i^^ thrum's Umitti Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2008 with funding from IVIicrosoft Corporation http://www.archive.org/details/cleanheartOOhutcrich THE CLEAN HEART Ci^ranf'^ Limit€4 • • • ,• • • • • • • • • • ••• .». thrum's Umltti There was about this unusual gentleman that which doubly attracted Mr. Wriford. Frontispiece. See page ^g. THE CLEAN HEART BY A. S. M. HUTCHINSON AUTHOR OF "the HAPPY WARRIOR," ETC. ]" WITH FRONTISPIECE BY I \ ^l I \y* '. '- R. M. CROSBY, \ \ . » • ». Cftiwi»'5 timlM BOSTON LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 1914 Copyright, 1914, : : •: i ;By a. S. M. Hutchinson. ' : : /. AU rights reserved Published, September, 1914 THE COLONIAL PRESS C. H. SIMONDS CO., BOSTON, U. Create in me a clean heart, God: and renew a right spirit within me. The sacrifice of God is a broken spirit: a broken and a contrite heart, O God, thou wilt not despise. Psalm LI. 464019 CONTENTS BOOK ONE ONE OF THE LUCKY ONES CHAPTER PAGE I. Mr. Wriford 3 II. Young Wriford i6 III. Figure of Wriford 38 rv. One Runs: One Follows 48 V. One is Met 58 VI. Fighting It: Telling It 65 VII. Hearing It 75 BOOK TWO ONE OF THE JOLLY ONES I. Intentions, before having his hair cut, of a Wagoner 89 II. Passionate Attachment to Liver of a Wagoner . 97 III. Disturbed Equipoise of a Counterbalancing Machine 105 IV. First Person Singular 108 V. Intentions, in his Nightshirt, of a Farmer . .114 VI. Rise and Fall of Interest in a Farmer* . .121 VII. Profound Attachment to his Farm of a Farmer . 125 VIII. First Person Extraordinary 139 BOOK THREE ONE OF THE FRIGHTENED ONES I. Body Work i43 II. Cross Work iS4 vii viii CONTENTS CHAPTER PAOr III. Water that Takes your Breath 165 IV. Water that Swells and Sucks 176 V. Water that Breaks and Roars 183, BOOK FOUR ONE OF THE OLDEST ONES I. Kindness without Gratitude , 199- II. Questions without Answers 210 III. Crackjaw Name for Mr. Wriford . .218 IV. Clurk for Mr. Master 226 V. Maintop Hail for the Captain 232 BOOK FIVE ONE OF THE BRIGHT ONES I. In a Field 243 II. In a Parlour 253 III. Trial of Mr. Wriford ^ . 269 rV. Martyrdom of Master Cupper 284 V. Essie's Idea of It 292 VI. The Vacant Corner 305 VII. Essie 316 VIII. Our Essie 326 IX. Not to Deceive Her 339 X. The Dream 354 XI. The Business 361 XII. The Seeing 378 XIII. Prayer of Mr. Wriford 387 XIV. Pilgrimage 396 BOOK ONE ONE OF THE LUCKY ONES THE CLEAN HEART BOOK ONE ONE OF THE LUCKY ONES CHAPTER I MR. WRIFORD Her hands were firm and cool, and his were trem- bling, trembling; but her eyes were laughing, laughing, and his own eyes burned. Mr. Wriford had caught at her hands. For a brief moment, as one in great agony almost swoons in ec- stasy of relief at sudden cessation of the pain, he had felt his brain swing, then float, in most exquisite calm at the peace, at the strength their firm, cool touch com- municated to him. Then Mr. Wriford saw the laugh- ing lightness in her eyes, and felt his own — whose dull, aching burn had for that instant been slaked — burn, burn anew; and felt beat up his brain that dreadful rush of blood that often in these days terrified him; and felt that lift and surge through all his pulses that sometimes reeled him on his feet; and knew that bafliing lapse of thought which always followed, as though the surge were in fact a tide of affairs that flung him high 3 ! CLEAN HEART •c^'c ' % ';.;';:'- : TJiJS and dry and left him out of action to pick his way back — to grope back to the thread of purpose, to the train of thought, that had been snapped — if he could Mr. Wriford knew that the day was coming when he could not. Every time when, in the midst of ideas, of speech, of action, the surge swept him adrift and stranded him vacant and bewildered, the effort to get back was appreciably harder — the interval appreciably of greater length. The thing to do was to hang on — hang on like death while the tide surged up your brain. That sometimes left you with a recollection — a clue — that helped you back more quickly. Mr. Wriford hung on. The surge took him, swept him, left him. He was with Brida in Brida's jolly little flat in Knightsbridge, holding her hands. It was a longish time since he had been to see her. She had come into the room gay as ever — Mr. Wriford got suddenly back to the point whence he had been suddenly cut adrift; remembered the surge, realised the lapse, recalled how he had caught at her hands, how they had soothed him, how, Hke a mock, he had seen the laughter in her eyes. Mr. Wriford threw back her hands at her with a violent motion, and went back a step, not meaning to, and knew again the frequent desire in moments of stress such as had just passed, and in moments of recovery such as he now was in, to shout out very loudly a jumble of cries of despair, as often he cried them at night, or inwardly when not alone. " O God! Oh, I say! I say! I say! Oh, this can't go on! Oh, this must end — this must end! Oh, I say! I say! " but mastered the desire and effected instead a confusion of sentences ending with '' then." MR. WRIFORD 5 A very great effort was required. Mastery of such impulses had been undermined these ten years, slipping from him these five, altogether leaving him in recent months. To give way, and to release in clamorous cries the tumult that consumed him, would ease him, he felt sure; but it would create a scene and have him stared at and laughed at, he knew. That stopped him. Fear of the betrayal of his state, that day and night he dreaded, once again saved him; and therefore in place of the loud cries, Mr. Wriford — thirty, not bad-looking, clever, successful, held to be " one of the lucky ones " — substituted heavily: " Well then! All right then! It's no good then! Very well then! '' She was a trifle surprised by the violent action with which he released her hands. But she knew his moods (not their depth) and had no comment to make on his roughness. " Oh, Phil," she cried, and her tone matched her face in its mingling of gay banter and of tenderness, " Oh, Phil, don't twist up your forehead so — frowning like that. Phil, don't! " And when he made no an- swer but with working face just stood there before her, she went on: " You know that I hate to see you frown- ing so horribly. And I don't see why you should come " and do it in my flat; I'm blessed if I do! He did not respond to the gay little laugh with which she poked her words at him. He had come to her for the rest, for the comfort, he had felt in that brief mo- ment when he first caught at her hands. Instead, the laughter in her eyes informed him that here, here also, was not to be found what day and night he sought. The interview must be ended, and he must get away. He was in these days always fidgeting to end a conver- sation, however eagerly he had begun it. 6 THE CLEAN HEART It must be ended — conventionally. " Well, I'm busy," he said. " I must be going." " Now, Phil! " she exclaimed, and there was in her voice just a trace of pleading. " Now, Phil, don't be in one of your moods! It's not kind after all the ages I've never seen you." A settee was near her, and she sat down and indicated the place beside her. " Going! Why, you've scarcely come! Tell me what you've been doing. Months since you've been near me! Of course, I've heard about you. I'm always hearing your name or seeing it in the papers. Clever little beast, Phil! I hear people talking about The Week ^ Reviewed y or about your books; and I say: Oh, I know * the editor well ; friend of mine — Philip ' or He's a Wriford,' and I feel rather bucked when they exclaim and want to know what you're like. You must be mak- ing pots of money, Phil, old boy." He remained standing, making no motion to accept the place beside her. " I'm making what I should have thought would be a good lot once," he said; and he added: "You ought to have married me, Brida — when you had the chance." Just the faintest shadow flickered across her face. But she replied with a little wriggle and a httle laugh indicative of a shuddering at her escape. " It would have been too awful," she said. " You, with your " moods! You're getting worse, Phil, you are really! He had seen the shadow. Had it stayed, he had crossed to her, caught her hands again, cried: " O Brida, Brida! " and in that shadow's tenderness have found the balm which in these days he craved for, craved for, craved for. He saw it pass and took instead the mock of her light tone and words. " Worse — yes, I know \. MR. WRIFORD I'm worse/' he said violently. " You don't know how bad — nor any one." " Tell me, old boy." " There's nothing to tell." " You're working too hard, Phil." " I'm sick of hearing that.