"'It was very kind of her to send you to look for me,' I said. 'Perhaps I shall have the pleasure of seeing her later on in the day—and your daughter as well. You remember I congratulated you on your two sweethearts?'
"'Yes,' he answered, 'and you were not far wrong in that. But wouldn't you like to take a turn round the old town first? It's a wonderful place and full of interest. And I know it through and through.'
"I was greatly puzzled by his manner. His speech and address were certainly remarkable for a working man; and I confess that for a moment the thought crossed my mind that he was some sort of impostor, and that I should be well advised to have nothing to do with him. I suppose it was his basket of roses that reassured me.
"'Well,' I said, 'I've seen a good deal already. But I've no objection to seeing it all again. I'll put myself in your hands.'
"'Splendid!' he cried. 'It's an ideal day, and I'm hungering for sunlight and beauty, and thirsting for the peace of ancient memories. And it will please my wife to know that I've taken you round. What do you say to going up the river first? There's a glorious reach beyond the bridge. And the sun's in the right position to give you the best view of the Cathedral.'
"'Nothing would please me better,' said I; and we set off at once toward the river.
"On passing a certain building he bade me carefully examine the roof, the form of which was remarkable. While I was engaged in so doing, unconscious for a moment of his presence, I suddenly seemed to hear him groan behind me; and turning round I saw that he was holding tight to the iron railings on the other side of the foot-walk, and swaying his body backward and forward, as though he were in pain.
"'Are you ill?' I asked, in some alarm.
"'Not at all. This is just my way of resting when I'm tired. Come along.'
"'That's a splendid lot of roses in your basket,' I said, as we took our places in the boat, he sculling and I steering. 'Frau Carl Druschki, unless I'm much mistaken.'
"'Yes. I grew them on my allotment. I'm taking them home to my wife.'
"For some time we talked roses. He had a theory of pruning, which differed from mine, and led to a good deal of argument. Finally, he dropped his sculls, and, taking a piece of paper from his pocket, drew on it the diagram of a rose-bush pruned according to his method. We had forgotten the Cathedral.
"I took his drawing and began to criticise. 'Oh!' he said, 'let's drop it. We're missing one of the noblest sights in England. Look at that!' And he pointed to the heights.
"As we dropped down the river half an hour later, my companion, who had been silent for some time, again broke out on the subject of roses. 'Rose-growing is a thing that takes time and patience and thought,' he said. 'More perhaps than it's worth. If it were not for my wife, I should give it up. She's desperately fond of roses.'
"'That's the best of reasons for not giving it up,' I answered. 'I happen to be a great admirer of your wife.'
"'That's another link between us,' said he. 'She's the best wife man ever had. She's worthy of all the admiration you can give her.'
"She's worthy of all the roses you can grow for her,' I said.
"'By God, she is!' he answered with an emphasis that startled me.
"We grew confidential, and a story followed. He told me that he was the illegitimate son of a baronet; that his father had made him an allowance to study art in London; that he had married his model, in opposition to the wishes of his father; that the baronet had thereupon thrown him over for good and all; that he had failed to make a living by his original art; that he had got an engagement with a great furnishing-house as a skilled painter; that he was earning four pounds a week in doing artistic work in rich men's houses and elsewhere; that he was now engaged in restoring some fifteenth-century frescoes in a parish church. His wife earned money too, though he did not tell me how, and his daughter was being trained as a singer. 'We're all more or less in art,' he said, 'and we are a very happy family.'
"By this time we were back at the landing-place, and as the man stepped ashore he said: 'It's about time I took these roses to my wife. We'll just walk along to where I live, and I'll show you the rest of the sights afterwards. I'll take you to the Cathedral when the afternoon service is over.'
"As we walked through the streets the man kept up an incessant stream of talk, pointing to this and that, and discoursing with great eagerness on the history and antiquities of the town. It struck me as strange that he never waited for any answer but passed from one thing to another without a pause. Presently we stopped in front of a small house, one of a row of villas.
"'This is where I live,' he said, and stopped on the doorstep.
"'Good!' I cried; 'and now you will take me in and reintroduce me to your charming wife.'
"'I'm sorry,' he answered, 'but the thing's quite impossible.'
"I was so startled by this unexpected answer that, without thinking, I blurted out the question, 'Why?'
"'Because,' he said, 'she's in her coffin. She died at four o'clock this morning.'
"At the words he sank down on his doorstep, put the basket of roses on his knees and bowed himself over them in a passion of tears.
"The door opened, and the young girl, who had been with me in the train, ran down the steps. Sitting down beside her father she put her arms round his neck and said, 'Daddy, Daddy, don't cry!'"
The Professor ceased and there was a long pause.
"Did you discover," said the Pessimist at length, "why the two were weeping in the train?"
"No need to ask that," said our Hostess. "The woman had received sentence of death."
"Did you ever follow it up?" said the Historian. "What, for example, became of the young girl?"
"She was married to my eldest son last month," said the Professor.
"I knew the Pessimist's introduction would not be needed," said our Host.
"Nevertheless, it was the introduction that reminded me of the story," said the Professor. "And now," he continued, "can anyone here explain to me the strange conduct of the man with the white roses? For I confess that I can find no place for it in any system of Psychology known to me."
At this question the Son of the House, who for some reason had become the gravest member of the party, looked up and seemed about to speak. But as he raised his eyes they met the bright glance of his pretty cousin, on whose cheek there was a tear. And when the Son of the House saw that, the impulse to speech died within him.
No one else ventured an explanation. But my impression was that there were two persons in the room to whom the strange conduct of the man with the white roses presented no enigma.
[1]"In the novel ofPendennis, written ten years ago, there is an account of a certain Costigan, whom I had invented.... I was smoking in a tavern-parlour one night, and this Costigan came into the room alone—the very man: the most remarkable resemblance of the printed sketches of the man, and of the rude drawings in which I had depicted him. He had the same little coat, the same battered hat, cocked on one eye, the same twinkle in that eye. 'Sir,' said I, knowing him to be an old friend whom I had met in unknown regions, 'sir,' I said, 'may I offer you a glass of brandy and water?' ... How had I come to know him, to divine him? Nothing shall convince me that I have not seen that man in the world of spirits." (Thackeray,De Finibus.) See the whole passage, from which it is evident that Costigan did not recognise his creator.
[1]"In the novel ofPendennis, written ten years ago, there is an account of a certain Costigan, whom I had invented.... I was smoking in a tavern-parlour one night, and this Costigan came into the room alone—the very man: the most remarkable resemblance of the printed sketches of the man, and of the rude drawings in which I had depicted him. He had the same little coat, the same battered hat, cocked on one eye, the same twinkle in that eye. 'Sir,' said I, knowing him to be an old friend whom I had met in unknown regions, 'sir,' I said, 'may I offer you a glass of brandy and water?' ... How had I come to know him, to divine him? Nothing shall convince me that I have not seen that man in the world of spirits." (Thackeray,De Finibus.) See the whole passage, from which it is evident that Costigan did not recognise his creator.
[2]"Ni pour le jugement, ni pour le raisonnement, ni pour aucune autre faculté de la pensée proprement dite nous n'avons la moindre raison de supposer qu'elle soit attachée à tels ou tels processus cérébraux determinés.... Les phénomènes cérébraux sont en effet à la vie mentale ce que les gestes du chef d'orchestre sont à la symphonie: ils en dessinent les articulations motrices, ils ne font pas autre chose. On ne trouverait done rien des opérations de l'esprit proprement dit à l'intérieur du cerveau." (Professor Henri Bergson: Presidential Address to the Society for Psychical Research, 1913.)
[2]"Ni pour le jugement, ni pour le raisonnement, ni pour aucune autre faculté de la pensée proprement dite nous n'avons la moindre raison de supposer qu'elle soit attachée à tels ou tels processus cérébraux determinés.... Les phénomènes cérébraux sont en effet à la vie mentale ce que les gestes du chef d'orchestre sont à la symphonie: ils en dessinent les articulations motrices, ils ne font pas autre chose. On ne trouverait done rien des opérations de l'esprit proprement dit à l'intérieur du cerveau." (Professor Henri Bergson: Presidential Address to the Society for Psychical Research, 1913.)
"A Man of Kent" inThe British Weekly. "Mr Jacks has written a book which, for sheer ability, for rightmindedness, and for driving force, will compare favourably with any book of the season.... This is a book which strongly makes for cleanness, for sanity, for Christianity."
"A series of highly original studies of some human types portrayed with a wealth of irony and humour. The character Snarley Bob, the old shepherd, is destined to take its place among the unforgettable figures of literature."—Outlook.
ProfessorJ. H. MuirheadinThe Christian Commonwealthsays: "It is a significant book ... eloquent, imaginative, humorous. Philosophy here forsakes its usual 'grey in grey.'"
FromThe Westminster Review: "The book is one which no philosophical student of to-day can safely do without."