History is not like some individual person, which uses men to achieve its ends. History is nothing but the actions of men in pursuit of their ends.

—marx, Die Heilige Familie (1845)

Charles, as we have learned, did not return to Kensington in quite so philanthropic a mood as he finally left the prosti-tute’s. He had felt sick again during the hour’s journey; and had had time to work up a good deal of self-disgust into the bargain. But he woke in a better frame of mind. As men will, he gave his hangover its due, and stared awfully at his haggard face and peered into his parched and acrid mouth; and then decided he was on the whole rather well able to face the world. He certainly faced Sam when he came in with the hot water, and made some sort of apology for his bad temper of the previous night.

“I didn’t notice nuffink, Mr. Charles.”

“I had a somewhat tiresome evening, Sam. And now be a good fellow and fetch me up a large pot of tea. I have the devil’s own thirst.”

Sam left, hiding his private opinion that his master had the devil’s own something else as well. Charles washed and shaved, and thought about Charles. He was clearly not cut out to be a rake; but nor had he had much training in remorseful pessimism. Had not Mr. Freeman himself said that two years might pass before any decision as to his future need to be taken? Much could happen in two years. Charles did not actually say to himself, “My uncle may die”; but the idea hovered on the fringes of his mind. And then the carnal aspect of the previous night’s experience reminded him that legitimate pleasures in that direction would soon be his to enjoy. For now he must abstain. And that child—how many of life’s shortcomings children must make up for!

Sam returned with the tea—and with two letters. Life became a road again. He saw at once that the top envelope had been double postmarked; posted in Exeter and forward-ed to Kensington from the White Lion in Lyme Regis. The other came direct from Lyme. He hesitated, then to allay suspicion picked up a paperknife and went to the window. He opened the letter from Grogan first; but before we read it, we must read the note Charles had sent on his return to Lyme that morning of his dawn walk to Carslake’s Barn. It had said the following:

My dear Doctor Grogan,

I write in great haste to thank you for your invaluable advice and assistance last night, and to assure you once again that I shall be most happy to pay for any care or attentions your colleague and yourself may deem necessary. You will, I trust, and in full under-standing that I have seen the folly of my misguided interest, let me know what transpires concerning the meeting that will have taken place when you read this.

Alas, I could not bring myself to broach the subject in Broad Street this morning. My somewhat sudden departure, and various other circumstances with which I will not now bother you, made the moment most conspicuously inopportune. The matter shall be dealt with as soon as I return. I must ask you meanwhile to keep it to yourself.

I leave immediately. My London address is below. With pro-found gratitude,

C.S.

It had not been an honest letter. But it had had to be written. Now Charles nervously unfolded the reply to it.

My dear Smithson,

I have delayed writing to you in the hope of obtaining some eclaircissement of our little Dorset mystery. I regret to say that the only female I encountered on the morning of my expedition was Mother Nature—a lady whose conversation I began, after some three hours’ waiting, to find a trifle tedious. In short, the person did not appear. On my return to Lyme I sent out a sharp lad to do duty for me. But he too sat sub tegmine fagi in pleasant solitude. I pen these words lightly, yet I confess that when the lad returned that nightfall I began to fear the worst.

However, it came to my ears the next morning that instructions had been left at the White Lion for the girl’s box to be forwarded to Exeter. The author of the instructions I cannot discover. No doubt she sent the message herself. I think we may take it she has decamped.

My one remaining fear, my dear Smithson, is that she may fol-low you to London and attempt to thrust her woes upon you there. I beg you not to dismiss this contingency with a smile. If I had time I could cite you other cases where just such a course has been followed. I enclose an address. He is an excellent man, with whom I have long been in correspondence, and I advise you most strongly to put the business in his hands should further embarrassment come d la lettre knocking on your door.

Rest assured that no word has passed or shall pass my lips. I shall not repeat my advice regarding the charming creature— whom I had the pleasure of meeting in the street just now, by the bye—but I recommend a confession at the earliest opportunity. I don’t fancy the Absolvitur will require too harsh or long a penance.

Yr very sincere

     Michael Grogan

Charles had drawn a breath of guilty relief long before he finished that letter. He was not discovered. He stared a long moment out of his bedroom window, then opened the second letter.

He expected pages, but there was only one.

He expected a flood of words, but there were only three.

An address.

He crumpled the sheet of paper in his hand, then returned to the fire that had been lit by the upstairs maid, to the accompaniment of his snores, at eight o’clock that morning, and threw it into the flames. In five seconds it was ashes. He took the cup of tea that Sam stood waiting to hand to him. Charles drained it at one gulp, and passed the cup and saucer for more.

“I have done my business, Sam. We return to Lyme tomorrow. The ten o’clock train. You will see to the tickets. And take those two messages on my desk to the telegraph office. And then you may have the afternoon off to choose some ribbons for the fair Mary—that is, if you haven’t disposed of your heart elsewhere since our return.”

Sam had been waiting for that cue. He flicked a glance at his master’s back as he refilled the gilt breakfast cup; and made his announcement as he extended the cup on a small silver tray to Charles’s reaching fingers.

“Mr. Charles, I’m a-goin’ to hask for ‘er ‘and.”

“Are you indeed!”

“Or I would, Mr. Charles, if it weren’t I didn’t ‘ave such hexcellent prospecks under your hemploy.”

Charles supped his tea.

“Out with it, Sam. Stop talking riddles.”

“If I was merrid I’d ‘ave to live out, sir.”

Charles’s sharp look of instinctive objection showed how little he had thought about the matter. He turned and sat by his fire.

“Now, Sam, heaven forbid that I should be an impediment to your marriage—but surely you’re not going to forsake me so soon before mine?”

“You mistake my hintention, Mr. Charles. I was a-thinkin’ of harterwards.”

“We shall be in a much larger establishment. I’m sure my wife would be happy to have Mary there with her ... so what is the trouble?”

Sam took a deep breath.

“I’ve been thinkin’ of goin’ into business, Mr. Charles. When you’re settled, that is, Mr. Charles. I “ope you know I should never leave you in the hower of need.”

“Business! What business?”

“I’ve set my ‘eart on ‘aving a little shop, Mr. Charles.”

Charles placed the cup back on the speedily proffered salver.

“But don’t you ... I mean, you know, some of the ready?”

“I ‘ave made heekomonies, Mr. Charles. And so’s my Mary.”

“Yes, yes, but there is rent to pay and heavens above, man, goods to buy ... What sort of business?”

“Draper’s and ‘aberdasher’s, Mr. Charles.”

Charles stared at Sam rather as ............