Part 21 (1/2)

This book Mark is writing will be awful in its intensity. It will make the world turn cold. It is terrible. People will shudder at it.”

He walked about the room enthusiastically.

”And its terror is the true terror--mental. How the papers will hate it, and how every one will read it!”

”May it--may it not do a great deal of harm?” said Catherine, slowly.

”What if it does? Nothing can prevent it from being a great book.”

And he broke out into a dissertation on art that would have delighted Mr. Ardagh.

Catherine listened to him in silence, but when he had finished she said,

”But you are one-sided, Mr. Berrand.”

”I!” he cried. ”How so?”

”You see only the horrible in life, even in love. You care only for the horrible in art.”

”The truth is more often horrible than not,” he answered. ”We dress it in pink paper as we dress a burning lamp. We fear its light will hurt our weak eyes. Almost all the pretty theories of future states, happy hunting grounds, and so forth, almost all the fallacies of life to which we are inclined to cling, are only pink paper shades which we make to save ourselves from blinking at the light.”

”You call it light?” she said.

And she felt a profound pity for him. There was no need of that. Berrand was one of those strange men who are happy in the contemplation of misery.

While Berrand was staying with the Sirretts, Mrs. Ardagh came to them on a visit. She was now in very poor health, and her mind was greatly set, in consequence, on that other world of which the healthy scarcely think, unless they wake at night or lose a near relation unexpectedly. Mr.

Berrand immediately horrified her. Of course he did not speak of ”William Foster.” ”William Foster's” existence in the house was a secret. But he freely aired his sentiments on all other subjects, and each sentiment went like a sword through Mrs. Ardagh's soul.

”How can Mark make a friend of such a man,” she said to Catherine. ”Like your father, he has no religious belief. He wors.h.i.+ps art instead of G.o.d.

He loves, he positively loves, the evil of the world. Such men are a curse. They go to people h.e.l.l.”

Her feverish eyes glowed with fanaticism.

”Oh, mother!” said Catherine, thinking of ”William Foster.”

”They do not care to do good, they do not fear to do harm,” continued Mrs. Ardagh. ”Why are they not cut off?”

She made her daughter kneel down with her and pray against such men.

Then they went down to dinner, and dined with ”William Foster.”

Catherine felt like one in a fever. She knew that her mother had an exaggerated mind. Nevertheless, she was deeply moved by it, recognising that it exaggerated truth, not a lie.

At dinner Mrs. Ardagh, by some ill-chance, was led to mention ”William Foster's” book. Mark raised gay eyebrows at Berrand and Catherine grew hot. For Mrs. Ardagh denounced the author as she had denounced him in London, but with more excitement.

”I trust,” she said, ”that he will never live to write another.”

Catherine felt as if a knife were thrust into her breast, and even Mark started slightly and looked almost uneasy, as if he fancied that the force of Mrs. Ardagh's desire might accomplish its fulfilment. Only Berrand was undismayed. There was a devil of mischief in him. His eyes of a toad gleamed as he said, turning to Mrs. Ardagh,

”I happen to know that 'William Foster' is writing another book at this very time.”