ed with coarse kindliness and rustic strength, a kind
of cynical ploughboy, against whom their own misery and weakness might
stand more vividly relieved. "Born an Elliot--born a gentleman." So
the vile phrase ran. But here was an Elliot whose badness was not even
gentlemanly. For that Stephen was bad inherently he never doubted for a
moment and he would have children: he, not Rickie, would contribute to
the stream; he, through his remote posterity, might mingled with the
unknown sea.

Thus musing he lay down to sleep, feeling diseased in body and soul. It
was no wonder that the night was the most terrible he had ever known. He
revisited Cambridge, and his name was a grey ghost over the door. Then
there recurred the voice of a gentle shadowy woman, Mrs. Aberdeen, "It
doesn't seem hardly right." Those had been her words, her only complaint
against the mysteries of change and death. She bowed her head and
laboured to make her "gentlemen" comfortable. She was labouring still.
As he lay in bed he asked God to grant him her wisdom; that he might
keep sorrow within due bounds; that he might abstain from extreme hatred
and envy of Stephen. It was seldom that he prayed so definitely, or
ventured to obtrude his private wishes. Religion was to him a service, a
mystic communion with good; not a means of getting what he wanted on the
earth. But tonight, through suffering, he was humbled, and became like
Mrs. Aberdeen. Hour after hour he awaited sleep and tried to endure the
faces that frothed in the gloom--his aunt's, his father's, and, worst
of all, the triumphant face of his brother. Once he struck at it, and
awoke, having hurt his hand on the wall. Then he prayed hysterically for
pardon and rest.

Yet again did he awake, and from a more mysterious dream. He heard his
mother crying. She was crying quite distinctly in the darkened room.
He whispered, "Never mind, my darling, never mind," and a voice echoed,
"Never mind--come away--let them die out--let them die out." He lit a
candle, and the room was empty. Then, hurrying to the window, he saw
above mean houses the frosty glories of Orion.

Henceforward he deteriorates. Let those who censure him suggest what
he should do. He has lost the work that he loved, his friends, and his
child. He remained conscientious and decent, but the spiritual part of
him proceeded towards ruin.

XXIV

The coming months, though full of degradation and anxiety, were to bring
him nothing so ter