"And yet I remember kissing you unconditionally," Kelson commented.

"Memory is a fickle thing," Lilian Rosenberg replied, "and so is woman. Times have changed. I'll leave you at once, unless you promise to do your very utmost to grant my request."

Kelson promised, and--after they had had supper at the Trocadero, suggested that they should take a stroll in Hyde Park.

"I hope you are not awfully shocked?" he inquired rather anxiously, "but a sudden impulse has come over me to go there. I believe it is the will of the Unknown. Will you come with me?"

"We shan't be able to get in, shall we, it's so late?" Lilian Rosenberg said. "Otherwise I should like to--I'm rather in a mood for adventure."

"They don't shut the gates till twelve," Kelson said, "and it's not that yet."

"Very well, let's go, then. I'm game to go anywhere to see the Unknown," and so saying Lilian rose from the table, and Kelson followed her into the street.

They took a taxi, and alighting at Hyde Park Corner entered the Park.

It was very dark and deserted.

"It's nearly closing time," a policeman called out to them rather curtly.

"We are only taking a const.i.tutional," Kelson explained. "We shall be back in five minutes."

They crossed the road to the statue, and were deliberating which direction to take, when they heard a groan.

"It's only some poor devil of a tramp," Kelson said. "The benches are full of them--they stay here all night. We had better, perhaps, turn back."

"Nonsense!" Lilian Rosenberg replied. "I'm not a bit afraid. There's another groan. I'm going to see what's up," and before he could stop her she had disappeared in the darkness. "Here I am," she called; "come, it's some one ill."

Plunging on, in the darkness, Kelson at last found Lilian. She was sitting on a chair under a tree, by the side of a man, who was lying, curled up, on the ground.

"He's had nothing to eat for two days, and has Bright's Disease,"

Lilian Rosenberg announced. "Can't we do something for him?"

"Two gentlemen told me just now," the man on the ground groaned, "that if I stayed here for a couple of hours--they would pa.s.s by again and guarantee to cure me. I reckoned there was no cure for Bright's Disease, when it is chronic, like it is in my case; but they laughed, and said, 'We can--or at least--shall be able to cure anything.'"

"What were the two gentlemen like?" Kelson asked.

"How could I tell?" the man moaned. "I couldn't see their faces any more than I can see yours--but they talked like you. Tw.a.n.g--tw.a.n.g-- tw.a.n.g--all through their noses."

"Sounds as if it might be Hamar and Curtis," Kelson remarked.

"That's it!" the man e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed. "'Amar. I heard the other fellow call him by that name."

"How long ago is it since they were here?" Kelson asked.

"I can't say, perhaps ten minutes. I've lost count of time and everything else, since I've slept out here. They talked of going to the Serpentine."

"We had better try and find them," Kelson said.

"If you had the money couldn't you get shelter for the night," Lilian Rosenberg said. "It must be awful to lie out here in the cold, feeling ill and hungry."

"I dare say some place would take me in," the man muttered, "only I couldn't walk--at least no distance."

"Well! here's five shillings," Lilian Rosenberg said, "put it somewhere safe--and try and hobble to the gates. If they haven't closed them, you will be all right."

"Five shillings!" the man gasped; "that's--it's no good--I can't count. I've no head now. Thank you, missy! G.o.d bless you. I'll get something hot--something to stifle the pain." He struggled on to his knees, and Lilian Rosenberg helped him to rise.

"How could you be so foolish as to touch him," Kelson said, as they started off down a path, they hoped would take them to the Serpentine.

"You may depend upon it, he was swarming with vermin--tramps always are."

"Very probably, but I run just as much risk in a 'bus, the twopenny tube, or a cinematograph show. Besides, I can't see a human being helpless without offering help. Listen! there's some one else groaning! The Park is full of groans."

What she said was true--the Park was full of groans. From every direction, borne to them by the gently rustling wind, came the groans of countless suffering outcasts--legions of homeless, starving men and women. Some lay right out in the open on their backs, others under cover of the trees, others again on the seats. They lay everywhere--these shattered, tattered, battered wrecks of humanity--these gangrened exiles from society, to whom no one ever spoke; whom no one ever looked at; whom no one would even own that they had seen; whose lot in life not even a stray cat envied. Here were two of them--a man and a woman tightly hugged in each other's embrace--not for love--but for warmth. Lilian Rosenberg almost fell over them, but they took no notice of her. Every now and then, one of them would emerge from the shelter of the trees, and cross the gra.s.s in the direction of the distant, gleaming water, with silent, stealthy tread. Once a tall, gaunt figure, suddenly sprang up and confronted the two adventurers; but the moment Kelson raised his stick, it jabbered something wholly unintelligible, and sped away into the darkness.

"A scene like this makes one doubt the existence of a good G.o.d,"

Lilian Rosenberg said.

"It makes one doubt the existence of anything but h.e.l.l," Kelson said.

"Compared with all this suffering--the suffering of these thousands of hungry, hopeless wretches--the bulk of whom are doubtless tortured incessantly, with the pains of cancer and tuberculosis, to say nothing of neuralgia and rheumatism--Dante's Inferno and Virgil's Hades pale into insignificance. The devil is kind compared with G.o.d."

"I believe you are right," Lilian Rosenberg said, "I never thought the devil was half as bad as he was painted. The Park to-night gives the lie direct to the ethics of all religions, and to the boasted efforts of all governments, churches, chapels, hospitals, police, progress and civilization. There is no misery, I am sure, to vie with it in any pagan land, either now or at any other period in the world's history."

"True," Kelson replied, "and why is it? It is because civilization has killed charity. Giving--in its true sense--if it exists at all--is rarely to be met with--giving in exchange--that is, in order to gain--flourishes everywhere. People will subscribe for the erection of monuments to kings and statesmen, or to well-known and, often, richly-endowed charitable inst.i.tutes, in exchange for the pleasure of seeing, in the newspapers, a list of the subscribers' names, and themselves included amongst those whom they consider a peg above them socially; or in exchange for votes, or notoriety, they will give liberally to the brutal strikers, or outings for poor."

"I suppose, by the poor, you mean the pampered, ill-mannered and detestably conceited County Council children," Lilian Rosenberg chimed in. "I wouldn't give a farthing to such a miscalled charity, no--not if I were rolling in riches."

"And I think you would be right," Kelson replied. "But for these really poor Park refugees it is a different matter. Obviously, no one will make the slightest effort to work up the public interest on their behalf, simply because they are labelled 'useless.' They belong nowhere--they have no votes--they are too feeble to combine--they are even too feeble to commit an atrocious murder; consequently, for the help they would receive, they could give nothing in return. By the bye, I doubt if they could muster between them a pair of suspenders--a bootlace--a shirt-b.u.t.ton, or even a--"

Lilian Rosenberg caught him by the arm. "Stop," she said, "that's enough. Don't get too graphic. What's the matter with that tree?"

They were now close beside the banks of the Serpentine; the moon had broken through its covering of black clouds, and they perceived some twenty yards ahead of them, a tall, isolated lime, that was rocking in a most peculiar manner.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THEY GAZED FASCINATED]

CHAPTER XXVII

THE RIGHT GIRL TO MARRY

Though the wind was nothing more than the usual night breeze of early autumn, the lime-tree was swaying violently to and fro, as if under the influence of a stupendous hurricane. Lilian Rosenberg and Kelson were so fascinated that they stood and watched it in silence. At last it left off swaying and became absolutely motionless. They then noticed, for the first time, that there were three figures standing under its branches, and that one of the figures was a policeman.

"Hide quickly," Kelson whispered, "those two are Hamar and Curtis.

Quick, for G.o.d's sake--or they will see you."

Lilian Rosenberg hid behind an elm.

"Hulloa!" Kelson called out, advancing to the group.