‘ “The son of the third he traced to America: but there he, too, had died leaving no family. So poor father could find no means of making reparation. That was what he longed for – to make reparation. His failure preyed and preyed on him, until his poor dear mind became quite unhinged. As religion gained stronger and stronger hold on him, he took a queer sort of notion into his head – a regular obsession. ‘The next best thing to doing a good deed yourself,’ he would say, ‘is to provide someone else with the opportunity – to give him his cue. In our sins Christ is crucified afresh. Because I sinned against Him thrice, I must somehow be the cause of three correspondingly good actions that will counter-balance my own sins. In no other way can I atone for my crimes against Christ, for crimes they were.’
‘ “In vain we argued with him, assuring him he had done only as nearly all other men would have done. It was no use. ‘Other men must judge for themselves. I have done what I know to be wrong,’ he would moan. He grew more and more fixed in his idea of – er – expiation. It became positive religious mania!
‘ “Determined to find three human beings who, by their good actions, would, as it were, cancel out the pain caused to Divinity by what he called his ‘three crimes’, he busied himself in finding insignificant-looking works of art which he would offer for a few shillings.
‘ “Poor old father! Never shall I forget his joy when one day a man brought back a vase he had bought for five shillings and then discovered to be worth six hundred pounds: ‘I think you must have made a mistake,’ the man said. Just as you did, bless you!
‘ “Five years later a similar thing occurred, and he was, oh, so radiant. Two of humanity’s crimes cancelled out – two-thirds of his expiation achieved!
‘ “Then followed years and years of weary disappointment. ‘I shall never rest. I can’t. No, never, never, until I find the third,’ he used to say.”
‘Here the girl began to weep. Hiding her face behind her hands, she murmured, “Oh, if only you had come sooner!”
‘I heard the jingle-jangle of the bell.
‘ “How he must have suffered!” I said. “I’m so glad I had the luck to be the third. Is he satisfied now?”
‘Her hands dropped from her face; she stared at me.
‘I heard footsteps approach.
‘ “I’m so glad I’m going to meet him again,” I said.
‘ “Meet him?” she echoed in amazement as the footsteps neared.
‘ “Yes, I may stay and see your father, mayn’t I? I heard your sister say he would soon be here.”
‘ “Oh, now I understand!” she exclaimed. “You mean Bessie’s father! But Bessie and I are only step-sisters. My poor father died years and years ago.” ’
In the Tube
by E. F. Benson
‘It’s a convention,’ said Anthony Carling cheerfully, ‘and not a very convincing one. Time, indeed! There’s no such thing as Time really; it has no actual existence. Time is nothing more than an infinitesimal point in eternity, just as space is an infinitesimal point in infinity. At the most, Time is a sort of tunnel through which we are accustomed to believe that we are travelling. There’s a roar in our ears and a darkness in our eyes which makes it seem real to us. But before we came into the tunnel we existed for ever in an infinite sunlight, and after we have got through it we shall exist in an infinite sunlight again. So why should we bother ourselves about the confusion and noise and darkness which only encompass us for a moment?’
For a firm-rooted believer in such immeasurable ideas as these, which he punctuated with brisk application of the poker to the brave sparkle and glow of the fire, Anthony has a very pleasant appreciation of the measurable and the finite, and nobody with whom I have acquaintance has so keen a zest for life and its enjoyments as he. He had given us this evening an admirable dinner, had passed round a port beyond praise, and had illuminated the jolly hours with the light of his infectious optimism. Now the small company had melted away, and I was left with him over the fire in his study. Outside the tattoo of wind-driven sleet was audible on the window panes, over-scoring now and again the flap of the flames on the open hearth, and the thought of the chilly blasts and the snow-covered pavement in Brompton Square, across which, to skidding taxicabs, the last of his other guests had scurried, made my position, resident here till tomorrow morning, the more delicately delightful. Above all there was this stimulating and suggestive companion, who, whether he talked of the great abstractions which were so intensely real and practical to him, or of the very remarkable experiences which he had encountered among these conventions of time and space, was equally fascinating to the listener.
‘I adore life,’ he said. ‘I find it the most entrancing plaything. It’s a delightful game, and, as you know very well, the only conceivable way to play a game is to treat it extremely seriously. If you say to yourself, “It’s only a game,” you cease to take
