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hearted creed that expressed itself in the spirit of 〃Little lamb；
who made thee？〃 and faithfully reflected the beautiful homely
Christ…child sentiment of Saxon Europe。 What a far away； unreal
fairy story it all seemed here in this West African land； where the
bodies of men were of as little account as the bubbles that floated
on the oily froth of the great flowing river； and where it required
a stretch of wild profitless imagination to credit them with
undying souls。 In the life he had come from Comus had been
accustomed to think of individuals as definite masterful
personalities； making their several marks on the circumstances that
revolved around them； they did well or ill； or in most cases
indifferently； and were criticised； praised； blamed； thwarted or
tolerated； or given way to。 In any case； humdrum or outstanding；
they had their spheres of importance； little or big。 They
dominated a breakfast table or harassed a Government； according to
their capabilities or opportunities； or perhaps they merely had
irritating mannerisms。 At any rate it seemed highly probable that
they had souls。 Here a man simply made a unit in an unnumbered
population； an inconsequent dot in a loosely…compiled deathroll。
Even his own position as a white man exalted conspicuously above a
horde of black natives did not save Comus from the depressing sense
of nothingness which his first experience of fever had thrown over
him。 He was a lost； soulless body in this great uncaring land； if
he died another would take his place； his few effects would be
inventoried and sent down to the coast； someone else would finish
off any tea or whisky that he left behind … that would be all。
It was nearly time to be starting towards the next halting place
where he would dine or at any rate eat something。 But the
lassitude which the fever had bequeathed him made the tedium of
travelling through interminable forest…tracks a weariness to be
deferred as long as possible。 The bearers were nothing loth to let
another half…hour or so slip by； and Comus dragged a battered
paper…covered novel from the pocket of his coat。 It was a story
dealing with the elaborately tangled love affairs of a surpassingly
uninteresting couple； and even in his almost bookless state Comus
had not been able to plough his way through more than two…thirds of
its dull length； bound up with the cover； however； were some pages
of advertisement； and these the exile scanned with a hungry
intentness that the romance itself could never have commanded。 The
name of a shop； of a street； the address of a restaurant； came to
him as a bitter reminder of the world he had lost； a world that ate
and drank and flirted； gambled and made merry； a world that debated
and intrigued and wire…pulled； fought or compromised political
battles … and recked nothing of its outcasts wandering through
forest paths and steamy swamps or lying in the grip of fever。
Comus read and re…read those few lines of advertisement； just as he
treasured a much…crumpled programme of a first…night performance at
the Straw Exchange Theatre； they seemed to make a little more real
the past that was already so shadowy and so utterly remote。 For a
moment he could almost capture the sensation of being once again in
those haunts that he loved； then he looked round and pushed the
book wearily from him。 The steaming heat； the forest； the rushing
river hemmed him in on all sides。
The two boys who had been splitting wood ceased from their labours
and straightened their backs； suddenly the smaller of the two gave
the other a resounding whack with a split lath that he still held
in his hand； and flew up the hillside with a scream of laughter and
simulated terror； the bigger lad following in hot pursuit。 Up and
down the steep bush…grown slope they raced and twisted and dodged；
coming sometimes to close quarters in a hurricane of squeals and
smacks； rolling over and over like fighting kittens； and breaking
away again to start fresh provocation and fresh pursuit。 Now and
again they would lie for a time panting in what seemed the last
stage of exhaustion； and then they would be off in another wild
scamper； their dusky bodies flitting through the bushes；
disappearing and reappearing with equal suddenness。 Presently two
girls of their own age； who had returned from the water…fetching；
sprang out on them from ambush； and the four joined in one joyous
gambol that lit up the hillside with shrill echoes and glimpses of
flying limbs。 Comus sat and watched； at first with an amused
interest； then with a returning flood of depression and heart…ache。
Those wild young human kittens represented the joy of life； he was
the outsider； the lonely alien； watching something in which he
could not join； a happiness in which he had no part or lot。 He
would pass presently out of the village and his bearers' feet would
leave their indentations in the dust； that would be his most
permanent memorial in this little oasis of teeming life。 And that
other life； in which he once moved with such confident sense of his
own necessary participation in it； how completely he had passed out
of it。 Amid all its laughing throngs； its card parties and race…
meetings and country…house gatherings； he was just a mere name；
remembered or forgotten； Comus Bassington； the boy who went away。
He had loved himself very well and never troubled greatly whether
anyone else really loved him； and now he realised what he had made
of his life。 And at the same time he knew that if his chance were
to come again he would throw it away just as surely； just as
perversely。 Fate played with him with loaded dice； he would lose
always。
One person in the whole world had cared for him； for longer than he
could remember； cared for him perhaps more than he knew； cared for
him perhaps now。 But a wall of ice had mounted up between him and
her； and across it there blew that cold…breath that chills or kills
affection。
The words of a well…known old song； the wistful cry of a lost
cause； rang with insistent mockery through his brain：
〃Better loved you canna be；
Will ye ne'er come back again？〃
If it was love that was to bring him back he must be an exile for
ever。 His epitaph in the mouths of those that remembered him would
be； Comus Bassington； the boy who never came back。
And in his unutterable loneliness he bowed his head on his arms；
that he might not see the joyous scrambling frolic on yonder
hillside。
CHAPTER XVII
THE bleak rawness of a grey December day held sway over St。 James's
Park； that sanctuary of lawn and tree and pool； into which the
bourgeois innovator has rushed ambitiously time and again； to find
that he must take the patent leather from off his feet； for the
ground on which he stands is hallowed ground。
In the lonely hour