash of the gate. I beg your pardon, she said. I wasn't attending. Yes, the mayonnaise will do excellently, Mrs. Templamore. Start of subsection two. The June weather was justifying its name to the full as the two, ten minutes later, reached the place on which Neville's

imagination had fastened and sat down. The sky really flamed with blue. There was no other word, so far as they could see anything of it between the high trees here that very nearly met overhead. They sat on a bench above the ride that curved around here over the crest of the hill that hung over the lower slopes of the park, with their backs against a small marble monument resembling a flat urn, erected in the glorious Georgian days by Neville's grandfather to the memory of a favorite horse whose bones lay beneath it. Beneath them, the ground behind the ride fell steeply down to the flats, clothed and bracken and protected by giant beaches, so far as they could see on either side, as well as behind. If they had chosen to turn around, stretched the green, scented gloom of the woods,

woods. The air was alive with the hum of 10 million invisible flies. Between the trees in front, far across the tops of the pines that skirted the edge of the open park, the melting blue line of the downs faded, like soft penciling into the steady blue of the sky, and one V-shaped gap showed a patch of indigo sea. After a minute or two, Neville got off the bench and sat down on the ground and leaned his head against Enid's knee. It was exceedingly unlikely that anyone would come this way. Then he felt, as he had hoped to feel, a hand, slipped behind his curly hair. The hand began, very gently, to finger the lobe of his right ear. Now, said Enid, we'll begin. I've got a lot to say, too, you know.

You first, then, said Neville. My word, this might very nearly be frascity again. What a day. Which? Both. From the farm far across the park beneath them came the shrill crow of a cock. I told you so, said Neville. There's the cock, too. Now he's pecking his hens, I expect, remember? start of subsection three half an hour later they were approaching the point i think that's really nice of you said neville i love to be told my faults let's see i was a little abrupt with jim this morning and i really ought to be able to get up what i mean to you're perfectly right i'll go to mass tomorrow for a penance and i'll swear to teach jim tennis this afternoon as restitution will that do the fingers delicately pinched his ear again you don't mind my telling you said enid softly i never meant to you know when i'm sorry i never meant to you know when i'm began. Mind it. Go on. Tell me some more. I've got lots of faults. I know that. I say, Look here. There was a pause. Shall we have a compact? said Neville. You know you've got some faults, too. Oh, yes. I can be quite brutal, too, if it comes to that. The finger relinquished

his ear for a moment. You don't mind my saying that, said Neville a little anxiously. Fingers again reassured him. Tell me them this instant, said Enid. I won't till you make the compact. look here my darling we're both extraordinarily sensible people aren't me thoroughly wholesome-minded and honest and all the rest let's make the compact to be quite plain with one another but never when either of us is in the least annoyed or upset we must count ten so to say always before speaking do you agree yes i think so said ena deliberately i think that's rather a brilliant idea you begin sure quite sure go on please wait have you got any more of mine up your sleeve too said the girl after moment's reflection What are... No, that's all right, then, because I've only got one against you. This instant, please. Well, it's about Father Richardson. No, it's not the least what you think.

Soft him was pulling gently at the short curls now on the back of his neck. It ceased for a moment, then it went on again. Well, I'm waiting. I think you were rather hard on him yesterday. Why? I thought, yes, I know. However, I accepted that. I knew it wouldn't work, but I gave in. Then he came to dine on Monday, didn't he?

And you were simply delightful to him. all about Rome and so on. He loved it. He was quite eloquent about it next day. He congratulated me, really, and sincerely, for the first time. Then, if you remember, we met him in the garden on the Tuesday, and you insisted on him coming with us. I'm sure he never meant to. Then, yesterday, you suddenly turned round on him. What did I do? My dear, you withered him. And he really wasn't doing any harm. He really thought it his duty to come up and say goodbye on your last evening. He said so to me afterwards, and you simply turned your back on him. The hand was resting motionless now on his collar. Well, said Enid, I really meant to be rather disagreeable. It was a little too much,

our last evening. I thought he knew better than that, and he stayed an hour. Entirely your own fault, my dear. He simply can't get away when he once comes. I could have told you that. In fact, I think I did. Now, I'm not in the least objecting, just a present, to your being nice to him, nor to you're being nasty to him. But I do think you ought to be burst very nice. and then suddenly very nasty. It's not playing the game. There was silence. I say, you don't mind? My dear boy, I'm very glad you told me. I was only counting ten. I'll remember. I think you're perfectly right. I'll be more careful. But you know, yes, I don't think I like Father Richardson much. Neville gave a little gurgle of laughter. What did I tell you? Yes, I know. You needn't

triumph anymore. I give in. I'm afraid he's not quite a gentleman. Neville was glowing with delight. he had been a little nervous about halfway through his criticisms, about perfectly she had received them. But just a flicker of discomfort came to him at her last words, but he dismissed it. And now, for mine, he said. There are two, you said, give us the worst first. The hand began on his hair again. You're sure you won't mind either?

I shall positively kiss the rod. He twisted his head suddenly, sideways, and managed just to touch the center fingers with his lips. There, he said, now go on. Well, there are neither at all big. the first is about the servants. Eh? Well, Masterson, but he's perfectly splendid. Wait, you haven't heard. Neville, my dear, he isn't respectful enough. He really isn't. He's familiar. Do you remember that? That time when he came to tell us about the accident? Her voice trembled a little. Well, I know he was

excited then, but that wasn't the only time. You asked him for your cap yesterday in the hall, if you remember. Well, he was simply rude. Oh, Lord, murmured Neville. Don't say, oh, Lord, it isn't polite. Fingers blows ear sharply. Ow, said Neville. I mean it. I really do. Of course he's an old servant and all that, but really, well, that's number one. But wait, there's number two now. Neville, you know, I simply love your aunt. I think she's wonderful. She's let me call her Aunt Anna too, by the way. You dear, murmured Neville. Well, and I know all that she's done for you and how she manages the house and all that, but Neville, dear, she really is a little masterful. Masterful, Aunt Anna, help. I want to count ten, please. Well, abrupt. Oh, I

I do hate to say this, but it's your fault, you know, not hers. You've given everything over to her, and of course she takes charge. But when do you mean? When was she abrupt? I simply don't know what you mean. Well, do you remember when the poor girl, she stopped? No, I won't say that. Consider it unsaid, please. Well, I think so, anyhow. Neville was silent. Neville, my dear, you mustn't be cross. You're counting much more than ten. You mustn't. That's part of the compact. You don't think it was easy for me, too. again that round soft voice trembled into silence and the next instant neville was beside her i'm an absolute brute he said and your angel love told me i really will try to be more well dignified with masterson but as for aunt anna well she's going when we're married you know let's leave her in peace there give me a kiss please end of section thirteen

Chapter 7, Part 2 of Initiation This is a Libravox recording. All LibraVox recordings are in a public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visitlibrovox.org. Read by Natana, initiation by Robert Hugh Benson, Section 14. Star of subsection 4. It was with a real physical sensation of constriction in his throat that he watched the motor move off with its dear burden. Enid had flatly refused to allow him to. come to the station. It's foolish, she said, and you look so funny going backwards, too.

I don't like you at all, then, my dear, you look so miserable on the way to Frascati. I remember. Besides, we have to say goodbye sometime, and it's so much easier than at the station. So Neville had said goodbye to her in the hall, all alone till Masterson came in. Then, when there was no more than a cloud of dust in the distance, he turned to Jim. And now, Jim, tennis, instantly. And Anna said nothing. She slipped without a word into the morning room behind as he spoke. Three quarters of an hour later, Neville lowered his racket. Jim, my dear, it's not the very faintest use till you've got the stroke. They were standing in the tennis court, Neville on one side of the net, quite close to it,

and Jim, under the dead ends on the other. Jim was flushed with exercise and looked a little weary. He had no conception that tennis was like this. He had imagined that they would hit the ball alternately and make a real game of it, but cousin neville would do nothing of the sort for half an hour after a quarter of an hour's instruction as to how to hold the racket horizontally at a certain angle cousin neville had bold balls to him slowly and binden him jim to hit them back in the proper way straight at his cousin neville's face this had been rather fun for about five minutes and then it had become distinctly tiresome he wanted to slash and bang besides the racket was dreadfully heavy and his wrist ached i-i think if you'd let me do it my way cousin neville cousin neville jerked his head look here old chap i'm teaching you not you me it's not much fun to me you know of course if you think you can do it better then he raised his eyes and there was aunt anna in the gallery he had not heard her come in and shame and compunction seized him never mind old man you've been learning long enough for today now we'll have a proper game for five minutes there had followed a proper game without any rules at all jim slashed and banged and cousin neville had astonishingly the worst of it five

Finally, he had fallen prostrate in a vein of endeavor to reach a ball. It's no good, old man. You're too good for me altogether. We'll have another go tomorrow. Yes, I liked it. Rather, explain Jim to his mother overhead, but Jim discreetly look around to see if Cousin Neville really had gone. But, you know, I don't think Cousin Neville could have been really trying his hardest, you know.

You hold the racket like this, you see? He demonstrated to his mother. It was so very early when Neville strolled out of the court, but he felt quite certain that he must have been. to have solitude. He did not want just now to talk even to Aunt Anna, and next instruct him that it would be very suitable to walk up through the woods again, and perhaps go to the seat where he had sat with Enid this morning. He lit a cigarette as he went. Again, the curious, constrained feeling gripped his throat as he stood at last contemplating the seat. The ground was

still, a little disturbed where he had sat at Enid's feet. He sat there again, leaned back, and closed his eyes. There it came upon him then. in that hour, that amazing sense of the possession of another that comes only the dose who love deeply, and still find those depths inexhaustible. It is that one miracle in which none can believe who have not seen and felt. It is the one form of faith that must simultaneously be sight, and it is nonetheless a miracle that it recurs so often. It is as supernatural as the dawn, as transcendent of the law as the beauty of water or the mystery of music, as paradoxical as every final truth. For the paradox that was burning itself in upon Neville's heart as he sat there, cheating himself with ecstatic pain and thinking that Enid was still there,

only silent, was that he perceived two mutually exclusive facts, his own blinding and worthiness of this girl and his own absolute right to possess her very soul. He had had his first glance into that soul, oh, months and years ago, at the tiresome little tea party at Rome, and in its tender and beautiful twilight had met eyes that looked into his own with a frankness and a comprehension he had never met before. He perceived now that that had been the moment of recognition between two mates designed for one another from eternity. Then, in the days that had followed, at luncheon in the hotel, at Frascati and the catacomb,

he had been verifying this, penetrating slowly and reverently into that enchanted realm that was Enid. Then the fire had kindled, and he had understood, and misery that was pure joy, came down in an enveloped him. During those days he had known nothing, understood nothing. He had lived mechanically, driven by a compulsion that was without him, as well as within, till he had spoken to her in a fit of despair and told her what was in his heart. That was in the Borgie's gardens one morning. And at that memory of that, and of her answer, and of the shattering knowledge that came to him, that he had been right, and that the same kind of relation that she bore to him, he too bore to her.

At the memory of that, he drew a long, whistling breath, and opened his eyes wide, again and stared up at the rustling canopy of beech leaves overhead. Then he began to think, over again those last days, watching, a couple of yards away and a little line of earth heave and crumble slowly and deliberately, as a mole pushed his way beneath, he knew he ought to kill the mole, but he quite firmly resolved he would not. The relations had developed marvelously, he thought, and that development had been the last and final ratification of his heart's instinct. She had opened herself to him. he perceived in every direction, and in all she had shown herself what he had thought her.

How perfectly she had understood the house, for instance, that house that had been his home all his life, and would be hers too, soon. His house with its own particular personality as individual as that of a human being, its air, its little ways and moods, and sun and cloud, she had seen its three points at once, the hall of the pavilion and the river. He had seen her understanding in her face. Then there were the people, there was Aunt Anne, instantly, Enidah had appreciated her, had noticed her adequateness and her peculiar relation to himself. She had done even more, she had seen and even touched upon ever so tenderly, the one single little exaggeration in Aunt Anna, her tiny tendency towards masterfulness.

He had never noticed that, but he sought to be perfectly true, now it was pointed out. Then there was Father Richardson. While she had indeed done wonders there, she had gained him over too completely by her. sympathy with his church and one or two appreciations she had made she had been even too successful she had entirely removed little soreness that had been between the priest and himself even too effectively and then she had seen her lovable mistake and confessed it how adorable that was of her there was jim well it was obvious that she had won jim's heart thought neville he had been silent always when she was there yet he had not been able to keep his eyes off her a jim was not so easy

to please. Masterson? Well, she was quite right about Masterson, anyhow. Masterton certainly ought not to be quite so abrupt. He would speak to him about it. Well, perhaps he would not speak to himself. He would just drop a hint to Aunt Anna, and Aunt Anna would drop a hint to Masterston. He did not want to hurt Masterson's feelings. He was a very old servant and very loyal, really. Finally, there was the compact, and the compact it appeared had, so to speak, signed, sealed, and delivered the contract once, forever. It really had been an inspiration. For what else could be wanting in a perfect understanding between two souls, and that such an arrangement is this. What possible chance could there ever be of any drifting apart when each could speak to each quite plainly and quite

tenderly without the remotest chance of misunderstanding? How admirably and triumphantly successful had been the first experiment. She had told him two faults quite plainly, and he had told her one, and both sides had acknowledged the justice of the other's criticism. That would be their safeguard, always in future. How could any shadow between them ever deepen into darkness under such an agreement is this? Besides, she, at any rate, hadn't any faults. Really, that scarcely had been a fault of which he had spoken, or, at any rate, it was all Father Richardson's.

Well, then, here they were. The understanding was perfect. There was not realm or department where the adjustment was not complete, and he would see her again in a fortnight. It was all perfect. Perfect. The mole had seized his excavations. He opened his eyes suddenly. No, he had not been asleep.

Only the hum of the insects and the warmth of this dry, heathery soil were very soothing. Who was that looking at him? Why? It was Mr. Morpeth. He scrambled to his feet. Why, I believe he began. And then he remembered. He had not seen him since the funeral of Ella three days ago.

And he had done nothing than except shake his hand for a moment. What should he say to him? Mr. Morpeth was in his old gray suit with his old gray hat, the very costume in which Neville had found him and rushed him across the park and the motor. There was not a line different anywhere, even in his face. He still looked entirely as he had always looked, a retired businessman. Neville came forward hesitatingly. I am so sorry, he said.

I think I must have been asleep. I'm so glad you're out, Mr. Morpeth. He felt he was doing it very badly, yet he had not an idea what to say. The old gentleman's smile now. naturally and easily. I have no kind of business to come waking up my landlord, he said. I'm just taking a stroll round to the church before tea. It was so hot I thought I would come by the woods. He moved on as if expecting Neville to come with him. I'm going home myself, said Neville. You won't mind my coming with you? But that is most kind of you, said Mr. Morbeth.

Neville still felt thoroughly uneasy. Sorrow was an unfamiliar and rather repellent thing to him. His instinct was to talk rather feverishly about the woods and the tunnels of sun-flecked shadow through which they were passing downwards toward the house. He had a sense of what was due urged him insistently to make some reference to his own sympathy for the old man. He was just approaching an attempt when the difficulty was taken out of his hands. I often walked here with Ella, said the other suddenly. I hope you will let me remain your tenant for a long time.

Why certainly, began Neville, but I know you're trying to think of something suitable to say, sir Neville, but I assure you there's no reason. I am quite content. Neville gasped a little. This was indeed plain speaking. I can't tell you what I feel, he said. I only wish I could say one half. There's no sort of need, said the old gentleman, tranquilly. Though I thank you for your kind thoughts, the thing has happened. It was no one's fault. There was no more to be said. The motorists began the young man. I assure you it was not their fault. I have written to tell them so. They were deeply distressed. It was a young horse, but my daughter was an excellent writer. Never wondered whether the man were heartless, but somehow he did not think so.

Let me be quite plain, said Mr. Morpeth, with the same brisk and intelligent air. It is far easier, and then we need not speak of it again. I believe very strongly indeed in God's divine providence, and I see that sorrow and death are his most usual instruments. It is natural that it should be so in this world, considering all circumstances. very well then. I'm content. I'm not likely to live very long myself anyhow. I came down here to get ready to die and this will be a help to me, I think. Let us say no more about it. And may I beg of you to speak quite naturally to me of my daughter at any time. She was a very good daughter to me indeed, and I love her very dearly. She was very thoughtful for me always, and I'm afraid I was not always

so thoughtful for her. I was trying to make amends when she died, however, she understands all about that now. Start of subsection 5. Yes, said Neville, a few minutes later, as he met with his aunt on the lawn, that was Mr. Morpeth I was with. He's gone into the church. He wouldn't come to tea. Well, said Anna, they went up into the pavilion before he answered. He sat down in his old place on the window seat and began to finger the tassel. I can't make him out, he said. He seemed to me quite heartless, and yet I don't think he is. He talked in a most extraordinary way about his daughter. Do you know him very well, Aunt Anna? Anna began to minister among the tea things. I'm beginning to, she said. What did he say? Well, you know, I was thinking of what I could say to him when he began himself.

He said he was content and then I need it tremble to be sympathetic. Anna smiled very faintly. She was looking rather overdone, thought Neville. Yes, I think that's like him, she said. He's so very businesslike about it all, isn't he? He was just like that the day after the funeral, too. Neville considered a moment. Well, he's made that way. I suppose. By the way, Aunt Anna, he wants to stay on as a tenant for a good long while, he said. Of course he's got rights, you know, by the agreement, but what about you? My dear, I'm going to settle on your downside again. Neville paused. Are you perfectly certain you must go? Anna handed him a tea. Yes, my dear, quite certain. Oh, I say. Yes, well, what about them? I haven't had a word with you

since they went, and we've got those beastly people coming to stay. What time do they get here? Anna said that the new guests were arriving by the 650. I can't bear algae lennox, so Neville reflectively. And he will think he can play tennis. Well, that doesn't matter. What about Enid? Any remarks to offer? She simply adores you, by the way.

Hannah smiled a little, lifting her eyebrows. Does she really? Well, I think she's one of the most beautiful people I've ever seen. Isn't she? And isn't she altogether extraordinary? She's really worthy of the house, isn't she now? Anna nodded two or three times. quiet, she said.

Anne hysterical barking sounded from the lawn, and then the sound of adjurations in a boy's voice. Then came a cry of despair. Mummy, are you there? Look out. She's coming. A whirlwind tore up the steps, and a hastily leaned forward with protecting arms around the table as Jill burst in, screaming with delight and excitement. Neville stuck out his leg to save the window seat and his tea. Mommy, I'm so sorry, apologize Jim, coming up the steps.

Joe was out again by now, whirling around the lawn. on. I had had her on a string, and she broke it. Get a stronger string next time, my dear. She's been tied up all day, hasn't she? Yes, as you told me, explained Jim. Miss Bessington doesn't like dogs, really, I think. And then I forgot to let them out till just now. What boss are you talking now? inquired Neville. She simply loves them. And Anna made haste to explain. Jill jumped up on Enon's dress last night, she said, just before you came down to dinner. That was all. So I thought they'd better be kept out of the way till she'd gone again, and then Jim forgot to let them out. But she didn't like it, said Jim, because I was there and heard her say that. That's enough, my dear.

Say grace and sit down. Neville was silent and instant. Did she say she wanted them shut up? He asked in a low voice. No, my dear boy, of course not. She didn't. And when I suggested it, she said, certainly not, but I thought I'd better. Neville's face cleared. I thought so. She simply loves dogs and all that. Jim, my boy, you must. pass rash judgments. How would you like Jill to jump up all over your clothes? I like it very much, begin, Jim. Oh, there's a trout. Cousin Neville, will you come and catch a trout directly after tea? Start of subsection 6. She sat still when the two had gone. Ten minutes later, Jim speeding across the lawn to get the rod and the brown flyhook from Charleston and Neville down the path westwards

towards the bridge. When at last she heard Jim's footsteps across the lawn and presently leaning forward was rewarded by a nod from him as he staggered along outside, carrying the rod carefully in both hands, with its point carried before him, spearwise, to avoid the branches, and with a landing net slung over his shoulders. She shifted across to the window, sent once she might be able to see perhaps the beginning of the campaign. Yes, there was Neville, just visible at the curve of the river on the opposite bank, hands on knees watching the water. Then she heard Jim steps again on the bridge, and he came into sight. saw Neville lift a hand in mourning. The figures were clearly visible against the green of the distant woods and beneath the golden light of the evening sky. It was a perfect evening. Then she

began to think. Honestly, she had formulated no conclusions which she could really trust, except that Neville was very deeply and sincerely in love with Enid. That was undeniable. She had seen again and again during these last days a look in his eyes that was unmistakable. He was fond of herself. She knew that well enough. She might even say that he loved her, but the two emotions had really nothing in common but their name. He did not look at her as he looked at Enid. Tiny changes, all but imperceptible except in Maas, showed in his face as he looked at the other. When he looked at herself, it was just the frank, honest, workaday affection of a son for her mother, as indeed it ought to be. While she had that conclusion fixed and docketed and established, what of the others?

now Anna long ago had reached the point of self-knowledge in which she could judge of her moods and sentiments as if they belonged to someone else. For instance, she always refused to find fault with anybody, even interiorly. Between midnight and 10 o'clock next morning, because she knew perfectly well that both sleepiness and sleep between those hours slightly perverted the judgment. Sometimes even she would refuse to pass any judgments before lunch because she had learnt how unreliable these might be. next then she was aware that jealousy there was no other word for it had quite distinctly begun to insinuate itself into her soul immediately she heard of the boy's engagement and that had considerably increased its influence on her during this last week she was perfectly furious with herself but there it was there come moments during those last days when she had been forced to go up to a room and lock her door if she had not done so she knew that she would have given some sign of what was happening within her it was this humiliating discovery that had finally decided her that she had finally decided her that she had been forced to go up to her and lock her her the same thing she had not done so she knew that she knew that she would have given some sign of her that she had the dour house would not do. She must not be so near. There was no knowing not only what misery she herself might fall into if she lived there, but what a disturbing element she might not be in Hartley itself. Very well then, she was jealous. Then how could she possibly trust any of her own

intuitions or judgments in respect to the person of whom she was jealous? All were not enough. she can never know if they were really successful, she might only too easily commit a grave injustice and entire sincerity. For her judgments of Enid had been very sharp indeed. First, she was convinced that the girl was the most dangerous kind of sham, the most dangerous, because in all probability the girl did not know it herself. For instance, there was Enid's statement that she loved the country and outdoor things, and above all, the whole of that element of which outdoor things are the symbol. It was extremely probable that Enid really did think that she liked those things and was of that kind of temperament. Yet what about that very sharp, though quite courteous annoyance of

hers, when Jill had jumped up on her dress last night? And Anna had been quite truthful just now. The girl had said that she did hope that the poor dogs would not be sent to the stable, and yet Anna saw that that was exactly what she wanted. Then there had been the religious atmosphere, that general attitude to interior things all around which Neville had, had said was the one thing that mattered. The attitude of which breeziness and a love of solitude and quiet and so forth are significant departments. Well, Enid had not said much on that, though Neville had upon his first homecoming, what she had said once or twice, when alone with Anna, showed quite plainly either what Enid thought of herself or at least wished other people

to think of her. It was the type Anna had met with before, a kind of Christianized pagan mysticism, a sense of being in touch with fundamental things, of being beneath dogma, and yet fully tolerant of it. Neville had laid great stress on that element in Enid, she remembered, well, it was not a bad attitude. It was better than narrowness or dogmatic intolerance. Yet, if that were the genuine in the girl, how was it that Anna had caught in her a face, a look of unmistakable contempt on the night that Father Richardson had dined with them, and had explained very carefully to the company exactly what was Defeide on the doctor, of eternal punishment. Of course he shouldn't have done it, but if Enid was genuine, she should not

have felt, still less shown, even for that fleeting incident, so sharp a contempt. Finally, there was the element of cruelty, and this was the worst of all, which she thought she had detected. She had first noticed it with regard to the girl's mother. Miss Bessington had been talking one evening in her usual manner, and had flowed on uninterrupted for a minute after minute. Then, suddenly, Enid had given a little mirthless laugh. Neville was not in the room. You haven't had one full stop, she said. For four minutes by the clock, I've been timing you, Neville, put me up to it. Miss Bessington had stopped dead. Enid had eyed Anna fleetingly and then laughed naturally enough. Poor mother, she said, what a beast I am. I didn't mean it. Then she had taken her mother's hand and kissed it

with a charming and humble contrition just as Neville came downstairs. Now that had quite appalled Anna. She had first thank God that Neville had not been there and then had wondered whether or would not have been better if he had. But probably the girl would not have said it in that case, and she had reckoned if the girl said that kind of thing before other people, what was she like when she was alone with her mother? That was the worst point. Yet it was not the only instance.

Enid had certainly been a little sharp with Jim one morning after breakfast. She laid herself out to be delightful to him at first, but five minutes after, when Jim came up, as was his way, and slipped his hand into hers, she had turned rather abruptly onto him, and Anna had caught again, she thought, a sudden flare of unloving impatience. It was partly because of what she had seen in Jim's face too, that she had questioned him later as to what he thought of the guests.

Well, here were these intuitions, these observations, and the conclusions that her whole soul drew from them, and yet that distorting passion of jealousy came in and vitiate them all. And could she possibly tell that she was not gravely uncharitable, that she had noticed and counted and exaggerated those little sinister points only, and had ignored the rest, how could she tell? What was she to do? Yet Neville mattered frightfully, and yet, too, she dared not speak. She must make the best of it at any rate for the present. That would surely be Mr. Morpeth's advice if she dared but to consult him. She sat up, suddenly interested. She had been watching unintelligently the movements of the two who had moved

a few yards away from the riverbank in order to select and affix the appropriate fly. Jim had sat on his heels to watch, jumping up and down now and again with impatience. It was too far for her, with the second gurgle of the stream in her ears to hear them talking. Then, still, unintelligently, she had seen Neville approach the bank crouching a little, and Jim, like a small replica of him, immediately behind, and then she watched the cautious, sinuous movements and the delicate whisk of the rod. She saw it all. Even while she thought of those other matters, nothing had happened, except that the figures

had presently moved round the bend of the river and disappeared. Then they had come back and there had followed another business with the removal of the fly, she supposed, and the affixing of another. Then, once more, the casting had begun. And now she sat up to watch, for Neville was upright and Jim was dancing. Neville had the rod high, and she thought that even at that distance she could make out the curve of it. Then she saw Jim stop dancing and snatch up the net, and so the two figures stayed now moving a little, now returning. and then the group dissolved into laxity again she saw the rod lowered and jim's net drop neville was

examining something invisible between his fingers beastly bad luck explained jim a few minutes later cousin neville hooked him beautifully and then the fly broke i mean the bit of stuff that fastens it and the trout went away beastly bad luck beastly bad luck echoed aunt anna end of section 14 chapter one part one of initiation this is a library All LibraBox recordings are in a public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visitlibrobox.org. Read by Natana. Initiation by Robert Hugh Benson, Section 15.

Start of subsection 1. Come on, old chap, said Neville, rising and blowing out of the pool, straight in. It's just gorgeous this morning. Head first, questioned Jim, a slim-shivering figure on the little wooden pier that dutted out over the bathing pool. Of course, I think began Jim. Don't think, come on. So Jim came on and found himself neatly fielded as he rose gasping. It really did require a little courage at his age. He could swim a little, but not very much. And the current was considerable here under the little fall that Neville had designed here a couple of years ago. A hundred yards westward of the bridge where the trout had been so nearly caught a fortnight before. overhead the day was perfect the risen sun away to the east shone straight down across the wide meadows that glittered as the diamonds neville had slipped off his shoes as he had come down with jim ten minutes ago in his pajamas for the sheer delight of walking barefooted through the dew dripping grass the tall trees above the bathing place were motionless in the morning calm but rang unceasingly with the song of birds blackbirds scudded scolding from shrubbery to shrubbery A thrush, visible against the sky, poured out a turret of music from the top of a post,

in full view of the swimmers, exactly as if he had been engaged to do it. A couple of bullocks with a kind of rustic stupidity in their long faces, eyed the two splashing figures from over the post in rails that shut off the bathing place from the open park, and swerve suddenly with heads down as Jim screamed with joy ingestulated. Neville found presently rather hard work battling up against the streetway, with Jim on his shoulders. He had had another of his headaches three days before and felt a trifle invalidish still. These headaches made astonishing demands upon his strength. Look here, old chap, he gasped. This is a bit too much. The stream's soap so jolly strong this

morning. I'm going to drift down to the shallow end and leave you there a bit. Jim hammered at Cousin Neville's head. No, go on, he said. You little brew, wait till I get you down. He swerved into the stream and with long easy strokes sped downwards. Jim prudently rolled off his shoulders as they neither tail of the pool and floundered to the bank. Neville assured him he should not escape and then turn once more and began to beat upstream. The world looked extraordinarily delicious viewed from the surface of the clear running current. Immediately in front of his eyes, the long lines of water came racing down, bubbling crisply from below, bearing a little yellowish foam and blossoms as they came. The fall of the river was small enough, yet it sounded like

thunder in his ears. The low green bank on the right with the bullock's heads, still peering over, was as enchanting as the edge of a new world. The dark, shadowed spaces under the beach trees on the left, as mysterious as caverns, and overhead, between the masses of green, he could see that the clear haze-veiled sky that promised great heat. It was an exultant triumphant that morning, warm and caressing, yet with just that sting of early coolness that was like the bubbles in champagne. How frightfully hot London would be! And for a moment or two, he wished with all his heart that Ina could have managed to come down here instead of making him come to her. Then he remembered the lawyers and Mrs. Bessington's social delights and understood that it was impossible.

He was going up in time to lunch with them. That was why he was bathing here with Jim before breakfast. He would have to leave a little after ten as he must just go to his house first in Elizabeth Street to see that everything was in train for the little dinner this evening. The cook had already gone up to town with a maid or two, Aunt Anna had insisted upon this. Then, this afternoon he remembered, they were all three to go to something or other. He rather thought it was pictures, but wasn't sure, and this evening to the theater. He had got the tickets all right, by the way. He was sorry to Anna wouldn't come with him, but she had been quite explicit.

She'd be entirely in the way, she said. Four was a much pleasanter number than five, and of course Neville must have a male friend now and again to entertain Mrs. Bessington, if nothing else. Algae Lennox would do for once or twice. He couldn't be a bore about his tennis very well in London at that time. Besides, she simply loathe London. She might perhaps run up for a day or two at the end and take gym to the zoo. But really, not more.

If Neville didn't mind. So it had been settled, and although he was sorry, she wouldn't come. He felt that there really was something to be said on her side. Ah, how delicious the water was. He turned on his back as he came up to the foot of the little 18-inch fall, just in that mystical part of a current. which itself, very nearly motionless, is quick with a strange, thrilling vitality from the plunge of air and water beneath, where the myriad bubbles rise hissing and hushing, and the surface of the water curves and heaves a little.

It is just behind that, by the way, that the trout lie and wait for the food that comes so fresh and enticing down the fall, right down to their level, a foot or two above the bed of the stream. He shifted, slowly from place to place, his head right back in the water, keeping himself afloat, by slow paddling with his hands on either side. A film of water washed over his face once or twice, and he closed his eyes. Then, with a rush against his limbs, the current caught him, and he rolled down smiling still, with closed eyes, till all emotions seized. His eyelids glows before his eyes red and flaming against the bright sky.

His physical ecstasy was out of height. Start of subsection two. When he had had enough, he climbed out, dripping on to the little pier. Jim was making a great to do down there at the shallow end. He could see his head now and again, very agitated, with yet more agitated heels, winnowing the water four feet behind. He had meant to duck him, but it was too much trouble. He felt a pleasant, languorous ache all over him, and a cigarette seemed absolutely necessary.

He waited through the wet grass to get his pajamas and towel, delighting in the brush of the long stems around his feet, dried himself lightly, slipped on his trousers and jackets, got out his case from the pocket and then blowing out aromatic clouds, he went back and sat down on the end of the pier with his bare feet tingling. His head felt a little heavy. He thought he had been in the water too long. Cousin Neville cried a shrill voice. He turned to sea, and as he turned, a dimness, rather like a torn veil, drifted between him and the white little figure that, standing knee-deep in the shadows 20 yards away was splashing furiously with both hands. It must be liver, he told

himself. Really, he ought to be ashamed of it at his age. He rubbed his eyes quickly with his disengaged hand, then he looked again. Yes, the dimness had gone. No, it hadn't. It was for me again in shreds and patches. Jim apparently wanted no answer. He had shouted out of sheer exhilaration. The splashing had seized, and once more Neville could make out, but only just make out, the head passing across the sunlit water. Neville stood up. He must take a turn or two. perhaps the sunlit water had affected his eyes a little perhaps he had caught just a shadow of a chill as he turned up his trousers a little tangle of black lines drifted over his hands and went again this was ridiculous no he wouldn't walk about he would just lie still on the pier with his eyes shut that would put him right a loud cackle of physical joy made him open them again and there was jim and the long grass entirely unclothed rolling and tossing to and fro oh it does tickle so cousin neville then as he looked at him again that veil drifted suddenly across and for an instant he saw nothing immediately in front jim was gone in blankness he could see the post where the thrush had been singing away to the left and the solemn lowered bullock's heads on the right there was nothing in between again he was gone in between again he had been singing away to the left and the solemn lowered bullock's heads on the right there was nothing in between again he was

he passed his hand over his eye, rubbing them hard. Then he turned away again. Jim mustn't notice anything. He might tell his mother, and there would be a fuss. If you'd better address, old chap, you'll catch cold. Oh, said Jim in a long, drawn ecstasy. Come on, old man, said Neville again. I really mean it. And then we'll go on a walk and get warm again. Will you come and shoot a rabbit, demanded Jim? Well, we'll go and look for one. Evaded Neville, make haste. He felt perfectly certain that the thing would pass. It had passed before all right. It was simply his liver. He had sat on the lawn all day yesterday instead of going for a ride. It was that. And the sun on the water. No, more. While Jim dressed in the white shirt and knickerbockers in which he had come down, Neville sat very still with his back to him, keeping his eyes closed closed and answering questions now and again. Will you take me with you as far as the village after breakfast, cousin Neville? We'll see what your mother says, said Neville with closed eyes. Don't you ever do any lessons? Oh, yes. said Jim indifferently. Cousin Neville, well, why are you going to London to see Miss Bessington, cousin Enid, oh, why do you want to see Miss Bessington? I mean, cousin Enid, because I like her very much.

Oh, why? It had been carefully explained to Jim that cousin Neville was going to marry Miss Bessington and that he, Jim, would, in future, have to call her cousin Enid. But Jim did not appear to realize that this involved any particular affection on anyone's part, even on Nevel's. It was as if Cousin Neville was going to engage a new housekeeper, no more than that. He had shown no interest whatever in the event. Because she's very nice, said Neville carefully. Oh, said Jim, as if he had encountered a brick wall. Buck up with your dressing, old man.

I'm ready, said Jim. The moment had come, and Neville opened his eyes. For an instant, all seemed well. The clear water ran smoothly and swiftly beneath. The cool, dark spaces under the beach's opposite, looked as they always did. He saw again a black bird scurry across from one side to the same. the other. Then the veil formed again, as if a hundred spiders were spinning black threads at full speed. Glimpses of light and color showed between the meshes, but no more. Neville shut his eyes again,

and his heart sickened within him. He still kept his back turned to the boy. Jim, old man? Yes, look here, I thought of a game. Let's pretend I'm a blind man. Oh, do you think that would be funny? You wait, said Neville. You haven't heard it yet, and you're my guide. You mustn't touch me, and I mustn't touch you, but you've got to guide me with your voice and tell me where to go. He was inventing desperately. He was perfectly certain that this thing would pass presently, and meantime, Anna must know nothing. Then he heard the stable clock strike eight. We've lots of time, even ten yards that I go without touching anything except the ground, is one to you, and every time I touch anything, like a tree, it's one to me.

I must keep my eyes tight shut all the time. Oh, do you think that's a good game? Asked it out for you. voice. We'll try it, anyhow. He felt for the edges of the pier with his hands and carefully got to his feet. Then, a little unsteadily, he walked in the direction of Jim until he felt the grass under his feet. Now begin, he said, you must carry the towels. He felt it was not much of a success, but it was all that he could think of. Once when Jim screamed with sudden delight as the blind man fell heavily over a log, he thought it might serve a bit longer, but he simply dared not open his eyes. Look here, you mustn't make me fall down on purpose, he said.

That's not the game. I shall count that three to me. From that moment, the game certainly flagged. Jim did not seem to find it funny. His voice grew more and more indifferent. Finally, Neville stopped. Where are we? He said. What? Where are we? snapped the other a little irritably. Oh, close to the bridge, cousin Neville. Very well. We'll stop the game as soon as I touch the bridge. And then will, his voice faltered. What in God's name should he do if he couldn't see? And what, again, in God's name was the matter? His little headache had quite gone. with exercise. That was one encouragement. But what on earth should he do? His hands touched the stonework. There he said, you've won. Eleven to you, four to me. Then he opened his eyes and waited. There was the stonework under his hands, the sunlit water flowing swiftly beneath the outer edge of the pavilion window just in sight, the gold and green of the park, splendid in sunlight. He still waited, and they remained as before. He rolled his eyes around and again looked. It was all right. Why do you look like that, cousin Neville? My dear boy, I've only just got my sight back. Now we'll do any mortal thing you like till a quarter to nine.

Start of subsection three. As the clock struck the half hour, they were sitting on the bench with their backs to the Georgian monument. Jim had decided that as compensation for their extraordinarily stupid game of blind man, he would ride on Cousin'vel's back up into the woods and look for the Holy Grail. This had been done until the horse had explained that there were limits to everything, even to an unconditional promise, and that if the Holy Grail were not found by the time they reached the seat by the monument, it must remain lost. Yet, as they sat there, at last, Jim with an arm over his late horse's shoulders, Neville really was not quite sure that he had not found it after all,

or at least, that he was not basking in its rose red light. The relief was amazing, his headache was gone, but that was nothing. Rather, there had lifted from him a horror whose weight he had not dared to appraise so long as it was on him. there had not come back to him even one floating shred or film of that fine-spun black veil that had dimmed the glory of the stream and the morning, and with that relief, physical joy had come back at a rush. He was sure now that the trouble could not be organic. The very sea on which he sat seemed transfigured. He was looking out, panting a little, for the quest had been breathlessly rapid, at the same view, the timbered foreground, the bee's trunks, the pine tops, the bracken,

far off line of the downs at which he had looked with Enid a fortnight ago, all lit with a morning light. Then he had sat there to say goodbye to her. Now, he was sitting here on the morning of the day that was to bring him back to her again. He would see her in a little over four hours. Was the Holy Grow real? asked Jim. Never recalled his attention. Real? Oh, I suppose so. No. I should think it wasn't. It was a symbol. What's a symbol? A symbol? Oh, well, it's rather hard to describe. It's a sign of something that really is true, like a fairy story, or at least like some of them. Oh, said Jim, he seemed a little disappointed. And what is the thing that's really true? He pursued presently. Neville jumped. He was thinking about something entirely different. How do you mean? Oh, I see. Well, religion, don't you know? That's what they were after. Did they find it? Neville perceived it was necessary to attend Jim's questions were sometimes

most disconcerting to the point. Did they find it? He reflected a moment. He reflected a moment. and as he reflected he heard three strokes from a bell come up from the direction of the house. That would be the elevation. He stole a glance at Jim who apparently had not heard it, and at that instant Neville perceived that he really had arrived at a certain quite definite crossroad. On the one side, there was that for which the bell had spoken just now. On the other side, here was the murmur of the woods, like the murmur of the woods above Frascady. And he saw that these were two things, and not one.

at least he could not conceive how they could be one. There seemed nothing to unite them, however deep when penetrated. On the one side, there was the little Catholic church where Anna, no doubt, was kneeling at this very moment, with its crucifix over the altar, its stations round the walls, and contextualized and systemized abstraction from one side of life, certainly, but not that side in which he himself really lived and breathed. On the other, here were these woods and these myriad flies dancing in the sunlight. This home of life, these scents inexpressibly sweet of woodland and pined and a purified breeze from the sea. The two things were two things, not one, and the girl who had transfigured life to him was on this side. Not that, why? He sat now in the very sanctuary which she had consecrated by her presents. Did they find it?

Jim, you've asked me a hard question. What do you mean exactly? Lancelot found it, didn't he? And Sir Galad? Jim sniffed. Yes, they found the Holy Grail and the fairy story. But did they find the thing that it meant? You told me that it was not real, but that something else was. Jim was speaking a little drowsly. His head was leaning against Neville. Neville glanced down at him. Look round you, Jim. Don't you think we found it ourselves after all? Jim raised sleepy eyes obediently and looked round. I don't know what you mean, he said. well, these woods and in the morning and feeling so happy and the whole thing. What do you think makes you feel so happy?

God, said Jim, as if that settled it. Neville felt a touch of impatience. Yes, of course, he said. This is all. All God in a sort of way, isn't it? Well, then, don't you think we found the Holy Grail up here, after all? And if we found it, then perhaps, Jim's head nodded suddenly, and Neville remembered that lecturing before breakfast is apt to have that effect,

even on grown-up people. End of section 15. Chapter 1, Part 2 of initiation. This is a LibraVox recording. All LibraVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visitlibrovox.org. Initiation by Robert Hugh Benson. Section 16.

Start of subsection 4. As they came down to the house again, Jim once more, writing on Neville's shoulders, The physical pan-given ecstasy was still tramping in the young man's heart. Aunt Anna met them on the lawn. She was just out of church and had come round, as usual, through the gardens on her way back. Will you repair, she said, it was indeed a joyous sight. Right on Neville's shoulders without any compromise at all sat her son.

His bare brown legs came down over the young man's blue pajama jacket and were grasped there by capable sunburnt hand. His white silk shirt with flapping sleeves was behind Neville's black curly head. and just above it his radiant flushed face and golden hair. He was urging his steed on with a towel, and as for Neville, for all his six feet, he looked as much a boy as his rider. His black eyes were full of laughter, his parted lips showed his white teeth, he was barefooted too, and his shoes were slung by string over his neck. There was a photograph of the Olympia group of Prex Tellis in the morning room at Hartley.

Inevitably, she remembered it, for this group was as astonishingly accurate transatlanticly. of it into completely modern terms. It is true that Hermes wore blue pajamas and had a towel around his waist, and that the infant Bacchus was in white flannel knickerbockers and rode upon the neck of the elder god. Yet the spirit was precisely the same. It was a divine gaiety straight from Olympus itself, prancing on the lawn of an English country house. You, you absolute pagans, she said. Hermie's black eyes sparkle even more divinely. That's precisely it, he said. And you're only a poor Christian, was shocking. She glanced with a little quick movement of her eyes at the face of the infant Bacchus, but it was occupied with other emotions than that of Ferry's scandal. And we've been

to find the Holy Grail, he said irrelevantly. He had no sense of the unities, it seemed. And did you find it? Cousin Neville said so, up in the woods. Go on, Pegasus. Bacus beat with his bare heels as on a drum upon Hermie's chest. Don't gasped Hermes, or I'll pinch them. He closed his strong fingers tightly on the little crossed ankles. Ooh, said Bacchus, and then his feelings overcame him, and he rolled his face passionately in the black girls into which his hands were thrust. Ooh, how jolly it all is. Go on, Pegasus, I promise not to kick. I think Pegasus had better, said Aunt Anna.

The gong will sound in exactly three minutes, and I'm sure Pegasus hasn't shaved, and Bacus must brush his hair. Bacchus remarked her meased Pegasus questioningly. He looks like it. Go on. They were different persons altogether at breakfast, and yet the elder of the two children, as she said to herself, was no less radiant. But his radiance was of a different kind, and indeed a neat gray suit with a stand-up collar and thin shoes and clock socks have a very different effect from the pajamas and are even less appropriate to Hermes. Jim too was indifferent. His hair had ruthlessly been brushed and resembled a neat

oracle he wore a holland jacket over his silk shirt and sandals on his feet besides he was entirely engaged in eating an egg according to the proper ceremonial of grown-up breakfasts and had no attention for anything else he sat in an absorbed silence scooping out the egg and putting it carefully into his mouth rolling his eyes once or twice to intercept any possible criticism i don't want to be brutal said neville but i feel like a schoolboy going home for the holidays why aren't there sausages we always had sausages on the last morning at Stonyhurst. Because it's Friday, my dear boy. Lord, so it is, and I'm going out to lunch, and they're dining with me. Mrs. Ferguson, remember? And if she doesn't, being upset with the journey yesterday and all that, may I eat meat? I think I shall require it because we're going to the theater afterwards to see Selva. Ever seen Selva? And Anna nodded. Once, she said, she's sublime, but I believe she's a most unpleasant person with a frightful temper, but she can act. They don't scandal, my dear. What does it matter what she's like, so long as she can act? That's what I've paid five guineas for, or was it ten? I don't pay for her temper. I expect somebody does, though,

observed Aunt Anna. Don't be so brilliant, Aunt Anna. It makes my head. He stopped short, remembering his little experience this morning. Ake, he added firmly. When he looked up, she was looking at him. Remember about the doctor, she said in the low voice. I shall remember to forget, said Neville. It's a sound plan. No, but, my dear, of course I shall go. If there's the very faintest reason, but I really can't go. If I go on feeling as robust as I do now, I'm bursting with health. He think I was insulting him. Start of subsection 5. The departure was a little melancholy for Aunt Anna. Neville's spirit seemed to rise steadily. He vanished after breakfast to see to one or two final things, and she heard him whistling in his bedroom,

between snatches of conversation with Charleston. Then an aromatic smell of Turkish tobacco became sensible in the hall. I say, shall I want two white waistcoats? Charleston says so. She looked up from the Daily Mail, which she was pretending to read in the hall, and he was leaning over the gallery. Apparently, he had been about to come downstairs, for he stood now opposite the tall cornered a store of his father's room. How can I tell, she said, you'd better do precisely what Charleston tells you. She wished she wouldn't stand just there. I mean, evening ones, said Neville. If you're going to be in town for three weeks, I should think you certainly will. I should take three. That's what Charleston says, but I draw the line at two. All right, Charleston, pack two.

A discreet cough and a murmur of assent indicated that Mr. Charleston had been invisibly assisting at the conversation. Do you hear, Charleston, Ball Neville? Yes, sir. Came sharp and clear through the open bedroom door. Go back to your room and tell him properly, whispered Aunt Anna. She simply cannot bear to see him standing just there. It looked as if it was his own room somehow. I shall issue my orders from exactly where I please, observe the young man. Is that Masterston below there? Masterton came out from the drawing room. Masterston, you won't forget about my letters. Oh, I told you that at breakfast and about sending up that trout if Dane can. Oh, I told you that too. That's all, Masterson. I forgot. Sorry. Anna went presently to see if the motor had come. The clock

indicated that it ought to have done so, but there was no motor. She stood at the porch a moment or two waiting. This was the rather somber side of the house. It will be remembered. bird. The level flats of turf lay before her, cut by the straight drive, unrelieved by trees. The shrubberies on either side, especially the eyepresses about the church, look like troops of grave guardians of the right-of-way, like to all men waiting. Then she heard the motor coming round from the stables and turn into the house, hearing her name called loudly as she did so. My dear, what is the matter? Where's the motor? Why hasn't it come? Give Paul a month's notice. He was standing again by the sinister door, once through one of the hall windows he could command a view of the drive.

He carried now a light coat over his arm and had his Panama hat on. Charleston, with a couple of suitcases, was waiting meekly for an opportunity to pass. It's just coming. Don't fuss, my dear, and let Charleston go by. Sorry, Charleston. Is it really coming? Oh, yes, I can hear it. He was more radiant than ever as he kissed her goodbye. Jim had appeared with the colleagues, who also, it seemed, must be kissed on their long noses. This was accomplished with some difficulty in the case of Jill who wanted to do all the kissing herself. Cousin Neville. Yes, my dear. May I come as far as the village? Well, really, old ma'am. No, Jim, said Aunt Anna firmly. Remember lessons. Besides, cousin Neville mustn't stop. He's late. Oh, very well, said Jim superbly.

Her heart was very low as the young man climbed into the driver's seat, and Paul the chauffeur went to wind up the affair in front. Yet she could not tell what she feared. That miserable passion of jealousy was at her heart again. It seemed an unbearable pain that he should go up like this, without her, in such tempestuous spirits. And he had scarcely said a word to persuade her to come with him. She mistrusted, therefore, every judgment. She told herself that she was wicked and uncharitable, that no one was without fault, that Enid, after all, so far as she knew, had as few as anyone else, certainly fewer than this hateful critical being which she called herself. But it was unbearable for all that. Don't look so grave, Aunt Anna, said Neville with his hands, and their long gauntlets on the

wheel. I shall go away and cry, she said, and then I shall probably slap Jim. Jim regarded her solemnly. Fasten those dogs up, she said, or they'll run after the motor. Jim twisted a long leash around one of the pillars, just as Paul climbed up beside his master. Charleston and the luggage were behind. Charleston wore that peculiar air of humble attachment that quite perfect servants always do, where in such circumstances. The motor's roar had sunk to a rapid purr. Yes, the time really was come at last. He would be gone a full three weeks she knew, and meantime Jim and she must entertain one another as best they could. Jim really could get some lessons done. That was one comfort. He was beside her now and had taken her hand as his matter was. Don't drive too fast, she said.

There's a lot of traffic near Croydon. Neville winked at her solemnly with one eye. Jill was beginning to yelp spasmodically. Jack had sat down like a monument. I shall drive like Jehus, he said. Then the motor moved off, and Jill's yelps became heart-rending. Neville kissed his gauntlet superbly as he took the curve round into the straight. She stood there watching. Jim, silent at last, was stroking very gently the inside of her hand, which he still held. Masterson was behind her somewhere, also silent. The principal noise, since it drowned all the others, was the piercing whale of Jill,

who, with nose pointed westwards, lamented the departure of the one kind of vehicle at which she always barked. Jack, still sitting, regarded the empty drive philosophically, growling now and again in the very lowest stratum of his throat. Far away now, down the dwindling road was the dwindling motor. He was, indeed, driving like Jehu. A cloud of dust bellied behind like a continuous explosion, through which more and more faintly twinkled points of light where the sun from over the house behind caught the bright brasswork in polish. and then as the last points vanished she became aware that the noise of the dogs was quite unbearable she turned and looked and there they were both were sitting together with elevated noses

raising a common lament stop those dogs she said sharply then she was ashamed of herself come along my son she said we must go and learn our lessons end of section 16 Chapter 2, Part 1 of initiation. This is a Libra Box recording. All Libra Box recordings are in a public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visitliborbox.org. Read by Natana. Initiation by Robert Hugh Benson, Section 17.

Start of subsection 1. Mrs. Bessington was talking gently to herself and audibly, yet with her lips moving, as she surveyed the luncheon table half an hour before Neville was expected. Enid was in her bedroom. It was a pleasing little dining room, this the first on the left from the entrance to the flat with the shallow square bow window from which could be observed, sideways, the trees of Cadogan Square. Enid had done most of the furnishing. There were good chintz curtains, slender mahogany furniture, a quantity of little silver things on the lightly carved mantelpiece, and a general air of coolness and space. A number of good engravings hung on the brown papered walls, and the round dining table was quite satisfactory. Mrs. Bessington had just stepped in from the sitting room opposite to make certain that the flowers were fresh. No human being in the world ever knew really what Mrs. Bessington's scheme of life.

Her general manner of existence was presumably satisfactory to herself and not intolerable to Enid. She circled gently through the London, Paris, the Riviera, Roman back every year, as had been described. In each place she visited the proper things, in London she went to see the Academy and several themes. and dined and lunched out with friends, as decently conventional as herself. In her cottage, when she went there, she read the newspapers, and sat a little in the garden and called upon the rector's wife, and went to a few afternoon parties. In Paris, she drove out each afternoon in the boy, and occasionally went to the theater in the evening if there was anything about which anyone was talking. In Rome, she led the kind of life that has already been

described, and in London and Paris in the Riviera in Rome, she talked gently all the time. This, then, was the surface she presented to the world, and her smiling kind face remained unmoved. She wrote a good many letters to her friends, full of small talk, and especially to her nephews, giving them good advice all the year-round and generous tips at Christmas. Probably she kept a little pocketbook of engagements in which these duties were entered, but beneath that surface no human being had penetrated. It appeared as if she expressed herself so continuously in this unceasing dribble of talk in letters that there was no interior reservoir left at all, that she resembled, let us say,

a pond through the center of which a small stream flows in at one end and out the other, so that the excavated space never has time to fill. No one even knew how much money she had. It was only quite certain that she had enough, and deny neither herself nor Enid anything that was proper to the kind of life they led. This flat must have cost at least 300 a year. They had an excellent little motor-landolette throughout the season. their cook was quite good and their wines above reproach.

At this moment, however, Miss Bessington was alone in the flat, except for Enid and the maid in the bedroom at the far end, and the cook in the kitchen, since Alice, the parlor maid, and the last member of the establishment, had just been sent out to see why the cucumber had not arrived. She had slipped out, just as she was round the corner, as the cucumber had been promised by 12, and the little Louis C's clock on the mantelpiece had just sounded one.

When the bell then, tangled sharply, Miss Bessington, of course, thought it was Alice come back, and that she had forgotten to take the key. So Miss Bessington stepped out to the door of the flat and opened it, and there was Neville. I know I'm dreadfully early, said Neville, but he wished to explain that he had two mishaps on the way up, the bursting of some little valve and the puncture of a tire, that the car and Paul had been left somewhere near Croydon, that he had taken a taxi on, that he had mentioned the address in Cadigan Walk, as after leaving Paul he had discovered he had no money to pay the taxi with and so on. of course he might have told the servants in Elizabeth Street to pay, but that hadn't occurred to him.

However, it was impossible to get all this out to Miss Bessington through, he tried twice. She drew him into the drawing room and began to talk about Azaleas, and it was a good ten minutes before he can make her understand that he wanted seven and six. Then, still discussing Azaleas, she got out her netted purse from the drawer of a writing table and gave him ten shillings in gold. So the taxi driver got a considerable tip and said, thank you, my lord. Neville continually forgot, in spite of all his resolutions, that Miss Bessington really did not desire to be talked to, so he tried again. When he came back to say something about Aunt Anna's message, but it was useless, so he gave up and began to think about when Enid would come in. The drawing room was as satisfactory as the dining room. He had never seen either before, but he was quite conscious of its charm, and thought that he saw Enid's personality in it.

Those old watercolors, for instance, in brown frames, that Spanish mirror over the fireplace, the delicate tapestry, green. These were of her choosing, he thought. Meantime, Ms. Bessington talked. Then quite suddenly, there was a rustle outside and a sharp, clear voice spoke to someone outside. It's perfectly useless, Peters. You'll just have to go if you can't do what you're told. Then the handle was turned and Enid came in quickly. Neville, she said. Obviously, then it was Enid who had spoken, yet he thought he would not have known it. There had been a ring in her voice that he had never heard before, a certain cutting tone. She looked a little flush, too. Yes, I came early.

had a breakdown. He managed to get out his explanations at last. Miss Bessington had paid her daughter the compliment of silence upon her entrance. It's perfectly charming of you, she said. But why not have you got them to pay at your house? That didn't occur to me, said Neville, until I reached the door. She smiled delightfully. He came just in time for domestic crisis. She went on smoothly. Our maid, mother and I share one. You know, our maid is quite hopeless. She's a country girl and she, oh, let's leave her. No, tell me, said Neville. She shook her head. Mother will deal with her. Mother dear, do go and soothe her. She was crying, and it would be most inconvenient if she left just now. Ms. Bessington began to trickle on again about servants as she went out.

Neville felt a shade uneasy. Yes, I spoke to her quite plainly, said Enid. You probably heard me, I'm afraid. I was brutal. But you've got to be sometimes. I can't bear it, though. A very genuine pain showed in her eyes. Neville made haste to sympathize. I think he sounded a bit sharp, but I have no doubt it was necessary. She turned her calm face on him. necessary. They don't understand anything else. Now tell me exactly what you've been doing, and how's Aunt Anna? Start of subsection two. Why, there's Lauren Marsfield, said Enid suddenly. They were doing the dutiful round in Burlington House, after Neville had been to change his clothes and come back again, and had been a little silent for the last 20 minutes, silent, because Mrs.

Bessington really did not count. So that lady, a number of pictures in row after row, presented as simply an exhaustible treasure in the way of conversational open. Indeed, they were almost too much for her. If a very greedy squirrel be imagined, confronted suddenly by 500 nuts, all laid out, ready for him to carry away some faint analogy may be conceived to Miss Bessington's situation at the Royal Academy. The names of the artists, the notes in her catalogue, the subjects of the pictures, the faces of the occasional acquaintances viewed across the rooms, all these things provided her with

material. Now and again, she would face round upon Neville with her back to the picture. he was trying to look at and deliver her reminiscences. Joining them on without a pause to her previous observations. He was very nearly rude to her, once or twice. His head grew weary of assenting with nods. He gave up all together. After the first ten minutes, any attempt at coherent replies.

The ventilation of Burlington House is not of the best. His silk hat felt like a rim of iron round his forehead. He was aware of rising irritation. Edith made no attempt to cope with the situation, since she simply moved on relentlessly, insulting her catalogue now and again, looking lovely, cool, and dignified, and observing what she wished to observe. She glanced at him once or twice and away again. When she made the remark, chronicled above, Neville turned, regardless of Miss Bessington, who really did not mind at all, to see at whom she was looking.

It was a big man, all alone at the other end of the room. His hat rather tilted back with a big, clean, shaven, good-humored face. He, too, turned as Enid spoke, and made a little salutation. Then Miss Bessington engaged Neville again, Then he felt a touch on his arm and turned once more. Neville, may I introduce you to Lord Marysfield? Sir Neville Fanning, Lord Marysfield. Pleased to meet you. Looking at the pictures? What?

Sergeant's all right, ain't they? Bit stuffy, though. What? How do you, Miss Bessington? Don't know a soul here, by the way, except you, eh? Yes, that was the type all right, thought Neville. Secado, intelligent, good-humored, capable, robust, certainly man who would never disappoint one.

He would always be characteristic of himself, and one might discover qualities in him by degrees, which one would never suspect at first. Enid immediately supplied one. Lord Marysfield paints perfectly beautifully, she explained. He's got a studio in Chelsea. Splash about a bit, eh? No more. Amused myself.

Idle dog. What? That and polo, you know. Giving it up again, though, now. See you at Ronelaw, sometime, eh? Neville said he didn't know. He liked Lord Marysfield. By the way, congratulate you, Miss Enid.

What? And you two, saw it in the morning post. When's it to be? Neville said they had thought of October. Chill October, eh? Well, Miss Bessington, back from Rome? What? Usual round, I suppose. Then, Neville became aware that Mrs. Bessington had been talking to him the whole time, unperceived. But she was quite unruffled. She turned the hose, tranquilly on to the newcomer, and the four began to drift along. Enid held Neville back a step or two. Lauren Marysfield, in excellent good humor, was firing staccato shots. into Mrs. Bessington's bland miltrayous.

His genial face with his hat, still tilted back, nodded and spoke in three-quarter profile. I like him, said Eden in a low voice. He's always just the same. We met him in Rome last year. Do you get to know him, Neville? I'll do my best. Would he come to the opera on Wednesday? Do you think? Ask him. My dear girl, I've never seen him before in my life. Never even heard of him. I thought that perhaps you, she nodded. I'll manage it, she said. Tell me who he is. Quick. They're off for the tea room. He was rather a bohemian. it seemed and had drifted about vaguely in Paris and Rome and the artist's quarters, painting a little but not much.

He had quarreled with his father years ago, or rather, as Enid said, it must have been his father who quarreled with him, the kind of quarrel which it does not take two to make. He had come into the title only last summer, had abruptly taken to Polo at the age of 32, and had as abruptly given it up again. Be nice to him, said Enid. He's only just finding his way about.

He lives in Chelsea when he's in town. married no she managed it quite beautifully when they were all sitting around the little marble top table in the tea room she introduced in that simple statuosque way of hers which seems to require no introduction lord murisfield she said breaking impertubly in upon her mother's conversation really it was the only way one might wait forever for an opening sir neville says he is a box at the opera next wednesday mother and i are going he was wondering whether you'd care to come. It's Tana hauser, I think. Opera? Delighted. Thanks. Very good of you, I'm sure. Their last week myself, Carmen. What? Would you dine with us first? asked Neville. Very good of you, I'm sure. Where? What time? Neville supplied those details. Delighted. Was at Beirut last year, Richter and Meistingers. What? Start of subsection three. Neville, you must stop a moment. I've got something to say, but, oh, they're all right. Mothers got hold. of a good listener.

Like exactly what I want to speak about. She was detaining him at the door of the last room on the right by hand on his arm. He felt much better after a cup of tea. That room on his forehead seemed no longer to be made of hammered iron. It felt almost like the leather lining of a silk hat. He suddenly wanted to kiss the gloved hand before them. Through the emptying room, drifted the elder lady, a feather on her bonnet quivering as she talked, and the genial ruddy man who was attending to her so nobly.

Look here, Neville. It's going to be impossible. I never realized before how trying it was going to be. What can we do about mother? My dear girl, I don't know what you. Yes, you do. You need to be polite. She's my mother, you know.

Walk on slowly and be looking at the pictures. She talks to you simply the whole time, you poor dear, and I can't get a word in. It's all right, just for this moment. But all the way here, until Lord, Marysfield came and again at tea, I couldn't get in a word. What's to be done? She looks so distressed that he did not know what to say.

She seemed so holy, thoughtful for him. But my darling, I tell you, Yes, of course you're bound to say that, but I can see what you feel. Well, I suppose there's nothing to be done. But can't you get somebody always for her to talk to like that man? Do try. Whom have you got for tonight? Anybody?

Alguelenics. Who's he? Well, it doesn't matter. But I did want to tell you that I minded just as much as you. And do put Algae Lennox, whoever he is, next mother. I do mind, Neville. I mind dreadfully. You know that, don't you?

Her face was full of distress. She looked adorable. His faint irritation went up like smoke. vanished. My dear, I think your mother's charming. Certainly she talks, but they're waiting for us. Neville admired the other man more and more, as with incalculable slowness, they all drifted out and down the stairs. Mrs. Bessington kept on, of course, that goes without saying, but was entirely indifferent to her as to in whose ears she poured her observations. As he came behind with Enid, he noticed how completely the elder man filled the situation. His head was turned all the way

down the stairs towards Mrs. Bessington's bonnet. He fired his little staccato shots and even sent one or two behind. At the cloakroom, too, he was adequate and business-like. Got your tickets, eh? Better give them me. What, soon manage it. I'm nearest to the bar. What a crush, eh? Here you chap. Hand them out. There you are, Miss Enid, eh? That's yours, ain't it? That's yours, Sir Neville. There we are then. He got them their car, too, with the same promptness, and helped the ladies in while Neville was directing Miss Bessington's chauffeur to drop him at his own house. and then go on to the flat in Caggin walk. Wednesday then, 715 sharp, eh?

That's all right. Pleased to see you all at my little studio sometime. But nothing to show, though. Only splash a bit, that's all. Well, right, Schaeffer. He raised his hat and stood smiling, and then Mrs. Bessington began on his biography. Start of subsection four.

Neville felt a great deal better after a bath. It had been a considerably wearing after a and he was astonished how relaxed he felt. Neither could he conceal himself. That Miss Bessington was responsible for most of it. To be talked to incessantly is perhaps the most tiring mental exercise of all. It is certainly more tiring than talking. He was touched by Enid's sympathy, and she had done it too, he thought, in quite the tender sway, for it is not easy to find fault with one's mother to a third person without at least an appearance of unfeality. Her suggestion was, of course, admirable.

in itself. The only difficulty was to carry it out. He supposed he would have to warn Alguelenics of what his function was to be. A tag from the Latin grammar came to his mind as he lay in his bath and considered these things. Fungo Ryskotis, he repeated softly to himself, I will perform the function of a wet stone. That was exactly it. Hartley seemed a very long way away as he dawdled over his dressing. It was almost unthinkable that he had only left this morning, that it was not yet 12 hours ago since he had bathed with Jim and and sat in the woods and in blue pajamas carried him down to the house on his shoulders for london has an extraordinary power of absorbing instantly the newcomer from the country of bringing him by the simultaneous assault that it makes on all the senses at once sight hearing smell touch and even taste into a completely different mental attitude this time last night he was sitting with aunt anna in the pavilion looking out on to the river he had been in flannels and without a jacket now he had just taken off one set of london clothes and was to put on his white waist

coat. Last night, after dinner, they had sat out till half past ten on the terrace. Tonight, he would be in a theater seeing Selva. He felt completely different already, yet all that he had done was to lunch with the Bessingtons and go to the Royal Academy. As he dressed, he thought again about Enid. She had two had seemed different. Down at Harley, she had dawdled about with a parasol and no hat. She had talked gently and tranquilly. She had been, in fact, exactly what he had expected her to be. Up here, however, while completely herself, of course, her manner had been ever so slightly different. There was that little sharp sentence she had said to the maid, no doubt, entirely deserved, yet he could not quite think of her saying it at Hartley. It was not completely

characteristic of her as he had known her. Then, there was her speaking to him about her mother, that too was, of course, only natural. It showed her desire to please him, and she had not said one word that she should not. Yet she had never said it at Hartley, although her mother had talked quite as much there. Oh, but he had forgotten. Aunt Anna had performed the function of a wet stone at Hartley. Yes, that explained it. He smiled a little. Dear Aunt Anna, how she would have load this afternoon. The crush, the talking, the rows upon rows of pictures. She was essentially of Hartley. A tap came at his door and then Charleston's voice. Mr. Lennox, sir, I have shown him into the drawing room. Oh, Neville glanced at the clock. It marked five minutes to seven.

Show him in here. A brisk gang man, very fair-haired, with an assured manner came in. He had been at Stonyhurst with Neville, and they had kept up with one another, more or less, ever since. Sorry, old man, but you said seven, didn't you? No, quarter past, doesn't matter. Sit down somewhere. Agi seated himself on the bed. Don't mind a cigarette in here? Then, that's all right. I like a cigarette just before dinner. Makes you so jolly giddy. Algae, yes. I'm glad you've come early. You've got to be talked to, my son. Go ahead. Neville finished tying his tie before speaking. he thought the face in the glass looked a little dark under the eyes.

About tonight, you've got to sacrifice yourself, you know. The Bessington's are coming. Oh, I told you, well, the old lady's a terror to talk. I'll deal with her. That's exactly what you've got to do, but I warn you, she talks all the time, and she'll talk all through the play, too, if I know her. That's all right. I've seen Selva before. You need to say much, just let it run. That's all she wants, and say, yes, now and then, and so on. But you've got to attach her. It shall be done. I'll give us a cheerful and loyal youth,

and Neville knew he could depend on him. Besides, he was the kind of young man towards two middle-aged ladies always felt motherly. He was just about Neville's age, but looked five years younger, as well as very innocent and good, and indeed, his looks did not greatly belie him. He finished his cigarette before Neville was ready and took up a small hand mirror from a dressing table. Nice bit of work at this, he said, examining the chase back. Out of the way, old man, said Neville, who wanted to get at his watch and chain. Ague retired a little from the dressing table and began to practice tennis strokes, the wrist supple, and the forearm horizontal. There was a crash. I've done it, old chap, Lord, I'm sorry. Pick up the bits then, said Neville,

and kindly don't touch anything else. I was only trying my stroke, said the boy. Gat, I'm sorry. It caught the bedpost. He regarded the handle and back of the glass a little ruefully. Then pick up the bits, repeated Neville, and it's so jolly and lucky, too, said Algae going down on his knees. I say, old man, yes you must let me have it refitted kindly put all the bits into the fireplace and what's left of it on the table and don't talk rot but really you just do as i told you about miss be and you'll pay for it ten times over just touch the bell will you neville straightened himself finally before the glass certainly he didn't look very well but that was just miss bestington's conversation he'd be all right after an hour or two with enid yes sir said charleston at the door oh just take that looking glass handle away and get it refusings fit it sometime. Mr. Lennox had just smashed it. Yes, sir. Motor just drawn up, sir. Come on, Ali, I want to see if the room's all right. Show them into the morning room, Charleston. Is McPherson there? Yes, sir. End of section 17. Chapter 2, Part 2 of initiation. This is a Librevox recording. All Liberbox

recordings are in a public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librevox.org. Read by Natana. Initiation by Robert Hugh Benson. Section 18 Start of subsection 5 My word, she think it was all right, exclaimed Howie. It was not a very big house, but it was an exceedingly satisfactory one, having been built towards the end of the 18th century and left practically unrestored. It was the one single house on Elizabeth Street that had not been rebuilt over and over

again, and it still had quite a fair garden at the back. This room, into which the two had just come, was paneled in white from ceiling to floor. large cool panels, and in the center of each hung a single good picture. It was arranged more or less as a drawing room with a big rug by the hearth and chintz sofas around it. And a quantity of fantastic china stood on the high mantelpiece, but a vast knee-hole table was set to catch the light from the window, and beyond it opened the double doors onto the flight of steps that ran down into the garden. That formed a pleasant green background of shrubs and lawn and a bank of rhodendrons. from the center of the molded plaster of the ceiling hung an elaborate spider chandelier filled with wax candles.

But it was the flowers that had made Algae exclaim. They stood on every possible table and shelf in silver bowls and slender green glass vases. They had come up from Hartley that afternoon. They were all white and their scent filled the room. Smells a bit like a funeral though, said Algae, who spoke his mind undauntedly. Novel said nothing. He stood on the hearth rug with his hands in his pockets surveying slowly from side to side. yes, it seemed to him quite satisfactory.

Then he perceived the algae had spoken, eh, he said. Smells like a, like a wedding, old chap, said algae. The rustle of dresses was heard outside as the ladies went past to take off their wraps. Neville had received very precise instructions for May Anna that the morning room, the only sitting room that faced the street, was to be provided with looking glasses into maid and so forth. That would leave the three rooms, this drawing room, the library, and the dining room, that all looked out onto the garden and that communicated with another,

double doors entirely free. These doors were now all set open and Algae could see straight through to the white-laid dining table with the candles burning, in spite of the evening light from the garden. Glad you've got candles, old man, he said, I must say, I like to see what I'm eating. Suddenly, Neville smiled at him, a perfectly simple, unconscious smile of pleasure. He was not attending to a word Algey's saying, he was thinking how perfectly delicious it was to be here in his own house, to be able to entertain Enid like this, to have all those flowers to greet her. This too was to be her home some day, and therefore, when she saw it for the first time, let it be full of welcome.

Yes? Question, Algae, puzzle at the smile? Nothing, old man, said Neville. I was just thinking, by the way, are you free next week? Come in and dine on Tuesday? Right, said Algae. And Thursday? Can't on Thursday.

Going to a crush, and I'm dining there first. Where? Algae named a house. Well, we shall meet there then. I'm going with the Bessingtons. Then, through the opening door, came Charleston, who announced names, and Edith sailed in after her mother. Start of subsection 6. By halfway through dinner, Neville was thinking that Algae must be something very like a genius.

Mrs. Bessington sat on her host's right and Enid on his left. Algie faced him with his back to the windows. Neville had, too, taken Mrs. Bessington in, and she had conversed as they went through the library. Yet after a moment they had sat down, there had been no one. more trouble. Algae instantly played the academy as his lead before Miss Bessington had done more than glanced at the menu and then the stream had begun. Along that stream, like bobbing chips of wood, flowed the names of academic solutions of all Mr. John Collier's conundrums, reminisces on the late Mr. Cynie Cooper's accuracy in painting the hair on the hides of cows,

Mr. Lathong sun-sum-flecked foregrounds and the eyes of Mr. Britton, Les Riviers, Collies. Then, when the stream began to run clear again, and Mrs. Bessington was still talking, of course, but talking about nothing in particular, Algae had again led off with Selva, whom they were presently to see. Obviously, he was about to say he had seen her before, but he was unable to get this out because Mrs. Bessington began to relate plots of plays in which she had seen Deuce and Sarah Bernhardt. Apparently, there was no reason why she should ever leave off doing this, because she even compared the rival merits of Italian and English scene painters in parentheses, and if one comes down to that, an infinity of subject suggests themselves.

It was enough for Ms. Bessington that any kind of connection should exist in her monologues, connections of period, place, merits, association. Each thing reminded her of the next, an unfailing sequence. All this, Neville heard fragmentarily as he talked in a low voice to Enid, answering her questions about the portraits that hung opposite, suggesting small plans for the future. once he caught Alie's eye across the orchids between them, and the agonized fortitude of his friend's expression made him hastily look away again. He knew exactly what the other was feeling like. He would have laughed suddenly and loudly if he had looked a moment longer. But his friend's genius, no less than his fortitude, was a complete surprise.

Miss Bessington had not said anything to her host at all since they sat down. Certainly, Alie was the man to dine with them as often as possible, but Neville thought he must relieve him when the ice came. Meantime, Enid was entirely fascinating. She was dressed in some kind of filmy blue with a single line of sapphires around her white throat. It was precisely the right tone and finished the chord of which her clear brunette complexion supplied the rest. She had come out of the last shadow of morning for her father, Easter.

Her hair was dressed in the heavy manner that Neville loved, with blue flowers in it, and she carried another bunch at her breast. She seemed to even more vitally alive than this afternoon. Her face was steady and clear, and her eyes shown. As soon as the green bomb of ice appeared, Neville turned to the right after look at Enid. Enid dropped her eyes demurely. I'm simply delighted we're going to see Selva, he said. I think Miss Bessington turned unseeing eyes upon him.

Well, and it was at Milan, as I was saying, Mr. Lennox, in the year 82. Neville was reprieved. With sigh of delight, he turned again to Enid. He was not in the least annoyed. It had happened a hundred times before. For Miss Bessington, when she was really underway, appeared to be simply deaf. Start of subsection seven. Ooh, old man, said Ali, as Neville came back from the door after the ladies had gone.

He sank back in a seat and passed a handkerchief across his forehead. He really looked almost faint. Have some port, said Neville, or a cigarette. There's not time for both. I should suggest port. But I say, began the boy, you may break a looking glass every time you come. If you'll do that again, you were surprised. herb. She's a terror. I've never had so much information in my life. I feel an experienced man of the

world at last. No, a cigarette. Something light. How did you do it? It wasn't me. She did it all. I had four points ready. Academy, Selva, portraits, and the cup in the middle. I spotted that after I'd sat down, but I only got to Selva. You better have some port, really. You've got to keep it up till 11, you know. Can't do it. Can't do it, old man. And about Tuesday, I'm sorry, said Neville, but you're engaged, a quarter past eight. Algae poured himself out a glass of pour after all, meditatively. Then he sipped. Taste like oily ink, he said. If you'll smoke too, begin, Neville. I'm drinking it to support me, said Algae. Not pleasure, I assure you. Pleasure. If I can keep my body and soul together, it's as much, you are superb, said Neville again. He saw that violent flattery must be supplied.

My dear man, said Algae, I know she's going to be your mother-in-law and all that, and I don't want to be offensive. But where does she get it all from? It's incredible. You look tired, too. suppose it was the academy this afternoon? I say, yes. I haven't congratulated you yet. Well, I do now. Thanks, old man. He did indeed feel tired. During dinner, he had been elated enough in a quite sort of way. Even to sit by Enid seemed to him enough, but to talk uninterruptedly to her. It was almost as good as heartily, yet now he felt suddenly blank again, as if vitality had been running from him all the time. Perhaps he had been wrong, perhaps very present of Miss Bessington, had been enough to drain his energy. He remembered rather a great doctor telling him once that some

people were like that, that the old vampire tales really had a substratum of truth, and a more considerable substratum than most people recognized. The doctor had said also that the kind of temperament had no connection whatever, so far as he knew with moral character. Quite nice, and good people were vampireish sometimes. That was it then. Poor Miss Bessington was a vampire. The pressure on his head had returned a little, but the dinner had been a success. There was no doubt about that. Not a detail had missed fire. The room had looked perfect. The flowers had been perfect. The dinner had been perfect. He must congratulate Miss Ferguson tomorrow on her admirable management. It really was good, considering she only come up yesterday.

There was the vibration of a step in the next room, and then Enid appeared, a vision of loveliness and her swansdown cloak in the hood over her head. Charleston says the motor is here, Neville, we must go for it to be in time. Ah, how charming that was, how naturally she had said it. The house really might be her own. Well, it would be in three or four months. He smiled at her without answering. End of Section 18. Chapter 3, Part 1 of Initiation.

This is a Libravox recording. All Libravox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Libravox.org. Read by Frog Unleashed. Initiation by Robert Hugh Benson, Section 19, start of subsection 1. The house was crammed as they came into their box at 20 minutes past eight. This is what Jim calls sawdust, said Neville. We shall have ten minutes of it after all.

Sawdust. Yes, don't you know the smell of it in a circus? It's a kind of symbol for anticipation. Jim always insists on getting to entertainments about ten minutes before they began. He likes to sit and smell and watch horses' feet under the flap. I entirely sympathize. Enon nodded emphatically. I quite see.

she said. But it's rather subtle. Not in the least too subtle for Jim. My word. What a packed house. As he leaned forward and surveyed it from the seat furthest from the stage, with Enid next to him, then Algae, and then Mrs. Bessington. Mrs. Bessington always desired to be as close as possible on every occasion. He began to perceive that there was another kind of sawdust, too, that he was enjoying. It was inexpressibly delightful to be here with Enid, actually sitting next her, drawing her cloak off her shoulders over the back of the chair, making small remarks when he wished to.

He would have about three more months sawdust, and then the curtain would go up, and they would both be on stage as well as in front. It would be a dream come true for once. He could hear Mrs. Bessington's voice rumbling away to Algae. Why, there are the heckers, said the girl suddenly. Neville followed her eyes, and there indeed they were, in the stalls below, both with that extremely,

finished an adequate appearance, which Americans in London always have. Mrs. Hecker's costume caught the eye at once. It was largely orange in color, what there was of it. Mr. Hecker looked as if he had been born in his clothes, and had them ironed on him every morning and evening ever since, with the continuous replacing of their wasted tissue. Mrs. Hecker was inspecting people slowly through a lorgnette. Mr. Hecker held the opera glasses ready for her when the curtain should go up. Enid's face suddenly dimpled with laughter. I wonder what Selva would have to say to her, she said. What will the message be to her, right here and now?

It's a responsibility for Selva, said Neville. If she only knew, she's an Australian, isn't she? She'll be equal to it, said the girl. Yes, I believe she is. You met her in Rome, didn't you? I mean Selva. Yes, at the Heckers. Don't you remember?

You couldn't come? She's perfectly extraordinary, isn't she? Enid hesitated. I know you'll hate what I'm going to say. Go on. Well, men always think so. Of course I see her power, but... But I don't think it's a very high sort.

Well, you'll see. Certainly she holds the house. She's got her house, anyhow. That's one thing. What does she like to talk to? I hardly spoke to her, said the girl indifferently. Then the orchestra began, and Neville took up his program. The program was of that kind that Selva had made famous.

First, it cost a shilling. And there were no advertisements at all beyond the announcement of the plays in which Selva would appear with their dates. Most of them were of the usual kind, the dama Camelia, La Tosca, and so forth. But tonight she was playing Marguerette, a comedy for men, written it seemed, especially for her, by an Australian dramatist. The program proceeded to give an interpretation of the play, of the kind generally associated with concerts and the performance of Beethoven sonatas. It was indescribably solemn and reverent, like the handling of a fragile piece of China by a connoisseur. It gave the most precise account not so much of the play itself, as of its symbolism, and informed the audience carefully of the emotions which were proper for them to feel at each point.

Margaret herself, it seemed, stood for womanhood, and womanhood for a tragedy that to the rest of the world was a comedy. The writer of the program, probably James Daniels himself, the author of the play, was just tactful enough. He argued that there were no doubt various opinions. Quote hominus taught sententiae, but that on the whole it must be confessed that woman, even now, had not risen to her proper place in the world.

That she tended to become either the toy or the drudge of man. At this point he quoted some lines from Loxley Hall and some more from the princess. This play then was intended to set out the tragedy of womanhood, but the audience were entreated, ironically, to remember that it was only a conundice, comedy for men. In the first act, they would be invited to witness a perfect domestic circle, the man, the woman, and the child, sanctified by holy matrimony. Here the writer permitted himself

a sneer or two at the Christian religion. In the second act, they would see the old foundations of human instinct emerging, the man beginning to assert himself as he always did, and the woman struggling to keep pace with his impossible demands. For Margaret was the social inferior of the man. He had married her, telling her that she would take his place and society, cheating both himself and her. In the second act, therefore, this begins to come out. Margaret, who loves like a woman, idealistically, spiritually, exquisitely, finds that the man's love is not like hers. She has begun to lose her freshness, while the man is merely maturing. She makes one or two little social mistakes. Well, there is an explanation and a reconciliation.

In the third act, the exquisite point of the comedy begins, for after another goshery on Margaret's art, an impulsive act founded on generosity of character, the man begins to find sport in watching her make an exhibition of herself. He leads her on to commit social blunders, out of a devilish kind of cruelty. He laughs over her with his friends. She knows nothing of this. A friend of her husband's make mock love to her with the husband's approving delight. She takes him seriously and begins to love him in return. Then the catastrophe. She confesses to her husband, and is met by his brutal indifference. It does not mean that. matter to him what she does. She has already ruined him and dragged him down in the world.

The scales fall from her eyes, and she perishes by her own hand. Such is the outline of this story. To call the program priggish and pedagogic would be to pay it a considerable compliment. Neville wrinkled his nose as he finished it. This man's a bounder, he said under his breath, as the curtains brighten suddenly, and the talking stopped. Subsection 2. At the end of the first act, Neville leaned back with a sigh of pleasure and turned to Enid. Talking had burst out in an excited roar suddenly and loudly all over the house, mingled with ecstatic clapping. He turned back again to the curtain as Selva emerged all alone to take the applause and began to clap himself smiling. Selva was a tall and very nearly gaunt-looking

woman, made up to the eyes. In herself she was nothing. She had qualities of brown hair, probably a wig. There was nothing remarkable about her figure. Her face seen now against the brutally bright drop curtain with the footlights immediately beneath her, was sharp and imperious and evidently middle-aged. But in the piece she had been exquisite. She had not merely resembled. She had simply incarnated a young wife, very simple, adorably natural, passionately proud of her husband and child. Nothing particular had happened. Persons had been introduced who, to those who had read the program, were significant of what was to follow. The general lines had been sketched, But the overwhelming charm was in the picture of a perfect domestic happiness.

Selva's little cry of delight as her husband comes in from hunting, the way her eyes follow him, his obvious love of her, was scarcely a touch of patronage. It was these things that a tremendous genius had transfigured. There was probably not a romantic girl in the theater who had not seen the enacting of her own hopes. There was not a married man who did not feel tenderer towards his wife. The thing had been as light and delicate as a summer morning.

The husband had been quite adequate. But it was Selva who had been the very heart of all the emotion. She was recalled twice, and Neville marveled. My dear, he said, I don't know what you mean. Surely that was simply perfect. Enid smiled a little. Oh, I don't deny her power, she said. Did you see?

What? Nothing. Neville began to examine the people again. He felt wonderfully elated, for he was conscious, as everyone is conscious when he is entirely satisfied with a new experience, that that was exactly what he was. had known all along. He had not put it like that before, certainly, but it was what he had always meant. Hartley, to come down to concrete facts, Hartley would be just like in a year or two a scene of

perfect comradeship and passion and peace. He wondered what it was that Enon met in saying that although Selva had power, it did not seem to her that it was of a very high order. I say, old man, beg pardon, Miss Bessington, I say, what about a cigarette? Neville looked around. He did not in the least want a cigarette, but really Algae deserved it. He glanced at Enid. Yes, do, she said. And you might see what Mr. Hecker wants if you can find him. He's been trying to attract your attention.

She's great, began Elgy, when they got outside. She's magnificent. I meant Mrs. Bessington, explained Elgy. I've had her entire married life laid before me, and she wants to know why I'm not married myself. I couldn't hear a word they were saying on the stage, but I suppose it's all right. It was not so easy to find Mr. Hecker.

The passages were thronged with men, and the clink of glasses grew louder as they advanced. A positive roar of voices greeted them as they pushed open the door of the restaurant. Neville looked round, and then Mr. Hecker was on him. Great, isn't she? He said. Pleased to see you, Sir, Neville. And you, sir! Neville introduced Mr. Lennox. My wife wants to know if you can come and meet her at the Cecil. She's coming to us on Saturday afternoon.

No matinees on Saturday, you know. Much too select. Tuesdays and Thursdays are her days. Try one of these cigarettes. They're straight from Samus. He was just the same. Alert, trim, self-effacing, and intelligent. He belonged to Mrs. Hecker, wholly, just as if he were an electric brougham. Neville could not conceive of him as possessing an independent existence. I shall be delighted, said Neville. And bring your friends along if they'd care to come. I'll send them a card.

Care to come, Mr. Lennox? Mr. Lennox said he would care to come very much indeed. Had Mr. Hecker known madame Selva Long, and would he have a drink? No thanks, sir, no drink. Mrs. Hecker, she doesn't like that. Between meals and, upon my word, she's right. Yes, we've known Madame Selva since last fall, ran across her in New York. She's great. When they got back to the box, Enid was leaning back silent, and Mrs. Bessington was reading her program. But the latter laid it down resolutely at the sight of Mr. Lennox. They want us to go meet Madame Selva on Monday. He said they'd send a card around. I gave them your address.

Enid looked at him, nodded, and said nothing. Then again the curtain brightened, and and the talking sank to a great silence. When the second act ended, Neville's eyes were full of tears. He did not consider himself emotional, but it had been simply poignant. The act had ended, as had been said, with a reconciliation. But it was a reconciliation that could not last. The characters of husband and wife were essentially diverse, not complimentary, but antagonistic.

The end was inevitable. I suppose there's no hope at all, he said, smiling. I mean, I should be better pleased if the play was unconvincing. If I could feel it didn't really happen, so, but that the author made it up. Enid looked at him. I can't feel it like that, she said. I seem to see through her all the time.

It isn't Margaret at all to me. It's Selva. And I don't like Selva. Oh, dear me, said Neville. Enid laid a hand on the edge of the box. She's made up quite intolerably, she said. But my dear girl, what else could she do? She must be 45.

Then she shouldn't play a girl of her. 22. Then, Algae, with the expression of a drowning man, caught his eye again. Subsection 3. As Neville, after the final fall of the curtain, filed the ladies down the thick carpeted corridor, he was moved down to the very bottom of his soul. The tragedy had come swift and inevitable as a hammer falling rapidly. The third act had begun quietly, as a lull before the storm breaks. It had opened with a little dinner party that went well. Margaret, obviously a little anxious, had managed matters satisfactorily, but it was her very anxiety that had provoked her husband's wrath, and this wrath had been precipitated by a little tale told to him by his friend

over the wine. Then it was that he had resolved at least to get his sport out of her, and the fiendish little plot had been arranged for her humiliation. In the second scene of the act, the man had begun to make mock love very deftly and persuasively, and Margaret, smarting from her husband's attitude, had been tempted to yield to him. Then in the third scene came the catastrophe. She had told her husband with a horrible simplicity of all that happened, overwhelmed with contrition, yet with a piteous kind of hope that even this confession would mend matters, and he had burst in a dreadful laughter, telling her to her face first that anything she chose to do would be indifferent to him, that she had already spoiled his life by her ill-breeding and her empty indiscretions,

and finally in a burst of contempt that he had known all the while of what was happening, that his friend cared nothing for her, and that the thing was a mere comedy. It was then that the climax of Selva's acting had come. Up to that point, she had been the simple girl, striving to become, for her husband's sake, a woman of the world. Then, in silence, with the stage empty of all figures except hers, the audience had seen that development of character, which should have taken five years, compressed into ten minutes. She had grown into a woman, fierce, and disillusioned. She had seen her spoilt life in a vista, and that it was incapable of bending.

Then, yet more swiftly, the primitive passions had surged up, and she had seen that life was such a man, that life, even without him now, was intolerable. The child had come in to prolong the agony, and the cord had hung suspended. Without the program, it might well have been thought, at any rate, at first, that the child's influence might prevail. Then, with a real horror, the audience had perceived that one pose was surcharged on another. That Margaret, deadly quiet and controlled, was soothing to a child, merely that he might not be terrified. that her mind was made up and that her intention would be carried out and the child too suspects there is something wrong and once more with an appalling self-control his mother reassures him the child is at last taken back to bed then with a swiftness at which the audience held its breath she gets out her husband's revolver and without hesitation or faltering shoots herself through the head as acted by selva the story was overwhelmingly convincing so ended the comedy it is astonishing how an emotional stimulus is if only deep enough, stirs up a hundred dormant thoughts which, critically considered, have no kind of connection with the thought which arouses them.

So it was with Neville. Objectively taken, there was nothing whatever in common between the play he had just witnessed and his own life, except indeed that the play turned on the relations between husband and wife. Not one of the elements or circumstances which had developed the situations on the stage was present, so far as he knew, in his own relations with Enid. Yet for all of that, his emotions and passions were all of that. stir, as birds when a gun is fired, vague ideas of sacrifice and love, and the possibilities of tragedy if the conditions of these were not observed, circled around his soul. Mrs. Bessington,

he understood, was talking to him over her shoulder. He assented smilingly, but he could not catch more than one sentence in three. He felt he must talk very hard to Enid indeed. He felt that there was a large number of things that must be discussed, but he could not probably, if question, have given any coherent answer as to what these were. There was the usual uncomfortable pause before they could get their motors. He was to go home in his own, dropping Elgy on the way, and the Bessingtons were to go back in theirs. Elgy volunteered to go and look for them, and Mrs. Bessington, of course, with a vague desire to be helpful, followed him out a few steps under the glass porch, and stood looking about in the very middle of the steps, hindering everyone. Neville drew Enid

aside behind the fastened-back glass doors. They had that little space to themselves. It's astounding, he said. By the way, will you be able to come and meet her? Enid glanced at him. You want to, so much, she said. Why, of course I do, said Neville. I want to take her to bits and see how it's done. I want to see how she holds her teacup, and whether she crosses her feet when she sits down,

and the whole thing. She was three separate and distinct people this evening, and yet they were all Margaret. My dear, you must see what a wonder she is. I see her power perfectly, said Enon in a rather high voice. But I don't think she's Margaret. By the way, it's an impossible play. I should have said so if I hadn't seen Selva act it, said Neville.

She let her eyes rest on him a moment, as if appraising him. It was as she had looked at Frisketi once or twice. Yes, said Neville, she laughed softly. Are all men like you? She asked. Do none of you see through that kind of thing? Neville really was a little pricked. My dear girl, if you don't see that she's a genius, I despair.

Oh, don't be tiresome, please. I assure you she's great. For an instant he thought she was annoyed. Her eyelids came down a little, and her mouth grew grave. Then again she laughed, naturally and easily. Well, most people seem to agree with you, certainly, she said. Then Mrs. Bessington was seen through the glass door, with her lips still moving, to be turning her eyes this way and that.

Neville looked out to the front, and there was algae at the door of the Bessington's motor. End of Section 19. Chapter 3. Part 2 of Initiation. This is a Librevox recording. All Librevox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Libravox.org. Read by Frog Unleashed, Initiation by Robert Hugh Benson, Section 20, start of subsection 4. Come in and have a drink, said Neville 20 minutes later, as the motor drew up at the door of the Elizabeth Street House.

Elghie had, of course, refused to be set down when the time came, and said that he would walk home. Well, do you know? I think I will. He said as if he were deciding some important point. Talking makes me thirsty. He added as an afterthought. I mean being talked too. Besides, I want to hear what the play was about. Now tell me the whole thing, he said when he was settled in a deep chair in the library.

That clean-shaven Johnny was her husband, wasn't he? Neville assured him he was right. Well, that's all right then. I got that between times, so to speak. And the other Johnny. I couldn't make him out at all. He was after her, wasn't he? "'That was the idea,' said Neville.

"'At least. "'That's good enough for me, then. "'Well, I thought her ripping.' "'Who? Oh, Selva, you mean? "'Yes, she's all right, isn't she?' "'He found it difficult to attend to Algae, "'so violent was his preoccupation. "'A preoccupation, curiously enough,

"'with the thought of Inan now, rather than of Selva, "'for somehow it appeared to him "'that Enon was just a shade displeased with him, "'and that this had shown itself, "'not indeed in anything she had said, but by a kind of faint film over her manner, as he had seen the two ladies into their motor and wished them good night. It was very slight, so slight that he was not at all sure whether it were not sheer fancy on his part. And it was this doubt that preoccupied him, for he could not imagine if it were so, what was the matter?

Certainly he had praised Selva, but then Selva was a genius. There was only one opinion on that point. Was it conceivable that the girl did not like his going out between the axe both times? for a cigarette with algae, but she had urged him to. Besides, it was incredible anyhow. Was there a single piece of negligence anywhere on his part? He ran his mind back over the evening. He could remember nothing that was at fault.

It must be, if there were anything in it, that she did not like his not agreeing with her about Selva. But how could he agree? There was only one opinion. Then, with one of those inconsequent acts of the will that people make in order to quiet uneasiness, He decided that he was being foolish, and that nothing whatever was the matter with Enid. Unless perhaps she were a little tired. Then he suddenly yawned uncontrollably and became aware that he was very tired himself.

Elgy rose promptly to his feet. Good night, old man, I'm off. After that, you know. I'm sorry, said Neville. No, sit down again. Have another whiskey. Couldn't dream of it. No, I'm going.

Is that the program? Let's have it, will you? I must mug it up. Never do, you know, to have seen. and Salva and not know what the play was about. Good night, old man. Thanks very much and all that. No, don't ring. I'll let myself out.

See you on Tuesday, then? Well, if I actually said so, said Algae. Neville felt entirely disinclined for sleep when the boy had gone, in spite of his cavernous yawn just not. It was the kind of weariness that leads to mere inertia, that holds one in a deep chair, always considering the duty of going to bed, yet hindering one from performing it.

It was a quiet, studious-looking room, this in which he sat, in which no one ever studied. The walls were lined with locked bookcases, whose contents, enclosed in brass lattices, were of a discouraging character. Hansard was there, row after row of him, bound in neat leather with white labels. There were such works as agricultural dictionaries, volumes of dreary travels, bound pamphlets, some 18th-century poets, volumes of divinity, portfolios of engravings, tied together with green ribbon bows. On the tops of these bookcases stood plaster casts of Greek philosophers, led into panels over the fireplace, was an oil painting of nymphs, disporting under very heavy-looking trees.

Yet the room was very pleasant. It had a deep turkey carpet, a large, sensible leather-covered table with solid carved chairs, the mahogany furniture was highly polished. There were fine brocade curtains, drawn back now from the tall windows to let the cool air in. On the table lay a heap of illustrated papers, and the tray was siphons and whiskey. It was very quiet here, too, since it looked on to the garden of the house, and the noise of London was no more than a distant rumble, like the sound of waves upon a beach.

Here then Neville sat in thought, too weary to move. Presently, in spite of that faint preoccupation, which, driven from the foreground of his thoughts, still occupied the background, he began to think of Hartley. He had been there last night, at this very hour, sitting up in the hall.

Aunt Anna had gone to bed nearly an hour before. He had sat up there, smoking and looking forward to the next day. All the lights had been turned out except one. He had turned this out himself and groped his way upstairs in the dark. What an enormous while ago it seemed. And then suddenly he began to long for it. To long for it, not as it had been last night indeed, but as it had been three weeks ago.

On that first evening, for example, after Enid had come, it had been exactly perfect. played foolish games in the hall, the three of them, and Mrs. Bessington, murmuring sentences from time to time, which occasionally he had answered, had regarded them over her knitting. Of course, it was simply delightful to be up here, and Enid only two streets away. He was to look in next morning, by the way, and see if any appointment had been made by the lawyers, but London somehow did not seem an ideal background. It was a shade too feverish. The academy had been oddly fatiguing. Selva, though stimulating, had been a little exhausting, too.

This very room in which he sat had not the cool spaciousness of the hall at Hartley. Open windows in his bedroom, presently, would not be the same as those open windows that looked out onto the gray moonlit fans of the cedars on the lawn. So his thoughts moved on, as if they were very nearly external visions that passed before him, rather than ideas generated by himself, as his drowsiness increased. And then suddenly, in a great flush, romance poured back, that romance which Selva had illuminated by her genius, He saw himself again in that splendid comradeship which had dawned on him for the first time in connection with a woman, when he had begun to understand to Enid.

He saw how ludicrously he had been at fault just now when he had conceived, even as a doubtful possibility, that she was a little displeased with him. How could she be, for the understanding was perfect? Again then, he saw himself and her, not merely as husband and wife, but as comrades, neither of whom could have a thought or a desire of which the other was not aware. In this comradeship was now romantic in an even higher sense than he had imagined. For he had seen passion as well tonight, and in its rosy light every cooler relationship glowed transfigured. It had been, in that play, a passion that had held tragedy, and a passion that, under these particular circumstances, could have no issue but one. Well, but his own had no tragedy in it, because the relationship was perfect. It was not to be the mating of two hopelessly dissimilar

characters, but of two who, in the great and fundamental things, were, as he had told on Anna, absolutely one. There could be no tragedy there. What, after all, did externals matter? How could it matter whether they were here or at Hartley, in this cauldron of suppressed and seething life, which was named London, or in the cool spaces of Hartley, with the cedars and the hall and the river and the pavilion, that dear home of his, of which Aunt Anna was so graceful a symbol, Then, in sudden contradiction, he began to think of the most light externals of them all, of Enid's blue filmy gown, and the row of sapphires, the blue flowers in her hair, her clear pallor, the glance of her eyes as now and again he had met them with his own.

Subsection 5. Mr. Charlson gave quite a start as he came around the screen and saw Neville lying there in the deep chair. He had made certain, as he had said to Mrs. Ferguson next morning, that Sir Neville had gone to bed, and left the lights burning, as young gentleman will, without ringing the bell. He advanced a step, and coughed discreetly. There was no movement on that sleeping face. The young man was lying back, his head drooping on one shoulder, his arms dangling down over the sides of the well-padded chair.

He looked dead tired. Mr. Charleston coughed again. Then he put his hand discreetly on his master's shoulder. "'Meg pardon, so, Neville.' "'Eh?' "'Nevel sat up suddenly, bewildered with the sudden awakening. He looked blankly at the servant. Eh, he said again.

Beg pardon, Sir Neville, but it's gone twelve, and not hearing the bell, I thought. After twelve is it, I've been asleep, he stood up as he made this brilliant discovery. Beg pardon, Sir Neville, but you look very tired, Sir Neville. Proceeded Charlson, who, while not daring yet to aspire to Masterson's familiarity, occasionally was a little paternal. Better go to bed, Sir Neville. Neville stretched a letter. elaborately. Quite right, Charlson, as usual. By George. Charleston waited. I do feel cooked.

First day in London, so Neville, what time in the morning? I think we might say nine, and breakfast in my room at half-past. Yes, certainly this bedroom was not like Hartley. In Hartley, one could move about freely. There was a wide space between the mirror and the bed, where one could even do exercises before one's bath, if one was in a virtuous and strenuous mood. but here, scarcely. He remembered algae's confounded clumsiness before dinner, and a looking-glass, too, of all things. The rumble of the streets, too, was far more considerable here even than in the library.

Elizabeth Street itself was fairly quiet, but from the thoroughfare, which led to Victoria a hundred yards away, life was in full movement. He could hear the run of wheels, the hooting of a motor, all the more distracting, since they were not quite continuous. He undressed slowly, yawning again once. her twice and got into bed. The very sheets felt different. They had not that same sweet country smell that his sheets had had last night. Then he switched off the light and arranged himself. How dog-tired did he

feel to be sure? Enid. That was the point. He would see her tomorrow. He would think about her now. Enid. Subsection 6. Enid was perfect next day. She said she would certainly come and meet Selva again. That Selva, whatever one might think of her acting, was a great personality. You weren't angry with me yesterday? She asked, looking up at him from her low chair, with a touch of pathos that went straight to Neville's heart. She did look a shade paler than usual. Angry with you, why? He went off into a torrent of expostulation.

That's all right, she said. I knew it must be so, but I was foolish. Neville? Yes. You will tell me, won't you? Just as we agreed. when you're... You're not quite pleased with me.

Why, my darling? But you will. Of course I will. She nodded. That's all right, then. And you must keep your side of it, too, he said. Well, if you really wish it. Of course I do.

That's part of the arrangement. I shouldn't dream. Well, I will then. Oh, dear me. What is it? I feel tired. I didn't sleep very well last night. I was anxious.

I thought I'd done something. Neville was overwhelmed with shame, particularly when he remembered that he himself had fallen asleep in his chair. I'm a brute, he said. Look here, I must make a confession. She smiled up at him. Go on, my dear. I slept too well.

I fell sound asleep in my chair. Charleston woke me up and sent me to bed. You poor dear, you did too much. You're not strong, you know. No more headaches? Oh, no. And please remember, I'm quite strong always. as strong as a horse. I am, you know. She sat still in her low chair looking at him.

Then she lifted her arms a little. Give me a kiss, she said. I heard the bell go. That'll be the lawyer. End of section 20. End of chapter 3. Part 2, chapter 4, part 1 of initiation. This is a Librevox recording. All Librevox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Libravox.orgs. Read by Paul Lawley Jones Initiation by Robert Hugh Benson Part 2 Chapter 4 Part 1 Subsection 1

When Americans set themselves seriously to perform a social duty There can be no doubt whatever as to their adequateness And the heckers were worthy representatives of their country They had, of course, a suite of rooms at the Cecil, three bedrooms and two large sitting-rooms. The bedrooms looked out into the court because that was quieter, and the sitting-rooms over the river, because that was more beautiful. But this was not enough for the entertainment of Madame Selva

and the few friends they had asked to meet her quite quietly. They would want at least two more rooms. A small band must be positioned in the most remote, as everyone presumably would want to talk all the time. tea was to be served at a buffet in the next. Madame Selver was to be enthroned in the third, and the few friends were to await their introduction, and talk loudly and continuously in the fourth.

They were to arrive, to be greeted by Mr. Hecker first, and encouraged to sit down. Then, when their turn came, they were to be conducted to the inner door within which stood Mrs. Hecker. She in turn would present, them to Madame Selva, and, upon her approach with another party or individual, they were to pass

through to the tea-room, which had another door opening upon the corridor. Through this, they would emerge, and, on passing again the door of the first room, could come round and tell Mr. Hecker how much they had enjoyed it all. If they were very important, Mrs. Hecker too would be summoned to say goodbye and, yes, isn't she wonderful? How the heckers succeeded in obtaining the use of these two further rooms, God and the manager of the Cecil alone knew. The only outward sign of any unhappy circumstance connected with the achievement was to be seen by observant visitors,

in the gloomy appearance of a colonial minister all that afternoon from four to six, who sat in the public rooms for the first and last time during his visit. The first evidence of any unusual happening in the Cecil was encountered by the Bessington's and Neville upon reaching the lift. Here a superb gentleman in a frock coat with a flower in his buttonhole and light grey trousers, bowed slightly and asked whether they were for Mrs. Hecker's reception. Upon Neville assenting to this, a rapid sign was made to the lift boy, and a pair of inmates of the Cecil Hotel, who had been noticed approaching,

were informed that the lift would be down again immediately. Upon emerging on the first floor, another gentleman in another frock coat, with another flower in his buttonhole, and another pair of grey trousers, was awaiting them. He bowed slightly from the waist, and asked whether they were for Mrs. Hecker's reception. Upon Neville again assenting, he conducted them down a short, thickly carpeted corridor, in the direction of a curious noise that grew louder every instant, and revealed itself presently as the sound of many voices all talking at once at full power. Mrs Bessington visibly brightened as she heard it,

and broke off in the middle of a sentence. Then an inexpressibly formidable footman leaned his powdered head stiffly forward, as the gentleman in the frock-coat retired, and inquired, What name, sir? On receiving an answer, he slipped within an open door, beyond which could be discerned to the outskirts of a crowd, and announced with absolute and red, resonant clearness.

Mrs. Bessington, Miss Bessington, Sir Neville Fanning. There was a lull in the talking, as there always is upon such an occasion, and then Mr. Hecker, in a neat morning suit, so perfectly correct that one simply did not realize it until one looked, was there, alert, trim, and efficient. He did not appear to come there, he was there, and he appeared to have been waiting for, them, as for the climax of the whole reception. Charmed to see you, this is most kind. Yes, Madame Selva is in the inner room if you wouldn't mind waiting a few minutes.

You'll excuse me, won't you? I see some more friends have just come. He pressed Neville's hand with a confidential air, and then again, as they moved forward into the room, they heard the same confidential tones beginning again behind them. In spite of his very real desire to see Madame Selva, Neville felt gloom fall upon him like a pall. This was nearly everything he most disliked, and that he hoped it would not be.

Indeed, it was the Parrot House once more. It was a large room, admirably seated. There was a vast window seat. There were little route chairs, ottomans, sofas. There were no tables at all. There were, in fact, so many seats that they were not full, in spite of the crowd, and Neville found very little difficulty in getting his ladies through to the window.

But the noise of the voices was incredible. Americans, with all their virtues, do talk loud, and seemed to find no discomfort in their neighbours doing so also. And they were, of course, chiefly Americans here. Oh, look at the flowers, said Enid as she sat down. There were no tables, as has been said, but the heckers were not to be done out of their flowers for all that. The big old mirror over the mantelpiece was framed in pink orchids, and in the centre of the mirror hung a great S, surmounted by a crown.

"'But what's the crown for?' she said. "'Oh, general glory and honour,' said Neville. "'Democratic ideas, you know, yes, Mrs Bessington?' While Mrs. Bessington began to describe to him the only time that she had herself stayed at the Cecil, he began to look round him and find his bearings. for he felt that with all the goodwill in the world he could not stay here forever. There was a tall curtain door on his right, in the middle of the long wall opposite the mantelpiece, and this presently he perceived to be the shrine, so to speak.

Even while he looked, he saw the hatted head of Mrs. Hecker peeped from it for an instant, and simultaneously two persons unknown to him advance and disappear. It was plain that Madame Selva was in the next room. "'I beg your pardon?' he said, conscious that Mrs. Bessington had stopped talking, but it was Enid who answered him. "'There's Mr. Lennox,' she said. Algae was indeed advancing towards them, behind an obviously American financier who, in a white waistcoat,

was regarding the company with a pleased smile. Algae looked a little weary. "'Well, here we are,' he said. He saluted his friends politely. "'I have spotted it.' He went on in a confidential tone. We go in, in lots, and there's tea beyond the throne room. Lord, I want tea.

Now, if they had tea in here, Enid began. That'd never do, said Algae. Don't you see, Miss Bessington, that tea in the last room is the only thing that would get people out from Madame Selva? We'd get clogged otherwise in there. These Americans know how to manage us all, I must say. Hi, George, look at those orchids. By the time that their turn began to draw near, and Mr. Hecker, still apparently by locating

all the while at the two doors, greeting his friends at one, and handing the next lot that were due for Madame Selva through the other, began to eye them once or twice as if to put them on the alert. Neville's gloom was profound. A crowd such as this had always a depressing effect upon him. The thing seemed so exquisitely annoying and futile and unenjoyable. Here were, perhaps, 40 people, each of whom individually was no doubt charming, each of whom might be quite interesting taken alone, all talking at once about things that really interested neither the talker nor the talk to. He heard in moments when he could catch consecutive sentences, The Weather, Madam Selva, the Hotel Cecil, the view over the river, the orchids,

Madame Selva, New York, the Transatlantic lines, the crush in the strand, Paris, Madame Selva, briskly discussed in such a manner and at such vivacious speed that nothing could possibly be said about any of them that could be of any interest at all. There was no coin on the table, so to speak, there was nothing but counters. And all this was being done by tightly dressed persons in a room which, in spite of the awnings outside, and the fans in the passage, was getting warmer and warmer. He was concluding very deliberately that, much as he had wished to meet Madame Selva, the price was too heavy, when Enid turned to him again.

Neville, I'm sorry, but I really can't bear this much more. Certainly she looked a little tired. There was a tiny line between her eyes that he had never noticed before, and her eyelids drooped. I know, he said, he said, said, but what in the world? Now, Mrs. Bessington, if you and your party will come this way? And there again miraculously was Mr. Hecker, as efficient as ever, enticing them towards the door. Subsection 2 As Neville, with Algae just behind, followed his ladies in and greeted Mrs. Hecker, he was agreeably surprised to find himself almost in the dark. The shutters were half closed,

a great bank of roses stood in the draft from the window, and their fragrance filled the room. As he shook hands with Mrs. Hecker, who had managed, apparently by one simultaneous act, to lead the ladies forward and towards a figure seated in a great chair, murmuring their names, and also to be back again with the two men, he saw that she, too, was even more bright and adequate than her husband.

She looked entirely cool, though she must have been darting too infrequent, like this for at least an hour, on her feet all the while, and completely interested in these two men, though she must have shaken hand with at least 40 or 50 before. As she murmured to them, Neville observed her dress. Her bosom and arms were covered with light lace. She was in white, her hat was a dream. She resembled a highly etherealized country hostess who might, five minutes before, have strolled in from the garden. "'It really is most good of you to have come, Sir Neville.'

"'And you, Mr. Lennox, "'though I think this is the first time I have had the pleasure of meeting you. "'Yes, Madame Selva, I may say, is an old friend of ours. "'We met her in Rome again this spring. "'We made her acquaintance in the States last year. "'She likes little, simple gatherings like this,' "'she's kind enough to say, "'just a few friends and a few words of talk.

"'No more. "'You will find tea in there, presently, Sir Neville. Lord Mayersfield passed through just now. And so on. Neville began to understand the procedure. That white figure with the huge hat seated in the big chair was Madam Selva. Opposite her apparently carelessly placed, yet in reality with the greatest deliberation,

were two other chairs and no more. In these, Enid and her mother were now seated. He could hear a clear rather deep voice talking slowly. Presently he perceived Enid and her mother would be moved on, and algae and he would be advanced. They must not stay too long, they must say a few words to the goddess, and then take their leave. Then there would be tea. As he perceived this, Mrs. Hecker, with a graceful murmur, slipped from them, and he saw Enid stand up. Then the chairs were empty, the two ladies were passing out at the other door, and himself and algae were

advancing, drawn by Mrs. Hecker's tact as by a conductor's wand. When he was fairly seated, and Mrs. Hecker vanished again, already he could hear her low murmur beginning to the next lot, he found himself looking at the great actress. Again, she was made up to the eyes. Her face looked even chalky in this half-light. Her mouth had a kind of delicate grimness. Her eyebrows were black.

She was saying that she was glad to see Sir Neville Fanning, and even as she said this very trite remark, he was aware of her personality. Genius is an amazing thing, and there can only be one opinion as to Selva's genius. Even in this darkened room, with the clamour of tongues sounding on one side, the clack of tea things and the faint sound of a string band on the other,

it was entirely impossible to be unaware that this woman was remarkable. She was, externally, scarcely more than a phantom. She was not beautiful, except in her wonderful long hands, blazing with jewels. She was in the dark. Her very skin was engloved in cosmetics. A very penetrating perfume came from her. She was saying, for the 50th time this afternoon, that she was pleased to see the two people who sat in the two chairs, and she would say it again probably to 30 or 40 more, yet there it was. He was saying presently that he had had the privilege of seeing her in Margaret. Ah, yes, she said in her deep voice.

That is a play I like. I think that you English. Algy burst in. He was obviously exploding with a tremulous kind of excitement. It's tremendous, he said, tremendous, I beg your pardon. She had turned her whitened face on him, and he had realized his interruption. I was saying, she said, did you English need that lesson, I think. Your women have no chance. Now, in America, as well as in Australia, where I have come from, it is different.

Perhaps you do not agree? It was really royal this. It was not at all original, yet it seemed to matter when she said it. It seemed highly gracious of her to ask one's opinion at all, and vitally important as to what one answered. "'I'm afraid,' began Neville. "'I see you do not agree. Well, well, I must think it over from the English point of view.' "'I am so very sorry, Sir Neville,' said a tactful voice, "'but there are some more people just come and—'

"'It was over. He rose. He took her hand for a moment, and she smiled at her time. him very kindly. Then he was passing through into the tea-room and algae trod intently upon his heel. Subsection 3. Well, and that was all, said Enid, with faint asperity. The ladies, with that confident decision that men lack, had secured a small round table for four in the window, ordered tea, and arranged the chairs. The table was covered with an embroidered damasker. cloth. There was a silver vase in the centre again filled with orchids. As she spoke, a footman approached with the refreshments, slipping deftly through the groups between him and the buffet. Then, before Neville could answer, Lord Mayersfield came up and greeted them in his

genial staccato fashion. Bit of a crush, eh? See the goddess? What? How do, algae? Neville made a reach for a chair. That's all right, get it myself, eh? Had five words with the what? About that, said Enid. I said I had seen her in Margaret. Lord, so did I, said Neville. Ah, I scrawled there. Said I'd seen her in La Tosca.

Another cup waiter, eh? And she said, continued Neville, that it was all to teach us Englishmen how to treat our wives. He grinned at Enid, but Enid did not seem amused. Mrs. Bessington had already begun on Lord Mayersfield, and that nobleman therefore,

was out of it. I suppose she said the same to everybody. Did she to you too? asked Neville. Certainly. And that women had no chance. Whereas in America and Australia, Neville laughed aloud. Word for word the same, he said. But you know, it was worth it? Worth it? What do you mean? Why? It really was something to speak to her even. It's no good, you know. She really is a personality. "'Enid was pouring out tea and made no answer. "'She snubbed me all right, didn't she?' put in algae. "'I—' "'Well, you interrupted her in her peace.

"'Yes, but by gad she needn't have taken me up like that.' "'She was rude to you, Mr. Lennox?' "'asked Enid sweetly. "'Well—' "'He interrupted her in the middle of a sentence,' explained Neville. "'She needn't have been rude, though,' remarked Enid. Neville set down his cup with brisk decisiveness. Enid, you're really tiresome, he said.

She's a genius. Look here, Mayersfield. Oh, I beg your pardon, Mrs. Bessington. I didn't see you a... But Lord Mayersfield sprang at the opening like a bird at an open cage door. Hey? What? What's the trouble? Miss Bessington's being tiresome. She will not see that Selvers a genius.

Here's Algae, who interrupted her in the middle of a sentence. You know his way. Well, she snubbed him very properly, and he took a back seat, and here's Miss Bessington saying that she was rude and that there's nothing in her— "'I said nothing of the sort,' remarked Enid with a flushed face. "'I said distinctly!' "'Now Neville honestly did not see that she was in the least annoyed. He felt cheerful and even expansive at having passed the ordeal of the two rooms.

He waved a hand, and she stopped dead. He did not notice even that at the time. "'Look here, Mersfield. Isn't she a genius? Well, and how in the world can you expect a woman like that, who's on a kind of throne, to stand a chap like algae barging in? I don't care in the slightest what anybody thinks. I'm delighted to have met her. Aren't you too?

She's tremendous. I felt it in that two minutes every bit as much as in the play. She's just great. Isn't it so? Now, Enid! There fell a dead silence. Enid looked at him quite deliberately. Then she dropped her eyes.

Have another cup, Lord Mersefield, she said. End of Part 2, Chapter 4, Part 1. Part 2, Chapter 4, Part 2 of initiation. This is a Libravov's recording. All Libravov's recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Libravox.org. Read by Paul Lawley Jones.

Initiation by Robert Hugh Benson. Part 2, Chapter 4, Part 2. Subsection 4. Just come in for a minute, said Enit quietly, as the motor drew up at the door of the flats in Cadogan Lane. I won't keep you. Neville made a sign of assent. He said nothing.

It had been an extraordinarily unpleasant little situation after Enid's complete ignoring of Neville at tea. For a moment, no one had spoken, and then, for perhaps the first time in her life, Mrs. Bessington's conversation had been welcomed. Apparently, she had realised nothing of what was in the air. She had begun in a low, rapid voice to talk about Wall Street, inspired, probably, by the appearance of the American financier in the white waistcoat,

who once more was looking round with a pleased smile. Lord Mayersfield had joined in with staccato accents and begun three or four sentences which he was unable to finish. Algae had slipped away making a remark about some more sugar cakes with a selection of which he presently returned. Neville, after an amazed silence, had joined himself, too, onto Mrs. Bessington's subject. Enid, very self-controlled and natural, had continued to, dispense tea and had presently begun to talk quietly to algae.

Lord Mayersfield, a few minutes later, had taken his leave, followed by algae. And immediately after, Enid had said that she supposed they ought to be going, and Neville was coming with them, wasn't he? He had assented. They had gone downstairs together. He had obtained their motor and got in after them. But they had all been silent going home. Enid led the way upstairs, and when the door opened, turned to her mother.

"'I want to speak to Neville, mother,' she said. "'Shall we go into the drawing-room?' Mrs. Bessington murmured something about taking off her things and hurried away. The girl led the way into the drawing-room without looking behind her and sat down. Neville followed, shut the door, and went across to the hearth. He was completely bewildered. He saw there was something very wrong. He was aware of a sense of strong grievance at the way the girl was treating him,

but he could not conceive what it was, exactly, that he had done. He was conscious of nothing deliberate. Had he possibly been brusque? Oh, what on earth was the matter? Neville, dear, said the girl. He looked up, reassured by her tone. Her eyes were cast down. She was playing with the fringe of her parasol.

Yes? You remember our agreement, don't you? You really meant it? Why, of course I did, he burst out, more reassured than ever. Have I done wrong? Tell me, instantly, please, and I'll eat dirt. But she did not quite respond. Well, you must be really a little more careful in public.

You are not quite courteous to me, you know. "'Not courteous,' he exclaimed, more amazed than ever. "'Let me finish, please. "'First of all, you contradicted me quite flatly before—before the others. "'Then you said that I couldn't see anything in Selva. "'That was not true. "'Heavens, let me count ten.' "'She smiled, ever so faintly, lifting her eyes to his,

"'and then dropping them again. "'I didn't quite like it. your tone, you know, and there's something else. Go on, please, finish me. Her manner changed a little. She leaned forward, and her tone was less cold. Neville dear, she said, you don't really like Selva, do you? She's really quite common, you know. I cannot understand men. She was one plaster of paint. Her eyes were darkened. Her dress was outrageous. Her manner! Neville!

How can you think she's great? He grinned cheerfully. The crisis was past. Let's deal with the first first, he said. And may I sit down, please? He moved towards her, but she made no sign. He went to a chair instead. First, he said,

You told me that I wasn't courteous to you. Well, first of all, I apologize. abjectly for my ill-bred manner. It was quite unparonable. Her eyes looked at him again with the dawn of surprise in them. I was just careless, I suppose.

But now, in justice, I must say that it never entered my head that I was being rude, or even careless. I had not, so far as I am aware, the very faintish shadow of irritation or impatience or anything else in my mind. No, let me have my say out, please.

That was so, but I do not in the least excuse my—my brusqueness or rudeness. I am very sorry. I beg your pardon. Please forgive me. I'll try not to do it again. He raised his face to her, brimming with humour and cheerfulness. But to his surprise, there was no humour in her face. She was quite grave. She inclined her head a little as if to accept his apology in complete seriousness. Well, he must make another attempt.

And for the second point, he said, I concede to you all that you said about Selva's appearance, the paint, the darkening of the eyes, and I bow to you with regard to her dress, though I must say I can't conceive what you mean. But I was not talking about that sort of thing. I was talking about her genius, and that, with all humility, I still maintain.

Why, my dear girl? He stopped abruptly. She had looked at him again, with such an expression that again with utter bewilderment he perceived that he was on the wrong track. Oh, dear me, what have I done now? He cried. Ah, you don't understand, she said in a low voice.

She rose swiftly, he rose with her, really perturbed. She went across to the window and stood there, a slender, graceful silhouette against the brightness. She began to drum gently with her fingers against the pain with her back turned to him. It was very silent here in this room, looking out onto the little gardens at the rear of the flats. A piano sounded faintly from somewhere in the big buildings about them, but so distant that it formed no more than a melodious background.

Neville could not conceive what was the matter. It appeared to him that he had blundered frightfully somewhere, but he had no notion in what direction. Had he been clumsy or stupid? Was that it? He was not yet irritated, no more than a blue bottle is irritated for the first instant in which he finds himself hampered by the delicate invisible threads of a newly spun web. Still less was he in the least alarmed. He supposed she would explain presently. She turned round, and, as he looked at her, her face against the light, there seemed to pass across his eyes just a shred of the film that had darkened them ten days ago as he came out from the bathing pool in the early morning.

Simultaneously, he was aware that the pressure on top of his head was there again, though it was not in the least severe. She began to talk rapidly. "'My dear,' she said, "'I don't want to be disagreeable, but you really are disappointing me a little. I can't conceive how you can think as you do of a woman like that. I should have thought that you'd have seen in an instant what a wretched creature she is. I don't deny her power, of a sort. I've said it again and again, but it's not genius, it's not. She was growing emphatic.

Would you mind sitting down, said Neville quietly. I can't see you against the light. She moved away and sat down, without apparently having heard him, and went on. He could see her better now, and her face looked to him quite different. It looked anxious and overwrought. There was none of that fine serenity that he loved so much. He listened, but she repeated herself. She seemed anxious that he should say that the actress had no genius. He grew more and more puzzled. Let me interrupt her a minute, he said.

Is it that you want me to say she isn't a great actress? "'Well, I can't. I think she is. Ask anyone else you like.' She came in passionately. "'How can she be a genius? She looks horrible. I can't bear to hear you.' Neville stood up. He thought it began to look like hysteria. "'My darling, I simply will not discuss Selva any more just now. You're overwrought, and I don't wonder. I've dragged you about too much. In it, dear.' He came across to her as she sat there.

He knelt down and took her hands in his. My darling, I'm a beast and a brute. You must forgive me and make the best of me. Just tell me when I displease you in any way and... And I'll do my best to amend. There, we won't talk any more now. You must rest before dinner. We dine at seven, you know.

Oh, my dear love. He bent and kissed her hands. She remained passive. Subsection 5. He felt heavy and dispirited as he came out five minutes later into the street. He had still plenty of time before he had to go and dress. They were all to go to the theatre again tonight. And he thought that a turn in the park would do him good. There are few places so opulently beautiful as Hyde Park on a summer evening. When the flower beds are so many flaming fires, when from the heavy trees come the cooing of the wood.

pigeons. When the perfect curved lawns have just been moan once more, and the smell of the cut grass is in the air, when the rhododendrons are out, when there are a few well-mounted riders in the row, when the carriages and motors go by for their last airing before the twilight closes in, when all this is seen, smelt, and heard under the sunshine of a cloudless June evening. He turned up by the Achilles statue under the trees, and took off of it. his hat as he walked. Already his head felt better, and there was hardly a line of dimness left before his eyes. He was thankful he had not betrayed it just now. It would have distressed Enid terribly. It had come to him as a real relief when he had thought that Enid was a little overwrought.

Up to this afternoon, he had known but one side of her, that serene, tranquil mood in which she hated crowds, loved the country, and had understood so perfectly his own attitude to all these things. So she had been in Rome, at Frascati, and at Hartley. Now he had seen another side which he had never suspected. Well, it would make her all the more lovable, no doubt, when he understood it better. As he went up by the side of the water, fervently praying that he might meet no one whom he knew. A number of other little things came back to his mind, each of which at the time he had dismissed as irrelevant, but which now, it appeared, had some kind of link one with another, and the explanation of which he began, he thought, to see. The first which he could remember

was her gentle fault-finding with him at Hartley. No doubt she had been right in her facts. Masterson was a little familiar sometimes, and Aunt Anna certainly had just a shade of masterfulness. But, in spite of their truth, he had been a little surprised at their being mentioned at all. Then there had been the little affair of Father Richardson. Again, that was a small matter, and she confessed that Neville's own idea had been right, yet certainly she had been rather abrupt with the poor man who, after all, had behaved very nicely to her. Then there was the trifle, he had scarcely thought of it again till now, concerned with the rather sharp words she had spoken to her made. Well, he hadn't been intended to

hear those, yet he had heard them. There they were. Finally, there had been the affair this afternoon. It appeared to him now that these little things were rather significant, not indeed of anything serious at all, but just of a tiny fact, that Enid, too, was human, and had her nerves like other people. She was human, but she was nonetheless lovable, perhaps even she was more lovable. He knew what nerves were himself. Well, he must remember in future. Then, one by one, a number of other little things floated up, things of which he had thought absolutely nothing at the time and which even now were probably sheer fancies on his own part. There was first her attitude towards her mother. Ah, he remembered now the sharp little things

he had heard the girl say to her as he came downstairs one day at Hartley. Well, that fitted in. Again, Mrs. Bessington, at the dinner he had given on his first night in London, had been remarkably lenient towards him in the way of conversation. He had thought it to have been algae's tact at first. But then, she had been really very lenient ever since. Was it conceivable that Enid had, well, given a hint to her mother not to talk so much? A hint?

And would a mere hint have stemmed that flowing tide? Again, he had wondered that Enid seemed to have so few friends. At first he had not thought much of it. He had supposed merely that he had not come across them. In fact, he would scarcely have had the chance. Yet, here he had been ten days in London, and though he had seen various cards in the flat, and had been to a reception or two, the usual friends were singularly lacking. Yet Enid was young and charming and sociable. Perhaps it was Mrs. Bessington's conversation. Certainly she had recognised people at the opera and they her. And there were Lord

Maersfield and the Heckers, and so on. But where were the rest? Certainly he did not know much about girls and their ways. They were not in his line. He had lived hitherto at Hartley whenever he could. But he had thought, somehow, that they always had plenty of friends. Enid too must have met hundreds of women, travelling as she did. Yet again, perhaps it was this very travelling that had hindered intimacies, that and her dislike of crowds and her love of solitude. Well, here these facts were, each of them quite minute, quite explicable taken singly, yet together they seemed to point to a strain in her he had not previously recognized,

a strain that had shown itself just now in her odd behaviour about Selva, her disappointment that he had not been able to share her view, her, well, it almost seemed to be able to share her, like a curious kind of jealous hypercriticism. He stayed halfway up the walk that ran between the row and the water. It must be nearly time for him to turn back. A small boy with very fat legs was bent over a little schooner-rigged ship, with an air of very mature seriousness.

Something was wrong with the rigging. Neville thought of Jim and wondered what he was doing. Yes, he must just remember that Enid had nerves. He had been clumsy this afternoon. It had all been his fault. The small boys set the ship firmly back on the edge of the ripple, as if he were planting it. It immediately rocked over onto the tiny beach.

And that he must not draw ludicrous deductions from insufficient evidence, he must treat her frankly and courageously, and not inflict his distressing kind of humour on her when she was just a shade on edge. The ship was being pulled about again vehemently, its owner's face was set in a frown, and his lips were pursed with energy. "'What a pity,' said Neville. "'The bowsprits come out.

The boy looked up at him sharply and appeared satisfied. "'Can't I help?' said Neville. The boy moved towards him without embarrassment. "'It goes in there, you see,' he said seriously. "'Do you think you could get it in again?' "'It was extraordinarily like Jim. that unconventional and unquestioning confidence dear jim yes i see he said just hold my stick will you end of part two chapter four part two end of part two chapter four chapter five part one of initiation this is a librevos recording all librivos recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit Libravox.org

Read by Paul Lawley Jones Initiation by Robert Hugh Benson Part 2 Chapter 5 Part 1 Subsection 1 Aunt Anna sat in the pavilion

waiting for her letters but uncharacteristically she was doing nothing at all A couple of papers brought by the local grocer rested unopened on the round table She herself sat in the window seat with her feet up, leaning back against a couple of cushions. Her hands lay in her lap.

Her grey eyes wandered vaguely out upon the river below the windows and the park beyond. It was a hot, breathless noon. All across the green spaces, not a creature appeared. The cattle were under the beaches on one side, and the deer under the elms on the other. Now and again, a faint movement in the shadow showed a head, tossed against the swarming flies. The very water itself seemed depressed and flat, as if all the sting and effervescence were drawn out of it

by the steady blaze of light that showed three feet behind the dark running streamers of weed and the pebbly patches of bottom. The birds were still. A single pigeon cooed far away and suddenly left off, as if the effort were too great. Through the door on the left, she could see across the lawn

where a single butterfly flickered against the green, the great house drowsing, with all its eyes half-closed by the lids of the sunblinds. She had even had the awnings put up outside the pavilion windows. Yet, though the day was one of peace and sleepiness, she was neither peaceful nor sleepy. There was a curious, undefined sense of apprehensiveness in a whole being. It had increased steadily and slowly through the last day or two. At first, she had put it down, with her usual good sense, to nerves overstrained by the succession of hot days, and then to her own peculiar position and Neville's absence under these circumstances. But her attempts at reassurance were not successful, and she had begun to perceive, as imaginative and rather superstitious people will

perceive small, significant happenings about her that appeared full of omen. She knew perfectly well that she was superstitious, and that she had no right to be so. She had sternly put away these fancies, but they had returned. Just now, she had relaxed her efforts and was reviewing the little list. She became absurdly superstitious at such times. For example, if she were desiring some event very kingly, she would take omens, as she said, almost continuously. If two flies crawling on the floor in a patch of sunlight, the one that looked the browner reached the shadow first, then the event would happen. If the other, then it would not. If, when the angelus bell rang, she could say the salutation twice before the last of the nine strokes, then she would succeed in some little undertaking. If she

could not, she would fail. Once or twice she had spoken of this habit of mind. Once she had defended it with a kind of humorous agnosticism to Neville. We live under a very large number of laws, she had said, about which we know nothing at all, and all these laws are interconnected like the strands of a net. Why shouldn't there be some real relation between them? Why shouldn't two flies crawling on the floor be a real symbol of something that's happening somewhere else. Besides, I tell you, it does come true. I don't mean every omen is infallible, but that a great number of them do show a general tendency.

I'm surprised at you, Aunt Anna, Neville has solemnly answered. Just you tell Father Richardson and see what he says. I shouldn't dream of it, she said defiantly. It isn't a sin? Yes, it is. It's in the catechism. Bosh, said Aunt Anna.

Besides, I'd always sooner believe too much than too little. I heard a priest say the other day that superstition was a byproduct of faith. No, he didn't. He said it was a waste product, because I was with you. I remember it perfectly. Well, it's a product anyhow, said Aunt Anna. And you shouldn't waste anything. It's all useful.

if you know how to use it, like a pig's bristles. Subsection 2. She was thinking of this now, because all her omens were being taken on the subject of Neville, and it was these that she was reviewing. Really, her defensive omen taking had something to be said for it. There was first the apprehensiveness in general. Neville had been gone for exactly eleven days, because this was Monday, and he had gone on the Thursday week before.

Well, the apprehensiveness had begun on Saturday. She had awakened with it. At any rate, she had been conscious of it as she had hurried back from Mass to see if there were any news from him. But there was none. She had heard only two days before, and it was not likely that he would write again so soon. Neither had there been any letter on Sunday,

nor, so far, on Monday. His last, Thursday's letter, had been one bubbling joy. He had written about Lord Mayersfield, among other things, and had said that they were all going to the opera together that evening, and that they were to meet on Saturday, Madame Selver, at the Hotel Cecil. He had in an earlier letter described the play they had been to on his first night in London, and the academy. He had also said that the lawyers had things in hand, and had, of course, raved about Enid. There had been, therefore, no justification at all for her apprehensiveness. Everything was going perfectly well. She would certainly

have heard if there had been any law difficulty. Algy Lennox was there too, and Neville was apparently seeing a good deal of him. That was all excellent. Algy, in spite of his tiresomeness about tennis, was a sane and pleasant companion. Neville had dined out, too, once or twice, as well as with the Bessington's. He was going to Rannala. He seemed to. He seemed, as prosperous as possible. Yet there the apprehensiveness had been, and here it was still. She had taken a perfect torrent of omens all the rest of Saturday and Sunday. She had even caught herself betting, so to speak, at low mass,

as to whether the server would get back from the credence table before he began the Suskipiat. If he did, then things would go well with Neville. If not, not. He had not. He had begun on the second step on his way home. And nearly all the other omen had gone wrong too. A stag had come out from the shade on Sunday afternoon,

exactly when she finally settled that he must not. Jim had cried aloud, Mummy! When she was expecting him to come, but had not finished counting the hundred which he had set as the point before which he must not call Mummy if things were to go well with Neville. Yes, the apprehensiveness and superstition

was certainly in full blast. She was not quite sure as to what she meant by Things Going Well with Neville. She had assimilated Mr. Morpeth's cheerful optimism sufficiently to accept the fact that if Neville must marry Enid, he must marry Enid. But she was not quite certain yet that he must marry her. Things going well represented then a rather vague ideal.

To be frank, it meant to Aunt Anna that God's will should really be done and that it should make for Neville's happiness, it was no more defined than that, when she tried to fix it. But these voluntary omens were not the worst. The weight on her mind seemed to rise, rather, from a number of little external things that happened, quite apart from her deliberate volition. First, her tremors had come on her once again, in the presence of the cornice door at the top of the stairs. She had come in from late mass yesterday by the front door instead of through the gardens, because she had wanted to see whether it were blistering, as Masterson had told her. And, as she entered, in the broad sunlight, a minute or two afternoon, under the most prosaic

and least suggestive of circumstances, she had been completely certain that there was someone waiting for her there. There was a tall porter's chair beyond the table with its back to her, and, so assured was she that someone was there, perhaps Mr. Morpeth, or a friend from a neighbour's house, that she walked quickly round to the hearth. The chair was empty, and she looked round, a little puzzled, only realizing then that her thought had been unjustified, yet wondering whether perhaps her visitor were not elsewhere. She had raised her eyes to the gallery, and, as they fell upon the door, she understood that her absurd fear of it had come on her again. This would never do. She rang the bell.

"'Masterson,' she said, "'I want the key of the West bedroom. "'Would you ask Mrs. Templmore whether she has it?' "'She had not been in the bedroom for several months. "'It had been cleaned and looked after, she supposed, as usual. "'She waited until Masterson came back with it, "'and then a thought struck her. "'Certainly she must face the room.

"'But—' "'But the facing of it alone in the dark? "'For the shutters were closed "'and the curtains, she supposed, drawn. was a little too much for her resolution. Just go up and undo the shutters, will you? The butler went up first and unlocked the door. She heard his feet on the polished boards and followed him.

As she came to the threshold, a great bar clanged within, and he was pulling back one side of the shutters as she entered. I think I'll have both, she said. When he finished opening that window and was dealing with the next, she stood irresolute, looking about her. The great bed rose like a monstrous catafalque, with the curtains drawn so as to enclose it all round. The tables and sofa and chairs, she saw,

were all as she remembered them. The washing place was empty of towels and linens, and a sponging tin stood in one corner. Thanks, she said, that's all. I'll bring the key down when I come, close the door, please. She felt she must add this. really she must face the thing properly. It was just a big, solemn, old-fashioned bedroom.

There was a good, though worn carpet on the floor. The furniture was mahogany and chintz covered chiefly with dust sheets. There was a door beside the bed on the far side that communicated with the bathroom, beyond which again was Neville's room. She saw the key was in the door on this side. She felt tremulous, but determined. She told herself she had been silly not to have been here before. It was simply its associations that haunted her.

It was here that the end of the tragedy had come. There, beyond those enshrouding curtains. On the side nearest the gallery, Neville had sat, holding his father's hand. It was to that side that the fierce, defiant, bandaged head with blazing, sunken eyes had leaned to whisper. It was on that side that it had fallen at last, deathly still and no longer defiant. Well, she must pull the curtains and look into the bed.

She went towards it resolutely. If she hesitated, her nerves might snap. She took hold of the curtains nearer the bathroom door and drew them back, and for one sickening instant, her heart stood still, for there appeared to be lying within the bed a stiff sheeted figure. Then, with set teeth, she tore back the sheet and disclosed a rolled mattress. She came out through the bathroom, and there were the familiar signs of occupation.

The big wooden bowl of yellow soap, the stiff bathbrush, the exercise machine hanging on the wall, even a pair of grass slippers. She went on through Neville's room. The bed was stripped, which looked dreary, but all else was as it should be, except that there were no mysterious garments and dressing-gowns hanging on the tall-hung pegs. Well, there it was. There had been nothing there. There could be nothing.

Yet she did not feel in the least reassured. As she stood in the hall again, exactly the same sense of a burdensome and sinister presence lay on her, and the door was ominous. She had not exercised her ghost. It was a relief when Jim came bursting in from the garden with the collies. The second unpleasant little happening was even more unreasonably disconcerting. It was connected with Jim himself. She had taken him to afternoon benediction at four o'clock on the same day,

and as they came out, their path to the gardens lay beside the fanning grave, where old Sir Neville had been carried down for. from the bedroom she had visited that morning. Never before, so far as she remembered, had Jim referred to this place, after he had first been told what it was, and the inscription on top of the flat altar-tom within the railings been read to him. This time, however, he stopped dead. "'Mummy?' he said.

"'Yes?' "'That's where Uncle Neville is buried, isn't it?' "'Yes. They're all buried there,' she said. "'Come on, my boy, don't loiter.' "'Oh,' said Jim, still not moving, "'and regarding the tomb with solemn eyes. "'And I suppose Cousin Neville will be buried there too?' "'A faint sickness laid its hand on her heart.

"'Yet it was just the kind of thing that Jim did suddenly say "'without any context at all.' "'Yes, my dear,' she said softly. "'And so will you, perhaps, and I too.' Oh, is it a big room down there? She felt a violent desire to tell him to hold his tongue and come away. But it would scarcely be decent in a Catholic mother to avoid such things when her son questioned her. As he put his inquiry, she remembered the room, as he called it,

as she had seen it when it had been open to receive first her husband's body and then his brothers, a narrow, dark chamber with niches on either side. No, my dear, it's not a big room. It's quite little, but it's much better to think about their souls. Oh, I know all about that, said Jim, with a touch of contempt. I want to know about their bodies. Do they very soon, Jim! I'm not going to go on. Well, the bodies go back to the dust again, but their souls are quite somewhere else. Yes, I know, Mummy, but I want to know whether they're not. bodies, there's Mr. Morpeth, she said. Run and ask him to come and speak to me.

Well, again, that was all. But why in the world on that day of all days, when she had been into the West bedroom, should Jim be so greedy of knowledge as to the processes of the grave? Here then, in the pavilion on this Monday morning, she sat and meditated. Jim was out riding with the dogs and wouldn't be back till lunch. She meditated upon her apothea. apprehensiveness and her omens. She told herself several times not to be foolish and morbid. She longed for the letters. Then at last they came, and once more it was Masterson who brought them. Letter from Sir Neville, ma'am, he said, just as he had said before. And she too, just as before, tore open the envelope first of all and glanced through it.

He doesn't say he's altered his plans, Masterson. She said, scarcely even thinking it strange this time that a servant should be so intimate. She understood better now how the old man loved his master. And Father Richardson's here, ma'am. Could he speak to you, he says? Subsection 3. While Father Richardson talked of some small parochial matters, her mind was still working. She was perfectly certain that, humanly speaking, he would not understand one thing about her tremors,

but, after all, he was a priest as well. She still hesitated, however, up to the very moment when he stood up to go, and then took her decision swiftly. Can you spare a few minutes, father? she said. I want to consult you about something. The priest sat down again. I expect you'll think it very foolish of me, she said. But I'm in what they call a state of mind.

She smiled rather pity. I've got no sort of reason for it, but I feel anxious, and I don't even know what I'm anxious about. Oh, just nerves, said the priest reassuringly and sensibly. Yes, that's what I say to myself, Father, but it doesn't comfort me. It's about my nephew, of course. I keep on imagining things. What kind of things? said Father Richardson, prudently.

That's just what I don't know. Oh, that he's going to have some misfortune, I suppose, or get ill, or die, or be disappointed. Everything seems to point that way, and... She stopped suddenly. I don't understand quite, said the priest. I should have thought that his engagement and... And his state of health were all most satisfactory. Of course, it's a pity Miss Bessington is not.

a Catholic, but I have the dispensation all right, and I'm sure that she's a most exceptional, oh, it's not that a bit, she said. I don't mean in that kind of way. I don't know what I mean. Father Richardson said most politely and sympathetically that really he did not, either. Well, don't you know that sort of feeling one has that everything is going wrong? It's like a cloud. It hangs over everything and depresses one horribly, and one can't put it away. Father Richardson assured her again that he did not know what she meant, unless she referred, he put it quite gently, well, unless she referred to indigestion. Then she saw that it was hopeless. It seemed to her odd that a priest should be so very materialistic about everything.

She thanked her own instincts that she had not referred to omens. Well, I dare say you're right, she said with an effort. Thanks very much, father. I expect you're quite right. There was a footstep on the gravel, and again, Masterson stood on the steps of the pavilion. Beg pardon, ma'am. Mr. Morpeth is here. Oh yes, asking to come out. The butler retired. There was nothing else, Mrs. Funning? asked the priest with an air of having completely justified his role of spiritual physician.

No, nothing else, Father. I expect it's better not to speak of those things, isn't it? Good morning, Father, thank you so much. So never will be down before the end of next week, I expect. But I'll still let you know for certain, as soon as I can, whether he'll be here for the concert. Father Richardson thanked her and bade her good morning. He felt quite pleased at having been concerned, and at having dealt so adequately and reassuringly with her questions. What queer, fanciful people women were! By the time that Mr. Morpeth's solid form was seen advancing across the lawn, she had taken up Neville's letter again.

Again, the others were unopened. And once more, she determined to speak to this layman, frankly. Even she, who had begun to know him so well, had been astonished at the perfect composure with which he had taken his daughter's death. She might have expected that for a day or two, or even a week, he would have kept up his resolution, but it was more than a month now since the girl had been buried. She herself had spoken with him again and again. She had sat in his garden one afternoon, and he had talked of his daughter exactly as if she were just on a short visit away from home.

Never yet had he shown even an effort not to falter or to give way. He took off his hat gravely and replaced it again as he came up to the steps. Then again he took it off as he sat down and drew out his handkerchief. I just called about the concert, he said. Father Richardson has sent me no notice of it. I think he thinks I should not come to it so soon after my daughter's death. Most kind and tactful of him. But I do not feel in the least like that myself.

I only wondered what the people would think if I came. Will you kindly advise me, Mrs. Fanning? I would not shock them for the world. I think they might not quite understand it, she said. He inclined his head gravely. Thank you, that is sufficient. He fumbled a moment in the pocket of his waistcoat. Then he drew out a small, flat object, and laid it on the table.

"'Then will you do me one more kindness?' he said. "'There is a sovereign in that paper. "'Would you kindly purchase four tickets on my behalf, "'and distribute them to whomsoever you please?' "'That is kind of you. I will do it most gladly.' "'Thank you,' he said. "'Then he took up his hat as if to go. "'No, stay, Mr. Morpeth,

"'and I want to consult you about something.' He replaced his hat on the table. End of Part 2, Chapter 5, Part 1. Chapter 5, Part 2 of Initiation. This is a Libravox recording. All Libravox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit Libravox.org. Read by Paul Lawley-Jones.

Initiation by Robert Hugh Benson, Part 2. Chapter 5, Part 2. Subsection 4. She began very nearly as she had begun to the priest. I'm in what they call a state of mind, she said. May I tell you all about it? He inclined his head. Then she told him frankly and fully, first that she was in a mood of apprehensiveness about Neville, and that she had no kind of reason for it. Here's his letter, she said, that's just come. Read it, please. He took it, drew out his glasses, wiped them on his handkerchief, and began to read. He looked exactly like a businessman studying a document. As he finished, she broke in again. You see, it's quite satisfactory as far as it goes.

He tells me about meeting Madam Selva and what she said, and about the crush at the Cecil, and how he went to walk in the park and met a small boy, rather like Jim, and tried to help him mend his ship, and how the ship wouldn't be mended, and then about his going to the cathedral on Sunday, and how, although the choir sang wonderfully, he couldn't bear the music, and then about Enid too. It's all natural enough, and quite in his own way,

though it doesn't seem to me quite as cheerful as his last, But that's not the point. No, he said questioningly. No, I was unhappy long before the letter came. I've been like it ever since Saturday. And then there are the omens. She stopped, wondering whether even to Mr. Morpeth she could speak of her foolishness. But to her surprise, he showed none himself.

He nodded gently when he had taken off his glasses and began to wipe them again. "'I suppose you notice how things happen,' he said, "'like birds flying or a shadow over the sun, and think their signs.' "'How do you know?' she asked, amazed. "'Because I used to do it myself,' he said, "'until I learned how useless it was.' "'You think it all nonsense, then, just as I do, at least just as I know it is really.

Not all nonsense, he said imperturbably. I am entirely convinced, from simple observation, that there is some connection between, well, between different things that seem to have no connection, that there are laws that are true and active in all realms at once, and that sensitive or intuitive people can sometimes perceive them Oh, no, Mrs. Fanning. I don't think it's all nonsense at all. But why did you call it useless?

Well, he said, leaning back a little. Because if the thing is to happen, it will happen. And besides that, I do not think it quite, well, quite Christian in spirit. We should have more confidence in God. Take no thought. said our Savior. I forget the Catholic version, but it means that we should not fret and be anxious about the future. I should leave that kind of thing alone, Mrs. Fanning. She was silent a moment.

May I tell you two more things? she asked. Why, certainly. She told him then about the West Bedroom and Jim's curiosity as to the grave. He listened without moving. "'I put more trust in your own feelings,' he said. "'It is your intuition that interprets such events anyhow. "'You would have thought nothing of them "'if you had not already been anxious.' "'She confessed that this was true. "'I dare say your intuition is quite right,' he continued gently.

"'Many people have that gift, some more, some more, some less. It is like, well, you won't be offended, but it is like a peacock who knows, even before the barometer, that rain is coming. She smiled with an effort, but felt a little sick. You mean you think I am probably right in foreseeing misfortune? Well, do not let us call it misfortune. We cannot possibly tell. Let us say that it is pain to one you love that is coming. I think myself it is coming, he added meditatively. This time she had to make an effort even to speak. You think so? To Neville? Why? He continued gently polishing his glasses, which he had held still for the last two or three minutes. Then he began to speak. She did not interrupt him till he had

finished. His voice was quite quiet, as if he mused aloud. Well, he said, if you will watch people carefully, you will practically always find that the type to which your nephew belongs, of which in every way he is so excellent an example, the type of happy, the type of happy, optimist who disregards suffering instead of really facing it always has to suffer and considerably more than other people. God Almighty, if I may say so, has made them almost violently happy, out of all proportion, so to say. Well, they cannot be left like that, or they would be one-sided. Well, they are prepared for suffering in a very marked manner. They are naturally buoyant.

They can ignore and therefore avoid pain, or they can bear it in moderation, in virtue of their pride. Now, that will not do at all if they are to be conformed to the image of Christ. Therefore, they must suffer and suffer rightly. He paused a moment, then continued. I have observed Sir Neville, and, I need not say, I have learned to love him, and I see in him every sign that he will have to suffer sharply. If he did not, I should be afraid for him.

Now, I know really nothing of the young lady to whom he is engaged. I have seen her twice only, once in the child. churchyard, and once I had the privilege of speaking to her when she was out with Sir Neville in the park. Aunt Anna looked at him sharply, but she did not speak. Well, I think it very likely that part of his pain must come through her. I may be very wrong about that, but I must confess that I formed an opinion of her. I have a terrible habit of doing so.

I often try to correct it. And I think that she will be one occasion of suffering to him, whether now or later I do not know. But that is not all. He paused again. Ah, this was the very point to Aunt Anna. She, too, had tried to think that all her apprehensiveness came from her knowledge of Enid. It might even be her jealousy of Enid.

But this last day or two had taught her. that this, at any rate, was not all. There was something even larger approaching. A cloud greater than any man's hand was coming up, and its shadow had fallen on the cornist door above the gallery. But still, she said nothing. That is not all. You will think me fanciful, perhaps.

But there is a shadow on this house, Mrs. Fanning. It fell on my own house first. I knew that it was there, too. It fell on my dear daughter. Ah, a week before God took her to himself. When Sir Neville looked in at my window, when he was so good as to come across and bring me the news, I knew what he had come to say,

but it was on his face too. Now, some men might call this a curse. Well, we may call it that if we will, so long as we remember that a curse is but the shadow of a blessing, that he himself was made a curse for us, who is our blessing. That is all that the shadow is, Mrs. Fanning. It is the shadow of our father's hand. There was dead silence as he ended, and fell again to polishing his glasses. The noon lay hot and still on park and stream and house.

Far away, again, the wood pigeon began his broken cooing. It was not till he ended that Aunt Anna drew a long, shivering breath. Ah, she whispered. Not on Neville. He looked at her compassionately. Listen again, he said. I think we spoke here once of the sins of the sins of. of the fathers being visited on the children.

That is not a curse, Mrs. Fanning, as the word is ordinarily used. It is not a vindictive law. It is a law of mercy. That the love which should unite parents to children may do what love alone can do. And that is to turn suffering into joy and pain into atonement. It is when the punishment is not born here. as if God himself despaired, it is then that the horror comes.

Now, I know nothing of Sir Neville's father, except what you have told me. I do not listen to gossip. She broke in. He was horrible. He was unlovable, let us say. Well, cannot he now be rendered love? I know no way except by pain.

Would it not be a noble thing if his son could suffer for him, and be himself transformed into, well, into a Christopher? You and I know what purgatory is. Well, I can't bear it, she cried. And you too have your part. You are bearing it now, and you will bear it. and you will bear it better still if you will choose to understand. That is exactly what love means.

You suffer because you love. If you did not love, you would not suffer. Then go on and suffer and love. She broke suddenly into weeping. Subsection 5. She sat there again that evening, after dinner, when Jim had gone to bed, and the stars were out. The breathless day had passed to breathless night.

She sat here, at the open window, without even a shawl over her shoulders. There was not a breath to stir the thin silk curtains that hung over the wide-flung lattices. The house was dark, except for the oblong of light that was the door above the curved steps. She felt weary in soul and body, but all resentment and resistance were gone. There was no joy yet, only passivity and expectancy. She was as one who has fought against a mortal sickness and passed beyond fighting, and yet death will not come. Every word she had heard from her old friend had met with the response of her understanding,

although with the savage protest of her heart. She knew that it would be as he said. It was not Enid now that troubled her. There was not even a spark of jealousy left. Enid? Why? Yes. No doubt she would be the forerunner of pain,

the leader of the grim little procession that must trample over the heart of the lad she loved so much. But there was more than all that. Enid was not great enough to cast such a shadow as that which lay over all that she cared for, but even her heart now had ceased to protest. It lay there, within her, inert and quiet, in pain, of course, but in pain that could no longer crush since that on which it lay was already broken. She had been right then from the beginning.

Her misery in this dear pavilion, when she was already broken. his first letter had come from Rome, had been true enough in its instinct. Her deepening misery since Saturday had been its corroboration. Yet why had it come so swiftly? Was it that the shadow too was darkening as swiftly? Then, when would the blackness fall? Then suddenly she remembered, in an abrupt break of thought, that Neville had said nothing as to having seen any doctor,

and her heart leapt again in a broken kind of hope that there was nothing but some physical illness that impended and that this might yet be stayed off by prudence. She would write to Neville tomorrow and tell him that he must go at once if he loved her. And then again her heart sank down. A shadow such as this was not just a matter that could be banished by a doctor's consulting room

and a few drugs. She would not banish it so, even if she could. She would not banish it so, even if she could. Yes, she had thought that, and as she reflected on her thought, she perceived that even already she had begun, scarcely knowing it herself, to realize what had been said to her, to understand that pain was not the greatest of evils, that it might be even not an evil at all, but a good, that a curse, if truly the shadow of a blessing, might be that very blessing that could come no otherwise than in a sombre dress.

The lawn was soaked in dew as she walked across it on her way back to the house, half an hour later. She did not know it till the chill struck straight through her thin silk stockings. Why, it's wet, she murmured, and went on. There had begun to rise in her, still incalculably fragile, still to be quenched out again by the faintest breath of personal desire, a thin, flickering flame that warmed ever so slightly the cold misery of her heart. She had begun to see that there was a capability of joy in pain, no more than that, that if to love was to suffer,

then also that to suffer rightly was to love, and love, after all, was the only joy. Jim was awake when she came softly into his room with a shaded light. He turned his big eyes upon her, unwinkingly. "'Mummy?' he said. "'Yes, my darling. Why aren't you asleep?' Jim passed over such an irrelevant question with the disdain of indifference. "'Mummy, did you mind what I asked you yesterday?'

For a moment she forgot. "'Why, what about?' About, about Uncle Neville's grave? She paused. Then she spoke deliberately. No, my dear. At least I did, but I don't now. As she came out into the gallery again,

she turned to the right instead of the left, and then stood considering. The house was quite quiet now. The servants were far away, and her maid not yet come up. yet she had no fear. She was trying to remember whether she had taken out the key of the door between the bathroom and the west room, and locked it after her.

Then she remembered that she had not. She went straight through into Neville's room, still carrying the shaded light she used for visiting gym in bed, through the bathroom and into the place she had once dreaded so much. The bed stood, still like a catafalque, with its curtains drawn once more, but she was not afraid. She stood there as if listening. Then she spoke, as if she asked a question and did not fear the answer.

Yes, she said. End of Part 2, Chapter 5 Part 2. End of Part 2, Chapter 5. Chapter 6, Part 1 of Initiation. This is a Libravox recording All Libravox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer Please visit Libravox.org

Read by Paul Lawley Jones Initiation by Robert Hugh Benson Part 2 Chapter 6 Part 1 Subsection 1 It's not going to leave off said Neville despairingly drumming with his fingers on the window-pane

and looking out upon the little gardens below the flat. The rain was falling heavily like rods from a dreary sky. He had lunched with the Bessingtons before going down to Rannola, as had been arranged, with Lord Mayersfield, who was to call for them at half-past two and be taken down in Neville's car. But the rain had set in with thunder about eleven, and it had rained steadily ever since. It did not seem probable that there would be polo this afternoon.

Don't be so dismal, please, said Enid from her chair. They had had a delightful lunch. Mrs Bessington had managed her conversation quite tolerably, had made an excuse to go away as soon as coffee had come in, and had not returned. Neville understood that she was making preparations of a private and intimate nature, probably domestic. Enid had been as charming as ever since Saturday.

She appeared entirely to have forgotten the very small misunderstanding they had somehow stumbled into, and it was now Wednesday. But it was Neville now who felt himself at fault. He felt clumsy and awkward and rather gross, and he could not think why. He had never been particularly aware of these shortcomings before. he supposed it was that he had never before been on these intimate and tender terms with a woman. He had begun, too, more than ever now, to think that it really must have been himself who was to blame for the incident of last Saturday. He had been imperceptive, he told himself. He had jarred somehow on the

fine femininity of the girl, and, above all, he had been a great deal too quick during his little lonely walk in the park, to put the blame upon her and to see significance in what was insignificant. He had done her an injustice. He must take care to do her more than justice now, to make up. I'm sorry, he said, with a genial frankness. I know I'm dismal. I hate being put off. What are you looking at?

She held up a magazine and then laid it aside. Again, he felt clumsy. He had interrupted her. "'No, go on reading,' he said. "'I'll look at the rain. "'Perhaps it'll stop if I look hard enough. "'Like a watched pot, you know?' He turned again to the window and began to ruminate. Now, down at Hartley, he would go and play tennis with a marker on such a day as this.

Here there was really nothing whatever to do. Of course, there was a court at Princes, But Enid wouldn't care to go merely to watch him. Besides, the court would certainly be taken. He was a discontented brute, he told himself. Yet he really did not know what to suggest. He would have been simply delighted to sit here with Enid or to go to any form of entertainment that she wished.

Honestly, he asked nothing better. He loved to watch her, to talk of nothing in particular, merely to be with her. but he felt she wanted something else, and he did not know what this was. He could not have believed six months ago that any human woman could so engage his attention, could so identify herself with him that he judged of things from her view rather than from his own. He did not say any more, what should I like, but what should we like? In fact, it was very nearly, if not quite, what would she like?

The telephone bell tinkled in the little hall outside, and he turned round. Enid had not taken up the magazine again, and seemed ruminating too. Again, he felt himself a brute. She had laid aside the magazine in order to be talked to, and he had not spoken. But she smiled naturally at him. Do go and see, there's a good boy. He went obediently out. It's Mayersfield, he said, when he said, when he was.

he came back. He says that he's certain there'll be no polo, what? And that the thing had better be off, eh? She smiled, but he felt he had been a little untactful in imitating her friend. Yes, I suppose so, she said. Just tell him so, won't you? And then we'll see what's to be done. An idea had come to him, and he proposed it as soon as he returned. What about the zoo? he asked. I haven't been there since I took july. Jim, let's go and be ridiculous. Her forehead wrinkled slightly. Oh, do you think? In the rain?

What an ass he was. Of course, the rain. Well, I give up. What a desolate whole London is. He sat down for about the fifth time since lunch, seeing that he had said what he should not. Since he was in London, simply because she was there. Again she smiled, but he felt he had wounded her again. How extraordinarily clumsy he was.

Yet he used not to feel so with her. He had been even less careful than he was now trying to be, and yet somehow he had not said so many unfortunate things as he was saying now, in spite of his anxiety. Then he yawned. She looked at him. and then humour broke out all over her face. You're being quite impossible, she said.

First you don't talk, then you imitate that poor dear man, then you say London's a desolate hole, and then you yawn in my face. Neville, wake up! She said it so genially that the shadow went from his mind. It was not till a little later that it occurred to him how rapidly she had narrated his blunders. I know, he said.

But what's to be done? What about a matinee? My dear girl, anything in the world you like, but I quite understand, yes, we have been a good deal. Well, it's your turn. Let's get into a car and drive and drive, and then come home again to tea. We've got that beastly crush this evening. you know. She stood up. Neville, that's perfect. You'll drive, won't you? And yes, that's perfect. Subsection 2. In 10 minutes, she was back again, muffled up in a suitable manner.

He put the difficulty that had occurred to him as soon as she had left the room. But what about your mother? he said. Oh, mother won't come, she said lightly. I saw her just now, Come on, Neville, this is going to be lovely. The car was already there, hooded against the rain, and Paul was waiting in the hall of the flat. We aren't going to Ranola, said Neville. You'll have to go inside, Paul. Miss Bessington will sit with me.

Ah, this thought had been an inspiration. This was exactly what he wanted. He really had had more than enough of the inside of theatres and galleries and houses. It was that that was the matter with him, and that had put him slightly on edge. It was the open air and room to breathe and a sense of space that he needed, and that she needed too. Now this is really nice, she said, as he finished tucking her in on the side nearest to himself, and as Paul went round in front to wind up the machine. We'll just drive and drive and come back to tea, as you said, Neville, you're a genius.

and I've never sat by you before while you drove. Where shall we go? He proposed a route. They would start to the north, go as far as the time allowed, wheel westwards, and then come back by Roehampton and Barnes and Hammersmith. That'll be lovely, she said contentedly. Oh, but this was delicious to Neville. There they sat these two in the world and simultaneously entirely.

out of it. The world streamed past them. First, the crowded streets, then a scrap of open ground, then streets again, and at last would come the open country. They could observe and talk, shut in here, not only from the rain and the desolation outside, but from that pressing, talking world that had so crushed upon the nerves of them both. It was as if Frasgati itself, or the seat by the horse's monument at Hartley, were translated, into other terms. She was close beside him that extraordinarily sweet presence. Her face turned a little towards him, nestling in its hood. He saw it now and again when he could take his eyes off the road, but he was aware of it all the time. Moreover, their talking could be of the right sort.

Each could speak when inclined, or be silent, that very essential secret of comradeship. It was all exactly right. Oh, take care of that old man, she said suddenly as they whisked up by the side of the park railings. He was a first-rate example of the type aboard of motorists' souls. He came out suddenly, 30 yards ahead, looking the wrong way. He set himself, with an open umbrella over his shoulder, with his back to them, irresolute, watching the opposite stream of vehicles with a view it appeared to crossing. Neville set his teeth and turned the wheel a little, first sounding his horn, but the old gentleman paid no attention.

Five seconds later, the car whisked by the old gentleman, sounding its horn suddenly again as it came opposite him, so soon as it was quite clear that he was perfectly safe. Enid caught an anguished face of terror. "'That'll teach him,' said Neville. "'Those are the real roadhogs after all.' laughed softly. You're a little hard on him, she said. Not at all.

We really have some right to the road, you know. You do drive splendidly, she said, as Neville, after an anxious second or two at the Marble Arch, nipped in front of a heavy dray whose driver was obviously trying to incommode him. And that's another lesson, said Neville. What philanthropist we are. So they talked easily, with silence, until, after leaving edgeware when the open country was certain, he turned to her.

Now, talk to me gently, he said, and I'll put in comments. About what? About anything in the world that you like. She was silent for perhaps fifty yards. Well, I'll tell you what I want, she said. Oh, Neville, this is delicious. Go on, he said. and his own heart warmed at her words. Then she began, and talked slowly and meditatively, with pauses.

First of all, she said, I want to live at Hartley forever and ever. That's essential. Then, I hardly ever want any guests. I want to feel that it's all mine, and yours, of course. I want to be able to walk about the garden without being interrupted. In summer, I want all the windows opened wide, all the time, and in winter I want all the curtains drawn and the shutters shut, just before it gets quite dark.

I think I want to go abroad about once in two years, at least I think we ought to, or we may just possibly get stuffy. In spite of the open windows? In spite of the open windows, she repeated gravely. And I think, in the other years we ought to come up to to the desolate whole called London For about a month, not more, for the same reason. Yes, I know that's very sensible and improving of me, but I can't help it.

About guests. Yes, I do want guests, one at a time, first a man and then a woman, and so on, alternately. I'll ask the women and you shall ask the men, but not too many. No married people? No. she said firmly. And each of us is responsible for his own guest and must look after him. You can go down and bathe, or whatever it is, with your man, and,

and I can sit out in the pavilion and talk life and being with my woman, or, or drive in a little pony carriage with a fat pony. Neville, I must have a fat pony. And then I can go and call on the clergyman's wife now and then. There'll be no difficulty about that, I should think. And we must have Aunt Anna, you know. Why, of course, that's understood. And your mother?

Of course again, said Enid. There was a very short pause before she began again. I shall wear nice clothes at Hartley. I think that's important. Neville, have you got to do many county things? Oh, now and then. Yes, I suppose so. And I suppose I must too.

What a pity. How very much nicer it would be not to do any of them. Neville? Yes. Does Father Richardson really interrupt much? My dear, he's got to be there, you know. Or someone else. Yes, I suppose so.

Oh, dear me. What's the matter? How heavenly it would be if we really could do exactly as we wanted. without any conventions at all. What do you want? I want exactly what you do. But how nice of you? And there's really no chance at all of getting rid of Father Richardson?

It's like this, said Neville. Hartley is a Catholic place. It's been so always. There's always been a chapel there which serves as a parish church. And where there's a chapel, there must be a chaplain. I suppose I could build a church in the village instead, but it would be frightfully inconvenient for everybody else, and I can't think what people would say. Does that matter?

I think it does, rather. You see, Hartley, the house itself, has always been a centre. I see, said Enid. Go on about other things, said Neville. We'll talk about Father Richardson later, perhaps we could manage something. So she went on, after another inconsiderable pause, describing in a delightful and inconsequent way,

as if they were the dreams of a child, all the things that she wanted to do, and Neville's heart again warmed and kindled to hear how she wanted a small walled garden down by the bridge, where she could sit entirely alone, to which she and Neville alone had the key. And as an afterthought, the gardener too, when Neville reminded her of the necessity,

and a room at the top of the house to which she alone had the key. Neville might have another room like it, if he wished, under parallel conditions. For he found in her again, as she talked, exactly the same mood and aspect in which he had first learned to love her, that strange and arresting love of solitude which he, too, secretly understood, that particular kind of attitude to the world of which they, had spoken at Frascati, with the Campania spread beneath them and the white line of Rome on the hazy horizon. He really had had some bad moments since Saturday, when he had actually almost

believed that she was not quite what he had thought her, a belief which he had veiled to himself by saying that she had nerves, moments when she seemed not indeed like other people after all, for evidently she was unique, but to possess characteristics of other. people which he had not imagined her to possess. But those moments were gone now once and for all, and the balance was restored. He knew now that he had been right at first, that all the comradeship was there, just as he had thought, that she was not only the woman that he loved, but, what does not always follow, the woman that he understood. So peace came back, and he was as happy as ever. End of

Part 2, Chapter 6, Part 1. Chapter 6, Part 2 of Initiation. This is a Librevox recording. All Libravox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit Libravox.org. Read by Paul Lawley-Jones. Initiation by Robert Hugh Benson. Part 2, Chapter 6, Part 2.

Subsection 3 The rain had stopped, and it was after 4 o'clock, for she looked at a wristwatch as they left Roampton Lane, when they approached the steep bridge that passes over the railway line immediately above-bound station. Neville drove superbly. There had been no more philanthropic lessons bestowed gratis upon the passers-by. Everyone had behaved well, and the car best of all.

He had settled down long ago into that instinctive, rhythmical mood of the driver who knows his car and his own powers, who acts from that trained subconscious attention which must be formed into a habit before a man is perfectly competent. As they swung up the steep ascent of the bridge, so steep that a pedestrian coming up the other side is bound to be invisible to the driver of a low car until the two almost meet. Neville became aware of a toppling motor omnibus in front, just beyond the crown of the bridge, going the same way as himself. He turned the wheel a little to the right,

so as to be able to pass it if the road should prove to be empty when he had topped the rise. Exactly as he swept up to it, a perambulator, pushed by a small girl with a baby in it, became suddenly visible just over the top. Neville had the car entirely under control, but he had very nearly the full power on to take him up the steep, and his hand, fortunately, was already in place to shut it off.

He did so automatically and put down the brakes. All would have been perfectly right if the girl with the perambulator had remained where she was or crossed over. He would have kept his line slightly to the left and behind the omnibus in one case or held straight on in the other. Nothing could have happened. but she did precisely the one thing that made some kind of an accident inevitable. She pushed the perambulator in a panic behind the omnibus.

She let go of the handles, and she herself remained where she was. Neville had one fraction of a second to decide what he would do. If he kept to the left, he would strike the perambulator. If he kept to the right, he would probably, but not certainly, strike the girl. He kept to the right. There was simply not time for the brakes entirely to check the car. And with a horrible tightening of his heart, he saw that, although the girl sprang away with a scream,

she was still in front of the car. Then she fell. Whether actually struck or not by the off-wheel of the motor, he was unable to be sure. The car stopped. There fell on Neville for one second, a complete paralysis. He knew that he had done the only possible thing,

that he was within the speed limit, that the car was under control, that he had not been guilty of even the slightest rashness, but it was his first accident, and there lay the child, screaming. Then Paul was out and running past. Then, as he turned without a word to Enid, she too flung off the rugs herself,

without a word and sprang out. Neville backed his car a little, turned, slid by the derelict perambulator, and came to rest clear of the bridge. Then, still sickened at heart, yet knowing that at least there could be no question of loss of life, and scarcely even of injury, he too climbed out of his seat and walked back.

There seemed singularly few people about, owing probably to the recent reign. The omnibus had gone on its way, though he had seen figures on the top of it turn and look back. A couple of women, at a distance, turned and stared, horrified. A boy ran up, excited and pleased. A man on the common below seemed to be gazing up with interest. And that was all, except for the little group on the crown of the bridge. As he came up to them, he saw that the girl was already lifted to her feet and had ceased screaming.

Paul was hurriedly brushing her down as well as he could. Enid was holding her round the shoulders. The girl's face was a mask of gradually fading terror and resentment, but it was perfectly plain that she could not be really hurt. When he looked at Enid's face, as if to seek for reassurance, he was astonished at the vivid agony in it. She was as white as paper, and her eyes were large and anguished. "'She's not hurt, is she?' he asked as naturally as he could.

Enid made no answer. She was still staring at the girl, gripping her tightly. "'Come,' said Neville, almost sharply. "'Let's see the damage. Did it hit you, my dear?' The child made no answer. Perambulator, Paul, said Neville, jerking his head in its direction. wheel it behind the car. Come along, my dear, to the car, and let's see what's the matter. It was becoming plainer every moment that no harm was done at all. The girl was standing quite at her ease,

embarrassed far more by Enid's embrace than by anything else. Of course, it had been a shock to everybody, most of all, perhaps, to the child. However, there was no reason why there should be a scene. Besides, they were all in the narrow of the bridge, "'Enid,' said Neville, still a little abrupt, of course. "'Just bring her along to the car.' He put his hand on the child's shoulder. "'Leave her! Leave her!' gasped Enid.

"'Don't be upset,' said Neville. "'There's no harm done at all. Don't give way, my darling.' Again, he put his hand on the child's shoulder. She was still speechless. "'Leave her!' gasped Enid once more. Neville turned in despair and, to his relief, saw a policeman advancing up the road. Thank God, murmured Neville. He shortly explained the circumstances. That was his car, that was his chauffeur.

His own name was Sir Neville Fanning. There had very nearly been an accident. The child had fallen down. The policeman was quite sensible and civil. He nodded once or twice, then he turned to the child. Are you hurt, my dear? The child shook her head dolefully.

The blue uniform seemed to have restored some degree of intelligence to her mind. Come along to the gentleman's car, he said. Let go, Enid, said Neville. Enid turned wild eyes upon him. Neville went up to unloose her hands. It seemed to him that Enid was really not quite herself. "'Come,' he said. "'We'll soon see what's the matter.'

Enid let go unwillingly, but her face was drawn and set. She said nothing. There was nothing whatever the matter with the girl. She had just been touched by the wheel on the knees, but her stockings were not even torn. The policeman elicited from her where she lived, not half a mile away. "'I'll take her along home,' said Neville. Enid, my dear, you jump inside with her and the baby.

Paul and I will sit in front. The policeman said he would take the perambulator home. Neville grinned secretly at the vision which his imagination presented of this. Very good, he said. We'll wait till you come. You've got my number, no doubt. There'll be no difficulty, sir, said the policeman. No harm done. When Neville turned again to see that all three were established inside,

He saw that they had grouped themselves oddly. The child nurse, rather pallid now, held the baby, and Enid, on her knees on the floor of the car, supported the girl's feet on her lap. My dear, what are you doing? There's no kind of necessity for that. Enid shook her head fiercely. Neville had a spasm of impatience.

My darling, don't be ridiculous. She isn't hurt in the slightest. So extraordinarily savage was the face turned on him that he recoiled. Yet a strange feeling came upon him that Enid was not quite genuine. He felt very odd and confused. He made to close the door, then he hesitated, then he closed it, leaving them. He could talk out anything that needed it afterwards. Subsection 4

My dear girl, whatever's the matter, said Neville, a quarter of an hour later. Everything had been perfectly satisfactory. They had found the girl's mother at home, a sensible woman who said that she had particularly told her daughter never to take the perambulator over the bridge, that no harm had been done at all, and that she hoped it would do the girl good. So, for the third time that day, Neville had been a philanthropist. He glanced at Enid to see if she was amused, but was met by a set face and unanswering eyes. The policeman had followed a few minutes later, with the perambulator before, and a small procession of round-eyed boys behind. And there, too, everything had been satisfactory, even to the policeman, for Neville gave him half a crown privily.

Yet all this while Enid had stood, stony-faced, refusing to sit down. and speaking only when the woman spoke to her in a very low voice. Then Neville had told Paul to drive and himself got in after Enid into the closed car. She said nothing in answer to his question. He tried to take a hand, but she drew it away. Look here, my darling, have I done anything? Don't speak to me, she hissed.

He drew back. "'You aren't treating me fairly, my darling. "'I seem to have offended you. "'Remember our bargain. "'Tell me what I've done and I'll beg your pardon.' "'She turned and eyed him, "'and if ever he saw hostility in any face, "'it was in hers.

"'For a moment she did not speak. "'Then she suddenly began, "'and as she talked, a kind of sickness grew on the other. "'It was as if the girl was possessed. Very well, she said, I will tell you. It is the last straw. I have tried and tried, and it is useless. What have you done?

Well, you have treated me brutally, but this is the last straw. That you should tell me publicly, not to be ridiculous. That you should try to tear me away by force when I was trying to help a poor child whom you had knocked down. That you should make me a laughing stock and before that woman too. But that's only the last of the list. You have treated me disgracefully. Shall I go through it all?

Well, I will. Then indeed she began. She went right back to Hartley. It was there, it seemed, that he had begun to be careless and offensive. There was an occasion, it seemed, when he had made her stand while he sat. Of this, he had neither then or at any other time

the faintest recollection. Then it appeared he had spoken to her rudely about Father Richardson. He had told her not to be so familiar, and then later not to be so discourteous. Then he had allowed Masterson to be rude to her, and had laughed at her with Aunt Anna. Her whole stay-at-heartly, it appeared, had been one series of insults received. Then she passed on to London. The insults, it seemed, had begun at the academy. He had allowed her to go on alone while he'd talked to her mother and her mother only.

He had shown his dislike of Lord Mayersfield, oh, in little movements and glances. He had not said anything outright, but she was not a fool. She could understand him well enough. After dinner that same night, he had kept her and her mother waiting while he smoked with his friend. Then the Selva affair came up. First, he had been brutal in the way he had flatly contradicted her as to Selva's capabilities. He had told her she didn't understand what genius was. He had preferred to lean over the box and stare at that horrible painted woman sooner than talk to her.

Mr. Lennox, even, had had better manners. Then he had gone out after both acts in order to smoke again instead of doing his duty. She thought that he might at least have recognised his duty, if nothing else. Then he had gone and arranged behind her back that she too and her mother, in spite of what he knew as to her feelings, should go and meet Selva, a woman who was unfit for decent society. He had dragged them there against their will. He had stayed talking to Selva, leaving herself and her mother alone. She had borne with these things, and had to her own.

with these things, and had said nothing at the time, hoping that it was mere carelessness. That was why she had not protested then and there. Then, when she had tried, very gently, to show him what he was doing, he had had the grace to pretend to apologize, but had, really, repeated his offence. Didn't you apologize? Can you deny that? He bowed his head. He said nothing. A horrible and grotesque memory came to his mind of how a certain cock at Frascati had once turned savagely on his hens when he himself was unhappy. And now you won't even be civil enough to answer.

Then she swept on. Tiny incidents he had forgotten, during the last three days which he had thought so happy, were dragged out and flung at him. But they all culminated in today. He had mocked at her friend Lord Mayersfield. He had said London was dreary, a desolate hole, that to her, while he sat with her. He had stood sulky at the window and said nothing, even though she had laid down what she was reading to talk to him. Then he had yawned in her face. Neville was too sick even to be tempted to smile.

Then finally had come the motor drive. He had behaved like a roadhog. He had torn past the helpless old man in the park. He had tried to get the better of a drayman. He had knocked down a child. And then... Then once more came the crowning insult. She had tried to make up by sympathy for what he had done,

and he had tried to tear her hands away from the child. He had told her not to make an exhibition of herself publicly. He had laughed at her fears. He had tried to exchange glances with her in the very house of the poor woman whose child had been knocked down. It's the last straw. I can't bear it anymore.

I've borne enough. Be good enough not to speak to me. Subsection 5. He sat through it in silence. There was nothing to say. With three or four exceptions, the substance of the tale was true enough for him to recognize it.

There was scarcely more than a point or two in her torrent of charges that was objectively false. He sat silent, because, after her first three or four sentences, he had seen the hopelessness. If she could say so much, she could say anything, and no answer was possible. But what held him, toward the end,

in something very like horror, was the shocking change in a whole character from that which he had previously believed it to be. It was if a mask had been torn suddenly away and a frightful face disclosed. He had thought her very nearly sublime, unlike others, spiritual, aloof, unique. He had thought her markedly self-controlled,

of an exquisiteness transcendent of that which breeding can give, tolerant, charitable, even great. He had loved this presentiment that he had seen. loved it as he had never loved any living being before to his knowledge. He had thought that she understood him perfectly. He had hoped, humbly and simply, that he was learning to understand her. Yet now, in an instant, a terrifying kind of coarseness disclosed itself. She snarled at him.

She framed, as well as she could, sentences and phrases with the object of giving as much pain as possible. She tortured things and words into sinister intentions that had never even crossed his mind. He was as one who goes to kiss his wife and is met by a devil's changeling. He had had no conception, not merely that one whom he loved could be so horribly transformed, but that human nature itself was capable of it. Towards the end, some kind of coherence came back to his mind, and, as if without volition on his part, the thread of fiery beads, of which he had caught just a glimpse as he walked in the park last Saturday. Good God, four days before only!

That thread began to run past again. He began to see that there had been that element in her all through, the fierce, rending, tearing tiger that loved to wound and mar, that rejoiced in pain. There was the other side of her still. He did not even now wholly forget that, the serene, tender, comprehending girl whose heart leapt so swiftly to meet his. But that disguise of hers, if it were no more than that,

was a floating phantom that moved from him as he looked, leaving him with this fiend that seemed at present the unveiled reality. He grew quieter yet, interiorly, as he saw these things. His whole physical self felt sick and exhausted, but yet the deadly piece increased, as she severed with her two-edged tongue,

fibre after fibre that bound him to herself. It was a deadly piece. He knew that well enough, the piece of a seared and white-ashed countryside over which a devouring flame has gone. Subsection 6. She did not end till they were sliding up past the Albert Memorial. "'Be good enough not to speak to me.'

Those were her last words. "'Be good enough not to speak to me.' They were in Cadogan Lane by now. It was up at that further end, visible beyond Paul's head, that they had passed out so happily a couple of hours ago. They had turned up through the square, he remembered, and so on towards the park. These were the houses which he had seen when he had walked up in the rain before lunch.

He remembered looking at them and wondering vaguely who lived in them, as he had let down his umbrella. Yes, and this was the door of the flat where Paul was drawing up so skillfully. Up those stairs was the door of the flat. The car had stopped now. That was the porter he could see within the glass panels. Oh, he must get out now. He was nearest that side. and he must hold the door and help her out.

The rain had stopped. There was no need to open an umbrella. Yes, he would just push back the glass door on this side while the porter held the other that she might pass through. She was gone through now. Yes, he had better go home. Home, Paul. End of Part 2, Chapter 6, Part 2.

End of Part 2, Chapter 6. Chapter 7, Part 1 of Initiation This is a Libravot's recording. All Libravot's recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit Libravox.org. Read by Paul Lawley-Jones Initiation by Robert Hugh Benson Part 2, Chapter 7, Part 1

Subsection 1 Aunt Anna knew the instant that she saw the coated and capped figure coming across the lawn to her that the first stage had been reached. She said nothing at all as she held out her hands at the foot of the pavilion stairs, down which she had come so soon as she had recognised him. He said nothing as he took them. Still holding one of his hands, she led him back whence she had just come. He was in his driving coat still, though the day once more was hot and stifling.

and his big cap was pulled forward. His face was quite quiet, but his eyes looked a little uncertain. They blinked three or four times as he stared, first at her, and then passed her at the park beyond, drowsing in the strong sunshine. She thanked God that Jim was still out.

Well, it is all over, he said presently, without introduction or greeting. She told me what she thought of me last night. yesterday afternoon, I mean. So I have come back to Hartley, you see? He spoke slowly and deliberately, like a dreamer. His voice shook ever so slightly in his last sentence.

Yes, you have come back to Hartley, my dear, she said. Then she saw Masterson come down the steps from the house and hesitate. I'll just go and speak to Masterson. she said. You'll wait here till I come back? Masterson, she said. So Neville has had a shock. Don't ask him any questions as to his luggage. I expect he hasn't brought any. No, said the butler, staring straight at her. His face was all set with anxiety. If it is to be sent for, I'll let you know this afternoon. I'll tell you anything I can as soon as I know myself. She's spoken. She spoke

as to a friend who shared her sorrow. The old man's face twitched violently, then he wheeled and went back up the steps. When she entered the pavilion again, Neville had not moved. He sat still in the low chair, looking out through the window. His eyes turned to meet hers, and then wandered back again to the sunlit park. On the window seat on which she had been sitting, lay a book or two she had been reading, a rosary of red stones and silver, and half a dozen unopened and envelopes. Her post had been just brought to her, and the man gone again, when she had seen Neville coming. My dear, take off your coat and cap.

He sat forward a little, and unbuttoned the double-breasted coat. She took hold of it behind, but he shook his head, and himself slipped it off, and then his cap, laying them on the floor. He was in the same grey suit in which he had gone away. He seemed a little shrunken and small. Then he leaned back again, and she sat on the window seat. I don't think there's anything more to say, he said in that same toneless voice. She told me what she thought of me when we were out driving.

I went home, back to Elizabeth Street, I mean, and later on I sent a message round to her mother. Her mother came after dinner, but it didn't help much. She said that Enid wouldn't speak to her. and then she said some more things, but they weren't any use. So, I've come back to Hartley. Where's Jim? Jim's out riding. That's all right, said Neville, with the collies, I suppose?

Yes, with the collies. There fell a silence again. Somewhere within Aunt Anna's soul, something seems spinning like a wheel, so fast that no revolutions could be perceived. but there was there an intense and indescribably swift movement, or it was like a single note, sustained at a pitch so high as to be inaudible, or a colour so bright as to be invisible.

This movement in her was so keen that it appeared to absorb into itself all lesser emotions and impulses, leaving her reason cool and capable. It was with this upper part of her perceptions that she saw that she must be very quiet and unemotional and sensible. He must not sit there forever, yet she must not disturb him yet. Would you like lunch out here? she said. He did not seem to hear her, and she repeated her question.

Oh, yes, he said. I'll go in and tell them presently. Again, he did not answer. We'll just sit here quietly, she went on, still tranquil and steady, and you can talk or not, just as you like. If you'll smoke a cigarette, I'll have one too. He drew out his case and held it out. She took one and lit it from a box of matches on the table. He held his case mechanically when she gave it back and did not take a cigarette out for himself till she held the burning match silently before him. Then he lit it and leaned back again. You brought Charleston with you? I don't know. Yes, I think he was behind.

And you drove yourself? Yes, I couldn't see very well. It was dusty. I think I've got some dust in my eyes. Here was an opportunity. She got off the seat and went and kneeled down at his side, laying her cigarette on the floor. It tasted like brown paper and hay,

and took out a handkerchief. He looked at her. Lean right forward, said, and I'll take the dust out. He leaned forward obediently. She put one hand on the top of his head to steady herself, and with the handkerchief ready in the other, searched those eyes that mechanically rolled this way and that for her search. There was one horrible thrill when she thought that she would break down altogether, as she felt the texture of his hair under her hand, and held her own face so close to that dear face and eyes of his. The eyes as simple, as

and miserable as those of a child in pain, she even felt his breath on her mouth. She delicately wiped the corner of each eye. There, I think it's out, she said, sitting back on her heels. Then she went back to the window seat. A quarter of an hour later, she met Masterson in the hall. Come into the dining room, she said. He followed her in and shut the door.

First of all, she said, we will lunch in the pavilion. Tell them downstairs. Bring it all out on a tray together, everything you understand. If there is a hot sweet, don't bring it. But bring everything else on the tray already. And bring it yourself, please. Master Jim must lunch upstairs and not come out till I send for him.

Arrange that, please. Next, tell Charlson and Paul, so soon as they have dined, that they must go straight back to Elizabeth Street. Charlson is to pack all Sir Neville's things and bring them back with him before dressing time this evening. While he is doing that, Paul is to go round to Mrs. Bessington's flat, he'll know that, and leave this note on her.

It's possible that Mrs. Bessington may wish to come back in the car. If so, she will give him the answer herself, if she is in. If she is not, he must find out where she is and go after her. He is to bring her down here this evening, if she wishes to come. I don't know in the least whether she will stay the night or not if she does come. Just tell them downstairs to be ready.

And, Masterson, just tell them all that Sir Neville is in great trouble and that they're not to gossip. But I don't think they will. They must notice nothing. Don't say a word to him even yourself. Will you, Masterson? He is in great trouble. The marriage is broken off.

That is all I know. myself. Subsection 2. Half an hour after lunch, trembling a little, she suggested his going to his room and lying down. To her astonishment he consented, saying that he had rather a headache. He stumbled once or twice as he went down the pavilion steps and up again into the house. He seemed dazed into a dreadful kind of childish simplicity. He had eaten and drunk just a little, without comments or refusals. She saw him into his room and promised to look in later. She had learned practically nothing more than he had told her at first. He had repeated three or four times that Enid had told him what she thought of him, that he was selfish and brutal. Aunt Anna steadied herself by a violent

effort only when she understood this. She made no comments except the simplest. She doesn't know you really. She had said quietly. She had restrained herself with considerable difficulty from commenting upon Enid. What, however, bewildered her most of all, was her hopeless attempt to understand what kind of person Enid must really be. She had, as had been seen, suspected her of a few rather undesirable qualities, and even this suspicion she had discounted because of her knowledge of her own jealousies. but she could not honestly say to herself that she had noticed any symptoms whatsoever

of that astounding cruelty which Neville's little story revealed. At any rate, Enid was not an adventurous. She had been engaged to a man of a quite considerable wealth and position and had flung him over, savagely and violently, without the faintest excuse. For Aunt Anna to hear that Neville had been called selfish and brutal was for her to know that the girl who so discreetly, described him must, practically, be mad. But what motive could she have?

What occasion could have produced such a fantastic lie? What misunderstanding could be so complete? Or was there no motive at all? Was it merely a ferocious and wild irresponsibility? She sent for Jim as she passed downstairs again on her way to the garden. He must be prepared in some kind of way for the situation which must reign in the house for the present. When he came out, looking a little scared, for Masterson had been rather emphatic with him,

she made him climb up onto the window seat behind her. Jim, my dear, I want to talk to you as if you were grown up. Yes, mummy, said Jim, making himself perfectly comfortable with a cushion. Cousin Neville has come back again suddenly. You remember that when he went away, Miss Bessington had promised to marry him? Well, Miss Bessington is not going to marry him after all. Oh? said Jim, wriggling a little on his cushion. Well, Cousin Neville is very sad and unhappy about it,

because, you see, he was very fond of Miss Bessington. You mustn't call her cousin Enid anymore, by the way. I didn't want to at first, observed Jim. Well, what I want to say is this. that you mustn't talk at all to Cousin Neville, when you see him, about what he's been doing in London. And you mustn't look at him as if you wanted to know what was the matter. And of course you mustn't ask him, because all that might make him more unhappy. Do you see?

Jim nodded solemnly. Just tried to think of Cousin Neville as he was before, before Miss Bessington and her mother came here at all, as he was, even before he went away to Rome. "'Oh, mummy?' "'Yes, my boy. "'Why was Cousin Neville so fond of Miss Bessington?' "'She set her teeth for an instant.' "'I don't know,' she said in a low voice.

"'Well, do you understand? "'I'm talking to you just as I would talk to a grown-up person, "'because I think you will. "'And if Mrs. Bessington comes down this evening "'and you see her, either tonight or tomorrow, Just be quite polite, but don't talk to her or ask her questions at all. Jim nodded again. His eyes were round and meditative. These were great matters. And there's one other thing I want you to do for me. I want you to go to the stables and order Marcus to be saddled again.

Then, come back to me here and I'll give you a note. I want you to mount in the stables and ride over to Mr. Morpeth and give him the note. then you can do as you like till tea. I want you to have tea upstairs again unless I send for you. Subsection 3 By six o'clock Mr. Morpeth had long been gone again and she sat alone once more waiting for the next event, whatever that might be. The car was not yet come back. She had slipped upstairs two or three times and peeped into Neville's room

and every time he had been lying quite still with his eyes closed and his cheek resting on his hand. Once he had opened his eyes in a vague, dazed kind of way, and she had slipped out again noiselessly. She had not even sent tea upstairs. The old man had said very little about Enid when she had told him all she knew. He seemed quite uninterested in the personal cause of all this pain. the one thing that was their job, he had said, was Neville. But have you any theory at all? she asked. It may be any one of three or four things, he said.

It is of no use to theorise. I should suppose she is just an egoist with a particular temperament. But that is not the point. He had described the point then, more carefully. It consisted entirely in Neville's attitude. Three things, he said, may be done when real pain is encountered. It may be resisted, or it may be allowed to crush, or it may be accepted. The violent man does the first, the weak man, the second, and in both cases it leads to catastrophe. But I think our friend will accept it, he said.

He can do nothing at present except realize it. But I think he will accept it when he understands, or else I do not see why God has permitted it. He had said then very little. He had not been dogmatic in any way, yet his very presence brought a bracing kind of reassurance. He seemed so absolutely certain that all was in order, that there was nothing whatever to be astonished at, still less to fear.

He will not break down, he will not kill himself. He will not fling himself into any other extreme. Of all that I am confident. You must brace him, Mrs. Fanning, not try to console him. You must not soften him in any way at all. You have been crying? Just a little, she said, before you. You came, not before him.

You must not before him. And so, at last, he had gone, leaving her steadied and courageous. It was as the clock was striking six that she looked out through the pavilion door, and saw Mrs. Bessington following Masterson out upon the lawn. It was almost appalling to Aunt Anna to see how wholly herself this woman seemed. She was in the very same black, hot-looking mantel. in which she had gone away. She moved with the same busy kind of step, neither retarded nor accelerated by the knowledge she bore. She smiled in the same rather hard and wooden kind of way.

And, as she greeted Aunt Anna, she began, as usual, her rapid, unconnected comments on the warmth of the day and the kindness of Mrs. Fanning in sending the motor for her. "'But I must be getting back this evening,' she said. there is a most excellent train that stops only three times between here and London, that leaves at five minutes after eight. We came down in very good time. Aunt Anna could bear it no longer. Mrs. Bessington, she said,

you'll forgive me for interrupting you. Oh, my dear, no, please let me say write out what I want. Then I want to hear what you think of it all, when I, I am sure, please let me say right out what I have in my mind, said Aunt. Anna, in so exceedingly an emphatic tone that the other stopped, and, so to speak, folded up her mouth. And it was then for the first time that Anna saw through the shallow-looking grey eyes that regarded her a look of extreme and poignant interest. Then Aunt Anna began. She took about five minutes to say what she had to say. She had asked Mrs. Bessington to come down immediately because she wished

really to get at the facts, and because Neville would say nothing. She knew that Miss Bessington had spoken to him in such a manner that he had, apparently, taken it for granted that the engagement was at an end. Well, Neville's happiness was of the greatest possible moment to herself. She might say that there was practically nothing for which she cared more. She had asked down Mrs. Bessington, therefore, first in order to learn the facts at once that there might, for instance, be no doubt about the matter if the engagement were finally at an end.

Next, if it were not, to know that instead. Thirdly, in order, if Neville wished it, that he might have an opportunity of seeing her. She eyed, rather anxiously, the house door from time to time. She had deliberately given orders that Mrs. Bessington was to be shown straight out here without concealment, but she intended, if she saw Neville coming out, to go and meet him and tell him who was come. It is entirely unconventional and very impertinent of me to have asked you down like this, she ended.

But I know you will forgive me. I stand very nearly to him as a mother might. It struck me as the only thing that I could think of to do. Will you very kindly tell me what you think? She looked her full in the face, and then she began to understand. End of Part 2, Chapter 7. Part 1. Chapter 7, Part 2 of initiation.

This is a Libravox recording. All LibraVos Accordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit Libravox.org. Read by Paul Lawley-Jones. Initiation by Robert Hugh Benson Part 2, Chapter 7, Part 2. Subsection 4 It seemed to Aunt Anna, as Mrs Bessington talked, that she was watching, so to say, an extraordinarily fine portrait being painted with the trembling, uncertain strokes of a completely

incompetent artist. Yet the artist was infinitely pathetic too. For, for the first time Aunt Anna perceived, beneath the senseless trickle of words and the set conventional face, not only a humanity which she had never suspected, but a humanity of humanity that was in anguish and had, with a stoical kind of courage, succeeded hitherto in hiding its pain under this flat and dreary exterior. Again and again, as the middle-aged woman talked, interrupting herself, wandering away into parentheses that never closed, describing details minutely, and omitting principles,

the other was drawn off in a kind of wonder from the repellent vision of Enid revealed by her mother, to the poignant vision of the mother as tormented by Enid. For the first time in her life, Anna stood face to face with a figure of sorrow that was almost grotesquely dull, with a soul that was suffering intolerable pain under a flat and foolish mask. When the woman had finished, when, rather, she had tailed off into wholly inconsequent repetitions and comments, Anna understood as she had never thought to understand. The beautiful girl then was a practically insane egoist. She had been so the whole of her lifelong.

Obviously, she had been spoiled as a child, her father had done the most of it, and her mother had yielded. She cared really for absolutely no one except herself. One or two almost incredible little stories were related as to the way she had treated her friends. For now she had no friends at all. Her beauty and her charm drew people to her again and again, and for a week, or a month,

or even six months, such friendships had developed. Always, however, sooner or later, she behaved exactly as she had behaved to Neville. Once before she had been engaged to be married, and had broken it off in almost a precisely similar manner. Yet she always considered herself the innocent party. she always professed herself disappointed in her friends. She had begun, for the last year or two, to withdraw herself in a kind of despair from people's company,

since she appeared honestly to be under the impression that it was these alienated friends who had behaved badly to herself. But above all, it was in her behaviour to her mother that the egoism showed itself most cruelly of all. She insisted on going these rounds. she insisted on living in what she considered a suitable manner, on having rooms in these hotels,

on expensive isolation, on continual travelling. Yet, in private, she behaved to her mother with unrelenting cruelty. She continually told her not to talk so much. She reproached her. She sulked for days together in silence. She used her tongue like a whip.

Yet in public, she bore herself with dignity and serenity, and even with a superficial kind of affection. Nerves, no doubt, were responsible for such outbursts as that which Neville had experienced. But the outbursts did no more than reveal that insanely selfish character which, beneath her calm and apparent detachment, brooded always within her. Such then was the portrait indicated rather than executed, rather than executed, by the woman in the black mantle and bonnet, the portrait that grew upon the air before Anna's eyes, and solved her last difficulties.

For every line brought conviction, the jealousy she had suspected in her, the little flickers of abruptness, the sense of which she was aware that this was the very last girl in the world for Neville, the broken little story which he himself had told. These things all fell into place and joined on with the lines of the character which the girl's mother herself now filled up.

I could keep it to myself no longer Mrs. Fanning, said the poor lady, trembling a little, with a large tear in the corner of each eye. I feel you have a right to know. God forgive me if I am hard upon my own daughter. God knows how I have tried to think otherwise, but as I have said, she behaves like that both to me and to others. ever since she was a little dot. She is very selfish.

I am afraid there is no doubt about that, and thinks of no one but herself. And then she begins to find fault with the first one and then another, until there is no one left. Mrs. Bessington was repeating herself gallantly, without the least misgiving. And it has always been so from the first. She used to be the same with her father, too,

who, who, well, he had made his own way in the world, you know, and she did not like the way he used to pronounce words sometimes, and used to say so to him when we were alone together. But now I must bear with it as well as I can, because I am her mother, and I have never yet said a word to anyone except yourself. But as soon as your note came, and I could see what terrible harm she had done once more,

I just slipped on my things and came away. and left a note saying that I was called away she has shut herself up in her room ever since yesterday, and has never touched a morsel of food. But I did hope that this time would be the last, and that she had at last found into Neville the very man for her. And I am sure I do not know what we shall do next, or whether she will speak to me again for a while, for she is sure to say that it was all my fault for talking as much. And whatever will you think of me, Mrs. Fanning, for talking like that about my, own... The two tears rolled suddenly from her eyes and fell on the black silk mantle. Aunt Anna sprang up and kissed her. Subsection 5.

At half-past seven, Aunt Anna stood at the door, watching the back of the carriage that took her guest off to the station. Mrs. Bessington's conversation, at the early dinner that was served for her in the morning room at seven o'clock, had been a very masterpiece. Without the smallest softening again of that cast iron exterior of conventionality, she had discoursed with amazing courage of the Academy exhibition, and Selva's acting, the comparative merits of English and Italian scene painters, the dust on the roads, and her country cottage to which, she remarked unblenchingly in Masterson's presence,

she supposed that Enid and herself would soon be going. In its way, it was the most gallowsy, an blunt exhibition that Anna had ever witnessed. A quarter of an hour ago in the garden, the mask had been laid aside, and she had seen a woman whose heart must have been very nearly broken by the most unromantic and sordid pain that any woman can suffer, a pain that went on ceaselessly, the continual contempt and cruel hostility of her own daughter.

And now, here again sat the original Mrs. Bessington, as Masterson came in and out, with her features composed again into their smiling cast, and not one spark of feeling visible in her eyes, dining well and amply before returning to London to take up the torment again. Meanwhile, Anna had considered, in gusts of thought, what she must do when the other was gone.

She had again peeped into Neville's room, and he was still lying on his bed, apparently asleep, But what must be done when the guest was gone? She had decided not to tell him that she was here till afterwards. There was no purpose to be served. The thing was finished. Not for any consideration in the world, even had such a thing been possible, would Anna have lifted a finger to mend the breach?

She thanked God, only that the matter had been ended, at however dreadful a cost, before it was irredeemable. Here then, she stood now. with the Western sun in her eyes, watching the Brohams back diminish in the distance, as, with Jim and the Collies so short a while ago, she had seen Neville's car go down the drive. Masterson had gone back into the house, and she was alone. She appeared to herself to be in a strange kind of lull. Just as the poor soul there in the Brohom was driving away to face so gallantly one kind of pain, so she, when she turned again into the house behind her, must face another.

There seemed a lot of pain everywhere, and all so purposeless. It seemed a miserable sort of affair, that so much unhappiness could be caused by one person. Then, as she stared at nothing, for the Broome was gone, she began to realize that her attitude towards pain was not as it used to be, not even as so short a while ago as a few weeks. It was no longer to be feared, as once she had feared it, especially that subtle and exquisite kind that arises from watching that of another. There was not that thrill of terror which she would have felt a while ago, as she contemplated in her imagination what she must now witness in Neville,

that dreadful, helpless simplicity as of a child. She had no idea of what would happen next, of how she would find him. He must have slept now for at least three or four hours. Obviously he had not slept at all last night. Above all, what would he be a few days hence when the lashes his soul had received had passed from numbness to pain once more?

She turned as a step sounded behind her. "'I beg your pardon, ma'am,' said the discreet voice of Charlson. But Sir Neville seemed unwell. when I took up his hot water for dressing. Subsection 6 At ten o'clock that night, Neville turned to her and opened his eyes. Then he sat up, rubbing them.

Why, that's much better, he said. Was that ten which struck? She had been with him for the last two hours. She had found him nearly speechless with pain when she had run up with Charleston. His face was ground down into the pillow. He was still in the suit in which he arrived. He had turned, when she had spoken to him, and said something about galloping horses,

and she had thought him delirious until he had said that it was just one of his abominable headaches. The little village doctor had arrived ten minutes later, and had ordered him to bed. While Charlson was with him, she and the doctor had talked in the morning room, and she had told him that Sonevel had had a very heavy shock, in London, she did not at present specify more than this, and had probably not slept at all the night before. The doctor had nodded wisely, and talked about overstrained nerves. He had also asked her what the specialist has said a few months before,

whom Neville, at his advice, had gone up to consult. Anna had said that she scarcely knew, that Sir Neville was very secretive about such matters and hated to have his health spoken of. But that she understood he had given the young man some medicine and told him first to avoid worry and next to come again. Again, the doctor had nodded two or three times and demanded to see the prescription.

Anna fetched this from her own room and showed it to him. He had said nothing. Then, when the doctor had seen him again and departed, she had gone back and sat with the young man in silence, watching him with Charlson sitting within call in the bathroom next door. She had given him his medicine once or twice in his soup when it came up, but nothing else had happened. She had heard the tick of the big hall clock behind,

and the chimes from the stable. That was all. Neville kept his face turned from her. Certainly he looked more like himself now. His eyes were bright and restless, but the peculiar filmy look they had had this afternoon was gone again. Yes, that was ten, she said. Your headaches gone?

Well, very nearly. Oh, yes, very nearly indeed. And I can see again all right. That was Mrs. Bessington, wasn't it? With you in the pavilion. She did not show her surprise. Yes, I sent for her. her. I saw her from the window, said the young man, lying back again on his pillows.

Why aren't you dressed for dinner, Aunt Anna? I shall have something presently, she said. And you've been with me all this time? What a beast I am. Aunt Anna, yes? I don't want to hear a single word of what she said. She's a good woman, but She waited. It's finished. I know that. I didn't understand, you see, but...

Again, he hesitated, and again she waited. She must just be perfectly steady. She knew that. What was that which Mr. Morpeth had said about not softening him? She must show no emotionalism. Well, what I wanted to say was this. Do you think I've been such a... Such an offensive brute as all that?

As she told me? She clenched her teeth once, just to make certain that the muscles of her throat were under control. There seemed a strange, contracted kind of pain in them. No, my dear. You have not been an offensive brute at all. You've been all that is considerate and good. She doesn't understand, that is all.

You really think that? I am quite certain of it. His eyes wandered vaguely round the room. The marks of his suffering were very plain on his face, even under that carefully shaded light. Well, I'm glad you think that. I didn't mean to be anyhow. By the way, yes?

I want to move into the West bedroom when it's convenient. I don't mean tonight, but in a day or two. In spite of her resolution, her heart. heart sickened, but she crushed it down. She had conquered herself in that matter. Was she not to allow him to conquer, too? Very well, my dear. The house is yours, you know. He smiled and then grew grave again. Oh, no, it is ours, really ours once more. It must remain ours now.

My dear, you've talked enough. Do you think, you can go to sleep now if I leave you? Oh, I dare say, Jim all right? Jim's very much all right. He's been out nearly all day. That's first rate. We must bathe together again. My dear boy, you must go to sleep. Shall I call Charlson? Yes, you may as well, if you don't mind. Then we'll begin again and try to do better. Won't we? Aren't we? Unse. Anna? This time she could not speak. She stood up, leaned forward, and kissed him gently on his forehead, as her custom was. Certainly, he was doing as Mr. Morpith had thought he would. Good night, Aunt Anna. Good night, my boy. End of part two, chapter seven, part two.

End of part two, chapter seven. End of part two. Part three, chapter seven. End of part two. Part three, Chapter 1, Part 1 of Initiation This is a Libravox recording. All Librevox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Libravox.org. Read by Paul Lawley-Jones Initiation by Robert Hugh Benson Part 3, Chapter 1, Part 1

Subsection 1 "'Auggy, that's a beastly fluke,' remarked Neville. "'Not at all. I tried for it. What more could I do?' "'Well, that's thirty all. Isn't it, Marker?' "'Yes, Sir Neville,' said a voice from the little sentry-box by the net. They changed over. It was a high, dropping shot off the wall into the Deadens Gallery. If it had not come precisely at that angle, it would have been a very poor,

chase, and algae's play as a whole did not justify the belief that he could make such a stroke once in twenty times. However, he had certainly done it that time. Tennis, the genuine game, not the bastard played on a lawn, is perhaps the most bewildering game to the uninitiated spectator that has ever been invented. So thought Aunt Anna on this September morning, as she had thought, indeed very many times on other mornings. Of nine out of every ten fine strokes, she understood nothing. There were things called chases, she knew, which had something to do with the ball striking the ground for the second time.

One changed over as soon as two had been made. There was a little netted partition called The Winning Gallery, Low Down on one side. Mysterious phrases were cried aloud from the same, sentry box. But she cared nothing for these things. She loved only to watch the interplay, the strange mingling of an extraordinarily quick delicacy with an apparently slow deliberation. Above all, she loved to watch Neville when he got excited on the far side, and sent ball after ball whacking straight at the net behind his opponent's head. She leaned her chin on her hand,

and her hand on the rail of the gallery above the deadens, and began to watch Neville receiving services. On the whole, she had been vastly relieved by the passing of the last three months. There had been nothing sensational, no reaction, no moods of despair. The Bessingtons had gone again from the Hartley orbit as emphatically as they had come, only Neville had never referred to them again, or told her one word more than he had told her at the beginning. It was finished, as he had said, and he was beginning again, as he had promised.

The usual notice about not taking place had been sent to the papers. But he was certainly a little quieter and more secretive. He went out by himself a good deal into the woods. She had noticed, by the way, that the wooden seat by the marble mrs. monument in the woods had been removed, but she asked no questions. He rode with Jim two or three times a week. He complained no more of his headaches. He had entirely refused, by the way, to go and see the specialist again, but he had promised definitely to do so if the pain came back. But it had not come back, it appeared. It seemed as if his last headache had been the end of them, as if the shock,

and his heavy sleep, and his couple of hours of real physical agony had, so to speak, swept his head clean and purged his humours. Meanwhile, he would have no guests, or at least very few. It was understood that Aunt Anna might have down a female friend from time to time, that Mr. Morpeth dined with them occasionally, that a man, now and again like algae, would come for a weekend. But Neville refused to go away anywhere from Hartley. He had refused, too, so far as she knew, every invitation to the north for the shooting.

He lived a simple, ordinary kind of life, and appeared content with it. It had all puzzled her a little, but she had come to see that it was probably the best thing he could do, that he was assimilating his new experience, and that such an assimilation would take time. Her only astonishment was that he did not seem in the least more religious than he had been before. He still dutifully heard mass on Sunday. He abstained on Friday. He entertained Father Richardson to dinner once a fortnight. But he showed no sign of looking for any consolation in religion.

He was not, in that respect at least, at all the broken-hearted lover of convention. He had not been to the sacraments since. his return. Subsection 2. Jim wriggled beside her on the seat. That was a good one, he said. It was a good one. Even she could see that. Neville in the far court had slashed suddenly and viciously at a fastball. It had whacked into the sidewall and then thumped into the net. That's quits, said Neville. That's as good as yours, and I really did try mine. Algae made an incoherent retort. Aunt Anna loved to watch two males such as these when they got worked up.

They were so exceedingly rude and brusk to one another. They jeered so genially. It was so entirely unlike two females. She imagined a few of her women friends playing tennis. At least two or three of them would miss strokes on purpose in order to please the other. or would give a little caress as they crossed over. They would be so very appreciative of their opponent's efforts, and so distressed at failure.

But these two males snapped cheerfully, and told the other that he was a blinking idiot, or triumphed loudly over the other's discomfiture, and bade him not to spread his great feet all over the balls. Certainly, Neville did not talk like this to anyone except algae, but to him he was refreshingly frank, and Algae responded gallantly. She really did like algae.

A resounding whack of a ball on the human frame recalled her from her meditations. Sorry, old man, said Algy, but you shouldn't get in the light. Neville turned a venomous face upon his friend and stopped to rub his thigh, because real tennis balls are hard and solid. Vantage to me, said Algae, determined to miss no point that he could make. "'Who's Lord Mayersfield?' asked Jim suddenly. "'And why is he coming here?' She explained that Lord Mayersfield was a friend of Cousin Nevels,

and that he was coming because he had been asked. That was the only way to deal with Jim. "'How long will he stay?' "'Till Tuesday, I think.' "'Oh, will he ride?' "'Yes, I should think so, but he won't ride with you.' "'Oh,' said Jim, and took no further interest. "'Game and set,' observed the hidden watcher from the sentry-box dispassionately.

"'Well, you've surpassed even yourself in fluking today,' said Neville. "'I'll bet you five to one in anything you like that you won't do that again in ten shots.' "'That's right, old man. Take it out in temper.' Neville strolled towards the exit, trailing his heavy racket. Then he turned to the gallery. "'Come on, Jim, for your lesson. Clear out algae. Going, Aunt Anna?' "'Yes, my dear. It's just gone twelve. I must go and do my letters.' "'Subsection three.'

Half an hour later, Neville and the boy emerged from the passage that led from the dressing-room into the garden. Algae had disappeared ten minutes before. "'And now shall we go and quest for the Holy Grail again?' asked indefatigable Jim. There's an hour before lunch. Neville looked at him. By George we will, he said. We haven't done that for, for ages, but we won't mount till we get to the garden gate.

Will that do? Certainly. I'm not a horse till then. I'm Sir Gawain and you're Sir Galahad. But Sir Gawain didn't find it. He stayed at a pavilion with, with merry maidens. "'Explain Jim, still a little breathless from tennis, yet quoting gallantly.' "'Neville winced, ever so slightly.

"'Yes, but you see, I shan't be Sir Gawain when I get to the garden gate. "'I shall be your horse then. "'And if Sir Gala had found the grail, I suppose his horse did too.' "'But perhaps his horse couldn't see it.' "'That's true. "'Well, this one must, anyhow.' By a kind of fatal instinct, Sir Galahad insisted on going to the monument. The horse made inviting suggestions that a small black pond with mud promontory is running into it,

all under the beech trees, was a far more likely spot for the attaining of the vision. But his rider would not hear of it. No, the monument was where you talked about it last time. I want the monument, please. Obviously, Sir Galahad entertained views of sitting down on the seat when he got there, for he uttered a cry of dismay when he arrived. But where's the seat? It's gone, said the horse, which was an answer, but no explanation.

We'll sit down on the ground instead. He paused. Perhaps we shall see better if we're lower down. So they sat on the dry, powdery soil and leaned their backs against the marble. It was a clear, septuptych. day. The world had had its reign in August as usual, and once more, as usual, September had brought a mellowed summer back again. The high beach roof hung motionless to right and left, still green, yet with that tinge that herald's dissolution, as clear, yet as indescribable as the purple flush

that, on the bare branches of March, promises the renewal of spring. So too with the vista that opened down the valley. At first sight, it might have been July, yet as one looked, it was certain that there was no further reserve of strength. The last word of life had been said, and the end must begin. The trees stood, patient and full-blown, waiting for their sleep once more. The picture was painted, down to the last stroke. Let it be looked at then, in silence, before it is carried away. "'Do you see it anywhere?' asked Jim. "'Oh, the Grail,' said Neville, "'who was meditating about something entirely different.

"'I think so. "'Don't you remember that we agreed last time "'that it's really here all the while?' "'No, I don't,' said Jim frankly. "'Sentimentality obviously would not do with this child.' Neville braced himself up a little. "'Besides, he really wanted to do it. to know what he himself did think.

Well, I believe it is here, you know. But don't you remember my saying that the thing that the Grail means is here all the time? It's the whole thing, don't you know? He felt he was doing it very feebly, but he really did not quite know what he thought. Jim looked at him with an air of disappointment. I don't understand a word you're saying, cousin Neville. Well, to be honest, I don't understand myself. Jim sniffed a little.

This was really rather tiresome. Shall we go on a little? No, said Neville. Let's sit here without speaking one word for five minutes and look hard. Then if we don't see anything, we'll go on and look somewhere else. Very well, said Jim resignedly. This was a stupid kind of game. almost as stupid as the blind man game they had played once after bathing.

It was beginning to appear to Neville that he was being driven from stronghold to stronghold. About five years ago, during his last year at Stonyhurst, he had really been rather religious. He had even consulted his confessor as to whether it were not just conceivable that he might have a vocation to the society of Jesus, and had been considerably taken aback by the priest's emphatic opinion that he had nothing of the kind, and that his obvious duty was to live in the world, to marry, and to establish a Catholic family as speedily as possible. From that day his lukewarmness had begun.

God did not want him in any peculiar or intimate manner. Very well then. This mood had grown swiftly, and by the time that he went, went to Rome, he had begun to rest his centre of gravity on human persons. He still held to his religion in the manner that has been described, but it appeared to him not interesting. Then, as if to corroborate his mood, had come Enid, and in her he believed he had found precisely that which he needed, someone sufficiently like himself to be loved, and sufficiently sublime to be adored. Well, then, just as everything seemed settling down into perfect adjustment, there had come an earthquake,

and his life, he thought, had tumbled to pieces. He had picked up the bits, so soon as he could do anything at all, and regarded them carefully. It was hopeless. Very well then. God had repudiated him, in the only way in which he had seriously thought of serving him. and now humanity had repudiated him, in the only way in which he seriously thought he could serve humanity. Of course, in both realms, he still did his conventional duties. He heard mass on Sundays and said his prayers. He was very fond of Aunt Anna, took pleasure in pleasing Jim, and did his duty to his tenants.

But where was his centre of gravity to rest? He had played tennis. He had walked tennis. He had walked, or ridden in the woods, he had looked after his estate, all to mark time, and it was here, sitting for five minutes in silence with Jim, that he thought he began to see light, to see the grail, or if not the grail, at any rate his grail. God would not do, man would not do, not, that is to say, as objects of passion. What would do? Was it conceivable that nature would do, and that he would find in it, as poets find, that there is a real spirit that can be loved. He regarded the landscape again, as if he scanned the face of a person. Surely there must be some unity in this perfection.

Above him towered the beaches like a dim temple roof. Here was the clean floor of earth. There was the wide window that looked across the world. And here, here above all was the worshipper. Here he himself sat, sound again, so far as he knew, in bodily health. Alert with vigour. Why had his health come back so radiantly, if not for this? Jim had said that God was the proper person who made one happy.

He himself, in this very place, had thought it to be Enid. Both alike had sought to enshrine a foreign deity. What if there were a deity here all the while, in a house not made with hands, sweet and virile spirit that breathed now in the scent of the bracken, that whispered in the rustle of the undergrowth, that pulsated in his own strong limbs and heart? Might he not try here, at least? Plunge himself in this heavenly spirit of earth, and find in it his rest? Besides, there really seemed nothing else.

Come on, Jim, time's up. Do you see it? Asked Jim rather wearily. I think so, but I'm not sure. Well, I don't, said Jim. End of Part 3, Chapter 1, Part 1, Part 3, Chapter 1, Part 2 of Initiation. This is a Libravoc recording. All Libravox recordings are in the public domain.

For more information or to volunteer, please visit Libravocs.org. Read by Paul Lawley Jones. Initiation by Robert Hugh Benson. Part 3, Chapter 1, Part 2. Subsection 4 The smoking room at Hartley is on the left of the staircase that leads down into the garden. It is a charming room. room. From the walls look down monstrous heads of stag and pig and buffalo. There is an

abundance of little coloured prints. There are three large sensible tables and six large sensible chairs. There is a wide mantle piece of oak on which stand cigar boxes, matchboxes, pine wood spills in bronze jars, a honey-coloured bowl of tobacco, and mounted hooves of horses. There is a clock set always five minutes in advance of the house time. There is a thick carpet, not too new, and a rug of Siberian wolf before the fireplace. And there is just the gentlest possible aroma in the air that comforts the carnal senses with an infinite and suggestive delicacy. There are also bookshelves, low enough to be within reach of a man sitting back in a deep chair,

filled with the proper kind of volumes and a complete leather-bound set of punch. Here then, the three men sat, after Aunt Anna had gone to bed. The new guest had been exceedingly easy and pleasant, and it was plain that he was not going to be an interruption. He had professed himself entirely pleased to dawdle. Also, he would be delighted to shoot on Monday if he were wanted.

In fact, he had brought his gun as a little bit of a gun as a little bit of aftel. he had been told. On the other hand, nothing could be more to his taste than to sit about generally. These things he had conveyed in that staccato fashion of his that was more convincing

than the most luxuriant eloquence. So easy then was the atmosphere that Neville, strolling out into the hall, through the door set open to make a good draft with the windows, and then strolling on to the top of the steps to look at the moon,

finally went down the steps without hesitation to take a turn in the garden. The voices of Mayorsfield and Algae went on intermittently above. When the faint crunch of the host's footsteps had died away, Algie glanced at the other man. Suppose you heard all about his trouble, eh? Saw it in the papers, eh? Jilted him, didn't she? What?

Algie nodded. He's a good chap, Fanning, you know. I was at school with him. One of the papist lot, too, eh? That's it. You knew the girl. rather well, didn't you? Met a once or twice, not my sort, you know.

I could have told him if he'd ask me, eh? Why did he chuck him, do you know? Just a fad, full of them, art and literature and that, knows nothing about it either. Comes and jaws in my little painting room. Too damn positive about everything. Not my sort, eh? Had enough of her.

Oh, that's it, is it? said Augee, looking interested. Couldn't make it out, you know. Good chap. "'Nice place? Everything you'd have thought.' Then, Lord Mayersfield summed up his views of Miss Bessington quite as adequately as her own mother, in about one thousandth part of her words. "'Selfish sort, eh? Thinks about nothing but her own damn self.

"'Gives her mother hell, I should think, what? Not my sort. "'Like the old lady, though. Though she does talk above a bit, eh?' "'He blew meditatively down his pipe, and reached for the tobacco jar. "'Can't make out fanning, though,' resumed Algae. "'Hasn't said a word about her, good or bad, "'and he's not the sort of man you'd begin it with.' "'Mind your own business. Damn your eyes, eh?' "'Exactly,' said Algae.

Meanwhile, the great yellow moon rode high above the cedars, and the air was full of those late summer smells in which only the most pessimistic of persons can detect the real autumn flavour. The garden was one scheme of greys and blacks. Gray's on the lawns, silver-grey on the paths and stonework, black beneath the cedars and where the shrubberies stood with their back to the great shining shield in the heavens. He turned by the path to the tennis court and came round, along the very same way by which

he had led Enid when the lawns were alight with the sunlit rainfall, to the low wall beyond which ran the swift river. He stopped at the top of the water steps and looked down at the shadowed molten stream that talked to itself as it ran, down past the pavilion, past the bridge where he and Jim had missed the big trout, down to the bathing pool where he and Jim had bathed. As he stood, a couple of thunderous plunges out of sight announced that the trout were excited,

perhaps joyful in the moonlight, perhaps, less etherely greedy of their meal. He scarcely needed to be. when he first came down the steps, why he had come. He was beginning to know now, for there ran through his veins a faint tingle of pleasure at the touch of this naked night of moon and water, at the sweet and chilly breath of hers that he breathed. As he glanced back at the house, hearing some word come through the lighted windows of the smoking-room, he thought, how stuffy and confined all that seemed. There they were, those two pleasant fellows,

drawing away at one another and breathing hot tobacco smoke. He threw away the end of his own cigarette into the stream, as he thought of it, and listened for the delicious spit with which water welcomes and quenches fire, breathing hot tobacco smoke, and refreshing themselves with just one more whiskey and soda. It all seemed rather stuffy and rather disconnected. The real thing seemed out. here. He stretched himself and breathed another deep, lung-filling draft of night air. How perfectly glorious a swim would be! Why should he not go down there beyond the bridge?

And let his whole body drink its fill. It would not take ten minutes. No, he wouldn't want a towel. Subsection 5 The two men looked up as he came in, a quarter of an hour later. "'Lord, your hair's all wet,' said Algae. "'Is it raining?' "'Had a bathe,' said Neville, "'while you chaps have been froustoning in here.' "'Algy regarded him with concern.

"'Bave?' Neville sat down. He desired to say no more, but Algae would not let him alone. "'What did you want to do that for?' he asked. Neville felt a little surge of impatience. He had been thinking just now, how apart from him these men in the smoking room really were.

Came into my head, he said shortly. Algae lit a last cigarette. The lights in the hall were out, all but one high up in the roof, as they went upstairs, and the great dim spaces looked mysterious and cool. Yet even there he felt pressed upon and confined. It was the night outside that seemed to him the reality.

As he came back from seeing that Mayersfield was all right in his room, again he paused outside the door of the west room that was now his own. Yes, that was the great hathrug below, with the chairs grouped confidentially in a big half-circle, where he had talked with Enid. It looked dark and deserted now in the half-light. Well, he had done with all that kind of thing now. With the vivid memory of the night outside, and the caress of the breeze and the water, human relationships appeared feverish and distracting. He seemed apart even from the two men to whom he had just bidden good night. He felt at once lonely and exhilarated. When he got into his room and shut the door, the first thing

he did was to set back the loosely closed shutters and to raise the sash of both the windows still higher. Then, drawn again by the night, he rested there, his arms on the sill, staring out into the dark. This was the more sombre side of the house. A great wide space lay open before him, cut in the foreground by the jutting porch, closed to right and left by the set shrubberies. On the right, over the low wall, trooped the black cypresses of the churchyard.

But the lawns, cut by the drive that ran straight westwards, lay in the full moonlight, grey and dew-soaked. To the eyes of the body, it was an empty and rather desolate space. But to his perceptions, all awakened by the touch of the water in which he had swum just now, fructified by his meditations beside the monument, those meditations in which, it had seemed to him, he had begun to discover that for which his heart craved.

It seemed rather a stage all alert for sensation. It satisfied his desire for room and serenity. It met his instincts to push away human beings and clear a space in which his spirit might expand. The thought of people in the house, of his two guests whom he must entertain tomorrow, of Aunt Anna and Jim, of all those servants, so necessary, apparently,

if one was to live as was expected of one, all this seemed to him rather oppressive in interrupting. It was something, at any rate, that they were all shut up for the night, while he leaned here and drank in the night air. There, then, as he leaned on the windowsill, life seemed to be smoothing itself out from its creases and complications. He was as one who, after initiation,

had bathed in lustral water and become illuminated by the God. He undressed, got between the sheets at last, and lay there with his head on the high pillow, looking out dreamily through the wide-flung window at the pale moonlit sky and the low far-away horizon. Long ago, he had got over the slight discomfort which the association of this room had at first given him. His first night or two here, with the four chintz hung posts about him, between which his father had died. The sight, beyond the foot of the bed, of the dressing-table, and the engraved portrait between the windows, on which those dying eyes had last rested,

the solemn shining dark furniture that had witnessed that death. Those things at first had been to him the occasion of a little superstitious uneasiness. It was, in fact, to overcome that uneasiness that he had insisted on sleeping here. But it was all gone now. His body glowed with a reaction from the water, his mind with its memory. How delicious had been that plight. plunge into the mystery of its troubled moonlit surface.

As he rose to the surface, he had seen the vaporaths go floating by, had seen, as from a new point of view, the black shrubberies on the one side, and the post and rails on the other, whence the bullocks had watched himself and Jim only three or four months ago. How marvellously different the world had been then. It had been morning then, with colours and lights. It was the morning on which he had later gone up to the morning. to London to meet Enid. It was night now, and all colours were gone, sucked back into the infinitely simple greys and blacks from which all colours come, and to which they must return.

His mind had been active and imaginative then. It was passive and receptive now. He asked himself whether he were happy, and he did not know the answer. But he was sure that there were possibilities of peace in his new point of view that had been absent from the old. Five years ago he would have looked for God, in such a mood in those days when he had madly thought to be a Jesuit, and would have tried to center those sensations and experiences around the divine personality. Five months ago, he would have thought of Enid, would have imagined her as his center, as indeed he had imagined her, the secret and meaning of all that he saw and felt. And now, again, as in the woods this afternoon,

it appeared to him that he had sought to enshrine a foreign deity in a temple that was not his, in a temple that had been built by other hands and already held its creator. So he lay and dreamed, and the glow of his body passed into the sheets and reacted again, soothing and quieting him. And his eyes drooped and opened again upon the solid,

oblong of sky and moonlight. He felt superbly well and vigorous. When he slept at last, the night breeze had risen a little. The blind flapped softly. Even the chint's curtains round that bed of death creaked and rustled, and a tassel somewhere tapped and tapped again, as if the room itself lived and was stirring itself to action. End of Part 3, Chapter 1, Part 2

End of Part 3, Chapter 1, Part 3, Chapter 1, Part 3, Chapter 2, Part 1 of Initiation. This is a Librevox recording. All Librevox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Libravox.org. Read by Paul Lawley-Jones Initiation by Ruron. Robert Hugh Benson. Part 3, Chapter 2, Part 1. Subsection 1

There was no doubt about it, thought Aunt Anna, as, with Jim, she set out to join the shooters at lunch on the day before Lord Mayersfield was to leave. There was no doubt but that the mysterious movement of autumn had begun, the third of the year's great symphonies. Three days ago, summer had ended on a full close. the day that Lord Mayersfield had come. The woods had stood erect and confident for the last time. It was the day too, she learned next day, on which Neville had actually bathed, all alone, after dinner.

They had talked about it at breakfast next morning. The wind had got up that night. The clouds had come, and when she had gone out to give the collies and Jim a run after the early mass, the first faint agitation of the new season was in the air. Today, the last shred of doubt was gone. The motif, so to say, was announced, for there was come, over the face of the woods, a definite tint that had not been there last week. The key had changed into the miner. The trees were still opulent and full-leaved,

the grass still heavy and luxuriant. The warmth was practically as great as three days ago. Yet the thing was there. Jim was a shade silent this morning. He had secretly hoped that he would be allowed to start with the shooters after breakfast, and had appeared, gated and capped, with an assured air, so soon as the keeper came up with the beaters. Lessons, he had seemed to think, would melt as inevitably as morning

mists before the sun in the glory of the first day after the partridges. He had been undeceived, in spite of Neville's intercession, and sent back to take off his gaiters. Anna had been a little astonished that Neville had pleaded for him, out loud, in his presence, but she could not relent. Jim's lessons were beginning to rest rather heavily on her conscience, and more than ever now that downside was postponed till further notice. "'You must keep close,' she said as they came out through the belt of trees towards the approach to the valley where lunch was to be. "'You'll remember, won't you?'

"'Oh, I know all about that,' said Jim, indifferently, trudging along with his hands in his pockets and an ash plant under his arm in imitation of Mr. Dane, the keeper. He presented a very sturdy and resolute little figure. It was a very charming view on which presently they looked, as they came out from the trees and halted. Beneath, a sharp little valley, enclosed in woods, sloped away into broad flatness at the lower end on the right, and rose to a point at the upper end on the left. It was usually the last drive before lunch, as the keeper's cottage stood conveniently at the edge of the woods on the extreme point of the valley,

and the bird had a way of taking refuge here after the drives in the open country to the right. From where the two stood, the whole strategy was plainly visible, for they were at a point about halfway up the valley. They could see the line of beaters moving up from the right, and the three guns in ambush behind little clumps of may trees that dotted the pasture on the left. It was possible even to make out which was which. Neville was nearest to them, in his grey suit, perhaps a hundred yards away and fifty feet below their level. Lord Mearsfield next, in the middle in Russet-Brown, an algae-lenox beyond in a delicate green.

They had arrived two exactly in time, and would see the drive from beginning to end. The sun, come out for a little space from the clouds, stood high behind them, and the valley was full of light from the green pasture where the guns stood, across the mustard patch halfway, down to the newly-cut stumbles and pasture, again, up which the beaters came. As soon as the birds began to arrive, it was evident that Neville was in form. He had seemed very cheerful at breakfast, and had talked almost in his old way. For the first three covies came straight over him,

and each time it was possible to make out they were. left two of their number behind. Each time there was a sudden halt, and a cry from the line of tiny, doll-like figures that laboured slowly upwards. Something white waved vigorously, and then Anna could make out a moving pattern of dots, scarcely changing their relative positions as they came, slide across the background, blackish-looking against the yellow of the mustard, brown again against the green meadowland. Then, as they approached, came the shot.

In each case from Neville, one as they approached, and one as they passed on, and the covey was smaller by two. Jim stood dead silent, trembling a little, drawing his breath sharply as the shots were fired. Ooh, said Jim, after the sixth. The last covey of that drive, numbering at least a dozen birds, broke from the nearer edge of the mustard as the beaters entered at the other, and a side of the other, and a side of the burst wildly, and simultaneously a hare burst out of the ground. There were shots in all directions, at least three from algae and two from Lord Mayersfield, as well as another from Neville.

Then the two spectators came out from the edge of the wood to make their way downwards. Anna was glad that Neville had had so much shooting, and that he had acquitted himself so well. She often found herself watching him during these days. Subsection 2 He was in the highest spirits at lunch, and flushed with exercise, looked as well as he had ever looked in his life. He came round the corner briskly, from laying aside his gun in an outhouse, into the low, wide living room where lunch was laid. "'Augie, you bungled that last drive disgracefully. Where's my hair that I wanted to eat?' "'Your hair's sitting in a ditch. At least I saw him go in.

in, and he never came out again. Did you fire twice at him? I couldn't see. Please, the sun was in my eyes, and I couldn't see. And the ball shot, and it was a fast wicket, and I'm not feeling very well. Well, I am, thank God. Oh, Aunt Anna. Mutt and pies! And don't do it again, Algie. Beer, anybody? It was really very picturesque here in this rafter room. through the lattices the sun streamed in upon the white-laid table, the aluminium boxes of food,

the glass and silver, the great glass jug of beer. The walls were brightly papered between the upright beams, a rack of old guns hung over the high fireplace, a kettle sang on the hob, the men too looked healthy and exercised, Jim looked charmingly childish, she herself, if she had known it, with her grey hair and young face, was the most picturesque of them all. A flush of pleasure swept over Anna. It was also very healthy and reassuring. It was only at moments like this, yet at none before so strongly, that she realized that vague burden of anxiety that she always carried at other times. Yet she scarcely knew about what she was anxious. There was no question that he had borne his own.

trouble finally, and that it had left none but the most superficial marks. It was obvious, she thought, that he was better than he had been even six months ago. He had not even an hour's headache, so far as she knew, since the night on which she had sat by him. Then what in the world did she feel anxious about? The shadow of which Mr. Morpeth had spoken had surely done its worst. Jim, said Neville. What have you done with your stick?

"'I have left it outside, cousin Neville,' explained Jim. "'Like your gun,' he bit into a mutton pie. "'Oh, I see. Did you take the cartridges out?' Jim disposed of his mouthful solemnly, regarding Neville as he did so. "'I always take out the cartridges before putting it down anywhere,' he said at last. "'That's right, old man.' "'There are twenty-three partridges, I mean twelve. I mean eleven and a half braces, observed Jim presently.

Well done, my boy, said Aunt Anna. Jim's arithmetic was a weak point. He turned a cold eye on her. And three hairs, and a bird I don't know the name of. That must be one of algae's, said Neville. It's a black-looking bird with blue... Jay, one of mine, what? said Mayersfield. Got him in the woods. Why did you shoot him? Inquired Jim, anxious for information.

Steels eggs, old man. No end, eh? Why do you always say, eh? That'll do, Jim, remarked his mother. A? What? began Mersefield. And then he laughed loudly.

She liked Lord Mayersfield thoroughly, but he was a very odd mixture. Yesterday he had sat out all afternoon making a perfectly charming sketch of the pavilion on a little wooden panel of which he carried two or three always in his flat travelling paint box. When it was quite finished, Jim had come out and inquired what it was meant to be. And now today he looked a competent sportsman. She perceived that he was distinguished from his type by a streak of art that he had never learned to be ashamed of. He was very pleasant always to Jim, too, and never exchanged glances with grown-up people while he answered him.

She liked that. She often found Jim a good touchstone. She made up a mind that she would have a little talk to Lord Mayersfield before he left. "'We'll do the down last thing,' said Neville presently, feeling for his pipe. "'In honour of you, Mayersfield.' The other inquired what this might be. Neville explained that the down was a steep grass slope with roots at the bottom. Driven properly, it furnished the best beat of the day.

Driven improperly, nothing happened whatever. They would drive it properly this afternoon. The guns would be stationed in a kind of dry ditch with a view against the sky. They come as thick as peas, he said, in a good year. We ought to do pretty well this afternoon. birds aren't too shy yet. Subsection 3 It was within an hour of sunset

when they began to take their places for the last drive, and the sky was beginning, ever so delicately, to show a promontory flush. The afternoon had been delightful. She had never meant to keep Jim out so long, but she simply had not the heart to take him away. She contented herself by a word to him that he must do his lessons better than ever tomorrow morning.

Jim had regarded her with a detached kind of air. He was in another world altogether by now. He was very conscientious too, in his attentions to the sportsman, and attached himself by turns to each. She had asked each privately to send him back to her if he was troublesome, but his reports were excellent. He remained quite motionless. He spoke in a whisper, and not too much,

and he collected all the empty cartridge cases at the end of every drive. The pockets of his jacket bulged with them by now. His face wore a rapt expression. They had really done very well, and the shooting had been excellent. She herself had stood now with one and now with another, and there was not much to choose between them. Above 40 brace of birds, besides extras, were laid out at the end of the last drive, before the sportsman descended to the dry ditch in the hollow.

It was her turn with Lord Mayersfield now, and she led him, since he did not know the ground, with infinite precautions, lest the birds should be alarmed, under cover of a rise in the ground, out to the extreme left. Algae would be next, in the middle, and Neville on the right. The three guns were quite enough. The slopes rose on either side up to copses, sufficiently high to steer all but the most obstinate birds over the hedge of death. When they reached the position, she sat down on a convenient bank. "'There's plenty of time,' she said in a low voice.

"'The beaters will be ten minutes yet. They've got to go right round behind, you know.' He sat down beside her and took out his pipe. and pouch. He's on the spot, eh? He said, without even mentioning Neville's name. Told me so anyhow. Looks like it. What?

Neville had indeed distinguished himself by a very swift right and left at the end of the last drive. Lord Maersfield, she said. I want to ask you something. Do you know my nephew well? Hey? Well, pretty well, I suppose. Good chap. very impertinent of me to say that, like him immensely.

I thought you did, and you've heard about his trouble, I suppose? He nodded without speaking, and somehow she liked that too. Above all, she liked him for not saying that everyone had heard of it. I think it was with Miss Bessington that you first met him. That's it, he said. Academy wasn't it? "'I want to know what you think, if you don't mind telling me. I mean, whether you think it is a misfortune or not.'

He puffed at his pipe an instant. "'I think it's a very good thing,' he said suddenly. "'Not suitable, you know, eh?' Her heart warmed to hear him. "'Well, I thought so too, you know. And you don't think it's done my nephew any harm. "'He's not different at all, is he, from when you first got to know him?' "'Again,' he puffed for a moment before answering.

"'Dare say it all my fancy,' he said. "'But—' "'Yes?' "'Seems a bit more apart, don't you know. More silent somehow, eh? "'At least I thought so till today. "'Natural enough, though. "'But I didn't see very much of him in town, you know.' "'And today you think he's better again?'

She pursued, disregarding his explanations. Somehow, she felt a confidence in this man's opinion, and wanted to know what he thought. Why, yes, talked first-rate at lunch, eh? She sat, silent and relieved. It was not just her fancy then that his spirits were beginning to come back. She felt very grateful to Lord Mayersfield for agreeing with her. She said so presently in a word or two. Meanwhile, in his corner in the dry ditch over on the left, Neville, if only they had known it,

could emphatically have corroborated the views of his friends. It seemed to him as if this new spirit that had come to him and whispered to him so coherently only three days ago had more than kept its promises. The air and exercise of this long day, the genial warmth and sunlight, his own success, the pleasantness of the party. All these things combined to make him very content. Over him rose the faintly flushing sky, clear now of clouds, the grasses that fringed his horizon in front,

the tops of the copses which you could see on either side against the sky, the general sense of well-being. All these appeared, as nature will appear to sympathetic humanity, to adapt themselves exquisitely to his own individual, point of view. Again, as he mused over a cigarette, waiting for the beaters, he told himself that he had found his balance once more, that his instincts, the other night, had been right, that a man who is sane and healthy is best at home with his own great mother. That God and man may be very well for the specialists in emotion, but that those who do not aim at being emotional

had better leave such things alone, beyond, so to speak, abowing acquaintance with them. After all, what more could he want? God was too remote. Men and women were too near. A man was his own best friend, or at least could make himself so. What more could he want? He had his health again, his position, his wealth. The companionship of Anna and Jim.

and congenial friends. An excellent thing this companionship, so long as it was not emotional. And he had found all this out for himself, at a certain considerable price, it is true, but the price was now paid, and the article was his. Never again would he trust emotion. It had led him wildly wrong, at least twice. He had thought both God and Enid other than what they were. Very well, he was initiated now. He had found his grail. He would drink it sedately and steadily as it deserved. And if a little cynicism was mixed in that cup,

if, for the future, he found himself just despising women a little, and finding men clumsy. If he grew a little materialistic in his philosophy, and took more pains about the perfection of his bodily, rather than his spiritual health. Well, the sweetest cup was none the worse for a little sour spicing. I think they might be coming soon, said Anna in a low voice.

Shall I be all right here? That's all right, said the man shortly. He beat out his pipe softly, opened and snapped too again the breach of his gun, and slipped to his feet. The sky had perceptibly, deepened in color during the last ten minutes, revealing what the eye had scarcely taken in before. A multitude of tiny, fleece-like clouds ranged, it seemed, in a great curved vault down towards

the west. The sun was behind the hill on their right, and the slope up which the position looked was in shadow. But the ditch was so deep in which Anna sat and her companion stood, that nothing but the sky was to be seen over the brow by which the birds would come, and so wide that it would be possible to loose the first barrel as they topped the horizon, the second barrel must be fired behind the line. As Anna looked along the line westwards, first two caps were very visible, one of the greenish tint that went with algae's clothes, the other of the brown which Jim had been allowed to choose for himself.

Those caps were visible, close to one another, as if their owners were discussing some high matter together. It was beyond all reasonable doubt, all things considered, that Jim was being allowed to handle his friend's empty gun. The rest of them was hidden by a break in the bank on which they sat. Quite clear and detached, however, 40 yards further on, was the grey figure of Neville, seen against a bramble patch on the slope of the hill. It was the sudden appearance of this figure, gun in hand, that had caused her to speak. Neville was obviously alert, perhaps he had caught some sound or sight coming down the ground. The world, however, seemed perfectly quiet, wrapped in a sunset calm.

It really seemed a little hard, thought Anna, on the birds, that they should be routed by stick-wielding apparitions and sent skimming once more down the long slothed. out of their fragrant coverts just when a Sabbath piece descended on the earth. The sky looked like a vault whose lines were strewn by those mackerel clouds. Behind the line, as she turned ahead to look, lay the meadows and the beginning of the park proper, clear of the shadow of the hill, bright in the last hour of sunshine. Two sudden explosions to the right brought her back from beauty to sport. Algae had fired twice, and when she looked, the two caps had parted company.

The green, supported by algae's head and shoulders, stood up clear. The brown remained motionless in its original position. As she looked, Neville too raised his gun and fired once. Then began for her that confused state of the spectator who watches shooting from the side of a shooter, for the birds began to come immediately overhead. She crouched lower on her seat, so that she should not distract her companion, hearing now and again, as from another world, the reports from further up the line, but with her nerves braced to bear the shots fired in her immediate neighbourhood. Covee after Covey came over.

Neville indeed had been right in saying that they ought to do pretty well at the down this afternoon. They were'd up, suddenly visible against the sky, 20 yards ahead, to be met by one barrel, and speeded by another as they sank behind. It was impossible for her to know, except very rarely, how her companion fared. Two or three times only did she catch sight of that strange transformation that takes place when one bird in a covey passes in an instant, from the high intensity of life to the passivity of death. and only once did she hear the thud of its body over the bank behind. He seemed satisfied, however.

He fired, wheeled, fired again, and reloaded, swiftly and mechanically. Now there came a pause when he waited. Now he tore at his pocket to snatch out another cartridge or two. It was not till a final pause came, at the end of which he drooped his gun and relaxed his tense attitude, that she looked again down the line. And there, to her astonishment, Neville was sitting on the bank,

smoking a cigarette, with no glimpse of a gun visible. As she stared, Mr. Dane's ruddy face appeared over the top of the bank. Pretty good lot of birds, my lord, he said. Hope your lordship had plenty of shooting? First rate, eh? She waited a minute or two,

as Lord Mayersfield stood on top of the bank, directing Mr. Dane and one of the beaters as to the line in which his bird had mostly fallen, and for that minute thought no more of Neville. But when she turned again, her surprise came back. The grey figure was still seated on the bank, but there was a little group of three about him. Algae and Jim formed two-thirds, and the other was one of the elder beaters. They appeared to be regarding the sitting figure. She said nothing to her companion, but began to walk towards them. She was not yet exactly uneasy, but she wondered why Neville was sitting down,

why Algy and Jim and the beater were looking at him. That was all. Absolutely no good, my dear man, she heard him say as she came near. Couldn't see a thing. He looked unusually flushed and upset, she thought. thought. He was drawing almost savagely upon his cigarette. "'What's the matter?' she asked. "'Couldn't see. Chucked it,' he said.

She ran her eyes over him, vaguely uneasy. "'How do you mean, my dear?' And then she saw that the hand that held the cigarette was shaking violently. Surely he couldn't be as angry as all that. "'I couldn't see,' he repeated, steadily. Jim was staring on him with solemn eyes of reproachful wonder. You hardly fired at all, he said. No, old man. Are you going blind, cousin Neville? Like the game? She saw a very strange expression pass over his face. At first she thought it to be anger.

Then she perceived that, at any rate, it was not all anger. game? she asked. Neville got up. His whole bearing seemed odd and unusual. Yes, someone's having a game with me, he said softly, and his voice shook. End of Part 3, Chapter 2, Part 1. Part 3, Chapter 2, Part 2 of Initiation. This is a Libravot's recording. All Librevost recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Libravox.org. Read by Paul Lawley Jones. Initiation by Robert Hugh Benson

Part 3, Chapter 2 Part 2 Subsection 4 Just stay up here, she said, commanding her voice as well as she could. I'll send tea up to you. The doctor will be here in half an hour. I'll send it once. The walk back had been very strange and disquieting. She told herself a dozen times that it was liver,

that it was the sun in his eyes earlier in the afternoon. But he seemed to follow her very closely along the wood paths, and he stumbled half a dozen times. Then, as she came through the garden gate, she suddenly felt his hand on her arm. The other two had walked on ahead, as if unconscious that anything was wrong, yet she knew that it had been deliberate.

It's no good, said a voice in her ear, which she would scarcely have recognised. You must give me your arm, Aunt Anna. It was not until she had got him upstairs that she attempted to face the thing out. She planted him in a chair where the light would fall on his face and sat down. Now then, my dear, she said.

Just tell me what's the matter. What is it like? and when did it begin? He was silent a moment. Underneath the wholesome town on his face, she could see his pallor, and there were unusual lines about his eyes and mouth. It's perfectly ridiculous, he said,

and she could hear that he, too, had to make an effort to speak naturally. Well, it began just before the birds began to come over at the last drive. It was only little lines and And skeins at first I fired one shot at the first lot I've had it before, you know

As bad as that I think it must be liver And you never told me She said quietly Go on my dear What was the good I thought it was liver Or a hundred things

And it always went away again Go on my dear Go on, my dear. Well, after the first shot, it suddenly became worse. I rubbed my eyes, and that did no good. Two more lots passed me. I heard them, but I couldn't see more than streaks. Then I sat down.

Is it worse since then? Yes. Oh, my dear, do tell me. Well, I could just make you all out. I couldn't see your faces. I had to follow you very close behind. It grew worse. At the garden gate, I knew I couldn't go on.

How bad is it now? Well, I can make out that it's you by your dress, but everything else is all whirling and spinning. It was then that she stood up and said that he must have tea up here, and that she would send for the doctor. he sat quite still without protesting. Yet there was no sign in his eyes themselves that anything was wrong.

They seemed to her exactly as usual. The dark iris, the clear white below it. Was it perhaps what she had thought it? The glare of the sun or a disordered digestion? You don't feel anything else? she asked suddenly. My head feels a bit head. heavy. That's gun headache, I expect. Shall I come up and have tea with you? I'd sooner not, he said instantly. Besides, there

are maresfield and algae, and upon the words, the suspicion came, swift as light, that he wished to be alone to—to face the thing he feared. She trod it fiercely down. She must not give way to her tremors. Neither must she encourage him in his own. Well, I'll send up Charleston, she said. I, I wish you were in your old room. He said nothing. A great tenderness suddenly welled in her. Never mind, old boy. You'll just be sent to bed early and wake all right. Well, I'll send down to the village at once. She stooped and kissed him lightly. She stooped and kissed him lightly on the forehead, and from the start he gave, she understood how complete was his blindness. But again, she said nothing. Such was her emphasis in the message she gave to Masterson,

that before tea in the hall was half over, she heard the wheels of the car draw up outside. And, simultaneously, Masterson came up from the servant's staircase. He too must have been looking and listening. "'That'll be the doctor,' she said cheerfully to the two men. "'That's the worst of living in a hall. "'Either one has to bolt, or one can't escape. "'I'll see him in the morning-room, Masterson.' "'She was in there when he came through,

"'an incompetent little man who had at least the grace to know his limitations. "'There was never any bother about calling in a consultant. "'He was a small, clean-shaven man with a diffident manner. Good evening, Dr. Mackenzie. Yes, it's about Sir Neville. I thought I'd better see you in here first and answer any questions I can. He hates being fussed, you know. I understand from the servant that it was his eyes.

Yes, I expect its only liver, but one wants to know. It began quite suddenly, out shooting this afternoon. But he's had it before, he tells me. I thought he'd better stay upstairs till you came. She described very briefly what Neville had told her. And he has no pain in the eyes at all. None, but he has a little headache. That's only natural after shooting, isn't it?

Very likely, said the doctor. Is he quite blind at present? She winced a little. Well, he said he could make out my dress just, now, but it was getting rather dark, you know. He nodded. I've brought a few things in a bag, he said. Perhaps you'd better see him at once, she said, rising.

She touched the bell. I think I'll ask you to go up without me. He hates a fuss, he always says, and, Doctor, I'll be here till you come downstairs again. I should like to know at once what you think. Take Dr. McKenzie up to Sir Neville's room, Masterson. She sat very still again when the door had closed behind the two men. Outside in the hall, she could hear the two guests talking once more, but she was entirely unable to face them.

It would be all right, presently, of course. As soon as the doctor had come down and gone again, she would go out and tell them that there was nothing whatever to be anxious about, that Neville's liver was badly out of order, and that that was the one and only cause of the trouble. Of course that was the truth. Only she thought she should wait till it had been certified to be so. This was a homely, unpleasant room in which she sat. It was here that she had her own writing table, and added up the books, and interviewed servants,

and wrote her letters when it was too wet or cold for the pavilion. An oil painting of Neville, at the age of five, in frilled knickerbockers, holding a feeble-looking bat, with very much tumbled hair, and the bridge and bathing pool in the background, hung over her table. She had thought, sometimes, of having Jim painted in the same kind of way. But the room was a little gloomy at this particular hour of the day, as its windows looked very nearly eastwards, and the shadows were gathering steadily and swiftly in the corners. The sun must be set by now, she thought.

She could not sit still very long, for if she did not keep moving or distracting herself, certain other memories came up which she did not, just now, want to think about. For instance, Neville had had this affection of the eyes before, and had not told her. would he not have told her if it had been as unimportant as he pretended? There was that sinister little game of blind man, of which she had learned the details from Jim

as she went to see that he had changed and was having tea properly in the upstairs schoolroom. Surely, that was a very odd game to play on a summer's morning after bathing. Besides, it had bored Jim considerably. But these were not the worst. Back and back to her mind came her memory of Mr. Morpeth's talk in the pavilion, of the shadow of which he had spoken, of his severely disturbing certitude that some experience lay before Neville which the world might call a curse. She had thought that the remembrance of this talk of his was fading from her mind during

these last three months. Things had gone so surprisingly well. yet it came up now from that strange under region of human consciousness where nothing is forgotten or even attenuated it came up like some sinister person whom one thinks to have left the house but it has been in hiding all the while it came up and looked her full in the face until she turned her back on it by an effort of will she was standing at the darkening window presently and looking out upon the garden, humming softly to herself, and framing little unspoken sentences for her own reassurance.

He would be, better after a night's sleep. Probably he had better not come down to dinner. She would, order something light to be taken up to his room. What a bore it all was, just when there were guests in the house. How nice the two men had been just now at tea, so easy and unanxious. Outside, the garden grew darker as she looked, for she felt it was more reassuring to look out of doors than in. And still there was no step outside, nor hand laid upon the

door. How cross Paul Neville would be, with such a long visit from the doctor, he hated being pulled about. A thrush skimmed suddenly out upon the lawn. from one of the shrubberies, lighted, and skipped three or four yards in long, springy hops, and paused. Then he bounced again two or three times and vanished. Then, from the shrubbery whence he had emerged, came the sound of a bird's loud scolding, that fierce, sharp twittering, in which the note of fear as well as anger is so evident, uttered only when some danger threatens that will not depart. Then out came another bird, perhaps a missile thrush.

She was not sure. Flew, lighted, skipped again and disappeared. She watched the shrubbery, wondering what it was that had disturbed its inmates. Then, as she half expected, the head of the stable cat, a lean and subtle Tom, who disdained her always in the stable yard, appeared cautiously and looked this way and that. Then he, too, came out and went at a business-like jog-trot in the direction of the cedars. She wrapped sharply on the window, but he never turned his head. He quickened his pace a little, and also disappeared. How maddening it must be, she thought, just when one had settled for the

night on a suitable branch, to be hunted out like that, and to see the face of one's supreme enemy peering up from below. But it was better, at any rate, than being caught in one's sleep. Still darker grew the garden, and still there was no step outside, nor hand laid upon the door. The colours now were practically gone. There was no more than the dullest glow

from the rows of autumn flowers below the terrace. The cedar ferns were gone grey, and the shadows beneath them were as thick as wool. It was like going blind, surely. Then, from the grand piano in the world, the hall, she heard a few chords struck. That must be algae. He had played a little to them last night. No, that could not be algae. It sounded too competent. It must be Lord Mearsfield. She didn't know that he played at all. But why that melancholy Russian thing, whose composer's

name began with rack and ended in inoff? It was like darkness incarnate, darkness lit by fire wheels, such as a man saw when he was going blind. But perhaps Masterson had turned on the lights in the hall by now, for no one could have the heart to play such music in the dark. Then the music ceased again after a bar or two, and one or two desultory chords sounded again, and then came silence. It must be that the doctor was coming downstairs.

Should she turn the lights on before he came? She hesitated. No, it was still light enough to see, and she did not want more than was necessary. And still there was no step outside, nor hand laid upon the door. When he came in at last, Mrs. Fanning started up from a chair so suddenly as to make him jump. She said nothing but waited. It was so dark that he could not see her face. Mrs. Fanning?

Yes? I'm afraid Sir Neville must go up and see a specialist at once. It is some trouble with the optic nerves, I'm sorry to say. It is beyond my province. It is probably some pressure on the nerves from behind. I think a brain specialist, for instance, Sir Arthur Hansworth, had best be consulted first. I think it was Mr. Matheson last time he went to.

Sir Neville complains very much of headache. That is what makes me fear it is the brain, rather than the eyes themselves. Yes, I am afraid it may be serious. I have not told Sir Neville what I fear. End of Part 3, Chapter 2, Part 2. End of Part 3, Chapter 2. Part 3, Chapter 3, Part 1 of initiation.

This is a Librevox recording. All Librevox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librevox.org. Read by Paul Lawley Jones Initiation by Robert Hugh Benson Part 3 Chapter 3 Part 1 Subsection 1

Why have doctors waiting rooms always got such thick carpets? Asked Neville, genially, so soon as it was plain to him that the man-servant was gone and that there was no one else in the room beside algae who had brought him. By this time he could not see at all beyond just being able to distinguish the difference between light and darkness, although it was now only Friday, and darkness had first fallen as they finished shooting on Tuesday.

It was still all new enough to be interesting, now that he was quite sure that there was no organic injury to his seeing apparatus, and yet it appeared to him that an almost incalculable time had passed. The first night and morning had been the worst. Aunt Anna had come to him five minutes after the doctor had left, Anna had told him his verdict. She had done it quite admirably. She had not been in the least dramatic or overtender.

She had simply begun, My poor dear, in an extraordinarily natural tone, and had then told him, still genially, that it was entirely his own fault for not having gone again to a man in London, that Dr. McKenzie had assured her that there was no organic injury to the eyes, but that the headaches were responsible. The headaches, therefore, must be looked to at once, and he must just be content to be in the dark, in every sense of the word, for a few hours.

She had, with Dr. McKenzie's consent, wired for an oculist and proposed to send the car to London, if Neville approved, the first thing in the morning, to bring the oculist back. meantime she proposed to come and dine with him in his room and show him how not to put his spoon and fork into his nose and ears. The guests must just take care of themselves. That then had been seen one. The hours that followed had certainly been very oppressive, particularly as his head had ached again,

though not as acutely as before. Waking in the morning was rather bad as, though he could hear the birds under the eaves, he had been able to make out no more than dim oblongs where the windows ought to be, so soon as Charleston, who had slept in the bathroom, pulled back the curtains at his command, and assured him that it was half-past seven.

Besides, in spite of himself, he had nourished a hope that somehow or other he would be able to see again, just as usual, after a night's rest. He had one or two spurts of impatience at breakfast in bed when Aunt Anna had looked in an hour ago, especially when he dropped a spoonful of porridge and milk just inside his pajama jacket.

It seemed to him that Charleston was really rather clumsy not to have prevented that. His cigarette too was disappointing. It tasted precisely like brown paper. After breakfast, algae had come up and sat on the bed, which was annoying, and Mearsfield had come in later to say goodbye, carrying a cigar. And he particularly disliked the smell of a cigar in his bedroom.

He said to Aunt Anna with some bitterness afterwards that it reminded him of a commercial traveller. The oculist had arrived about noon, and when Neville heard the tread of his feet on the threshold and Aunt Anna's genial, May we come in? For a moment, the ironical ill-humour with which he had deliberately tried to hide his interior apprehensiveness had deserted him.

He felt very helpless and rather frightened, because really a good deal depended on what this new man said. He had gathered that, generally, from Aunt Anna's remarks, and yet he was not sure how she had conveyed it. There followed a very uncomfortable quarter of an hour. The oculist first asked him a number of questions, and then proceeded, as Neville would have said to, pull him about. He had to sit very upright, with pillows packed behind him, and to open his eyes wide.

There followed disconcerting flashes of light, the grip of rather cold dry fingers about his temples, palms of hands laid on his forehead. Aunt Anna was in the room too, all the while, and he did not like this. It made him feel rather like a child. There then followed some more questions, and then a little silence. Aunt Anna? Yes, my dear, came her quiet voice from a position much closer to him than he had expected. I want you to go downstairs, please.

I'll send Mr. Browing down as soon as he's done with me. Then he was perfectly certain that she and the doctor were exchanging glances, and he felt infuriated. Before he could speak again, she had answered him. "'Very well,' she said. "'He heard the door close. "'Mrs. Fanning's gone?' "'Yes, Sir Neville,' came the steady voice.

"'Well, what's the matter with me?' His lips and throat felt curiously dry. "'I really can't quite tell yet, Sir Neville. "'I can only assure you that there's no organic injury at all. "'That's good news, is it? "'The very best. "'I do not mean for a moment that the thing may not be serious. But what I do mean is that there is no injury to the instrument itself.

It is perfectly sound, then what in the world is the matter? Why can't I... One moment, Sir Neville. I say that there is no injury that I can detect, but it appears to me almost certain that there is some pressure upon the optic nerves. The nerves, you know, that connect the eye with the brain. The wire, if I may say so, is clogged in some way. It is not in its himself injured, nor is the retina. "'What's the next thing to do, then?' snapped the young man, a little peevishly. "'It seemed to him that this man was unnecessarily wordy. "'The next thing is to consult a head specialist.

"'He will be able to give you a first-rate opinion as to the cause of this pressure, "'and to advise you how it may be removed. "'What you have told me about your headaches, I see, then you've done your job?' "'Well, I have done your job.' "'Well, I have done. detected that there is no job for me to do. Mrs. Fanning tells me that the doctor here has recommended Sir Arthur Hansworth. You could go to no better man. Dr. McKenzie is downstairs. I will have a word with him again if I may. It seemed a very long while before Aunt Anna came back,

and she did not seem quite so exultant as Neville had expected. She was quite quiet and controlled. She said that so far the news was good, but scarcely more. She then said that she was sending a note by the car, straight up to Sir Arthur, asking for an appointment. I suppose I'd better go at once, remarked Neville, with a detached manner. My dear, of course you must. We'll all go up together. It was later in the afternoon, after they had received the answer that Sir Arthur Hansworth would be happy to receive them on Friday morning at 12 o'clock,

that Neville announced to Aunt Anna that she was not to accompany him to the surgery. "'You mustn't think me brutal,' he had said, "'but I must have it out alone.' "'But, my dear, you won't be able to—' "'I've asked Aouchy to come up with us, and to go with me on Friday morning. "'You'll be at Elizabeth Street, "'and when we come back, we'll all have lunch together,

"'and then, if this man has taken away the pressure on, "'what's his name, we'll all go to the zoo. "'That's much better. "'Please, Aunt Anna, I really mean it.' "'After an instant silence, She had said simply that it should be so. Here then, on Friday morning, at five minutes to twelve, sat Neville and Algie in two armchairs in the room that had the thick carpet,

and Aunt Anna was waiting for them in Elizabeth Street, where they had arrived in time for dinner last night. Subsection 2. It's to deaden the shrieks, said Algie in answer. Neville laughed, a short bark. You're a cheering chap. he said. Algae felt as much bewildered and out of his element as such a man always must feel under such circumstances, and, equally characteristically of his type, he bore himself most

suitably. Without actually expressing it to himself, he felt that any change of manner might really alarm his friend. He felt it to be far better, as indeed it was, to behave as usual. Now, tell me all about the room, said Neville. I hear a clock. is it black marble? It sounds portly somehow. Well, you're wrong. It's empire and extremely good. It is also observing that we are five minutes early. I told you so. Go on about the room, said Sir Neville. Pictures? Engravings? There's a Burns-Jones over the clock, a Johnny and Armour with a horse. There are large engravings on the other walls with very wide borders. The carpet, I bet it's red. well, you'd lose. It's chiefly black and yellow. Chairs? Mahogany? No, walnut. At least I think so.

You're on the wrong tack, old man. It isn't early Victorian, you know. Go on. What colours the paper? It looks like Spanish leather, but I bet it isn't. What's on the table? Graphic, times? Well, the tatler's on top, and I can see a corner of country life. What's the view out of the window? Well, I can see a terracotta sort of house rather rich. It's at the corner of the street. There's a cat on the balcony. Over the side, there's a little green and white shanty. There's a car.

That's enough. By the way, what time's lunch? I think Mrs. Fanning said half past. That's all right. We shall be in loads of time. I suppose this chap won't want to do the job bang off. If he does, I think I shall... He stopped short.

as, to his strained and listening ears, they vibrated a step outside. Then the door opened softly and a discreet voice spoke. Will you come this way, sir? When Algae came back to the comfortable room with a black and yellow turkey carpet, and the Tatler and the Empire clock two minutes later, he was trembling a little. Yet he had seen nothing that was not pleasant and reassuring. He had gripped Neville by.

by the arm as he rose, and led him after the servant. He could hear him breathing as they went. They came out into the comfortable little hall, through which they had passed on their first arrival, and turned to the right. A man in a coat not yet buttoned was picking up his hat and gloves from the black oak table by the stairs. Plainly he had just come out from the specialist's room. He did not look at all alarmed or upset, and eyed the stiffly walking figure of Neville with interest. They went on through the hall towards a half-open door, which the servant pushed wider,

himself stepping back to let them go in. As they entered, a tallish man with rather kind narrow grey eyes in a frock coat and grey trousers, clean shaven except for little grey whiskers by his ears, was standing by a knee-hole table from which, plainly, he had just risen. He bowed a little as the door closed almost noiselessly behind them. "'Sir Neville Fanning?' "'Nevel put out his hand rather awkwardly.

The other made haste to take it. Then Algae steered his friend into a deep padded armchair, indicated in silence by the surgeon. The surgeon then nodded at him again in silence. "'Well, I'll be going, old man,' said Algie. "'I'll be in the waiting room.' Neville too nodded, without speaking, and Algie went out once more.

What in the world then was he frightened at? There had been absolutely nothing in the room in the least suggestive, to a layman's eyes at any rate, of anything in the least approaching disease or death or pain. There had been a tall, narrow bookshelf in the little room. There had been a deep carpet, as in here. The fireplace had been just ordinary, with bright fire-irons and a little fire.

There had been just a curtained doorway at the other end of the room, that might, conceivably, lead to some other sort of consulting room. The presence of the inhabitant of that room, too, had been strong and kindly. Yet Algae was undoubtedly frightened. He supposed that it was because it was his first visit to such a place. He had never realized till now how very fond he was of his friend. Up to now, he had taken him for granted, rather, ever since school days. He went down every now and then to stay at Hartley. He had been sincerely grieved over Neville's catastrophe in the summer, but until now he had had no idea that beneath the genial bantering with which he treated Neville,

there was anything that could be called deep affection. He would have thought, in fact, that such an emotion would have been rather weak and sentimental. Yet, having faced that surgeon, side by side with his friend, he was conscious that his own sentiment, at any rate, was not weak. It was there, anyhow. So he sat down again, pulled the tatler towards him, and only just caught himself in time beginning to bite his nails. The tatler of September the 28th seemed to him a singularly poor number. On the front page was a large picture of a very stupid-looking royalty, of the greatest possible importance, with a row of five pearls round a well polished neck. There was not much comfort there. She, at any rate, had never sat in a

surgeon's waiting room waiting for a verdict on somebody else. On the next page, under the heading, in town and about, were first two pictures of girls' faces, framed as if they were miniatures, and inscriptions underneath. He read one carefully through. The lady was Miss Alexandra Bennett. She was the youngest daughter. She was the youngest daughter. of some old fool, and was going to be married next Tuesday to the Honourable Carval Compton of the Grenadiers in the Guards Chapel Wellington Barracks. That wasn't much good. The marriage couldn't come off anyhow if, on the previous Friday, she had had the inside of a head examined by a kind-looking man, in a room with a curtain doorway at the back. The third picture on the page

represented the departure of the Dowager Queen of Spain's aunt from Victoria Station. Foolish men stood about the carriage, bareheaded, with a crick in their backs. He began to turn the pages in despair. The letter press was, of course, out of the question, but he stared meditatively at a number of pictures. There was a champion golfer with his legs terribly twisted and a cigarette in his mouth. Apparently he had just driven a ball. Dim persons in straw hats, looking like dummies, formed the background. There were two white dogs, resembling crumpled wool hats with their tongues hanging out. There was an American actor with a very long stick and very long legs,

photographed in company with an American actress whose name Algae remembered as having been connected with a cause-celebr. There were four people in a white motor car, all looking very ugly because their faces were screwed up against the sunlight, who bore distinguished names. There were some political skits, one representing Mr. Asquith as a scullery-made washing up a saucepan with a significant word printed upon it,

and another Mr. Redmond crowing like a very small cock on a very large dunghill, labelled Coalition, and so on. Finally came some Elements. Algae tossed it from him in despair. Then he began to walk up. up and down the room. Fortunately there was a thick carpet. Oh, yes.

The poor old chap had said that, first thing after the man had gone out. What a time they were in there. He looked at the Empire clock. It marked seven minutes past twelve only. By twenty-five minutes past twelve, Alji took up country life, convinced that the worst must have happened,

though he could form no conjecture at all as to what the worst might be. It struck him as very odd that there was no one else in the waiting room, until he became even further depressed by the guess that perhaps the oculist and the Harley Doctor had written about the case and informed Sir Arthur

that it would be a long business. He began, gallantly, at country life, but suddenly laid it down again because the corner of the hall in the seat of Silas Mond, Esquire, in the county of Westmoreland, reminded him of another corner of a hall in the seat of Sir Neville Fanning, Barronet, in the county of Sussex.

He felt as if he had been stung in the middle of his mind. Then he determined to begin a study of the pictures round the room, and began with the Johnny in armour. It appeared to him, unconvincing, and he moved on to the next. This was of a small girl in a large bonnet, and he wondered why on earth such a repellent and simpering face should have been selected by any artist for immortality. He was moving on to the next when his heart leapt and stood still. There was the vibration of a step outside. Then a hand was laid on the handle of the door and he heard a firm voice speaking.

It struck him as a good omen. Surely no one could speak so resolutely and loudly if there were any bad news about. The door opened and the surgeon looked in. "'Mr. Lennox?' "'He could not speak. "'Sir Neville has just got his things on. "'Would you give him your arm to the car, or would you prefer?' "'He was out and in the hall without a word.

"'Nevel was coming towards him, led by the sleek and discreet servant. "'Auggy moved the man aside and himself took his place. "'He remembered as they approached the hall door to nod to Sir Arthur, but no more. "'Four steps down,' he said. "'They crossed the pavement. "'The car was drawn up, and Paul made haste to open the door. "'Mind the step up,' said Algae. "'He tucked the rug round his friend as Paul went round to the front.

"'Then he could wait no longer. "'Well, old man?' Neville hesitated. "'Got to go through with it,' he said. "'He says, operation as soon as possible. It's pretty bad. The motor began to throb violently. End of Part 3, Chapter 3, Part 1. Part 3, Chapter 3, Part 2 of initiation.

This is a Librevox recording. All Librevox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Libravoc.org. Read by Paul Lawley-Jones. Initiation by Robert Hugh Benson Part 3, Chapter 3, Part 2 Subsection 2 By the time they had reached Elizabeth Street,

Algae had succeeded in assimilating the fact. A large number of minor aspects and relations had to be adjusted, and this took a little time. It also made it extremely difficult for him to ask intelligent questions and, still more, to absorb the answers. Briefly, however, he knew the outlines of the matter. Sir Arthur had diagnosed a tumour on the brain that was the cause at once of the headaches

and of the temporary blindness. This tumour must at once be removed, if indeed it was operable, for it pressed upon the optic nerves and would presumably press still more. It would be what was called a severe, operation. Of course it might be found that the tumour could not be removed, if it were in a vital spot, but an exploration at any rate must be made. The process was called trepanning, or

treffining. When? asked Algae. He suggested next Monday for the nursing home, and Tuesday morning for the operation. When a violent shock has been received, the nerves mercifully refused to respond to anything else for a little while. And algae, in spite of a consciousness that Aunt Anna would have to be told almost immediately, did not realize at all that this would probably be very unpleasant for Aunt Anna. He just regarded the fact as a man, after a bad fall from a horse, regards the blood on his hands and clothes. There it was.

As the motor drew up outside the Elizabeth Street house, and the door opened as if their coming had been looked for, Neville put his hand on the other's arm. Just take me through into the drawing-room. She'll be waiting there, and then go straight on into the library and shut the door. Right, said Algae. He had not said a word of consolation, and could not. When they came in, arm-in-arm, through the drawing-room door, Aunt Anna was standing on the hearthrug. her hands were clasped behind her back, and her grey-piled head was flung back, as if in defiance.

She looked at them with her bright eyes, but said nothing. "'Here we are,' said algae, fatuously. He steered Neville past Anna, to the tint's chair that stood with its back to the light, and placed him there. "'Got to go,' he said, yet more fatuously. He went past Anna without looking at her,

through the library door and closed it behind him. He could hear no voices in the room he had left. He sat down miserably in the window seat, staring out into the garden. Subsection 4. By the time Aunt Anna saw them come in, she had arranged, she thought, her attitude in a completely satisfactory manner. Neville had breakfast in bed, and she had gone to his room afterwards to see him light his cigarette,

and to hold the match. They had talked together, very carefully, on a completely different level from that on which they were really thinking. They had kept up a cheery sort of conversation, with even a little banter. Then she had gone out and resolutely written letters till Neville came in

a little before eleven conducted by Charlson. She had jumped up and steered him to a chair, and they had talked again about when they should go back to Hartley. there had been a few desperate silences, which each made haste to break. Then, at half-past eleven, she had gone to the door to see them start. Then she had come back to the drawing-room and sat down. The attitude ye had arranged during the hour that followed had been that suggested by Mr. Morpeth.

Here the thing was. It was nobody's fault. Whatever happened had to happen. He must not be softened by the wrong kind of tenderness. She must be quiet and business-like and natural. Again and again during that hour, with her hands knitted tight in her lap, she had emphasised all that to herself. Yet across that interior rigidity, flashes had come and gone,

of which you could not tell the nature, whether they were gleams of knowledge that a great pain was a great good if it were rightly met, or lurid streaks of horror that such a thing should come to Neville, to Neville. These, she dared not stay to analyse. Then she reminded herself that perhaps all this tension was entirely unnecessary. Perhaps the verdict would be simply that Neville was overwrought in some way, that he must follow a certain diet, perhaps,

that he was not get up until midday for a few weeks. She knew, after all, nothing beyond what Mackenzie and Browing had told her, and they had told her very little. They did not profess to know for certain. They only guessed. For quite a long time, this cheerful optimism worked beautifully. Her temperament and her mood were such that such self-suggestions as these

had a great temporary effect. By half-past twelve, she was practically certain that there was nothing whatever the matter with Neville. They would all be laughing over it at lunch in a few years. minutes. Then, when the hall door opened, she sprang to her feet, and by the time that the two had slipped off their things and were coming in at the door, the whole of the tension was back again, and she was ready for anything. She could not speak one word as they entered. When the door had shut behind algae, she turned and looked at Neville. The window was behind him, and it was a

little difficult to make out his face. His eyes were closed. Then she saw that he was trying to smile. Well, what did he say? she asked, determined that her voice and words at least should not betray her. Neville raised his face a little and his eyelids flickered. Got to go through with it, my dear, he said, using the same words he had used to algae. He had settled on them in those few seconds after the doctor had pronounced sentence. He isn't quite certain yet, but he thinks it's a tumour. At any rate, he's got to find out. An operation, then, she said quietly. That's it, next Tuesday. Where? Here? No, a nursing home. He telephoned for me at once.

They've got a bed all right, got to go in on Monday. For one fierce instant, her whole emotional system shook her like a storm. A violent impulse seized her, to run to that patient, miserable figure, and kiss those dear eyes and—and wash them clear again. Fortunately, he could not see her face. She bit her lower lip savagely, but she could not speak. Aunt Anna? Yes? Ah, her voice shook ever so little, that must not happen again. I want you to promise me something, and then I don't want to talk about it anymore at all. She waited. Do you hear, Aunt Anna, come nearer.

I'd sooner stand. Go on, my dear, what is it? I want you to promise not to talk to any of the doctors behind my back. What they say to you they must say to me, do you understand? Yes, I promise. That's all right, then, because there's something else. They're nearly sure it's a tumour on the brain. It's that which causes the headaches and the blindness.

They want to remove that if they can. I mean, Hansworth does. But the point is, why have I got one? Well, I know all I want to know, and all that anyone must know, I mean you. No one else must know anything at all, about the reason, I mean. He spoke abruptly and spasmodically, and she could see how strong was the emotion behind. Do you hear, Aunt Anna? Yes, my dear.

And what is the reason? Do you remember what father said to me before he died? She had not expected this, or remembered it. It simply had not entered into her recent meditations at all. It was if a hand had gripped her heart without warning. she could not speak. Fortunately, he did not seem to need any answer, for he went on almost immediately.

Well, it seems that there was something in it. Hansworth asked me quite plainly about my parents and so on, asked me outright what my father had died of, what his life had been like, and so on. I told him that my father had lived wildly, drink, everything, and then he seemed to understand. Again he paused, and again she could not speak.

Back again, like a great darkness, searched the memory of a talk she had had with Mr. Morpeth, and then of another. What Neville was saying now seemed as prearranged as a play. There seemed not a detail missing. Here was pain indeed. Here was the physical suffering, and added to it a further bitterness.

Here was the old curse that the old man in the country had dared to call, no, had called, the shadow of a blessing. She must hold tight to that. It must be the shadow of a blessing, or she could not bear it. The sins of the fathers. That was a law of mercy, not of wrath. She must hold to that. To love means to suffer, but love is the only joy, therefore there must be joy in suffering. Never was talking, was he not? What was he saying? Well, he seemed to think that that explained everything. He wanted to tell me details, but I refused, and I forbade him to tell you or anyone. He promised he would not.

I don't want details. Principles are... Are all I can deal with. It is enough that I know so much. I'm weak. Constitutionally, that was the word he used. That is why this thing has developed. Do you understand, aren't I?

"'Oh, do say that you understand!' His voice rose nearly to a wail. She was halfway across the distance between them, driven again by that fierce impulse of love and pity before she caught herself up. She must be quiet. She must not soften him. But how in God's name did he know all this?

This mystery of love and atonement. For his words surely bore no other meaning. She drew herself up then, within an arm's clasp of his patient upturned face. Oh, she must be resolute, yet his face quivered before her eyes. My dear, I understand, of course I understand. We will not speak of it again. Then, very gently, as her custom was, she kissed him on the forehead above his open, unseeing eyes. He caught us suddenly in his arms. End of Part 3, Chapter 3, Part 2.

End of Part 3, Chapter 3, Chapter 3. Part 3, Chapter 4, Part 1 of initiation. This is a Libravox recording. All Libravox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Libravox.org. Read by Artin. Initiation by Robert Hugh Benson Part 3, Chapter 4, Part 1, Subsection 1.

Now just describe the whole place, said Neville, leaning back. No, I won't have a cigarette, old man. They taste beastly. Go on, Aunt Anna. She had been on the morning of the next day at Neville's request to see over the nursing home and to bring back a full report. The last 24 hours had passed, as time does pass, with a deadly swift kind of slowness, like the moving of wheels that neither jar nor sway. He had lain down after lunch. Then she had gone to have tea with him and had read to him afterwards. He had come across from his room after dinner, and had sat with her in Algae, too, who was under orders to come in for every principal meal until further notice, and she had played for a while on the big grand piano

that was in the drawing room. The next morning after breakfast she had read his letters to him, and then gone off to view the battlefield. They had not talked any more at all as to the future or the past. He had really meant what he had said. They formed no plans. They reviewed nothing. They merely waited. Aunt Anna drew off her gloves. She had come straight in from the hall and through the drawing room, and had found Algae in the library window seat, and Neville in a big chair with his hands before him. The voices stopped talking suddenly as she came in. Well, I've seen all over it, she said. I like it. Yes, I do, and I like the people and the nurses and the whole thing. Go on. It's in Curson passage, as you know. St. Joseph's is just across the way. I went in there for a minute or two

afterwards. Well, the drawing room is just like any other drawing room. But you won't see much of that, you poor dear. Mrs. Brantz came in almost at once. She's a Catholic, you know, and most of the nurses are. What's she like? She didn't say very much. She's quite gray. She's very small with very delicate features. She's extremely well-dressed. I like that, put in Neville. That's form. Let's be decently dressed anyhow. Well, then she asked whether I wouldn't like to see your room. So we went upstairs and, did you see the operating place? The theater, isn't it? As I told you? "'Yes,' said Aunt Anna steadily. "'I saw it on the way up.

"'Well, it is a little room on the top of the first flight. "'It's perfectly white and looks very clean and fresh. "'Tiles on the walls?' "'I think so. "'The bed arrangement is a stretcher covered the sheets and blankets. "'It faces the window in the middle. "'There are things to wheel about, plate glass tables, "'there are disinfectant jars and so on.

"'There's a kind of small stove to disinfect the instruments in. "'It all looks very empty and clean. "'It has two doors onto the landing. "'One is a base floor. "'See the instruments?' "'No. Oh? Well, then we went upstairs. Your room's at the top, looking out of the back. It's quite big. It's very nicely furnished. The bed's in the middle of the room with its head

against the wall, and the bell and electric switch are within reach. It has wardrobes and tables and everything. It's extremely nice in every way. Then Miss Brands sent for your nurse. Well, I like her particularly. She is a Catholic, by the way, and Irish. She's tall and very quiet, with grey eyes and dark hair. Her uniform is delightful. What color? Blue, with a white apron and a white linen cap. Will she be there during the operation? Yes, and Miss Brands, too. Miss Brands is a fully qualified nurse, by the way. And you asked all about the operation, too? Yes. Her voice trembled a little, but she recovered herself. They asked me whether you'd prefer to be put under the anesthetic in your own room, or whether you'd walk down to the theater.

Yes? I said to do exactly what they preferred. As you told me. Well, of course, they'd sooner you went down to the theater. They said, yes. They said some people couldn't stand that. I said I was sure you could. Go on. Well, it's fixed for half-past nine. The surgeon and the anesthetist will be ready by then. Then the nurse comes to tell you and you put on a dressing gown and slippers and walk downstairs. Then you climb up onto the bed and they give you chloroform. Then you wake up in your own room. They carry you back before you recover consciousness. How long will it take? They can't tell for certain. It depends on what they find. It'll probably be between two and three hours. Then I shall just be in time for lunch. My dear, you won't want any lunch. You won't

want anything at all that day. But of course, you'll have to have something, whether you want it or not. Oh, shall I? said Neville defiantly. We'll see about that. By the way, shall I be able to see when I wake up? Did you ask about that? They hope so, said Anna. It depends on what they find. There was a pause. It had been a considerable effort to relate all this, and she was glad for once that he could not see her face. She could not have done it at all if it had not been for the day and the night that had passed since sentence had been pronounced. But she had just had enough time to wrench her attitude to his, and to meet it with the mingled silence and frankness with which he was facing it himself. Algae, he said presently, the figure in the window seat turned around. He had

been staring very earnestly out into the garden while she had been giving her descriptions. Yes, old man? Think it sounds all right? First rate. You'll be downstairs with Aunt Anna, won't you, on Tuesday? Why, yes, said Algie. Aunt Anna, I wish you'd ask Mayersfield into dinner tomorrow. I suppose you'll be going to church, won't you? Of course, I'll ask him. Yes, I had thought of going unless you wanted me. And that reminds me, continued Neville. How long do they starve me for before the affair comes off?

Yes, I ask them that, too. You won't be starved much. You'll have a light lunch on Monday soon after you arrive, but not much else. Just a cup of tea, about five, and some soup later. That's all? Yes, that's all. Subsection 2. It is said of convicted criminals that, of the period between sentence and execution,

the worst time is not, as might be expected, the night before the execution, but the night immediately after the sentence. Neville found this in its measure to be true of himself. The Friday night had been a considerable burden, for, alone there in the dark, he had been able to face facts with a deliberation that had scarcely been possible during the day. But the result was that by Saturday morning, his attitude had been arranged and established. The Saturday night was considerably easier, and the Sunday night easier still. Merr's field had come and gone. His breezy, abrupt personality had been a distinct stimulus, and Neville awoke on Monday morning in a state of far less apprehensiveness than he would have thought possible three days before. The start was made about half past ten,

for his orders were that he must be in the home by eleven to begin his grim preparations. Medicine had to be taken. The top of his head had to be shaved. He had all round to settle in and be made comfortable. He had a few minutes of loneliness and even of a little horror as he sat, dressed in the drawing room before the arrival of algae, listening to the preparations in his room across the hall, the passing of Charleston's footsteps and Aunt Anna's, the carrying out of bags, and the one or two returns that were made for small things that had been overlooked. He felt very helpless, like an intelligent sheep waiting for the coming of the temple attendants. Then, at last, he heard Aunt Anna come in, and that she did not shut the door behind her. Now, my dear, she said, we're ready. They did not talk much on the way. Vaguely, he tried to follow their route. We're at Hyde Park Corner, aren't we? he said. And then again, now to the right, isn't it? At last the car stopped. He felt yet more helpless as he was led indoors. He could hear a rustle as of two or three people as he came in through the door on the right. How do you do, Sir Neville? Came a very gentle voice that, for all its gentleness, had a considerable strength to it. He put

out his hand, smiling with an effort, and felt it taken in the small hand of a woman. She retained it as she led him forward to a chair. There, she said. Now if you'll allow me, I'll leave you for five minutes while I just look upstairs once more, and then I'm afraid I shall have to take you away. He murmured something polite and heard her go out. I like her voice, he said, but I suppose it's like walking along the street to her. I wonder if she knows. He stopped. That line would not do. Room smells all right, he said genially. Not a bit what I thought it would be, remarked Algae. What did you expect? Oh, I don't know. I thought it would be dingy or pious or something. yes, this was certainly the right line, thought poor Anna. Naturalness was the only possible attitude,

yet her whole heart longed to turn algae out of the room and say, say, she did not know what she wanted to say. Something to Neville. She would not see him again, she knew, for at least 48 hours. He must be delivered over to other hands than hers, hands which, however tender or skillful, held knives and basins and bandages. But this naturalness was better, and she herself managed to say something presently about the old mirror over the mantelpiece. Then, after what seemed an incredibly short interval, the door opened once more, and the dainty little gray-haired lady stood on the threshold. It was they who had to go first, after all. Well, good luck, old man, said algae, and shook him warmly by the hand. Goodbye, my dear, said Aunt Anna. We shall both be here tomorrow, you know. He felt her warm

lips linger on his forehead. There was a rustle. There was a sound of footsteps. Then the hall door closed heavily. He stood waiting. Then there came the sound of another step. Ah, here is nurse Deacon, said the gentle voice. This is your patient, nurse. It was a long way upstairs, and the space seemed rather contracted. Miss Brantz went before, directing him at the corners. The nurse came behind. At the top of the first flight, he stopped, for not only did he remember what Aunt Anna had told him, but he perceived a very distinct and peculiar smell, not unpleasant, but reminding him of a chemist's shop. Smells had come to mean a good deal to him during these last days. This is the theater, isn't it? He said. Yes. How did you know? By the tone, he guessed that she

smiled. My aunt told me. Besides, I can smell it. Halfway up the next flight, a thought struck him. Any operations this morning, Miss Brants? Yes, too. Doing well, I hope. Splendidly. He perceived by her tone that he must not be inquisitive. He wondered why. Surely they weren't afraid for his nerve. Here we are, she said at last, and took him by the hand to lead him forward. Sit down a minute, Sir Neville, and get your breath. It's a long way upstairs. This room smelt charmingly of flowers. and of absolutely nothing else. He perceived that he was facing the light, and from the warmth on one side,

he understood that there was a fire on the right. He considered these things while she talked. Can you get ready for bed by yourself? she asked. Or would you sooner have nurse to help you, or your man-servant? Thanks very much, he said hastily. I can do it by myself. Then the door shut, and he understood that the nurse was gone. May I sit down for a minute or two? asked the other voice.

There are just one or two things I would like to mention. Why, certainly, he said, wondering what in the world they could be. The first is about the other patients. You know we have to have a very strict rule here that patients shouldn't know about one another. It would never do. So I know I can ask you, quite simply, not to ask any questions.

The nurses have orders in any case not to answer. Yes, this lady had plenty of the governing faculty, he perceived. Her voice had not belied her. He assented, and said that he quite understood. Thank you, Sir Neville. And the next thing is about yourself. The male patients sometimes have a certain difficulty in their minds about the nurses. I want just to remind you, if I may, that it's all perfectly natural to the nurses to look after

patients in every way. It's their ordinary accustomed work. You won't feel any difficulty about it, will you? I'll remember, said Neville. Thank you. The third thing is about a priest. The fathers at St. Joseph's can always send a priest at any time, day or night. We never, of course, suggest this to Catholic patients. This is not our business. Our business is the body, not the soul. But if you should want a priest to hear your confession tonight or at any time, or to bring you Holy Communion, you only have to say so. We are quite accustomed to that, and it is the same, of course, for Protestants. Thank you very much, said Neville. I don't think, just at present, just so, said the quiet, steady voice. Then I'll leave you now, Sir Nevel, so soon as I've shown you where the bed is and so on,

your man is here, and will come up when you're in bed, unless you'd like him now. No, I can manage all right, thank you. I hate to be waited upon, you know. Again, he could tell by her tone that she smiled. I'm afraid you'll have to submit here, she said. Now let me show you. End of Part 3, Chapter 4, Part 1. Part 3, Chapter 4, Part 2 of Initiation. This is a Libravox recording. All Libravox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Libravox.org.

Read by Artin. Initiation by Robert Hugh Benson, Part 3, Chapter 4, Part 2, Subsection 3. When he heard the nurse come in with his soup about eight o'clock that night, he put into words the decision he had at last come to. Is that you, Nurse Deacon? Yes, Sir Neville, with your soup. Could I have a priest from St. Joseph's, do you think? To hear my confession.

And I should like to have Holy Communion in the morning, too. I'll send a cross directly, she said. He could not have believed that an afternoon and an evening could have made so great a difference in his feelings. The time had passed very tranquilly, indeed. broken only by little events, quite unimportant, yet oddly exciting. It had been an event when his lunch had come, a couple of hours after he had been in bed. A lunch well-cooked and alluring, though strangely tasteless, as all food had been ever since his blindness.

He had eaten this lunch with the help of Nurse Deacon, who steadied the plates and directed his movements. Then he had slept and dozed alternately till about four. T. had come up a little later, and with T, Ms. Brants, who brought the suggestion that Nurse Deacon might, if he cared for it, read aloud to him for an hour. He had declined this, and he did not know why, except that he wanted to think. About seven the barber had come, and when the barber had gone, he had passed his hand over the shaved top of his head with a strange feeling of excitement. Matters seemed drawing to a crisis. The sheep was decked for the sacrifice indeed. His first intelligent emotion about himself was that he was not really Neville fanning at all,

that his consciousness had been tricked somehow into believing in its own continuity, that it was not really he at all who lay here waiting for the morrow, but someone else with whom he had been identified. It seemed incredible that he, who had bathed and ridden and shot and played tennis, he who was so essentially a health-loving, air-loving person, should have been caught so swiftly and chained it down here like... Like an invalid. He ran over his memories three or four times,

he fingered the links that had led him there, before his emotions as well as his understanding, grasped all the connections. He did not know at exactly what point he had decided to receive the sacraments. He had known perfectly well that as a Catholic he ought not to hesitate, yet the last time he had received them had been at Easter in Rome, at Easter when his life seemed turning to pure gold under the spell of Enid. Since then it had seemed impossible. Yet during these hours of expectancy, matters had begun to adjust themselves in a manner he would not have believed possible. Certain elements of thought retired, others advanced. There was a striving and a rearrangement that appeared to be going forward independently of his own volition. His helplessness of body, it seemed,

was but a symbol of an infinitely deeper helplessness of soul. There was an atmosphere here, a harmony of pain and tenderness and charity and terror, as bewildering as a completely new experience. The nurse, whom he could not see, appeared as a kind of tangible incarnation of it all. The touch of her hands when she settled him to eat and drink, the cool linen of her apron which he caught at once in mistake for the side of the bed, the smell of the flowers in the invisible room, the sound of the fire in the grate, there was not a sense that was not affected, not a sensation that was not eloquent. There seemed then to emerge in him, drawn out by environment, that old frame of things and thoughts that, formed in him by education, had been overlaid by his later experiences and actions.

It was as if his own inner childishness came up and took charge once more. It appeared to him, absurd, to allow his own little thoughts and philosophies to dominate him any longer. He was to stand in peril of his life tomorrow. He knew that well enough, in spite of all his pretenses. Then what better thing could he do than prepare his soul for that encounter? It was not that he was conscious of any religious emotion, nor even of definite fear, but the shadows were falling faster every hour.

Then it was but reasonable to meet them in the way that was most familiar. By eight o'clock, it seemed obvious to him that he must make his confession and receive Holy Communion tomorrow. A little before nine, the priest had come. Like all Jesuits, he had the infinite tact of utter simplicity. He said nothing except the plainest things. When Neville had finished his little story, he remarked that an experience such as Neville had passed through might be the occasion of the greatest merit, if it were rightly accepted. He bade him commit himself without reservations into the hands of God.

He gave him absolution. and he told him he would bring Holy Communion to him at half-past six the next morning. Again, he felt no emotion. Rather, he felt the relief of its absence. It was not that he experienced any ineffable peace, or that he felt particularly more cleansed than he had before. Merely he was conscious that he had done the suitable thing, that in that strange exterior world, which was called religion, he had performed the proper actions. Then he said the three Hail Mary's assigned to him as his penance, and settled down for the night.

Subsection 4. He awoke, suddenly and completely, about six o'clock, and after a minute or two of hesitation, touched his bell, for he awoke to the entire consciousness of where he was, and of what awaited him. The night nurse came in, told him what time it was, and asked if she should bring in the necessaries for Holy Communion. He assented.

At seven o'clock the priest had come and gone, and the nurse had clued away the flowers and linen cloths and the lighted candles. He had seen nothing of this, but he had followed her actions by the little sounds she made. Then she left him in quiet, telling him to ring if he wanted her. Unless he rang, she said, no one would interrupt him till Nurse Deacon came to him at nine. Then, once more, he settled down to consider. His night had been like the night of a traveler. Certainly he had slept a great deal.

He had slept continuously from three till six. Yet previously to that, he had no more been wholly unconscious of what he had. approached so swiftly than the night traveler is unconscious of the steady roar of the wheels and the rush of the night outside. But it was not fear that he felt. He had never even been remotely tempted by that which so afflicts many who await such an ordeal, the knowledge that he could yet refuse it and go out again at his will. Rather his emotion had been one of contemplation, of a fact that cannot be evaded. Now and again he had heard a clock strike softly. Once in the silent hours he had heard the low talking of a man's voice on the landing outside, and supposed that the doctor

had been summoned in haste for some other patient. Yet the burden of anticipation lay on him as heavy as lead. One emotion he had had, however, which he had not anticipated, and that was the thought of Enid. Again and again during the night he had thought of her. Her image had grown upon him like a giant, now that in his helplessness he could no longer put it away. It was not that he wanted anything particular from her, not for a moment even. now did he desire, however helpless and vague his mind might be, that that Enid whom he now knew should come to him. But with a sentimentality of which he had not believed himself capable, he had longed to hear the voice and feel the touch of the Enid whom he had once thought he knew, of the

quiet, serene girl who understood him so quickly. The Enid of Frascati and Rome and Hartley, of Hartley at least, in the first few hours of her visit there. The Enid of that ideal which he had once formed of her, who had so ruthlessly torn away the mask and shown him the cruel reality. Now, however, even this had passed. Then he considered the sacred ceremony in which he had just been a partaker, and was quietly amazed at the absence of emotion it had caused. He had received that which, in his deepest being, he believed to the body of Christ. He had quieted his thoughts that he might contemplate that fact, yet there had been no reaction

of devotion. As in his confession last night, so again this morning, he felt nothing except that he had performed the action proper to his religion. The priest had come and gone, and he lay there, reflecting. At nine o'clock the nurse came in. Good morning, Sir Neville. I hope you slept well. Oh yes, pretty well, thanks.

You'd like your hands and feet washed, wouldn't you? Thank you. This was done. The sponge passed smoothly and gently over his face and ears. He laid first one hand and then the other in the warm water. Then these were dried, and he lay still. Then he had listened to the basin being put back. Then the door had shut.

Then, once again, the sense of helplessness and fatality came down on him like a pall. By now he knew, somewhere in the house below him, waited Aunt Anna and Algae, and for the first time a kind of childish fury seized him with a thought of them. Of what use, after all, were all Aunt Anna's prayers and algae's sympathy. For somewhere also in that very house his butchers were gathering. The man who would drug and stifle him into insensibility. The man who would open his head with knives and saws and scissors. There was a horrible little instrument, too, of which he had forced poor Algae to read aloud to him from an encyclopedia,

an instrument that faintly resembled an elaborate kind of mechanical corkscrew. If there were anything in prayer and sympathy, why could not these horrors be prevented? It was all very well for Aunt Anna to be meek and courageous, and algae to be silent and emotional, But what had they to suffer? They would wait in that pleasant drawing room while he was being choked and hacked upstairs. He put away with the kind of savage selfishness, the thought that they too were suffering.

What, after all, he asked himself, were mental sufferings compared to physical? It was the naked, bodily nerve that hurt in the long run and not memories and anticipations. About 20 minutes past nine, he was quiet again, and lay there, indeed, like a sheep on the steps of the altar. His whole attention seemed fixed on the faint noises of the house.

He heard the hooting of a motor and wondered whether it were his surgeon who was coming. He heard the faint chink of China and wondered whether it were a basin being carried down to catch his blood. For one mad instant he desired that there might be some delay, that the surgeon might be called elsewhere. There flashed across his consciousness, come and gone again in an instant,

the knowledge that he was yet free to say no and to demand his release. The end came far more swiftly and undramatically than he imagined. The door opened so quietly and ordinarily that it seemed nothing. Then the quiet, steady voice spoke. They are quite ready, Sir Neville. Will you get up and come downstairs? I will help you into your dressing gown and slippers.

Subsection 5. The faint, drug-like smell smote his nostril suddenly. as, with outstretched hands and fingers from behind guiding his arm, he shuffled in through the double doors on the first landing. One of them was Bays, he remembered. Good morning, Sir Neville. Feeling pretty well, I hope. It was Hansworth's voice.

He remembered that and put out his hand. Good morning. Oh, yes, thanks. This is Dr. Martin, who will give you the anesthetic. Again, his hand was taken. Good morning, Dr. Martin. I... What am I to do, please?

That's all right. her Neville, came Miss Brantz's delicate voice from behind. Just slip off your dressing gown and slippers. As he was doing this, he wondered whether he ought to say anything. He decided not. Standing in his pajamas, barefooted, he felt more helpless than ever. What? He began. Now please, the bed is just in front of you. By the way, you have no false teeth, have you? No. He groped forward, feeling with his hands, till they encountered a sheet-covered edge. It seemed unusually high, he thought. The light was on his left. Then, with his exploring foot, he felt a step.

This altar had steps then. Very carefully he climbed up onto the bed. It seemed extremely hard and narrow. At least two pairs of hands guided his movements. He lay straight down on his back and felt bedclothes laid lightly over him. And it was then, for the first time, that he was aware that his heart was beating sharply and almost painfully about midway, it seemed, between his throat and his breastbone. There were sounds of soft footsteps about him, and of some article moving lightly on week.

Now, Sir Neville, began the inesthetist's voice. Yes, your hands just crossed on your breast, please. When I put the mouthpiece on, just breathe as deeply and deliberately as you can. Just like a child. Don't pant at all, please. Just long, slow breaths. Yes, he knew that. He had made up his mind to that.

Ah, why would they not begin? They seemed to him intolerably slow. He longed to escape, and to leave his body here. here. Then he would come back to it when all was over. So suddenly that he started a little, he felt some kind of curved rubber receiver laid gently across his mouth and nostrils. It curved down onto his jaws on both sides. There was no catcher fastening of any kind, and he felt as if it pinned him down as might a chain. He conceived the possibility of struggling and throwing it off. Now begin to breathe quite gently, said the soft voice.

Now. Ah, there it was. It was not at all a violent or shocking scent. On the contrary, it was just a shade sickly and attenuated. Then he began to count, drawing in his breaths deeply to the full extent of his lungs. He had fancied somehow that four or five breaths would send him off. There came down on him suddenly a sense of great quiet and expectancy, as if the world stood still, but he disliked this expectancy. He wished to escape.

but time appeared to stand still. He wondered if this were unconsciousness beginning, and directed his attention to his body and limbs. No, they were still his. He could feel the texture of the rather coarse linen beneath his clasped hands and above his toes. That was the seventh breath. The eighth.

The ninth. Each was very slow and deep, as had been ordered. Each occupied at least three or four seconds. At the tenth he thought he would put a test to himself. He began to try to separate his interlaced fingers. They moved, but it was certainly slowly and with difficulty, and they felt slippery. He ceased to try to move them. As he continued to breathe and to count, again there came down on him the sense of tranquil expectancy.

It appeared to him as if in a new kind of way he was the center of attention. There were several pairs of eyes fixed on him, he knew. The anesthetist was watching him with skilled observation to see that all was as it should be. Hansworth, somewhere behind the head of the bed, he thought, was standing, either in a white coat or with his sleeves turned up, with a glittering instrument, perhaps, already in his fingers. Miss Brants, he had an idea, was standing with her back to the closed doors, and Nurse Deacon, probably, beside the little plate glass table covered with strange articles. Perhaps, too, there were others in this room, of whom he had heard nothing. He did not know. Then there was Aunt Anna and Algae downstairs in the drawing room, pretending to read, perhaps, certainly not talking.

There were other patients in bed upstairs, some waiting their turn for today or some other day, some having already passed through these strange experiences. Then, outside there was the London Street, and motor cars and policemen and shops. Perhaps somewhere there was Enid. He did not know whether she were in London or not. Then there was Hartley, and Jim, and the hall and the river in the pavilion, and Father Richardson. And somehow, he himself was the center of all these things. They radiated from him, and looked towards him.

At the 17th breath, a note began in his head, quite soft and clear, and not unpleasant, a kind of curved note that moved upwards, like a very melodious siren whistle. At the 18th, it was moving more round. rapidly, as if the curve grew acute. He counted 19. End of Part 3, Chapter 4, Part 2. End of Part 3, Chapter 4. Chapter 5, Part 1 of initiation. This is a Librevox recording. All Librevox recordings are in the public domain.

For more information or to volunteer, please visitlibrovox.org. Read by Chris Bins. Initiation by Robert Hugh Benson Chapter 5 Subsection 1 There was someone stroking his hand and that stroking gave him ineffable consolation. It was a regular rhythmical movement from wrist of fingers

and he remained with his eyes closed enjoying it. Then he perceived that his left hand was also firmly and tenderly held and this double support on both sides reassured and bore him up. Then he became aware of pain that rested on him, like a hat drawn down to his eyes. It was exterior, not interior. It was not, that is to say, in his consciousness, but rather was faced and contemplated by it. The pain was a continuous pulsation, rather like the throb of a motor engine, though far slower, a series of noiseless explosions from a point, like the bursting of a shell, and he perceived the

colour of them was a kind of electric blue. As he opened his eyes, the pain sensibly decreased, or at least retired a little way off. A voice was talking gently and soothingly, and this, like the stroking of his hand, was an extraordinary consolation, though he did not at present understand one word that it was saying. The stroking stopped, and there was a stir in the room. He thought that someone had gone out. Go on with that, please, he said, moving his fingers a little. I like that. The stroking began again. Is it all right? Yes, perfectly right. It's all over. What time is it? It's just half past twelve. Why? I can see. Yes, of course you can. He remained without speaking again for a minute or two, turning his eyes about, taking in new

impressions, and considering the marvel that he could do so. The pain was still there, just as before, like a person hammering heavily on a closed door and seeking entrance. He felt he could not bother to open and see who was there. He would presently, when he had time to look about him. There was a mirror over the fireplace, framed in gilt-carved wood, with a kind of little rail at the top of the glass. This was extremely interesting, because although he knew it was a mirror, it was also the Thames at Westminster. The rail was the bridge, and the glass was the surface of the water, and above there were the houses, lit from within and glowing with the light of sunset upon them. It was extraordinarily beautiful. How curious that it was both a mirror and the Thames.

Were other things in the room like that? On the right there was a tall fold of, screen, and the top of the white door appeared above it. These were all right, but in front was a kind of tall, carved lamp support, like a very elongated table. There was a vase of flowers on this. But it was not only a table and flowers, it was also the leg of a giant, from the knee to the ankle. The rest of the giant must be above the roof. He became more and more interested, and looked to the left. The window was on the left, with the blind drawn down, and before it stood another table with a tall, flowering plant. But it was not just a table and a plant. It was also the figure of a cavalier in a plumed hat with his hand-raised as if in defiance. He thought he really must be a little

feverish, or was it that his eyes were not quite right after all? It was surely unreasonable and impossible, that these things could be themselves, and yet also things with which they could not really have even the remotest connection. Can I really see all right? He asked. Oh yes, perfectly. He turned his eyes to see who spoke. He had practically forgotten these people. The woman who had spoken was a little grey-haired, delicate-looking person, dressed in white. It was she who was holding his left hand. He liked her face. She looked human and kindly. Then he turned his eyes to the right, and a tall girl in blue, with a white apron from her throat to below her knees, which was as far as he could see, sat there. It was she who was still stroking his hand. She had a clear, steady face,

dark hair and grey eyes. She was rather of the Enid type. Yes, he liked her too. "'You're Nurse Deacon, aren't you?' he said. "'Yes, Sir Neville.' "'And your Miss Brance,' he began, turning his eyes back. But at that instant the knocking pain waxed intolerable, and he drew a swift hiss of agony. "'Oh, it hurts!' he moaned, and shut his eyes. "'The syringe again,' he heard whispered across the blazing explosions of blue light. presently he felt his left arm being handled, as if someone had pulled up his pajama sleeve

and was lightly fingering his forearm. Then there was a tiny touch of a different kind, no more than that. Then, little by little, though the pain did not cease, it grew more remote and even tolerable. After a period he began to feel restless. He supposed that it was Morpheus that had been given to him, and he was coming to the conclusion that Morpheus was a very much overrated drug. It had quieted him in a sort of physical way, but it had not really touched the seat of the trouble. The pain was there, just as before, hammering still, though in a muffled kind of way, but it was practically as bad, and there were no delicious sensations, such as he had always understood resulted from an injection. He felt merely oppressed and restless, not soothed.

This would never do. He drew a long breath and opened his eyes once more. He thought he would talk a little bit and find out things. Besides, it might distract him. Miss Brands? Miss Brands has gone downstairs. She'll be back presently. Oh, it doesn't matter. Look here, Nurse.

Was the operation successful? Yes, perfectly, came the quiet voice. Why, you can see again? Yes, that's all right. Nurse? Yes, Sir Neville? Doctor's gone, I suppose. "'They've been gone over an hour.'

"'Oh, I suppose Sir Arthur will be coming back. "'He'll telephone for news this evening. "'We've told him you're doing very well. "'He'll come if you want him, of course.' "'Did I use bad language this morning? "'Don't tell me lies, will you?' "'He turned his eyes to see her face as she answered "'and saw that she was smiling a little.

"'No, Sir Neville. Indeed you didn't. "'You only spoke twice.' "'Where?' What did I say? Once during the operation, and once when the men were carrying you upstairs, you said, Oh, my God! That was really all? She nodded.

Yes. Oh, I say, nurse, you know that wasn't a prayer. I'm not a bit pious. That was an... an expletive. He heard her laugh softly. Really, she was very human and pleasant. Would you like anything to eat or drink?

Sir Neville? Are you thirsty at all? You mustn't talk much, you know. He questioned himself. Was he thirsty? No. Hungry? On the contrary, food seemed entirely disgusting. I wouldn't eat if you gave me a hundred pounds. You can let go of my hands, please. He drew his hands together. She lifted the sheet for him to do so. Now, I must talk. I want to know a lot of things. "'Don't you think you can go to sleep a little?' "'No. How can I, with this beastly bandage all over my head? "'Has my—I mean—has Mrs. Fanning gone away? I should like to see her.

"'And algae.' "'I'm afraid you mustn't, Sir Neville. "'Besides, they've both gone away. "'Miss Brance went down half an hour ago to say how well you were doing. "'Oh, why are the blinds down? "'I'm not dead, am I?' Indeed you're not, Sir Neville, but the light would bother you. Just lie quite still, if you can, and...

Just lie quite still if you can, and... Well, and the operation really was successful? It wasn't... wasn't cancer, was it? Nothing of the kind, Sir Neville, and you're doing very well indeed. And it's all over? Really, all over? And I shan't have to go down to that... That beastly little room anymore? He spoke vehemently.

and the pain in his head grew vehement too. Sir Neville, you really must be more quiet. You don't want me to have to send for Miss Brands. She's at lunch, too. You'll swear it's not cancer? Of course I will. Now, do you think a little chicken jelly or soup? He considered this slowly.

Soup, of course, was intolerable, but cold chicken jelly. You'll have to have something, you know. You had no breakfast this morning. Shall I feel better if I do? I don't feel a bit well, you know. It's not cancer, I think you said. I think perhaps chicken jelly, if it's cold. Of course, you'll feel better.

Will you lie still if I leave you for two minutes? Yes, all right. And perhaps half a cigarette afterwards. I don't know. Oh, Lord, my head. Subsection 2. Just get the syringer. again, whispered a voice at some infinitely later period across the blinding explosions of pain,

and then get the dressings ready. He did not know in the least what time it was, and it was far too great an effort to ask, but he opened his tormented eyes and saw that a shaded electric lamp stood by his bed, yet still the pain was not actually crushing. He never felt that he really could not bear it anymore, only it was necessary to keep his attention firmly fixed upon it, and his will braced to meet it. The pain in he were two, not one. He was making two other curious discoveries. One was that his nervous system was very much larger than his body.

It had thrown out fibres and tentacles throughout the whole bed, so that even the faintest touch on the clothes thrilled through him. Just now, one of the women had brushed the end of the bed with her skirt, and he had winced as if he had been struck. Some of the fibres reached even down upon the floor, so that every vibration of a footstep, however soft, ran through him. The centre of the system was rather to the left and forward of the top of his head, almost on his temple, and it was to this brooding, incarnate pain that every message came.

He felt the prick of the needle very much more distinctly this time. It was a tiny additional pain. His head appeared to register and acknowledge it promptly. I don't think I'll have any more of that. murmured. It's no good, you know. Then he closed his eyes again, but the dressing of the wound was a far greater horror. Something in the tone of the voices that spoke to him rendered resistance impossible. He realised that it must be gone through. So he lay still with his eyes closed, trying to think how pleasant it would be when it was all over, permitting hands to move over his head, feeling a shocking

kind of cold at one point that made him shiver, succeeded by a trickling kind of warmth. that was followed by a little metallic noise in some vessel. This warmth was faintly comforting. He deliberately kept his eyes closed for fear that which trickled might be blood, and he should see it. Then the bandages closed again on his head. It was horrible while they were being put on.

It was reassuring when all was done, and his head rested again easily on the pillows. Then he opened his eyes. Thanks very much, he said. Then he wondered whether he had been, been behaving well. He couldn't remember having said thank you before at all. He wondered whether he had shown himself a shocking coward. Miss Brance, you mustn't talk, Sir Neville. I want you to lie quite still. He let his eyes wander over her little white figure. She was dressed for a dinner, it seemed,

in a sort of tea gown, but had an apron on and linen sleeves drawn over her arms. She looked very familiar and reassuring somehow. It was marvellous that anyone could be dressed for dinner, he looked away for her at a soft sound and saw that the nurse was wheeling away behind one of the screens, a little plate-glass table. The table had various things on it. He decided to pay no attention to Miss Brantz's remark. Has Sir Arthur Hansworth been again? I'm afraid you mustn't talk, Sir Neville. Just try to lie quite still and go to sleep. Then the little figure went noiselessly across the dimlit room and disappeared. He lay considering. At some further remote period, Miss Brance was by him again.

She carried a little instrument in her hand. How do you feel now, Sir Neville? I think I'm better. May I talk a little, please? She sat down by his bedside, as the nurse rose and went out. Well, just a little. But it's nearly ten o'clock, you know. Nurse Deacon will be back to settle you for the night directly,

and then the night nurse will come on duty. Will she be in the room? No, just on the landing outside, but she'll come immediately if you ring. I want you to have a good sleep. I won't have any more morphia, please. I've brought something quite different this time. What is it? Never mind about that, Sir Neville, but it's quite different.

It's not cancer I've got, is it? He felt it was most important to settle this question. It had been on his mind a little, and he meant to have asked Nurse Deacon, but somehow it had been forgotten. Oh, no, not a trace. You need have no fear whatever of that. Is the pain less? I think it is, a little.

But it goes on hammering, you know. Well, that'll get better every hour. You've had hardly any proper sleep at all, all today. When can I see my aunt? Oh, in a day or two. We shall have to see how you get on. I shall telephone her tonight as soon as you're settled. We've had a good many inquiries.

Oh, who? Well, Lord Mayersfield has been one, and telephoned again this evening. Then Mr. Lennox came again this afternoon. Then a Mrs. Bessington called about six. What? Mrs. Bessington. She said that Mrs. Fanning had told her, and any amount of flowers have come,

but I'm afraid you mustn't have them till tomorrow morning. I suppose no one else came with Mrs. Bessington? No, she came alone. As Neville did not move or speak again, the little woman stood up. Nurse Deacon is just coming, I think. When the settling for the night had been finished, Neville again lay very still. The process had really been quite interesting. He could not follow all the tactics carried out by the two nurses.

He had raised himself a little on their arms. He had lifted his feet all as he was bidden. His blankets had been raised, A sheet pulled, and then the blankets lowered again. The result of all that was within five minutes, he lay between fresh sheets above and below and new cool pillows. Then the pyjama sleeve had been pulled up again, and the prick had followed, more distinct than ever.

Finally, the two women moved noiselessly about the room, shifting and arranging this and that. A few more calls were put on the fire. Then they had bidden him good night. The bell button and the light button with a box of cigarettes a matchbox and a covered glass of barley water, all stood within easy reach on the table by his bedside. He had managed too, with only very slight disgust,

half a dozen more spoonfuls of chicken jelly. He stared at the walls that wavered in the firelight, and the mirror that had been the Thames at Westminster this afternoon. Mrs Bessington had been to call this afternoon. He had known well enough, even before he had asked that she had come alone. He knew now, too, that she must have been to call this afternoon. He knew now too that she must have come without her daughter's knowledge, and that she would not say a word to that daughter of what she had heard.

Yet in his weakness and his drug-inspired semi-delirium, there was one side of him that strove to pretend that it was not so, and that Enid was at least a little sorry to hear of his new trouble. But it was no more than pretence. Just as he had known this afternoon that the mirror was not really the Thames, and that the growing plant was not a cavalier, so he knew now, that Enid was nothing to him, nor he to her, that she had shown herself completely another from that which he had fancied her, even though it gave him a miserably pleasant kind of pain to pretend that she was relenting. So in his weakness, he turned the point in his soul again and

again, and the pains of both body and mind began to work. There were other considerations too, beginning to present themselves. The nurse looked in noiselessly about midnight, hoping that he might be asleep. But, so soon as she looked, she caught the glimmer of the fire in his black eyes. But he said nothing, and she went out. She looked in again an hour later, and still he was awake. He said he hadn't succeeded in getting to sleep yet. Between three and four, he rang for her. It's not the least good, he said. I can't sleep. Would you just turn up the light and give me a book or two? Oh yes, and just cut half a dozen cigarettes in half. I find I can't quite manage a whole one.

Subsection 3. Now then, Sir Neville, let's have a look. It was quite an odd sensation for him, next morning about 11, to set eyes for the first time upon the man whose voice he knew so well from his first interview with him, the man who had performed the butchery on him only 24 hours before. Sir Arthur Hansworth was not much like Algie's description of him. He was much leaner in body than Neville had imagined.

His eyes were less alert and bright. He was extremely well dressed in a dark grey morning suit. The process of having a look was not pleasant. Neville had to lie right over on his side, with his face half buried in the pillow, and feel fingers touching the top of his head in a manner that gave him a sensation of having no skull protection at all. Once or twice during the process,

and while the surgeon himself dressed the wound, Neville caught sight of his long, dry-looking fingers. it was those fingers that had held the corkscrew-like instrument yesterday. He felt curiously exhausted, not indeed with the pain, since a couple of hours sleep after seven o'clock this morning had certainly eased it very greatly, but with the effort he had to make to keep his nerves tight and rigid while the examination was made.

His nerves felt raw and apprehensive while this went on, and appeared to relax like damp fiddle strings when it was over. And he lay back again on his pillows, crowned with clean bandages. He felt a dull kind of resentment against the surgeon. Well, he asked. It's perfectly satisfactory, said the other, watching his face with a searching kind of look. And the pain's better, I hear? Oh, yes. When shall I be able to go away, do you think? It depends almost entirely on yourself, Sir Neville. The thing that matters now is the healing of the wound. If you do what you are told, and can keep quiet, I should think you could,

travel in ten days or a fortnight. And the operation was successful? Perfectly, said the other shortly. Neville was conscious of a considerable relief. It was true that his nurses had implied as much, but it was more satisfactory to hear of it from the surgeon himself. And immediately, his thoughts turned to his own people. When may my aunts come and see me, do you think? You want to see her very much? If I may. "'Well, you might see her for half an hour this afternoon. She might come and have a cup of tea with you if you liked.' Neville looked up sharply.

He had no idea that it would be allowed so soon. From a very slight air in the surgeon's manner, he had thought it would be several days before anyone would be allowed to come. "'Well, that's very good of you. You have seen her, I suppose?' I saw her yesterday, after the operation, but she mustn't come unless you really can get some sleep before. That'll be all right, said Neville. I feel more like it today.

End of Section 3. Chapter 5, Part 2 of Initiation. This is a Librevox recording. All Librevox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visitlibrovox.org. Read by Chris Bins. Initiation by Robert Hugh Benson. Subsection 4 He awoke that afternoon a little before four, and lay well content enough, feeling remarkably light and cheerful. It was as if the sleep had purged his brain of those flying shreds of

impatience and resentment that had troubled him for the first few hours after his return to consciousness, and that had manifested themselves even once or twice during the surgeon's visit this morning. Aunt Anna was to come about half-past four, and he was glad to have a little while to arrange, both in thought and word, what he had to say to her. A number of new and rather surprising ideas had come to him during the last 24 hours, and particularly during the long night until he had slept at last in the dawn. He felt even a kind of pleasure in the prospect of the humiliating confession he would have to make. Then there were various plans he wished to speak to her about, or rather he wished to consult her as to the plans that had best be formed for the carrying out of his

future ideas. For one thing, at any rate, had come to him very insistently. Now that he was emerging from his new experience and looked forward to life once more, that he must really be rather more definite. It was pleasant enough to dawdle at Hartley and play tennis and ride with gym and hunt and shoot and all the rest of it, but this was not exactly life itself. He must do something. He was not sure whether it would be Parliament or agriculture, but it must be something. Marriage, of course, might come someday, he prudently reminded himself, not indeed such a marriage as that of which he had once dreamed, but at any rate, a decent and Christian matrimony.

However, that must take care of itself. Meantime, he must look out for some definite line. It was pleasant to think that Anne's Anna and Jim would form the domestic background to this newborn strenuousness. She came in so quietly and naturally that he was almost, taken her back. The nurse who had looked in soon after he awoke, and gone out again saying that she would bring up tea for Mrs. Fanning as soon as she arrived, merely tapped on the door and then opened it, and Aunt Anna came in. She came straight up to the bed, smiling, with bright eyes. She looked

marvellously young and pretty. It was almost impossible to remember that really her hair was not powdered. My dear boy, she said. She made as if she was, she made as if she was. would kiss him, but as she reached him, she hesitated. Then she took his hand instead and kissed that. Well, here we are, Aunt Anna, said Neville. Sit down where I can see you, and for goodness sake, don't touch the bed, or I shall scream. As she sat down, very close to the bed, and facing him again, the door was pushed open, and Nurse Deacon came in with the tray. There was a soft bustle as Aunt Anna cleared a little table and put it before her. You may have tea? asked Antana.

Certainly, said Neville, but I think it mustn't be strong. It was delicious to watch her as she poured it out and noiselessly moved things this way and that, finally putting his cup and a plate of rusks within his reach. He was perfectly able to help himself, when once he had been properly arranged. Just tell me all the news first, said Neville. She drank her cup straight off and set it down. No, I won't have anything to eat, she said. Well, the news.

Certainly, she seemed a little agitated, but that was only natural, thought Neville. Yes, the news, he said again. All about what you did yesterday, an algae and Charlson and everything. I haven't seen Charleston for two days. They won't let him come up, you know. Ah, yes, she said.

"'Well, I got here about nine yesterday, and had a word or two with Sir Arthur Hansworth. "'Then they sent down to say you had taken the anaesthetic splendidly. "'Then I heard that the operation was over, and I went into St Joseph's. "'But you saw Hansworth, didn't you?' "'She appeared to recover herself with a kind of jerk. "'Oh, yes, I saw him, and he gave me the news.' "'He told me so this morning,' observed Neville. Go on.

In the afternoon we inquired again, and the same at night, about ten. I sent a note round to Mrs. Bessington, you know. Yes, I heard she had come. I thought you wouldn't mind. Mr. Lennox dined with me. Then, this morning, when I came, I heard that perhaps I should be allowed to see you this afternoon. She was speaking very quietly and rather rapidly,

as if she were controlling herself with great success. Neville was interested to observe that self-control was necessary for her. It touched him considerably to see that she was, plainly, so much agitated and moved by what was, after all, a comparatively uneventful operation. Of course, the whole thing was itself an event, but within those brackets, all had been really very smooth and successful. Well, that's all your news?

I think so. He put down his cup and settled himself. a little lower in bed. I've got a heap to say, he said. Just give me a cigarette. I can manage a whole one, I think. Thanks. And a match.

She held the match while he lighted up. He drew one or two whiffs, and then began. Yes, I've got a heap to say. You won't think me a prig, will you? Or sentimental, will you? My dear! Because I really do think it's true.

Of course, it may just be a reaction. but, well, I don't think it is. I've been thinking a lot, Aunt Anna. Yes, my dear. I've been a smug beast. That's the beginning. Did I ever tell you about the pieta at Frascati? I don't think so. Well, she and I saw it together, you know. Enid, I mean. He saw her catch her lower lip in her teeth for an instant. She looked a little pale, too, he noticed. "'Oh no,' he said, thinking that he understood. "'That's all over. It's not about her. At least not much. "'It began with the Pieta. We both said we couldn't bear it.'

She nodded. Her face was set in a kind of rigid attention. "'You know what I mean, suffering and all that. It didn't seem to fit. It seemed morbid and all that. Well, I don't think that any more now.' This time she did not even nod, but her whole intense air is censored. She seemed waiting for the same denouement. It began when Enid threw me over, he went on, closing his eyes for a moment or two. It was awful. Well, I did the wrong thing.

I see that now. I might have run amok. I see that now. But that wasn't really much temptation. But I did what was very nearly as bad. I deliberately turned my back. I would not suffer. So I turned to other things, and I rode, and I played the fool, and I bathed with Jim,

and I tried to say to myself that I'd just be an animal, a pagan, a decent sort of animal. I honestly don't think I could be the other, and then I found that I couldn't. He looked up at her again, and her attentiveness seemed even deepened. She was looking at him with an extraordinary kind of strain in her face, as if watching some process of which she knew the end. She did not even shift her eyes when they met his. It was as if she was looking at a picture. It was almost painful, so to be stared at. Again, he closed his eyes. He was feeling rather exhausted again. He would make haste and finish. I couldn't, because, because God would not allow it. I'm trying to tell you simply, my dear. Don't think me a prick,

please. First of all came the blindness. That set me thinking. that and the pain. I did have headaches, you know, besides, that I wouldn't tell you about. Then came what Hansworth said to me. That startled me, about my father, I mean. And then came the operation. My dear, I'm a born coward. I loathed it.

He opened his eyes once more. She was leaning back in her chair. Her elbow was on the tea table, and her hand shaded her face. Well, it was easier so. But I didn't see it all till yesterday, and last night. I couldn't sleep, you know. I thought and thought, and I don't want to whine, you know. But the pain has been sickening.

Well, I believe I see the point now. He wouldn't let me alone. First Enid, and then when I tried the other, pain. I give in, Antana. I don't want to run away anymore. I, well, to put it in five words, I don't hate the Pieter, any more. I see the point. It must be there. Bang in the middle of the woods, too. It's everywhere, you know. There's no getting away, so one may as well accept it. He looked at her again, himself

moved very deeply. It had cost him a good deal to say it, but she apparently was even more affected. He had heard no sound, but she was wheeled about in a chair and her face was hidden all together in both her hands. My dear, I'm sorry. But I've done, that's all. At least, that's all about that part. You understand, don't you? He saw her bow her head in a sense,

but she didn't show her face. There's one more thing, and then we'll talk about something else. I've been dawdling frightfully, you know. I've done nothing whatever. Now that simply won't do, and I want you to tell me what's the best thing when once I'm back at Hartley.

Then she lifted her face, and he saw a look in it that he had never seen before. It was expectancy still, but it was more. Oh, no, I don't want to do anything sensational, you know. I'm not going to be fanatical or anything like that. But I must do something. It may be Parliament, or it may be... He stopped dead. What's the matter?

Why do you look like that? Was it the pressure of her hands on her face, or was it some strange effect of the half-light coming through the thin silk curtains? She rose as he looked and slid forward onto her knees. He winced a little as her hands came down in his own right hand that lay outside the coverlet. My dear, she said, I am sure you can do a great deal. Her voice too was strange. It had neither tears nor laughter in it, but there was an extraordinary tone in every word.

her phase too was tense and exalte, yet without even a touch of hysteria. You can do a great deal. It is for this that all this has happened. Neville, my dear boy. She was holding his hand firmly and tenderly. He said nothing. Neville, my dear. You know what you made me promise? That the doctor should say nothing to me that I didn't say to you. Well, I have his leave. He has commissioned me. Is it cancer? He whispered sharply.

No, my dear. It is not cancer. He has told you the truth too. But it has not told you the whole truth. My darling, you won't be afraid. I know that. You have been splendid. Splendid.

He has done what he could, you know. And now your real work must begin. We are Christians. That is why he has allowed me to tell you so soon. Over his whole body, felt the light sweat break out, like ten thousand delicate needle points touching his skin. A solemn deep pulse began to beat at the base of his throat, a light film passed over his eyes, and all that he looked at, her face, the screen by the door, the coverlet on which lay his hand

enfolded in hers. All these things appeared to swim a little, and then seethe as if in granulation. "'We are Christians, you and I,' said Aunt Anna. "'There is nothing at all to fear. You had the sacraments. I know that, before you knew. There is nothing to fear. Tell me. You will be able to see till the end, they hope.

But they are not sure, though he removed most of the... But he could not remove at all. It must grow again, and... How long? he whispered. Three or four months at the most, whispered Antana. Subsection 5. There was no sound at all in the room, as she bowed. again her face upon her hands, and then, opening them, rested her lips upon his fingers.

Out of the far distance, checked and muffled by the intervening houses, came the moan of a siren, died again, rose again, and was silent. The coals and the great fell inwards with a soft crash. When she lifted her eyes again, he was lying quite still. He had raised himself a little in bed, as he asked how long, and she had felt him sink back once more as she had answered. Now he was quiet again, with his eyes open and looking out beyond the end of his bed, as if he were thinking gently. She did not speak. She understood something of that strange alchemy of the mind, which requires time that a new, an unexpected element may be allowed to sink gently down and be assimilated. It was not yet sunk in, but he knew what she had said. But he did not yet know that he knew it. He was quite pale. His lips were slightly parted, but there was no reaction of shock or of alarm. He was taking it in gently, as his manner was. She had formed no plan as to how she was to tell him. She herself had known it, down below there in the drawing room,

as soon as she had seen the surgeon's face when he had come down from his business. He had told her gently and kindly, just so much and no more as she had told Neville just now. She had tried to frame some form of words by which she in turn might tell him, and had given it up. She must wait till she saw him. Then she would know. The surgeon had at first utterly forbidden her to tell him for at least a week. She had answered that when she could not face him at all. She had said that Catholics were not like other people, that death was not to them as it was to others.

He had consented at last, for she would not hear the proposal that anyone but herself should tell him. It was from her lips and hers only that he must learn it. He had consented at last, or rather had withdrawn his absolute prohibition. But he was emphatic that he did not formally sanction it, and that she must bear the responsibility. Well, she had done it, and Neville lay here silent, meditating. There came a tap at the door. That must be the nurse coming to take her away.

At the sound, he moved his eyes and looked at her, and somehow the expression in his face was not quite what she had expected. Antana. Yes, my darling. Antana, he hesitated. I see what you meant just now when, when you said that about my work. I'll try. Give me a kiss. But even the tone of his voice was disconcerting.

Had he then not quite understood? End of chapter 5. Part 3, Chapter 6, Part 1 of initiation. This is a Libervox recording. all Libervox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit libervox.org. Read by Rhonda Christine. Initiation by Robert Hugh Benson. Subsection 1. Masterson was standing, a little before sunset, at the Great West Door of Hartley, nearly a month later, waiting for the arrival. His nose and mouth twitched a little as his manner was an apprehensive

of thought, and his eyes looked across as he stared out at the straight ribbon of road, still empty of any vehicle. Behind him the house seemed as empty and dead quiet. To right and left of him the shrubbery stood like troops of watchers, russet behind, evergreen in front, and the whole arch of sky before and above him glowed with rose and amber. The household had had time to assimilate the news by now. It had been delivered to them with the appearance of miserable anger that had ended in choking

emotion by Mr. Masterson himself three weeks ago, one day after dinner. On that day at the moment when the six potentates of the servants' hall were accustomed to rise and file out that they might partake of sweets in what was known as a stewards' room, the three of them who were there sat still, all except Masterson, who rose to his feet, holding a letter in his hand. Mrs. Fanning desires me to read you all this letter, he said, without comment or introduction. Then he had read it from the heading Elizabeth Street, down to Yours Truly Anna Fanning. He began, as had been said, with an air of wretched anger and sharpness.

He ended with a number of curious sounds in his throat. Then the entire household had risen to its feet to speed the solemn line of three potentates who went out in silence. An air of marked silence had deepened on the house. Even Jim had been subdued. He had said to Masterson one day in the pantry that he supposed, it was not proper to write on Charles's back just now. Masterson had agreed shortly. He rode out on his pony every day solemnly.

He did his lessons with the governess from the vicarage at unusual hours. He went to tea three or four times with Mr. Morpeth, and once at the vicarage itself. He went to Mass on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and knelt all alone in the hall pew, very grave and observant. To those who truly love houses for themselves, it is perfectly evident that these have moods as marked as their personalities. Hartley was mourning. There could be no doubt about it. Mourning in a manner altogether,

inexplicable on the grounds that its inhabitants were sorrowful. There was a silence in it as of meditation. When Jim forgot himself and shrieked with the collies on the lawn, the house appeared to lift its eyelids for an instant, and then dropped them again. At night it seemed sleepless, during the day drowsy and thoughtful.

The maids went swiftly and timidly along the gallery to open and shut the windows, as if fearing to disturb its deep contemplation, the gardeners looked up at it suddenly as if it had sighed, but it only looked at them as if brooding. Masterson was not the man to analyze his sensations, but as he stood here in the sunset light, he really did not know how to comport himself interiorly. Exteriorly, of course, all must be usual. He must step forward and open the corridor when it came, with that indescribable inclination that asks for no acknowledgement. He must stand while the travelers went into the house and then turned to the car to help Charleston with the rugs and the handbags. The bigger luggage had arrived by train and wagonette

nearly an hour ago. He must then go back into the hall and threw it without a word, but his interior emotions were so mutually exclusive that he could make nothing of them at all. The master and mistress were coming back after a month's absence, and the master was coming back to die. Yet he would not be carried in like a dying man. So much Masterson had learned from the maids. He would be fully dressed. He could walk without support. He looked pulled down, of course, yet convalescent. What then were the emotions suitable to such a bewildering situation? Masterson shook his head slowly. That was perhaps the inevitable, and the best symbol. But his grief was genuine and deep. He was a very loving and faithful servant. He suddenly straightened himself as he saw far away on the

straight drive in front, a black object approaching. Subsection 2. The actual arrival was completely devoid of any sensational element. When the car was drawn up and Masterson opened the door, Mrs. Fanning, who was sitting nearest to it, smiled and nodded and came out. She turned when she reached the ground, yet not fussily. How do you do, Masterson? Oh, well, said Neville as he came past. There was no more than that, Masterson said, yes, Sir Neville, and the boy went into the house. He was in the gray suit in which he had gone away. When three minutes later the butler went through the hall with the rugs and a bag, Mrs. Fanning called out and said they would have tea here at once. Neville was sitting on the sofa opening his letters and his aunt standing by the fire drawing off

her gloves. It would all have been completely natural and ordinary, if only it had been possible for the butler to have said that he hoped Sir Neville was well. They were still in the same position when he brought in tea. Here too for the first time, Masterson saw the appearance of the boy's head. When the butler had once more gone, Neville looked up from opening his last letter. Where's Jim? he asked. I arranged he should be out to tea with Mr. Morpeth, my dear, said Anna easily. I thought perhaps you'd find him in the way for the first hour or two. Neville smiled, genuinely enough. This won't do one little bit, my dear. Remember what we agreed on Monday, we must make no difference at all, none at all. We won't have any more funerals

until we've got to. She glanced up and down again, and he saw a sharp pain in her eyes. And you mustn't look like that, he said tranquilly. Yes, please, two lumps, as usual. Aunt Anna was finding the situation hard in a completely unexpected way. She had arranged herself, of course, according to Mr. Morpeth's advice, and had determined that no weakness should come from her side, it was to be her part to accept things serenely, not to be sentimental, and to support her nephew steadily, in the same attitude. But on the second occasion on which she had been allowed to see him in the nursing home, she had found him almost disconcertingly unsentimental himself. He had announced to her that he didn't want to talk about it any more at all, until it was absolutely necessary, that he had

thought it all out, that he would talk necessary business later, that he was extraordinarily grateful for all her loving kindness and, and would she be good enough to tell him when Charlson would be allowed to come up and give his clothes an overhauling? Since then he had talked with a geniality that very nearly amounted to hardness. It was disconcerting, she thought, when you have screwed yourself up to a difficult attitude in order to help someone else, to find that someone else had already assumed the same attitude with hardly any difficulty at all. He had discussed with her what he would be allowed to do when he got back to Hartley. He had told her that Sir Arthur Hansworth had informed him that the headaches would recur within a couple of months,

and that thence, until the end, there would have to be a good deal of Morphea. He had begun a few sentences as to the future of Hartley, and had broken off before finishing them. He had said that he very much wanted to see Mr. Morpeth as soon as it was convenient, after the return to Hartley, and he had done a little business with a typist, whom he had caused to come in for an hour each morning so soon as it was allowed. He looked almost shockingly natural now, as he slipped his feet up on the sofa after finishing his cup of tea, and leaned back staring up at the ceiling. Of course he did not look as he had looked six weeks ago. His tan was gone, and there was a certain gauntness about his temples and shoulders, as well as a few hollows and lines in his face.

But she had seen him constantly, and these things were not startling. It appeared then almost shocking that he should look so nearly himself to one who knew what Aunt Anna knew. presently he yawned. I'm dog tired, he observed. Carriage exercise, I suppose. Aunt Anna? Yes, my dear? There are some things to be fetched from the station tomorrow, and a couple of workmen.

Do you mind seeing that the dog cart and the farm cart go in to meet the 1014? Why, yes, my dear, of course. But what? I'm not going to tell you, he said. Wait till you see. And I want someone from the village who can build. Who is there? She mentioned a local workman.

Then I want him too, at the same time. No, really, I won't tell you. It's just something I want done in the garden. You'll approve, I think. His eyes twinkled at her pleasantly. Then he yawned again. I want... I want...

Lots of things. Where's Father Richardson? And I want Jim. And Mr. Morpeth. I wrote to him two days ago. He'll be coming tomorrow morning, I expect. That's all right, then. I'll see him, if I may, as soon as he comes.

By the way, Aunt Anna, yes? Just say something to Masterson, will you? Tell him I mustn't have any scenes, that I want everything to be exactly as usual. As I said, I don't want any funerals at all just yet. There are some things we shall have to talk about, of course, but we'll do them by degrees. I think Father Richardson is the first.

Do you want to see him? I want, said Neville quite deliberately, to tell him in your presence that I'm sorry for the extraordinarily disagreeable way I behaved to him in the pavilion that day in the summer, you know, and that I behaved even more disagreeably about him after he'd gone. But my dear, don't be afraid, Aunt Anna. I'm not going to be melodramatic and Sunday evening-ish, and have reconciliations and all that, and I'm not going to take back about his not running in here as he likes. That wouldn't be fair on you, but I must just say that, you know, and have done with it.

Then I must see Cunningham about the estate. That I'll be fair. I'll take hours, I suppose. And then I want to have several long conversations with Jim, but I think we'll put that off for the present. I'm making Mayersfield one of his trustees, you know, as I told you. Yes, she said, I'm glad. I like him. Well, went on Neville, how about Father Richardson coming to dinner tonight? But my dear boy, I thought you were to go to bed early and after tonight I will. But I want to have one decent evening first. Let's pretend that I'm not going to die for once. She could not speak for a moment. It seemed to her that he was surely callous. Was he going after all to die defiantly? But he went on as if he knew her thoughts.

My dear, you must let me do it my way. Don't think me a brute. I'm not meaning to be. It was with considerable inward apprehensiveness that Father Richardson, in his cassock and long French coat, stood and rang at the front doorbell at five minutes before eight that same evening. He had had exactly the proper kind of letter from Mrs. Fanning, announcing the news, and had written exactly the proper kind of letter back in response. All was perfectly correct. Then he had heard scraps of information from time to time, and had at last heard only this morning that they were expected back that afternoon.

Then on his return from the village he had found Mrs. Fanning's note. He was apprehensive at first because he did not know in the least in what state, he would find his host, and secondly, because he did not know what to say to him. He was perfectly competent in his confessional, that is to say he would always give the proper answer founded on the soundest principles, but this was not the same thing as to make suitable remarks under social circumstances. It was all the more impossible to decide upon what he should say, owning to his ignorance of how he should find his squire. It was a piece of information at any rate, to know that Neville would be at dinner. But he was not prepared to be greeted by Neville in the

hall. At least he had pictured to himself an invalid's chair. Neville certainly looked gone and thin, and the top of his head looked odd somehow. The priest could not see more than that. But he was in evening close, and actually standing on the hearth as his guest came in. Mrs. Fanning was not there. How do you do, father? So glad you could come on such short notice. Oh, here is Aunt Anna. A rustle sounded overhead. We took nearly three hours to come down, he went on. Can't bear speed just yet, you know. Here's Father Richardson, Aunt Anna. The two shook hands. And look here, father, proceeded Neville, still standing with his back to the fire. Business first, before we go into dinner. I want just to apologize to you quite simply for my behavior in the pavilion one day, soon after I came

back from Rome. You remembered, no doubt. Well, I shouldn't have spoken like that. I'm sorry. My aunt was there, so I wanted her to be here, too, when I apologized. That's all. I'm sure you forgive me. Let's talk about something else. The priest was taken completely aback. He had met with frankness from Neville when he had first come to Hartley, slight constraint had followed gradually, and finally the little scene in the pavilion. From that time, there had been courtesy, but nothing else. That frankness should ever again exist in their relations was an inconceivable thought. Certainly the priest could not have done it himself, but beyond that, he could not imagine anyone else doing it. It will be remembered possibly that one of his principles was never to apologize.

I am sure Sir Neville, he began. My dear father, I know you forgive me. Probably you had forgotten it long ago. In any case, let us forget it now. At least, I hope you will try to. The priest opened his lips and closed them again, and simultaneously Masterson threw open the dining room door and announced dinner. Conversation was exceedingly difficult, so soon as they sat down and the priest had said Grace, he asked dutifully after his host's health. Thanks very much, Father, I'm first-rate, said Neville shortly. Got to lie up, you know, and take things easily. But I thought I'd have my own way tonight for once.

How perfectly charming the place is looking! His tone did not encourage any further discussion of his health. They talked of this and that in the beautiful old room about the round table. Neville made some remarks about his pheasants. Aunt Anna, whenever a pause came, slipped in a small and appropriate topic. and Father Richardson did his best. But Neville's health, even after the shocking announcement made by letter to the priest by Mrs. Fanning a month ago, never recurred. Two alternative conclusions began to form themselves in Father Richardson's mind. The first was that the announcement had

been gravely exaggerated, that Mrs. Fanning had written excitedly and from imperfect information, and that the matter was not nearly so serious as had first been thought. The second, that Neville was so morbidly terrified of the prospect before him that he would allow no mention of it at all. These two conclusions came up before the priest's mind, now one, now the other, and he could not decide as to which was the more likely. But surely he must find out, he thought, for plainly it was his duty to be of service to this spiritual son of his. He did not relish the prospect, but he had that kind of courage which a conscientious and rather timid man can always summon up, and he determined to probe as soon as an opportunity presented itself. It came immediately after Mrs. Fanning

had left the dining room. Neville came back from closing the door after her, pushed the port across to the priest, and sat down without speaking. Certainly he looked extraordinarily tired, but not worse than the other had seen him before now. Here then was his chance. He helped himself to a glass of port. Sir Neville, he said, may I say something? The other looked up quickly and almost sharply. Why certainly, father. Is it possible that Mrs. Fanning's report to me was exaggerated? You seemed so much better than I could have imagined from what she said that I hoped—I hoped—again, the young man looked up, but he did not speak. Well, I hoped perhaps that you might really be on the road to recovery. He did not quite like the expression on his host face. There was a curious

musing look in his eyes that appeared to be considering the other's features. The priest told himself, he must be courageous. If that is not so, he said, I was wondering whether perhaps you would not care to have a talk with me. I, I have noticed. Yes, father, what have you noticed? Well, Sir Neville, I'm your parish priest, you know, and it is my duty, father, I know that.

Please tell me what you have noticed. There was nothing in the least offensive or peremptory in the young man's tone, but the priest was conscious of a quickening of his pulses. It was really rather like the beginning of that unhappy little scene in the pavilion. I have noticed that you have not been to the sacraments, he said bravely, since, well, certainly not since last Easter. I suppose you went to Holy Communion then, as every Catholic is bound to do, but Neville stood up, and the priest stopped short. He was certain a scene was coming. It was an air of tenseness in his host's face he did not like.

He looked tactfully down at the tablecloth. Father, I must ask your pardon again. I, I am rather irritable. I am afraid nowadays. You have done quite rightly in speaking to me. Well, I can reassure you. I went to the sacraments on the day of my operation, and I have been every week since.

I propose to go on with that now that I'm home again. Shall we go into the hall and have a cigarette? And your health, sir Neville? I suppose from what you say, my health? Well, I shall certainly be dead, before Easter, probably much earlier, you will pray for me, will you not? I think I hear coffee coming. Shall we have it in the hall? My dear, said Neville as he took up his bedroom candlestick. I very nearly lost my temper again, and I was really entirely wrong this time. I forgot that I was one

of his sheep, and only remember that I was entertaining him, but he's a good little man, and only did his duty. End of part three, chapter six, part one. Part 3, Chapter 6, Part 1 of initiation. This is a Libervox recording. All LibraVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibraVox.org. Read by Rhonda Christine.

Initiation by Robert Hugh Benson. Subsection 4. A voice answered Masterson and bade him come in, at a quarter to 11 on the following morning. Good morning, Masterson. Yes, I'm pretty fair. Thanks. Have they come? Yes, Sir Neville, and I've had all the things taken out to where you told me last night.

That's all right. Tell them to wait. I shan't be ten minutes. I've shaved and had my bath already. He looked ghastly this morning, thought the old man. He was lying on his bed in a dressing gown with his head on the pillows. A breakfast tray still rested on the table by the bedside. Very good, Sir Neville.

Masterson? Yes, Sir Neville? Mrs. Fanning spoke to you, no doubt. well, I want to say something too. It's this. I'm going to die, you know. There's no doubt whatever about that. But I don't want to make a fuss. Just let everyone know that I want things as usual, that I want everything to go on as it always has as long as it can. It isn't that I'm not grateful to everyone, I am. And, and very much to you, Masterson, that's all. The butler turned without a word and groped his way back to the door. Jim and the Collies were, of course, making

excursions in all directions on the lawn, circling back as to a center, to where four or five workmen and a large flat article, shrouded in sacking in straw, about four feet in height with a semicircular top and a flat base, waited at the river wall about 30 yards to the left of the water gate. Mrs. Fanning was in the pavilion ready to be called as soon as her nephew came out. She had no more idea than anyone else what in the world was forward, nor why the workmen were here, nor what it was that they had brought. A short inspection of the shrouded object told her nothing, and she did not ask. Now and again she sat there, her eyes wandered out over the park, as well as towards the house. She had written to Mr. Morpeth a couple of days ago, as she had told Neville last night, suggesting

he might come and see here as soon as they got back. She wondered whether he might not come this morning. Then, as she turned once more, she saw Neville coming down the steps and got up to meet him. certainly he looked gaunt and shrunken, even more so than last night. It was seeing him here, she thought, in the morning October sunshine, coming across the familiar lawn, which seemed to her a kind of natural background for him that made her notice it. Jim was already with him, she saw, and Jill was becoming hysterical. So here we all are, he said, as he saw her coming down the steps. Yes, you come too, Jim. I want your criticism.

My what? I want to know what you think of it when you see it. See what, cousin Neville? It, said Neville. The workman saluted as the three came up. Neville wore a soft summer hat, pulled rather forward to hide his scars. He returned their salute. Thirty yards from the water gate and thirty from that tree, he said pointing.

Oh, I see you've marked the place. That's all right. Why, here's Mr. Morpeth. That unromantic figure was just coming up from the garden gate. that opened onto the park. Look here, said Neville to the men. You understand the idea, don't you? It's the number three drawing I'll have, the one I sent back marked.

I want the bottom edge of the relief to rest just on the edge of the wall and a shallow arch to be built over it. He gave one or two further directions and answered a few questions. Then he turned with Anna to meet Mr. Morpeth. And you might just unwrap the thing, he said over his shoulder. I want to see it before you actually put it up. yes jim you stop and help them aunt anna you might as well stop too won't you i want to talk to mr morpeth alone i'm going into the house directly she said you can have the pavilion to yourselves as she sat in the morning-room looking out over the garden and trying in the intervals to add up accounts once more she was aware that she was disconcerted somehow the whole matter was not happening in the least as she had rehearsed it in her own mind she had her agony all alone

alone, first in the drawing-room of the nursing home, when the news had been told to her, then for nearly 36 hours at Elizabeth Street, and this had culminated, and more or less, ended its acute stage, as she told Neville that he could not live. From that agony she had viewed and mapped out the prospect before her, and her first little shock was Neville's manner of receiving the news. She remembered the silence that had followed her announcement, and the sentence or two in which he had told her that he understood. His manner had been unexpectedly composed, and she had thought it to be that perhaps he did not realize it altogether. But the next time and the time after that, he had seen her, he had made it even plainer than before, that she was not to be

of service to him in the way that she had hoped. She had thought that he would need helping and encouraging, and he did not seem to need it at all. He had certainly, with complete tenderness, told her that he understood that she cared very much, that he was grateful and that he could not forget that. But he had also told her with what seemed rather like heartlessness, that he must do it his own way, and that his own way was not to talk much. Since then he had been as if nothing were the matter. Again she had thought that even now he did not realize what death meant,

nor perhaps that it was so near him. But he had maintained that attitude resolutely. They had talked scarcely at all of the future. She had been distressed that he had asked for a typist instead of employing herself to do his letters. She felt that somehow she was excluded from his intimacy, instead of being, as she had thought it would be, admitted to it even more completely. And it had all been emphasized and driven home by the fact that he had kept up his secretiveness, even after reaching Hartley.

She did not understand his apology to Father Richardson. She thought it unnecessary and even rather unnatural. She did not like his keeping from her. the affair for which the workman had been engaged in the garden. She was thinking over these things again even while she worked at the household books. She finished them at last, and leaned back, and as she did so, saw the group gathered about the workman breakup, and Mr. Morpeth's solid figure turned towards the house. Neville, she saw, went back with Jim towards the pavilion. She stood up at once. Mr. Morpeth was coming to see her. Well, she would talk to him frankly. Was it possible after all,

that Neville was not taking it right, yet she almost hated herself for the doubt. Subsection 5. She met the old gentleman in the hall looking, of course, exactly as usual. He made his stiff little inclination and bade her good morning once more. Do come in, she said. I'm so very glad you came. He followed her in without speaking again, and she set him on the sofa that ran out at right angles from the window. She sat in her writing chair turned towards him. I'm glad you've come, she said again. You know your letters were no good at all. Why wouldn't you say more? He regarded her placidly, because I did not know what to say until I had seen both Sir Neville and yourself, and I do not quite know even now whether I can be of any service.

But of course you can, she said, with a touch of impatience. I have been following your advice absolutely, and I don't think it has answered very well, but perhaps I'm wrong. Mr. Morpeth put his hat carefully beside him on the sofa, his gloves on the top of his hat, and his stick on the floor. Then he folded his hands. He resembled a stockbroker who composes himself to listen to a client. Will you be good enough to tell me what you think is unsatisfactory? And then, without warning, her emotion rose and gripped her in the presence of this man, who had been a kind of herald and interpreter of every grief that had come on her during the last six months. Up to now, she had followed his advice, she thought, punctiliously, she had driven

down every wave of emotionalism. She had striven to bear herself in Neville's presence, and not only there, but largely even when she was by herself, with the kind of stoicism that this old man had recommended. And amazing as it seemed to her now, she had, she thought, succeeded. But the result had been miserable. She felt more oppressed than ever. sentimentalism certainly might be one evil, but surely heartlessness was a greater. After the Enid incident Neville had seemed, at least for a little while, to turn to her for comfort. She did not forget how he had said that the house was theirs again. But he had hardened steadily, it seemed. Even the approach of death itself had not softened him as she wished, or sent him to her for comfort as she had hoped.

He did not want her, after all. The bitterness rose in her like a swift tide. She leaned back a little and gripped the arms of her chair, looking out the window as she talked. "'It is all as miserable as it can be,' she said in a rapid low voice. "'Certainly it has succeeded in one way. "'He seems to care nothing at all. "'He will scarcely speak of it even now. "'Perhaps he is stunned. "'I don't know.

"'But I know that I am of no use to him, and I thought you promised that I should be. "'He does things without me. "'It's all very well to talk of not softening him. but I never dreamed he could be hard like this. And I hate myself for thinking it all. He is perfectly splendid in one way, but it's unreal. I know it's unreal. How can he keep it up?

And even if he can, what's the use? What's the use of anything? Does he really not feel? She was beyond tears. It appeared to her that she had driven these down so far into her soul that they could never rise again. She had cried at night again and again, and morning by morning she had awakened to dry tragedy. But she had not understood till this moment that it was actually with Neville that she was angry.

I see, said the old gentleman. She wheeled on him. You do not see, she cried. You do not see one hundredth part. I wrote to you from London again and again, and you hardly answered me. I don't think you see anything at all, nor feel it. Don't you understand? He cannot live more than three or four months. His pain may begin at any moment. He will not say a word to me. You're not a woman.

You don't understand me. He'll look on us all as machines, or think we ought to be. It may be all very splendid, but it isn't Christian or human. And he's just the same, and I never suspected it. Have you been writing to him too in the same way? He's a different person, simply different. She found herself walking. up and down to the window and back without any consciousness of having risen. All the emotional

side of her that she thought to have crushed down had risen and taken possession. She felt miserable as never before. Even in her agony in London, she felt humiliated and vindictive. As she wheeled at each turn, she glanced at her visitor. He was sitting in the same attitude with his eyes cast down, and at the third look at him, again her anger and wretchedness broke out. The whole thing is spoiled, she said. And it might have been so, so beautiful. It isn't death that I fear for him now. I had thought that to be the worst of evils,

but it's this, this dry heartlessness. He's building a new summer house in the garden. At least it's something like that, and he's not told me a word about it. He behaves as if nothing was the matter at all. He won't let me do anything. He wouldn't let me come up while he had breakfast this morning. He would only see me once a day in London.

He's dying like— Her voice shook violently, like a dog. Have you spoken to him like this? Came the dry voice from the sofa, yet not unkindly. She was in her chair again now, without any conscious felition. Of course I haven't, she said. He has been to the sacraments, observed the dry voice after a pause. She was up again restless and unhappy,

and yet before she had finished, again she was back. in her chair. Yes, he has been to the sacraments. I suppose I ought to be glad, but it's all wrong. He's not right somehow. I don't know what's wrong. He's behaving like a machine, not like a human being. And, and... She could not go on. Those tears which she had thought dried forever came welling up from her soul and burst in a great sob. Her throat was contracted as if gripped from without. The brutal tragedy which she had tried so gallantly to meet, with the hardness that had been advised to her, melted and broke in pathos.

In that moment she saw herself and the lad she loved, from without instead of from within. He was dying, and there had risen between herself and him an impalpable hedge of misunderstanding that had sprung from no root that she could discern. They were alienated, and it was the shadow of death that had done it,

the very shadow in which all hearts ought to meet and be at one. She threw her face down on her arm and sobbed. Then she heard the voice beginning as she grew quieter. Mrs. Fanning, it said, I'm going to commit a great indiscretion. I'm going to betray a confidence, but that will come presently. May I ask you, first of all, whether you wish me to speak what is in my mind, or to say the usual things.

Go on, she sobbed. It's no use. I take it that you wish me to speak my mind? Very good. The first thing that I wish to say is that I think you, you have behaved magnificently. You have done the hardest thing any human being can do. You have acted and spoken contrary to your heart because you saw it to be right. She shook her head, and she felt for her handkerchief, but she could not speak. That is all the praise I have to give. I am speaking to you now,

Mrs. Fanning, as I have never spoken to you before, you wish to know no doubt why it seems to you that our plan has failed. As a matter of fact it has not failed, as I shall endeavor to show you presently, but you think it has failed because you are giving way to jealousy again. It was like a dash of cold water on her soul. She had spoken to him of her jealousy before when Enid was concerned, but it seemed to her a kind of outrage that he should dare to speak of it now. She sat up, white and trembling. His eyes were still cast down, but he raised them as she stared.

She dropped her own. Jealous? How could that be? Of whom was she jealous? Just at present, went the unreason. voice? You are hardly thinking of your nephew at all. You are thinking of yourself. You complain that he is hardened. You mean by that that he turns to God and to the eternal verities for comfort instead of you. You are jealous of God. A very curious little ring came into the old man's voice.

I will show you presently that that is so, but you might have guessed it. At least you ought to have assumed it, now that he has come back to the sacraments. But in your heart you have been thinking of yourself. In words and actions, as I have said, you have been magnificent, since you have acted contrary to your jealousy, but within you have not really conquered jealousy at all. First, you grudged your nephew to a woman who might, for all you knew at first, have been worthy of him in every way, and now you are grudging him to God. You want him for yourself. He is not naturally a stoic nor heartless. You ought to have recognized that. Then how can he appear so? That you had not thought of that, had you?

She was feeling with every word that he spoke, not its truth so much as its inevitability. He did not seem to her so much to be a person saying true things, as a voice revealing the obvious. He appeared entirely dispassionate. She could not even resent what he said. Her own tension had been too great during these past weeks for her to understand the truth for herself.

Now it was unrolling before her, as if mechanically. I said two things just now, he continued. The first was that I must betray a confidence, and the second that I would prove to you that our plan had not failed. The two are one. She watched him as a dreamer looks on his vision, as he drew out of the breast pocket of his gray button coat, a pocketbook, and out of the pocketbook, three or four sheets of paper. Here are two or three letters Sir Neville wrote to me from the nursing home. I will read to you a few extracts. He turned the pages searching for what he wanted.

Here is the first, he said. Listen, please, Mrs. Fanning. It is quite impossible, he began to read, to describe the change that has come to me. I want to talk to you about that later. But I feel a completely different person. I used to fear death and hate it. Well, one part of me fears and hates it now, but that part is not myself anymore. I suppose it's the physical side only.

Myself does not fear it at all. I am doing exactly what you wrote to me. I am not talking to my aunt about it more than I am obliged. She seems to understand perfectly without that. I suppose it is pain that has done this in us both. She has been splendid, first about my trouble in the summer and now about this. I suppose she has known the truth of things all alone. He paused, put away the sheet, and turned another, all with an astonishing deliberateness.

Here again, he said, I know I can keep it up now. I feel at present that I could keep it up forever. but I suppose that is not so. But at any rate, I can do it for three or four months, and I shan't need to more than that, Hansworth tells me. Of course I have bad times, when I'm terrified, when I want to run to my aunt like a child, but I know I should be ashamed afterwards.

Death seems to me now the greatest thing in the whole world. As I said in my other letter, myself knows that perfectly well. I can't form any kind of picture of what happens after death, and I have given up trying. The main outlines, of course, are all. all right, purgatory, and so on, but I can't even begin to imagine what it will seem like. Again he paused and turned a page. The bad times I spoke of are simply physical.

I recognize that now. But I see they are not myself. They are rather like the bad times I had in the West bedroom when I first moved in as you advised. I see one has got to get through them before one can do anything, and that one can only get through them by accepting, and not either resisting or yielding to the thing that's behind. I am putting it very badly, but I hope you will know what I mean. I must thank you.

He stopped. And there is one more passage about you, Mrs. Fanning. Ah, here it is. I can see that my aunt has her bad times, too, but she is quite splendid. Yesterday I very nearly gave in. I had had a bad night, and I think she must have had one too. But I remembered what you said, and held tight. I could only do it by playing the fool, rather,

and I think she must have thought me rather heartily. I am sorry if she does. She manages to keep steady without anything of that sort. Well, I can't always. I think that's all I need to read, Mrs. Fanning. He folded the sheets and put them carefully away again in his pocketbook. She sat motionless. I kept these, he said, in case they were needed.

I thought perhaps they might be, from the tone of your letters. And I brought them with me this morning for the same reason. I need not say that your nephew has no idea in his mind that I could ever betray his confidence. Well, I have done so. She passed the tip of her tongue over her lips before she tried to speak. Neville wrote that, she said. Sir Neville wrote that, but that is not all. If you will look out of the window, Mrs. Fanning, you will understand even better. She rose without a word and looked out. The lawn was not fifty yards across, and she could make out well enough what it was that the workman had uncovered at last. Neville on the

Terrace was leaning on his stick, with his back nearly turned to her, and Jim by his side was holding his hand. They were both looking at the great arched relief in blue and white that leaned against the wall. She turned back from the window, and with tearless eyes saw that the old man was smiling. End of Part 3, Chapter 6, Part 1. Chapter 7, Part 1 of Initiation. This is a Libervox recording. All Libervox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librovox.org.

Read by Caleb Schroeder. Initiation by Robert Hugh Benson Section 41 1 Snow began to fall at dusk, just a week after Christmas, and when, on New Year's morning, Anna came out of her room and along the gallery the ceiling overhead was as bright as no mere sunshine could make it. With that clear, radiant clearness that the morning light on snow alone can give, the coffered roof ten feet above her was visible in every detail of its blue and gold.

And the floor beneath, with its rugs and its chairs and the great shining piano, the gilded pipes of the organ, resembled a Dutch painting, so minute and perfect, and homely, it all appeared. She went along the gallery, herself extraordinarily pretty and fair complexioned, in that enchanting light, and tapped softly on the door of the West bedroom. There was no answer, but she was conscious of a vibration from within. Then the door opened softly, and Charlson's face looked out. He nodded emphatically without a word, and stood aside to let her go by.

Then he closed the door behind her, and himself went across into the bedroom, so as to be within call. The room was as unterrible as a death chamber ever can be. It was not quite that yet, but the end could not be far off. The lad's headaches had begun again, midway through November, and the doctor had been there every day onwards. Sir Arthur Hansworth

had come down twice from London, but had confessed that there was no more to be done. Morphia had been administered from time to time, when the patient's pain drove him into delirium, but at all other times he had refused it. A week before Christmas stupor had set in, and it was thought blindness. He talked a little from time to time, but had seemed to recognize nobody. Last night, however, he had awakened from unconsciousness, and Anna had had half an hour's talk with him. He had then fallen asleep, and an hour later the news had come to her that he still slept.

He had told her, before he slept, that his blindness had come back. This morning the daylight on the snow outside brightened the road. room wonderfully, though he would not be able to see it. The white light lay on the high polished furniture, the frames of the engravings, the folds of the shinskirtons, and above all, on the face of the dying man and a linen round his swathed head. He lay high in bed, his shoulders supported by piles of pillows and his hands hidden beneath the silk quilt. He had already been shaved and washed, and the folds and sunken hollows in the cheeks were vivid and sharp. His eyes were turned on Anna as she came in, and he smiled as he heard her step.

That's you, he said. His voice was quite distinct and very quiet. It was not horrible in any way. Yes, my dear, she said, and sat down by his bedside. give me a kiss if you don't mind she rose again and kissed him very softly on his forehead just below the wet bandage the drug-like smell was very clear to her as she did so how long have i got he asked as she sat down again she did not pretend not to understand we must wait till the doctor comes she said you wired for algae, as I asked you last night. He'll be here by eleven. An extraordinary steadiness of will had come down on her since her last desperate struggle more than two months ago, when she had turned in the morning room on the old man and poured out on him the last drops of bitterness that her soul contained. Since that time, when she had learned of her boy's own attitude to death, how he too had his bad times, how he hid them from her, not because he did not

love her, but because he loved her enough to trust her as well. Since the moment she had looked out of the window and seen the great Rubia Piatta leaning against the wall of the terrace, and had understood what its erection meant. Since then, she had had not even a temptation, to resentment. It had appeared to her now that it had not been death itself that she had feared for him, but its circumstances, and that as long as she could keep her attention fixed on death itself, its circumstances could not distract nor trouble her. Since that revelation, she simply had not to struggle at all. It seemed that she had been lifted clean out. of the realm where resentment is possible where one soul demands attentions from another where the small passions rage and fret and faults are found and grudges cherished it was like it was like the world she thought this morning on which the snow had fallen a wide white shining realm

where roughness have ceased to exist where colors have gone to back again, not into the blackness that is their negation, but to the whiteness, which is their source and end. The whiteness is deathly cold, but it is not death. It is only silence. Its lights, too, the dark roofs and corners of a house within, though it lies heavy on the house without. She could think, too, broadly and passively now.

instead of actively and energetically. She could look back on the past without even a flush of personal feeling. On Enid and her own jealousies. On Neville's disturbing detachment. On the long chain of miseries. Her omens, her terrors, her apprehensions, on the growing crescendo of Neville's sickness. His headaches, his sudden blindness, on the horrors of the operation and the drawing room. where she had learned the news that he must die,

unheard dull wretchedness at Hartley again, and her flare of anger in the morning room. She saw these now to be but steps of an initiation of which she had never dreamed, an initiation into a secret of which she had thought that she already held the key. She had been told long ago of how serene she seemed. Neville himself had spoken of it to her when her husband had died. She knew now in the possession of real serenity how false the other had been. It had been a trick of temperament no more than that.

But now she could look on this boy's gaunt face against the pillows at his closed eyes, his wet bandaged head, on the angles of his shoulders so sharp through his night clothes, without clenching her teeth. She could watch him and talk to him slowly without even desiring to take his hand. She could picture his dying here before her eyes without horror. He lay here. She knew that now, in the room that she was. once feared so much in the bed where her father had died before him. He lay here, as certainly a part of the enormous design that unfolded and used both of them, as reconcilable with the vast sacrificial love that was its secrets, as Jim, himself playing with the collies on the lawn.

The line between good and evil was not the same as the line between pleasure and pain. It was the line rather between the acceptance and the non-acceptance of destiny. I don't think there's anything particular to say, said Neville. After a pause, he spoke slowly, but quite distinctly, with short silences between his sentences. No, my dear, I don't think there is. Hansworth said I should get my senses back before I die, didn't he? Yes, he said it might be so. Well, I suppose this is it.

It might be so, she said. Aunt Anna? Yes, my dear. You'd better tell Father Richard, in to bring the Vatican while I'm conscious you'd like him to come at once

directly after Mass if he will be so kind and I want to see Jim after breakfast it isn't eight yet not quite you're going to Mass if you don't want me

I'm all right said Neville Charlson was here just now. The nurse had gone down for breakfast, I suppose. I think so. Aunt Anna? Yes, my dear. I do want to say something after all. I want to be sure, you know, you're perfectly happy, aren't you? Yes, she said quite deliberately. I'm perfectly happy. He smiled, still with closed eyes. I knew. you were. It was ever since the pietta was put up, wasn't it? I'm sorry I didn't tell you about it before,

but I had to do it my own way, you know? You'll let it stop there, won't you? I told you about Frascati, didn't I? Yes, my dear. Well, it all dates from that, you know. Those are the two points. I began to see that after my operation, as soon as I knew I couldn't live, I saw the point then. Everything fits in perfectly, you know, as soon as you see that, Enid and everything else. My dear, you are too tired. No, I'm not. I was just saying it bang out. What an ass I was.

I wanted to be a Jesuit. at first, you know. Then I was angry when I was told I mustn't be. Then I tried Enid instead of God, you know? And then I was routed out of that. And then I tried just being happy alone, nature, and all that rot, you know. And then I got ill. I see the point now. You do too. Don't you? Of course you do. So here we are. Back again at the beginning.

You do really see it, don't you? Yes, I see it perfectly, said Aunt Anna. Two. Jim went upstairs all alone, very sedate and quiet, as soon as he had had breakfast. He looked back from the top of the stairs

to see if his mother was still looking up at him from the hall. She was, and she nodded reassuringly. He hastily turned away again. He felt a little ashamed of having needed that reassurance. Then he tapped cautiously on the door of the West bedroom. It had been an agitating morning for Jim, so long as Cousin Neville was really properly ill, nothing much interrupted his life. He had, of course, to go very quietly, always along the gallery, and the piano was not to be touched at all. Not even God save the king with one finger, N. F, was to be rendered upon it. Neither were the collies to be brought indoors at all, on any pretext whatever, for fear that Jill might bark. Otherwise, however, matters proceeded

as usual, or at least, as they did when Cousin Neville was, away from home. There had been one rather disconcerting morning when Jim had heard curious sounds issuing from the bedroom door, but he had been commanded to use the back staircase for the rest of that day. In the evening, a bay's door arrived in a cart and was taken upstairs, and thenceforward, life was normal. He was aware, of course, that Cousin Neville was very ill indeed, but after a week or so, this did not greatly affect his imagination. This morning, however, at breakfast his mother had looked funny, and he would have expressed it, and she presently told him that he was to go and see Cousin Neville and say goodbye to him.

Jim had inquired whether Cousin Neville was going to go to Rome again, and his mother had then told him quite plainly, once more that Cousin Neville was going to die. Jim's views on death were perfectly formed. He knew exactly what happened. The soul went to heaven after a spell in purgatory, and the body went into the churchyard. He blinked rather rapidly when he heard that this was going to happen to Cousin Neville and played with his toast.

He was not sure whether he wanted to cry or not, but crying was discouraged by his mother, and, in any case, for about six weeks he had not seen Cousin Neville at all, and six weeks is a vast period. He looked up at his mother presently. And I shan't see him any more, he said. After now I mean. Not till you die yourself, my dear. When shall I die? I have no idea at all, said Anna gravely. But there's something else, too, I want to say. Cousin Neville has been very ill indeed.

You know that, don't you? Well, he looks quite different now. He's much thinner, and he's wearing a sort of white cap on his head. You mustn't touch that white cap. It's wet. And you mustn't be frightened, will you? No, Mommy, said Jim very softly. stop as long as he wants you.

And if he doesn't say anything, ask him whether you're to go away. If he doesn't answer, just come away on tiptoe. I shall be in the hall all the time, and nurse will be in the bathroom. So you won't be afraid, will you? No, mummy. Here then he stood, and his heart hammered in his breast. Nothing happened when he tapped, and he tapped again. Then the door shook ever so slightly.

Then it opened, and Nurse Deacon's face looked out. Jim loved Nurse Deacon entirely. She gave him a rusk sometimes. It was pleasant to meet her face first. She smiled and stood back, and Jim went in. He stood there on the threshold, suddenly petrified. There was a solemnity, and there was a curious smell, too, for which he was not prepared. The room looked too, frightfully white, in the reflected light from outside.

Then he saw a face on the pillows, with a white cap over it, and the face did not appear to him to be Cousin Nevel's at all. Jim? said a very odd voice, very low. Ah, it was Cousin Neville all right then. he had really not been quite sure till he heard that, but it was a whisper which he had heard before in games. He went forward with the nurse's hand on his shoulder.

Good morning, old man. I hope you're quite well. That's you, isn't it? Good morning, cousin Neville. Or, may I kiss you? Kiss him very gently, said Nurse Deacon's voice. Jim approached the bed resolutely and put a knee upon the edge. The nurse's hand held him that he should not slip.

Then Jim administered a careful kiss to Cousin Neville's left cheek. It felt funny to his lips. That's all right, said Cousin Neville. Now sit down, old man, and don't shake the bed. The big eyes turned to Nurse Deakin and seemed to give some sort of signal. The nurse said nothing. and passed round the foot of the bed. Jim's eyes followed her a little anxiously,

and she went through the door into the bathroom on the further side. But she did not absolutely shut the door, as he had feared she might. Jim, old man, you're not frightened? Jim brought his eyes back again to the rather grim face, and determined that he must not be frightened. He cleared. his throat, which appeared to have him rather dry.

No, Cousin Neville. Not at all. Thank you. Jim, there are just three things I want to say. Listen, won't you? And tell me if you don't understand. All right, said Jim. The first is this. Do you remember about the Grail? Yes, Cousin Neville. He felt he must be very polite somehow. Well, you were right and I was wrong.

It isn't in the woods. At least not more than anywhere else. We needn't go and look for it. It's anywhere where we are. Jim's eyes wandered vaguely around the room. He did not understand one word. You've got it already, said Cousin Neville. Don't lose it, will you?

I don't understand at all, Cousin Neville. Cousin Neville did not appear to take this in, for he immediately went on. He simply did not seem to hear. His eyes looked very far away and bright. You don't really find it till you drink it, you know. You must tilt it right up when the time comes and drink it all. Then you see it. Jim cleared his throat rather more loudly.

Cousin Neville seemed to him rather foolish. He raised his voice a little. I don't understand, you know, he said. Cousin Neville's eyes blinked a little. Then he smiled. Poor old man. No, I know you don't. It doesn't matter.

Now, number two. What's number two? Oh, yes, I'm going to die, you know, and then all this place will belong to you and your mother. This was more intelligible. All of it? Asked Jim? Yes, all of it. Every single thing.

And when you're 21, it'll all be yours. You'll be a good boy, won't you? Jim sighed. He had not expected this sort of conversation, and you'll always be good to your mother, won't you? Yes, Cousin Neville. Cousin Neville was obviously ill and must be humored. You'll be Sir Jim, you know. This did not seem interesting.

Shall I? Said Jim. Now, do you want to say anything to me? Because number three is goodbye. Jim considered "'When are you going to die, cousin Neville?' "'Very soon now.' "'Oh!'

"'When you're dead, may I bring Jill in the house again?' A glimmer passed over that gaunt face that was like a bad mask of Cousin Neville and his lips twitched as if he were trying not to smile. "'Of course, old man.' Bring her into the house at once, if your mother will let you. Tell her it's my house just now. If she says no.

And then see what she says. Anything else, old man? Shall you be buried in the brick room in the churchyard, cousin Neville? inquired Jim, who saw that he was expected to make conversation and really could not think of anything else. Yes, old man. in the brick room, that's right. May I go down and look when it's opened? Better not do that, old man.

And you'll say a prayer for my soul, won't you? Oh yes, said Jim indifferently. There was a pause. Well, old man, I think we'd better have number three now. Just press that button behind my head. Jim found an interesting sort of hand. attached to a string laying on the pillow. He had not seen anything quite like that before,

and examined it with interest. The white thing, Cousin Neville? Yes, that's it. Press it right in. Jim pressed it, and there followed a faint ringing sound from somewhere else. Then the door of the bathroom opened and Nurse Deacon appeared. Now, say goodbye, Jim, and give me a kiss.

A curious change had passed over Cousin Neville's face. His eyebrows seemed flickering up and down, and his mouth was very tight. He was breathing rather quickly, too, through his nose. Nurse Deacon, for once, appeared slightly agitated, too. She came round the bed very swiftly. Lift him up, please, said Cousin Neville in a sharp whisper. Once more, then, Jim planted a knee on the bedcloths, and administered a kiss.

"'Cousin Neville's cheek seemed even funnier than before. "'It was all wet and rather cold. "'There,' said Nurse Deacon in a rather quick voice. "'Now go and tell your mother I want her at once. "'Good-bye, Cousin Neville,' observed Jim. "'By, old man,' came the whisper from the bed. "' End of Section 41. "'Chapter 7, Part 2 of initiation.

This is a Libravox recording. All Libravox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Libervox.org. Read by Caleb Schroeder. Initiation by Robert Hugh Benson, Section 42. Subsection 3 At some remote point in time, detached, it appeared, from all previous times and experiences. Neville became aware that he was in bed, and that his consciousness was still attached to his body. But that, at first, was the utmost extent to which his perception reached. It was as if he were in a little circle. Within the circle there was a sensation of touch and even tiny and minute sounds. There was also a faint taste on his lips, but nothing else. And beyond the circle there was nothing at all.

There was, at first, even no memory. He knew nothing except that he was in bed, where, how, or what it was all about, or what time it was, or whether it was day or night. Of these things, he knew nothing. Then, like transparent walls, this circle began to glimmer into shadows, at first only of memory. He began to remember his last experience. it was of talking to Jim. Towards the end of that talking, a new kind of pain had begun in his head,

and he remembered that he had told Jim to ring the bell because he was aware he would presently collapse again, and Jim mustn't be frightened. He had been also able to hold on till Jim had kissed him. He had been able even to say goodbye. Then, when he had heard the soft closing of the inner bay's door, he had let out his agony in one long moan. The pain had really been intolerable,

partly because it was so new and unusual. Things that had happened after that were vague and confused. Aunt Anna had been by him for certain moments. He had smelled a particular fragrance which he associated with her. His arm had been lifted and his hands held, and he remembered, supposing that someone was giving him morphia again. But he had not been able to attend to these things.

The blue lights in his head that quivered before him, like a permanent lightning flash shaken from side to side, had occupied him entirely. All this had gone on for a long time. He had heard someone moaning ceaselessly. It had been quite a while before he had understood that it was himself. yet once more, as after his operation, he had perceived that pain was one thing and himself another, and by stretching the whole force of his will, he could keep them so,

he must not let the pain come any nearer. He knew that. That had been the last thing that he could remember, and now, here he was back again, and just at present there was no pain, at least, no actual pain. It was like hearing a tune hummed over only. After a while, not merely memory, but present perception, began to disclose itself, and the circular wall melted yet further. And he understood that someone once more was holding his hand, someone on either side.

That seemed an inexpressible comfort. He moved his hands a little to reassure himself that it was really so. So. Then his right hand was relinquished, but he twisted it to show that he wanted it to be held again, and another hand came down on it. But simultaneously, a damp, faintly, stinging thing passed across his forehead, down his face and into the corners of his mouth. He sucked greedily and was aware of the taste of lemon. That was delicious. He felt, too, a very faint, soothing breeze all over his face. Again, the circular walls had grown even more transparent, and he perceived he did not know how that there were people in the room. He must ask who was there, but there was no answer. He wondered whether he really had spoken.

He would try again. This time there came an answer, and he knew it for Aunt Anna's whisper. Yes, my darling. Ah, that was all right. He was really in communication with people, but hadn't she heard what he had said? He must say it again. A voice began buzzing in answer.

How could he possibly hear if people spoke so fast? They must speak slowly. He would say so. That was better. Oh, algae was there, was he? then it must be after 11. He was to have been here by 11 today, or was it yesterday? Or last week?

Well, he was here. Good old algae. Who else? Oh, Masterson was here, was he? And Mrs. Templmore and Charlson and Charlson and Nurse Deacon. Wait, that's too fast. Nurse Deacon. and and Aunt Anna.

But why wasn't Mr. Morpeth here? He wanted Mr. Morpeth. He would say so. Oh, Mr. Morpeth had been sent for, Haddy. That was all right. And Father Richardson? Father Richardson? He had been here, had he, and gone again, but would be back soon.

Speak more slowly. Holy, Aunt Anna, please. That was better. He could understand it like that. Father Richardson has been here and has said all the prayers for the dying. For the dying, was he dying? Of course he was. What a fool he was to forget that.

That was why everyone was here. Dying. He fell into an interior musing upon the word, and the walls appeared to grow a little opaque again as he meditated. He could only contemplate one thought at a time, the thoughts that he had rehearsed so often lately. Dying. But death was something quite different.

Dying hurt so cruelly because one was still alive. That was no reason for thinking that death would hurt too. Dying hurt, but death was not come, not because it was. Well, if death did not hurt, if death ended the pain of dying, what would death begin? Obviously, it must begin something.

He suddenly began to think of the grail. He had talked about the grail quite lately to someone. Oh yes, to Jim. Well, drinking the grail was very bitter. Enid had first really set his lips to it, and then the physical pain had begun a little later, but when the grail was empty, when the moment came that the last drops had been swallowed, what then? Obviously the first long draught of new air must be sweet. The grail! That was the cup of sacrifice, was it not? That was why he had had to drink it. Old Morpeth had told him about that. It was for his father, among other things. So here he was, in the bed in which his father died, and in the same room. What a fool he had been about this room.

The shadows were only dreadful, so long as one looked at them from the light. There was no real harm in them when one stepped forward into the midst. Yes, that lemon taste was delicious, and it was very pleasant to have one's hands held. Then he began to wonder whether anyone else were in the room. was sure Aunt Anna hadn't finished her list. What about the doctor? He must ask. No, it was not worth the trouble. He would think about death instead. Then, imperceptibly, the walls closed about him again, but he did not notice them. He was considering death. Subsection 4. Once again, at some remote point in time, detached from all experience, he found that his consciousness was still attached to his

body. But it was attached in a new kind of way. He was aware that somewhere in the universe, as if at an enormous depth beneath the point where he himself stood poised, great wheels of blue flame were all crashing and whirling together. The clamor of them was incredible, harsh and grinding. But they no longer affected him. There was a loud, rasping sound of breathing, too, such as he had heard when his father died. Then, through the crashing and the gasping, he had heard the thunder of a voice repeating Latin. He was as a man who, at the edge of a huge chasm, himself at ease and safety, looked down on the tumult below, where great forces strive together. Dying then was still, in process somewhere, and he watched with a kind of pity that dreadful conflict that roared below.

It was to him in some sense that that Latin was spoken, and he understood its power. Here and there he could catch a phrase. He was being bidden to go forth in the name of powers and principalities of all those great existences which he knew now, waited invisible in that wide expanse that was all about him, poised here above the struggle that raged beneath. It was down there, then, that all those whom he loved waited about his struggling body, he knew they were there as a man who has climbed to a great height knows, as he looks back, that there in the valley are the fields and the houses that he knows so well. They were all in the surge and the stress still, Aunt Anna and the servants, and algae, and the old man who could not be long after him now. There in that plain from which rose up the great words of power that battled with the roar of the pulses in his head, and the blinding shocks of pain and the fighting for breath. And not with these, only or chiefly,

but with the rushing tides of evil and revolt that swayed and tossed. Seen by him from up here as a great tumbling torrent or a tossing waste of water looked down upon by a man on a cliff. But he himself was far off and remote. where, then, was he? Then, as he considered this, he too, began to thrill and vibrate, from beneath rose up thin, imperceptible tides, or, rather, he perceived now for the first time that he was in them still, that he was not yet as wholly apart as he had thought from all acts and violations and experiences.

But they were thin and subtle, as benefited his new condition, and he saw that he could yet act. Then a great and piercing sorrow surged through him, not indeed at the memory of his sins and rebellions, but at his consciousness of their very essence. It was not that his life passed before him as a series or progress of events, but that the quality of it, as he had lived it, had a thin and bitter aroma which he had never suspected. And as there met him from above, that piercing breath of the world to which he went, as clean and sharp and radiant as the light reflected from snow, these two tides mingled in him like a chord of sorrow and love and ecstasy.

Every image faded from him, every symbol and memory died. The chasm passed into nothingness, and the grail was drunk, and colors passed into whiteness, and sounds into the silence of life, and the initiation was complete. The end. End of Section 42. End of initiation by Robert Hugh Benson