At the time I hated
it----” He hesitated, not wishing to hurt the Brother’s feelings. “According to English ideas it seemed strict, of course,” the other
said persuasively, so that he went on. “----Yes, partly that; and partly the ceaseless nostalgia, and the
solitude which came from never being really alone. In English schools
the boys enjoy peculiar freedom, you know.”

Bruder Kalkmann, he saw, was listening intently. “But it produced one result that I have never wholly lost,” he
continued self-consciously, “and am grateful for.”

“_Ach! Wie so, denn?_”

“The constant inner pain threw me headlong into your religious life, so
that the whole force of my being seemed to project itself towards the
search for a deeper satisfaction--a real resting-place for the soul. During my two years here I yearned for God in my boyish way as perhaps
I have never yearned for anything since. Moreover, I have never quite
lost that sense of peace and inward joy which accompanied the search. I
can never quite forget this school and the deep things it taught me.”

He paused at the end of his long speech, and a brief silence fell
between them. He feared he had said too much, or expressed himself
clumsily in the foreign language, and when Bruder Kalkmann laid a hand
upon his shoulder, he gave a little involuntary start. “So that my memories perhaps do possess me rather strongly,” he added
apologetically; “and this long corridor, these rooms, that barred and
gloomy front door, all touch chords that--that----” His German failed
him and he glanced at his companion with an explanatory smile and
gesture. But the brother had removed the hand from his shoulder and was
standing with his back to him, looking down the passage. “Naturally, naturally so,” he said hastily without turning round. “_Es
ist doch selbstverständlich._ We shall all understand.”

Then he turned suddenly, and Harris saw that his face had turned most
oddly and disagreeably sinister. It may only have been the shadows
again playing their tricks with the wretched oil lamps on the wall,
for the dark expression passed instantly as they retraced their steps
down the corridor, but the Englishman somehow got the impression that
he had said something to give offence, something that was not quite to
the other’s taste. Opposite the door of the _Bruderstube_ they stopped. Harris realised that it was late and he had possibly stayed talking too
long. He made a tentative effort to leave, but his companion would not
hear of it. “You must have a cup of coffee with us,” he said firmly as though he
meant it, “and my colleagues will be delighted to see you. Some of them
will remember you, perhaps.”

The sound of voices came pleasantly through the door, men’s voices
talking together. Bruder Kalkmann turned the handle and they entered a
room ablaze with light and full of people. “Ah,--but your name?” he whispered, bending down to catch the reply;
“you have not told me your name yet.”

“Harris,” said the Englishman quickly as they went in. He felt nervous
as he crossed the threshold, but ascribed the momentary trepidation
to the fact that he was breaking the strictest rule of the whole
establishment, which forbade a boy under severest penalties to come
near this holy of holies where the masters took their brief leisure. “Ah, yes, of course--Harris,” repeated the other as though he
remembered it “Come in, Herr Harris, come in, please. Your visit will
be immensely appreciated. It is really very fine, very wonderful of you
to have come in this way.”

The door closed behind them and, in the sudden light which made his
sight swim for a moment, the exaggeration of the language escaped his
attention. He heard the voice of Bruder Kalkmann introducing him. He
spoke very loud, indeed, unnecessarily,--absurdly loud, Harris thought. “Brothers,” he announced, “it is my pleasure and privilege to introduce
to you Herr Harris from England. He has just arrived to make us a
little visit, and I have already expressed to him on behalf of us all
the satisfaction we feel that he is here. He was, as you remember, a
pupil in the year ’70.”

It was a very formal, a very German introduction, but Harris rather
liked it. It made him feel important and he appreciated the tact that
made it almost seem as though he had been expected. The black forms rose and bowed; Harris bowed; Kalkmann bowed. Every one
was very polite and very courtly. The room swam with moving figures;
the light dazzled him after the gloom of the corridor; there was thick
cigar smoke in the atmosphere. He took the chair that was offered to
him between two of the Brothers, and sat down, feeling vaguely that his
perceptions were not quite as keen and accurate as usual. He felt a
trifle dazed perhaps, and the spell of the past came strongly over him,
confusing the immediate present and making everything dwindle oddly to
the dimensions of long ago. He seemed to pass under the mastery of a
great mood that was a composite reproduction of all the moods of his
forgotten boyhood. Then he pulled himself together with a sharp effort and entered into
the conversation that had begun again to buzz round him. Moreover,
he entered into it with keen pleasure, for the Brothers--there were
perhaps a dozen of them in the little room--treated him with a charm
of manner that speedily made him feel one of themselves. This, again,
was a very subtle delight to him. He felt that he had stepped out
of the greedy, vulgar, self-seeking world, the world of silk and
markets and profit-making--stepped into the cleaner atmosphere where
spiritual ideals were paramount and life was simple and devoted. It all charmed him inexpressibly, so that he realised--yes, in a
sense--the degradation of his twenty years’ absorption in business. This keen atmosphere under the stars where men thought only of their
souls, and of the souls of others, was too rarefied for the world he
was now associated with. He found himself making comparisons to his
own disadvantage,--comparisons with the mystical little dreamer that
had stepped thirty years before from the stern peace of this devout
community, and the man of the world that he had since become,--and
the contrast made him shiver with a keen regret and something like
self-contempt. He glanced round at the other faces floating towards him through
tobacco smoke--this acrid cigar smoke he remembered so well: how keen
they were, how strong, placid, touched with the nobility of great aims
and unselfish purposes. At one or two he looked particularly. He hardly
knew why. They rather fascinated him. There was something so very stern
and uncompromising about them, and something, too, oddly, subtly,
familiar, that yet just eluded him. But whenever their eyes met his own
they held undeniable welcome in them; and some held more--a kind of
perplexed admiration, he thought, something that was between esteem and
deference. This note of respect in all the faces was very flattering to
his vanity.