The days that followed were darkened by overwhelming anxieties, so that he speculated little as to the Ultimately Desired.  A chartered accountant sat in the office at Moorgate Street and shed around him the gloom of statistics.  Unless a miracle happened the Cure was doomed.

It is all very well to seat a little nigger on the safety-valve if the end of the journey is in sight.  The boiler may just last out the strain.  But to suppose that he will sit there in permanent security to himself and the ship for an indefinite time is an optimism unwarranted by the general experience of this low world.  Sypher’s Cure could not stand the strain of the increased advertisement.  Shuttleworth found a dismal pleasure in the fulfilment of his prophecy.  A reduction in price had not materially affected the sales.  The Jebusa Jones people had lowered the price of the Cuticle Remedy and still undersold the Cure.  During the year the Bermondsey works had been heavily mortgaged.  The money had all been wasted on a public that had eyes and saw not, that had ears and heard not the simple gospel of the Friend of Humanity ­“Try Sypher’s Cure.”  In the midst of the gloom Shuttleworth took the opportunity of deprecating the unnecessary expense of production, never having so greatly dared before.  Only the best and purest materials had been possible for the divine ointment.  By using second qualities, a great saving could be effected without impairing the efficacy of the Cure.  Thus Shuttleworth.  Sypher blazed into holy anger, as if he had been counseled to commit sacrilege.

Radical reforms were imperative, if the Cure was to be saved.  He spent his nights over vast schemes only to find the fatal flaw in the cold light of the morning.  This angered him.  It seemed that the sureness of his vision had gone.  Something strange, uncanny had happened within him, he knew not what.  It had nothing to do with his intellectual force, his personal energy.  It had nothing to do with his determination to win through and restore the Cure to its former position in the market.  It was something subtle, spiritual.

The memory of the blistered heel lived with him.  The slight doubt cast by Septimus on Zora’s faith remained disturbingly at the back of his mind.  Yet he clung passionately to his belief.  If it were not Heaven-sent, then was he of men most miserable.

Never had he welcomed the sight of Nunsmere more than the next Saturday afternoon when the trap turned off the highroad and the common came into view.  The pearls and faint blues of the sky, the tender mist softening the russet of the autumn trees, the gray tower of the little church, the red roofs of the cottages dreaming in their old-world gardens, the quiet green of the common with the children far off at play and the lame donkey watching them in philosophic content ­all came like the gift of a very calm and restful God to the tired man’s eyes.

He thought to himself:  “It only lacks one figure walking across the common to meet me.”  Then the thought again:  “If she were there would I see anything else?”

At Penton Court the maid met him at the door.

“Mr. Dix is waiting to see you, sir.”

“Mr. Dix!  Where is he?”

“In the drawing-room.  He has been waiting a couple of hours.”

He threw off his hat and coat, delighted, and rushed in to welcome the unexpected guest.  He found Septimus sitting in the twilight by the French window that opened on the lawn, and making elaborate calculations in a note-book.

“My dear Dix!” He shook him warmly by the hand and clapped him on the shoulder.  “This is more than a pleasure.  What have you been doing with yourself?”

Septimus said, holding up the note-book: 

“I was just trying to work out the problem whether a boy’s expenses from the time he begins feeding-bottles to the time he leaves the University increases by arithmetical or geometrical progression.”

Sypher laughed.  “It depends, doesn’t it, on his taste for luxuries?”

“This one is going to be extravagant, I’m afraid,” said Septimus.  “He cuts his teeth on a fifteenth-century Italian ivory carving of St. John the Baptist ­I went into a shop to buy a purse and they gave it to me instead ­and turns up his nose at coral and bells.  There isn’t much of it to turn up.  I’ve never seen a child with so little nose.  I invented a machine for elongating it, but his mother won’t let me use it.”

Sypher expressed his sympathy with Mrs. Dix, and inquired after her health.  Septimus reported favorably.  She had passed a few weeks at Hottetot-sur-Mer, which had done her good.  She was now in Paris under the mothering care of Madame Bolivard, where she would stay until she cared to take up her residence in her flat in Chelsea, which was now free from tenants.

“And you?” asked Sypher.

“I’ve just left the Hotel Godet and come back to Nunsmere.  Perhaps I’ll give up the house and take Wiggleswick to London when Emmy returns.  She promised to look for a flat for me.  I believe women are rather good at finding flats.”

Sypher handed him a box of cigars.  He lit one and held it awkwardly with the tips of his long, nervous fingers.  He passed the fingers of his other hand, with the familiar gesture, up his hair.

“I thought I’d come and see you,” he said hesitatingly, “before going to ‘The Nook.’  There are explanations to be made.  My wife and I are good friends, but we can’t live together.  It’s all my fault.  I make the house intolerable.  I ­I have an ungovernable temper, you know, and I’m harsh and unloving and disagreeable.  And it’s bad for the child.  We quarrel dreadfully ­at least, she doesn’t.”

“What about?” Sypher asked gravely.

“All sorts of things.  You see, if I want breakfast an hour before dinner-time, it upsets the household.  Then there was the nose machine ­and other inventions for the baby, which perhaps might kill it.  You can explain all this and tell them that the marriage has been a dreadful mistake on poor Emmy’s side, and that we’ve decided to live apart.  You will do this for me, won’t you?”

“I can’t say I’ll do it with pleasure,” said Sypher, “for I’m more than sorry to hear your news.  I suspected as much when I met you in Paris.  But I’ll see Mrs. Oldrieve as soon as possible and explain.”

“Thank you,” said Septimus; “you don’t know what a service you would be rendering me.”

He uttered a sigh of relief and relit his cigar which had gone out during his appeal.  Then there was a silence.  Septimus looked dreamily out at the row of trees that marked the famous lawn reaching down to the railway line.  The mist had thickened with the fall of the day and hung heavy on the branches, and the sky was gray.  Sypher watched him, greatly moved; tempted to cry out that he knew all, that he was not taken in by the simple legend of his ungovernable temper and unlovely disposition.  His heart went out to him, as to a man who dwelt alone on lofty heights, inaccessible to common humanity.  He was filled with pity and reverence for him.  Perhaps he exaggerated.  But Sypher was an idealist.  Had he not set Sypher’s Cure as the sun in his heaven and Zora as one of the fixed stars?

It grew dark.  Sypher rang for the lamp and tea.

“Or would you like breakfast?” he asked laughingly.

“I’ve just had supper,” said Septimus.  “Wiggleswick found some cheese in a cupboard.  I buried it in the front garden.”  A vague smile passed on his face like a pale gleam of light over water on a cloudy day.  “Wiggleswick is deaf.  He couldn’t hear it.”

“He’s a lazy scoundrel,” said Sypher.  “I wonder you don’t sack him.”

Septimus licked a hanging strip of cigar-end into position ­he could never smoke a cigar properly ­and lit it for the third time.

“Wiggleswick is good for me,” said he.  “He keeps me human.  I am apt to become a machine.  I live so much among them.  I’ve been working hard on a new gun ­or rather an old gun.  It’s field artillery, quick-firing.  I got on to the idea again from a sighting apparatus I invented.  I have the specification in my pocket.  The model is at home.  I brought it from Paris.”

He fetched a parcel of manuscript from his pocket and unrolled it into flatness.

“I should like to show it to you.  Do you mind?”

“It would interest me enormously,” said Sypher.

“I invent all sorts of things.  I can’t help it.  But I always come back to guns ­I don’t know why.  I hope you’ve done nothing further with the guns of large caliber.  I’ve been thinking about them seriously, and I find they’re all moonshine.”

He smiled with wan cheerfulness at the waste of the labor of years.  Sypher, on whose conscience the guns had laid their two hundred ton weight, felt greatly relieved.  Their colossal scale had originally caught his imagination which loved big conceptions.  Their working had seemed plausible to his inexpert eye.  He had gone with confidence to his friend, the expert on naval gunnery, who had reported on them in breezy, sea-going terms of disrespect.  Since then he had shrunk from destroying his poor friend’s illusions.

“Yes, they’re all unmanageable.  I see what’s wrong with them ­but I’ve lost my interest in naval affairs.”  He paused and added dreamily:  “I was horribly seasick crossing the Channel this time.

“Let us have a look at the field-gun,” said Sypher encouragingly.  Remembering the naval man’s language, he had little hope that Septimus would be more successful by land than by sea; but his love and pity for the inventor compelled interest.  Septimus’s face brightened.

“This,” said he, “is quite a different thing.  You see I know more about it.”

“That’s where the bombardier comes in,” laughed Sypher.

“I shouldn’t wonder,” replied Septimus.

He spread the diagram on a table, and expounded the gun.  Absorbed in his explanation he lost the drowsy incertitude of his speech and the dreaminess of his eyes.  He spoke with rapidity, sureness, and a note of enthusiasm rang oddly in his voice.  On the margins he sketched illustrations of the Gatling, the Maxim, and the Hotchkiss and other guns, and demonstrated the superior delicate deadliness of his own.  It could fire more rounds per minute than any other piece of artillery known to man.  It could feed itself automatically from a magazine.  The new sighting apparatus made it as accurate as a match rifle.  Its power of massacre was unparalleled in the history of wholesale slaughter.  A child might work it.

Septimus’s explanation was too lucid for a man of Sypher’s intelligence not to grasp the essentials of his invention.  To all his questions Septimus returned satisfactory answers.  He could find no flaw in the gun.  Yet in his heart he felt that the expert would put his finger on the weak spot and consign the machine to the limbo of phantasmagoric artillery.

“If it is all you say, there’s a fortune in it,” said he.

“There’s no shadow of doubt about it,” replied Septimus.  “I’ll send Wiggleswick over with the model to-morrow, and you can see for yourself.”

“What are you going to do with it?”

“I don’t know,” said Septimus, in his usual manner.  “I never know what to do with things when I invent them.  I once knew a man in the Patent Office who patented things for me.  But he’s married now and gone to live in Balham.”

“But he’s still at the Patent Office?”

“Perhaps he is,” said Septimus.  “It never occurred to me.  But it has never done me any good to have things patented.  One has to get them taken up.  Some of them are drunk and disorderly enough for them to be taken up at once,” he added with his pale smile.  He continued:  “I thought perhaps you would replace the big-caliber guns in our contract by this one.”

Sypher agreed with pleasure to the proposal.  He knew a high military official in the Ordnance Department of the War Office who would see that the thing was properly considered.  “If he’s in town I’ll go and see him at once.”

“There’s no hurry,” said Septimus.  “I shouldn’t like you to put yourself out.  I know you’re a very busy man.  Go in any time you happen to be passing.  You are there pretty often:  now, I suppose.”

“Why?”

“My friend Hegisippe Cruchot gave you an idea in Paris ­about soldiers’ feet.  How is it developing?”

Sypher made a wry face.  “I found, my dear Dix, it was like your guns of large caliber.”  He rose and walked impatiently about the room.  “Don’t let us talk about the Cure, there’s a dear fellow.  I come down here to forget it.”

“Forget it?”

Septimus stared at him in amazement.

“Yes.  To clear my mind and brain of it.  To get a couple of nights’ sleep after the rest of the week’s nightmare.  The concern is going to hell as fast as it can, and” ­he stopped in front of Septimus and brought down his hands in a passionate gesture ­“I can’t believe it.  I can’t believe it!  What I’m going through God only knows.”

“I at least had no notion,” said Septimus.  “And I’ve been worrying you with my silly twaddle about babies and guns.”

“It’s a godsend for me to hear of anything save ruin and the breaking up of all that was dear to me in life.  It’s not like failure in an ordinary business.  It has been infinitely more than a business to me.  It has been a religion.  It is still.  That’s why my soul refuses to grasp facts and figures.”

He went on, feeling a relief in pouring out his heart to one who could understand.  To no one had he thus spoken.  With an expansive nature he had the strong man’s pride.  To the world in general he turned the conquering face of Clem Sypher, the Friend of Humanity, of Sypher’s Cure.  To Septimus alone had he shown the man in his desperate revolt against defeat.  The lines around his mouth deepened into lines of pain, and pain lay behind his clear eyes and in the knitting of his brows.

“I believed the Almighty had put an instrument for the relief of human suffering into my hands.  I dreamed great dreams.  I saw all the nations of the earth blessing me.  I know I was a damned fool.  So are you.  So is every visionary.  So are the apostles, the missionaries, the explorers ­all who dream great dreams ­all damned fools, but a glorious company all the same.  I’m not ashamed to belong to it.  But there comes a time when the apostle finds himself preaching to the empty winds, and the explorer discovers his El Dorado to be a barren island, and he either goes mad or breaks his heart, and which of the two I’m going to do I don’t know.  Perhaps both.”

“Zora Middlemist will be back soon,” said Septimus.  “She is coming by the White Star line, and she ought to be in Marseilles by the end of next week.”

“She writes me that she may winter in Egypt.  That is why she chose the White Star line,” said Sypher.

“Have you told her what you’ve told me?”

“No,” said Sypher, “and I never shall while there’s a hope left.  She knows it’s a fight.  But I tell her ­as I have told my damned fool of a soul ­that I shall conquer.  Would you like to go to her and say, ’I’m done ­I’m beaten’?  Besides, I’m not.”

He turned and poked the fire, smashing a great lump of coal with a stroke of his muscular arm as if it had been the skull of the Jebusa Jones dragon.  Septimus twirled his small mustache and his hand inevitably went to his hair.  He had the scared look he always wore at moments when he was coming to a decision.

“But you would like to see Zora, wouldn’t you?” he asked.

Sypher wheeled round, and the expression on his face was that of a prisoner in the Bastille who had been asked whether he would like a summer banquet beneath the trees of Fontainebleau.

“You know that very well,” said he.

He laid down the poker and crossed the room to a chair.

“I’ve often thought of what you said in Paris about her going away.  You were quite right.  You have a genius for saying and doing the simple right thing.  We almost began our friendship by your saying it.  Do you remember?  It was in Monte Carlo.  You remember that you didn’t like my looking on Mrs. Middlemist as an advertisement.  Oh, you needn’t look uncomfortable, my dear fellow.  I loved you for it.  In Paris you practically told me that I oughtn’t to regard her as a kind of fetich for the Cure, and claim her bodily presence.  You also put before me the fact that there was no more reason for her to believe in the Cure than yourself or Hegisippe Cruchot.  If you could tell me anything more,” said he earnestly, “I should value it.”

What he expected to learn from Septimus he did not know.  But once having exalted him to inaccessible heights, the indomitable idealist was convinced that from his lips would fall words of gentle Olympian wisdom.  Septimus, blushing at his temerity in having pointed out the way to the man whom he regarded as the incarnation of force and energy, curled himself up awkwardly in his chair, clasping his ankles between his locked fingers.  At last the oracle spoke.

“If I were you,” he said, “before going mad or breaking my heart, I should wait until I saw Zora.”

“Very well.  It will be a long time.  Perhaps so much the better.  I shall remain sane and heart-whole all the longer.”

After dinner Sypher went round to “The Nook,” and executed his difficult mission as best he could.  To carry out Septimus’s wishes, which involved the vilification of the innocent and the beatification of the guilty, went against his conscience.  He omitted, therefore, reference to the demoniac rages which turned the home into an inferno, and to the quarrels over the machine for elongating the baby’s nose.  Their tempers were incompatible; they found a common life impossible; so, according to the wise modern view of things, they had decided to live apart while maintaining cordial relations.

Mrs. Oldrieve was greatly distressed.  Tears rolled down her cheeks on to her knitting.  The old order was changing too rapidly for her and the new to which it was giving place seemed anarchy to her bewildered eyes.  She held up tremulous hands in protest.  Husband and wife living apart so cheerfully, for such trivial reasons!  Even if one had suffered great wrong at the hands of the other it was their duty to remain side by side.  “Those whom God had joined together ­”

“He didn’t,” snapped Cousin Jane.  “They were joined together by a scrubby man in a registry office.”

This is the wild and unjust way in which women talk.  For aught Cousin Jane knew the Chelsea Registrar might have been an Antinous for beauty.

Mrs. Oldrieve shook her head sadly.  She had known how it would be.  If only they had been married in church by their good vicar, this calamity could not have befallen them.

“All the churches and all the vicars and all the archbishops couldn’t have made that man anything else than a doddering idiot!  How Emmy could have borne with him for a day passes my understanding.  She has done well to get rid of him.  She has made a mess of it, of course.  People who marry in that way generally do.  It serves her right.”

So spoke Cousin Jane, whom Sypher found, in a sense, an unexpected ally.  She made his task easier.  Mrs. Oldrieve remained unconvinced.

“And the baby just a month or so old.  Poor little thing!  What’s to become of it?”

“Emmy will have to come here,” said Cousin Jane firmly, “and I’ll bring it up.  Emmy isn’t fit to educate a rabbit.  You had better write and order her to come home at once.”

“I’ll write to-morrow,” sighed Mrs. Oldrieve.

Sypher reflected on the impossibilities of the proposition and on the reasons Emmy still had for remaining in exile in Paris.  He also pitied the child that was to be brought up by Cousin Jane.  It had extravagant tastes.  He smiled.

“My friend Dix is already thinking of sending him to the University; so you see they have plans for his education.”

Cousin Jane sniffed.  She would make plans for them!  As for the University ­if it could turn out a doddering idiot like Septimus, it was criminal to send any young man to such a seat of unlearning.  She would not allow him to have a voice in the matter.  Emmy was to be summoned to Nunsmere.

Sypher was about to deprecate the idea when he reflected again, and thought of Hotspur and the spirits from the vasty deep.  Cousin Jane could call, and so could Mrs. Oldrieve.  But would Emmy come?  As the answer to the question was in the negative he left Cousin Jane to her comfortable resolutions.

“You will no doubt discuss the matter with Dix,” he said.

Cousin Jane threw up her hands.  “Oh, for goodness’ sake, don’t let him come here!  I couldn’t bear the sight of him.”

Sypher looked inquiringly at Mrs. Oldrieve.

“It has been a great shock to me,” said the gentle lady.  “It will take time to get over it.  Perhaps he had better wait a little.”

Sypher walked home in a wrathful mood.  Ostracism was to be added to Septimus’s crown of martyrdom.

Perhaps, on the other hand, the closing of “The Nook” doors was advantageous.  He had dreaded the result of Cousin Jane’s cross-examination, as lying was not one of his friend’s conspicuous accomplishments.  Soothed by this reflection he smoked a pipe, and took down Bunyan’s “Pilgrim’s Progress” from his shelves.

While he was deriving spiritual entertainment from the great battle between Christian and Apollyon and consolation from the latter’s discomfiture, Septimus was walking down the road to the post-office, a letter in his hand.  The envelope was addressed to “Mrs. Middlemist, White Star Co.’s S.S. Cedric, Marseilles.”  It contained a blank sheet of headed note-paper and the tail of a little china dog.