



Produced by Malcolm Farmer and the Online Distributed
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                          HERE AND HEREAFTER



                          BY THE SAME AUTHOR

                             LINDLEY KAYS
                           THE GIFTED FAMILY
                          THE EXILES OF FALOO



                               HERE AND
                               HEREAFTER

                                  BY

                              BARRY PAIN


                          METHUEN & CO. LTD.
                         36 ESSEX STREET W.C.
                                LONDON


                      _First Published in 1911_




CONTENTS


                                              PAGE
  MALA                                           1
  THE FEAST AND THE RECKONING                   39
  POST-MORTEM                                   57
  THE GIRL WITH THE BEAUTIFUL HAIR              65
  THE WIDOWER                                   74
  THE UNFINISHED GAME                           83
  SPARKLING BURGUNDY                           104
  THE ACT OF HEROISM                           120
  SOME NOTES ON CYRUS VERD                     137
  THE FOUR-FINGERED HAND                       152
  THE TOWER                                    162
  THE FUTILITY OF WILLIAM PENARDEN             175
  THE PATHOS OF THE COMMONPLACE                188
  THE NIGHT OF GLORY                           209
  AN IDYLL OF THE SEA                          222
  THE MAGIC RINGS                              230
  THE UNSEEN POWER                             243
  A BRISK ENGAGEMENT                           259
  HASHEESH                                     276
  THE GARDENER                                 288
  THE SCENT                                    300




HERE AND HEREAFTER




MALA


I

It was Saturday night at the end of a hard week. I was just finishing my
dinner when I was told that a man wished to see me at once in the
surgery. The name, Tarn, was unknown to me.

I found a fair-haired man of thirty in a faded and frayed suit of
mustard-colour, holding in his hand a broken straw hat. His face was
rather fat and roundish; his build powerful but paunchy. The colour of
face and hands showed open-air life and work. His manner was slow,
apathetic, heavy. His speech was slow too, but it was the speech of an
educated man, and the voice was curiously gentle.

"My wife's ill, doctor. Can you come?"

"I can. What's the matter with her, Mr Tarn?"

He explained. I do not regard child-bearing as illness, and told him so.
I told him further that he ought to have made his arrangements and to
have engaged a doctor and nurse beforehand.

"In her own country they do not regard it as illness either. The women
there do not have doctor or nurse. She did not wish it. But, however,
as she seemed to suffer--"

"Well, well. We'll get on. Where do you live?"

"Felonsdene."

"Eight miles away and right up on the downs. Phew! Can I get my car
there?"

"Most of the way at any rate--we could always walk the rest."

"We'll chance it. I'll bring the car round. Shan't keep you a minute, Mr
Tarn."

I kept him rather longer than that. There were the lamps to see to, and
I had directions to give to my servants. I did not take my driver with
me. He had been at work since eight in the morning. When I re-entered
the surgery I found Tarn still standing in just the same pose and place,
as if he had not moved a hair's-breadth since I left him.

"Ready now," I said, as I picked up my bag.

He took out a pinch of sovereigns from his waistcoat-pocket, seven or
eight of them.

"Your fee, doctor," he said.

"That can wait until I've done my work. Come along. Shall I lend you an
overcoat?"

He thanked me but refused it, saying that he was used to all weathers.
The night was fairly warm too. He sat beside me on the front seat. The
first six miles were easy enough along a good road, and I talked to him
as I drove. I omit the professional part of our conversation--the
questions which a doctor would naturally put on such an occasion.

"So your wife's a foreigner," I said. "What nationality?"

"She is a woman of colour--a negress."

It is true that all <DW52> people inspire me with a feeling of
physical repulsion, and equally true that I can set all feelings of
repulsion aside when there is work to be done.

"Ah!" I said. "And you live up at Felonsdene. To tell the truth, I
didn't know anybody lived there. I remember the place--came on it two
years ago or more when I was roaming over the downs. There was a
farm-house all in ruins--and, let me see, was there a cottage? I didn't
come upon anybody living there then. I remember that, because I was
thirsty after my walk and couldn't get a drink."

"There was no one there then, and there is no cottage. We came last
year. Part of the farm-house has been repaired."

"Well, you've struck about the loneliest spot in England. Who's your
landlord?"

"Eh? It's mine--I bought it. Two acres and the farm-house. Had trouble
to get it--a deal of trouble."

"And who's with your wife now?" I asked.

"Nobody. She's alone in the house."

"Well, that's not right," I said.

"We have no servants--do everything ourselves. The nearest house is a
farmer's at Sandene, three miles away, and we've had no dealings with
him. It couldn't be helped, and--she's different, you know. I was not
long in coming to you. I caught the mail-cart as soon as I reached the
road, and got a lift."

"Still, I'm thinking--how am I to get on?"

"You'll find I can do anything a woman can do, and do it better. I am
more intelligent and I have no nerves. You must pull up at the next
gate, doctor. We strike across the downs there."

We had done the six miles, mostly up hill, in twenty-one minutes. Now we
turned through the gate, along a turf track deeply rutted. Luckily the
weather had been dry for the last fortnight. We crawled up to the top of
the crest and then along it for a mile. I saw lights ahead in a hollow
below. A dog barked savagely.

"That Felonsdene?" I asked.

"That's it. The descent is bad."

When I got to it I found that it was very bad. I stopped the engines.

"If we break our necks we shan't be much use," I said. "I'll leave the
car here. There's nobody to run away with it."

"Shall we take a lamp?" he asked.

"Better."

He picked up my bag, unhitched one lamp, and extinguished the other,
while I spread the rug over the seats. His ordinary slowness was
deceptive. When he was actually doing something he was remarkably quick
without being hurried. He was quick too in seeing a mechanical
device--that was clear from the way he handled the lamps. We began the
brief descent, and the dog barked more furiously than ever.

"Is that dog loose?" I asked, as we neared the house.

"Yes," he said. "But he's educated. He'd kill a stranger who came alone;
he won't touch you."

He gave a whistle and the barking stopped. The dog, an enormous black
retriever, came running towards us; his eyes in the lamplight had a
liquid trustfulness.

"Heel," said Tarn sharply, and the dog paced quietly behind him, taking
no notice of me whatever.

We went through a yard surrounded by a wall of rough stone. By the light
of the lamp I saw that the wall had been mended in places. There was a
rough shed on the left, with crates and packing-cases under it. The
front door was flush with the wall of the house. It was unlocked, and
when Tarn opened it a bright light streamed out. Within was a small
square hall, and I noticed that the light was incandescent gas.

Tarn saw that I had noticed it. "I put in a gas-plant," he said. "Will
you come this way?"

He took me into a great living-room. I should think it was about forty
feet by twenty. There was a big open fireplace at the further end of the
room. The floor was flagged, without rugs or carpets. The walls were the
same inside as out, rough stone and mortar; there were three small
windows high up in the walls. The windows were newly glazed, the walls
had been repaired. There was very little furniture--three wooden windsor
chairs, a couple of deal tables, and some cupboards made from
packing-cases. There was no attempt at ornament or decoration of any
kind, and there was no disorder. The scanty furniture was precisely
arranged, nothing was left lying about, and everything was scrupulously
clean. The timbers of the pointed roof seemed to me to be new. The room
was very brightly lit, with more gas jets (of the cheapest description)
than were needed.

What struck me most was the smell of the place--a smoky, greenish,
sub-acid, slightly aromatic smell. I wondered if it could come from the
great logs that smouldered in the fireplace, before which the retriever
now stretched himself.

"Queer smell here," I said. "What is it?"

"It comes," he said, "from the smoke of juniper leaves."

"You don't burn those in the fireplace, do you?"

"No. I--I don't think you'd understand."

The words were said gently, almost sadly, without offensive intention.
But they annoyed me a little--I did not like to be told by this
scarecrow that I could not understand.

"Very well," I said. "Now then, where's your wife?"

He pointed to a door at the further end of the room, on the right of the
fireplace. "Through there," he said. "I--I don't know if you speak
French."

"I do."

"Mala speaks French more easily than English. She lived for many years
in Paris--was born there. You'll find in that room the things a chemist
in Helmstone thought might be wanted. If you need anything else, or want
my help in any way, I shall be here."

"Good," I said, and passed through the door he had indicated.

I must remember that I am not writing for doctors. All I need say of the
case is that it was a good thing Tarn fetched me. It was a case where
the intervention of a medical man was imperatively necessary. Otherwise
all went perfectly well. The child was born in a little more than an
hour after my arrival, a girl, healthy and vigorous, and as black as the
ace of spades. Tarn did all that was required of him perfectly--quickly,
but without noise or hurry, and with great intelligence.

Mala, his wife, seemed to me to be very young. She was a girl of
splendid physique; her face, like the face of every negress, repelled
me. She showed affection for her child, and expressed her intention of
nursing it herself, of which she seemed capable. This was all
natural--more natural than normal unfortunately--but all the time I was
conscious that I was attending a woman of morbid psychology. When I left
her asleep, it was to join a man of morbid psychology in the great
living-room.

"All well?" asked Tarn, as I entered.

"Quite. Both asleep." My body was tired, and I dare say I ought to have
been sleepy myself, but my mind was awake and alert. The unusual nature
of the experience may account for it. I sat down and gave him some
instructions and advice about his wife, to which he paid close
attention.

"Must you come here again?" he asked. I thought it a question that might
have been better expressed.

"Yes," I said. "I don't want to pile up the visits, but I must do what's
wanted."

"I didn't mean that. I meant that unless you were coming again in any
case, I should have to make arrangements for fetching you if the need
arose."

I laughed. "Arrangements? Well, you've nobody to send but yourself?"

"There's the dog."

"But he doesn't know where I live."

"I was meaning to teach him that to-morrow. I'd better do it in any
case--one never knows what may happen." He sighed profoundly.

"Teach him to fetch the doctor--eh? He must be a clever beggar. What do
you call him?"

"He has no name. He's not a pet. You must take some refreshment before
you go. Whisky?"

"Ah, a drop of whisky and a biscuit would be rather welcome. Thanks."

He brought out a jar of whisky, a gasogen of soda-water, and some large
hard biscuits in their native tin.

"To your daughter's health," I said, as I raised my glass.

He suddenly put his glass down. "Farce," he said savagely. "But it's all
farce--this--this fuss, She's born to die, isn't she? It's the common
lot. She's hauled out of nothing by blind Chance, to be tossed back into
nothing by blind Chance. Drink the health of the seaweed that the tide
throws up on the shore and the tide sucks back again? No! Not I!"

The whole thing had been so strange that this outbreak did not
particularly astonish me. "You'd be a happier man, Mr Tarn, and a more
sensible man, if you would simply accept Nature as you find it. You
can't alter it and you can't understand it. You're beating your head
against a wall."

This ragged fellow took on an air of superiority that annoyed me. "Yes,
yes," he said. "I've heard all that--and so often. It's the point of
view of ordinary materialistic science. You are not a religious man."

"Certainly," I said, "I don't pretend that I know what I do not know.
Nor am I fool enough, Mr Tarn, to complain of what from insufficient
data I am unable to understand. Put in other words, I am neither an
orthodox believer nor an atheist. Do I understand that you are a
religious man yourself?"

"The religion of Mala and her people is mine."

"Really? You turn the tables on the missionaries. Well, the theological
discussion is interesting but it is often interminable; and I have work
to do to-morrow. I must be getting on."

"I will come with you as far as the car. But first, doctor, the dog must
learn that you are welcome here and that he is never to harm you. Call
him and give him a bit of biscuit."

I called him. He looked up from his place before the fire but did not
move. Then Tarn made a movement with his hand, and the dog got up, shook
himself, and walked slowly towards me. He went all round me, sniffing. I
held out the biscuit to him, and he looked away to his master and
whined. Tarn nodded, and the dog immediately took the food from my hand.

"Yes," said Tarn, as if answering what I was thinking, "he has never
been allowed to take food from any hand but mine. He will never forget
you. You can come here at any hour of the day or night now with perfect
safety. It's--it's the freedom of the city."

As Tarn climbed with me up to the car, he spoke again on the subject of
my fee. "I suppose I should not have offered it in advance," he said.
"But it occurred to me that, as I never think about clothes, I looked
very poor, and that the place where I have chosen to live also looked
very poor. And you did not know me. As a matter of fact, I am bothered
with far more money than I want."

"Ah!" I laughed. "I could do with a little worry of that sort."

As he fixed up the lamps he thanked me warmly for what I had done for
Mala, and asked what time he might expect me on the morrow. I opened my
pocket-book and looked at it by the light of the lamp. "Well, I've a
light day to-morrow, barring accidents. I shall be here some time in the
afternoon."

The drive home was accomplished without incident. I ran the car into the
coach-house and went straight to bed. But for more than an hour I could
not get to sleep. I was haunted by that man and his negress wife,
building theories about them, trying to account for them. Just as I was
dropping off I was awakened again by a smell of bitter smoke in my
nostrils--the smell of burning juniper leaves. Then I recognised that
the smell was a memory-illusion, and fell asleep in real earnest.


II

I got back from my Sunday morning round before one. Helmstone was rather
full of visitors that day, and there were many cars before the big hotel
in the Queen's Road. As my man was driving slowly through the traffic I
saw, a hundred yards away, Tarn striding along, in the same shabby
clothes, with his retriever at his heel. He turned down a side-street,
and I saw no more of him. On inquiry I found that he had not called at
my house. He had merely been there, as he said, to give the dog his
lesson.

I am a bachelor. I lunched alone on cold beef and beer, and I read the
_Lancet_. I intended to remain materialistic and scientific, and not to
be infected by that air of mystery and morbidity which seemed to hang
round Tarn and his negress wife at Felonsdene. I had not been in
practice for ten years without coming on strange occurrences before, and
they had all lost their strangeness when the facts had been filled in.
My after-luncheon visit to Felonsdene was of course professional, but if
I had any chance I meant to satisfy an ordinary lay curiosity as well.

I drove myself, and the track across the downs looked worse in daylight
than it had done by night. Still it seemed reasonable to suppose that
what the car had done then it could do now. I could see more clearly now
what had been done in the way of repairs to that ruined and
long-deserted farm-house. The pointed roof over the big room where I had
sat the night before had been mended and made weather-tight. The
chimney-stack was new, and so were the window-casements. Adjoining the
big room was a building of irregular shape that might possibly have
contained three or four other rooms, roofed with new corrugated iron.
One or two outbuildings looked as if they had been newly constructed
from old materials. But that part of the farm-house which had originally
been two-storied had been left quite untouched. Half the roof of it was
down, the windows were without glass, and one saw through them the
broken stairs and torn wall-paper peeling off and flapping in the brisk
March breeze. On the grass-field beyond the court-yard two good Alderney
cows were grazing. Most of the land looked neglected; but Tarn had no
help and had everything to do himself. An orchard of stunted and
miserable-looking fruit trees was sheltered by a dip of the land from
north and east.

The dog barked furiously when he heard my car, and before I began the
climb down to the farm-house I picked up two or three flints with intent
to use them if he went for me. But all signs of hostility vanished when
he saw me. He did not leap and gambol for joy, but he thrust his nose
into my hand and then walked just in front of me, wagging his tail, and
looking back from time to time to see that I understood and was
following him.

He led the way across the court-yard, through the open outer door, and
across the hall to the door of the big room. He scratched at the door.
From impatience I knocked and entered.

Tarn had fallen asleep before the fire in one of the windsor chairs. He
was just rousing himself as I entered. He had taken off his coat and his
heavy boots and wore felt slippers that had a home-made look. From the
table beside him it appeared that he had lunched frugally on whisky,
milk and hard biscuits.

"Sorry I was asleep," he said. "But the dog knew."

"Ah!" I said. "You'd a long walk this morning. I saw you at Helmstone."

"Yes. I told you."

"You should have come into my house for a rest. How's your wife getting
on--had a good night?"

"It seems so. She has slept a long time. So has the child. I will find
out if she will see you." He passed into the inner room.

If she had expressed any disinclination to see me I should have been
extremely angry; also, I might have thought it right to disregard the
disinclination. But Tarn reappeared almost directly and asked me to go
in

I found that all was going as well as possible both with her and with
the child. She really was a splendid animal, unhurt either by excessive
work or--as many modern mothers are--by a rotten fashionable life. With
me she was reticent, almost sullen in manner; yet she seemed docile and
had carried out my orders. The only difficulty was, as I had expected,
to get her to remain in bed. With her child she showed white teeth in
ecstasies of maternal joy. Before I had finished with her I heard the
rain pattering on the iron roof of her room.

I went back into the great living-room. It was rather dark there, for
the sky was heavily clouded and the windows, placed high up, gave but
little light. The table had been cleared, and Tarn was not there. I sat
down to wait for him, and the dog got up from the fire and came over to
me and laid his head on my knee. He was an enormous and very powerful
brute, as much retriever as anything, but evidently with another strain
in his composition. I felt quite safe with him now, talked to him and
patted him--attentions which he received gravely, without resistance but
without any signs of pleasure.

Presently Tarn came in from outside. His hair was wet with the rain.

"I've taken up a tarpaulin," he said, "and thrown it over your car,
doctor."

"That's very good of you," I said. "I was just doubting if that rug of
mine would be enough."

"It comes down heavily. You must remain here awhile, unless you have
other patients whom you must see at once."

"No," I said. "This finishes my work for to-day, I hope. I always try to
arrange for Sunday afternoon free, and I'm glad to accept your
hospitality. No juniper smoke to-day."

"There has been--no occasion." He went on quickly to inquire about his
wife and child. He was not a man who showed his emotions much, but he
certainly left me with the impression that he was fond and proud of the
child. He asked several questions about her as he went round the room,
lighting the gas-jets. Then we sat before the log fire and lit our
pipes.

"One's a little surprised to find gas in a place like this," I said.

"It makes less work than lamps. When one tries to be independent and do
the work oneself that's a consideration. Besides, it gives more light,
and people who live alone as we do need plenty of light. I'm afraid it
must all seem rather puzzling."

"Well," I said, "I don't want to be curious."

"And I don't want to puzzle anybody, nor to enlighten anybody either.
Still, you've done much for us--Mala says she would have died but for
you. If you care for a very simple story you can have it."

"Just as you like," I said. "But I should imagine that your story would
be interesting."

"I do not think so. A little more than a year ago I was in Paris. Mala
was also there. I met her through a friend of mine. I brought her to
England and married her. You know how such a marriage is regarded
here--how a woman of colour is regarded in any case. Very well,
Felonsdene was a place where we could live to ourselves."

He stopped, as if there had been no more to say.

"So far," I said, "you have told me precisely what one might have
conjectured. How did it all happen? What were you doing in Paris--and
Mala? Who was the friend? How did it come about?"

He spoke slowly, more to himself, as it seemed, than to me. "My friend
was an English Catholic, an ex-priest, a religious man like myself. His
mind gave way, and he is shut up in an asylum now. He took me to see
Mala. Night after night. Sometimes it was miraculous--and sometimes
nothing. When the performance went badly, the uncle beat her. We could
stop that because it was only a question of money. I remember it
all--settled after midnight at a _cafe_ where we drank absinthe--the
uncle with arms too long and very prognathous, like a dressed-up ape,
pouncing on the bank-notes with hairy fingers and counting aloud in
French, very bad French, not like Mala's. He was very old--a hundred
years, he said--he cannot have been her uncle really. A great-uncle
perhaps. He was not a religious man at all. He kept patting the pocket
where the bank-notes were. We put him in a fiacre, because he was drunk.
We were out of Paris that night--my friend, and Mala, and myself. Next
morning we crossed the Channel, and next night there was a riot at the
theatre because Mala did not appear. Did I say where we went in England?
I am not used to speaking so much, and it confuses me."

I was afraid he would stop again. "I don't think you mentioned the exact
name," I said.

"Wilsing, my friend's own place. High walls, and lonely gardens, but too
many servants--they all looked questions at us. Gardeners would touch
their caps and look round after we had passed--you can imagine it. It
was while we were at Wilsing that I married Mala. And shortly afterwards