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Twelve Stories And A Dream
By
H. G. Wells
Contents
5.
MR. SKELMERSDALE IN FAIRYLAND
6.
THE STORY OF THE INEXPERIENCED GHOST.
In truth the mast=
ery
of flying was the work of thousands of men--this man a suggestion and that =
an
experiment, until at last only one vigorous intellectual effort was needed =
to
finish the work. But the inexorable injustice of the popular mind has decid=
ed
that of all these thousands, one man, and that a man who never flew, should=
be
chosen as the discoverer, just as it has chosen to honour Watt as the disco=
verer
of steam and Stephenson of the steam-engine. And surely of all honoured nam=
es
none is so grotesquely and tragically honoured as poor Filmer's, the timid,
intellectual creature who solved the problem over which the world had hung
perplexed and a little fearful for so many generations, the man who pressed=
the
button that has changed peace and warfare and well-nigh every condition of
human life and happiness. Never has that recurring wonder of the littleness=
of
the scientific man in the face of the greatness of his science found such an
amazing exemplification. Much concerning Filmer is, and must remain, profou=
ndly
obscure--Filmers attract no Boswells--but the essential facts and the
concluding scene are clear enough, and there are letters, and notes, and ca=
sual
allusions to piece the whole together. And this is the story one makes, put=
ting
this thing with that, of Filmer's life and death.
The first authent=
ic
trace of Filmer on the page of history is a document in which he applies for
admission as a paid student in physics to the Government laboratories at So=
uth
Kensington, and therein he describes himself as the son of a "military
bootmaker" ("cobbler" in the vulgar tongue) of Dover, and li=
sts
his various examination proofs of a high proficiency in chemistry and
mathematics. With a certain want of dignity he seeks to enhance these
attainments by a profession of poverty and disadvantages, and he writes of =
the
laboratory as the "gaol" of his ambitions, a slip which reinforces
his claim to have devoted himself exclusively to the exact sciences. The
document is endorsed in a manner that shows Filmer was admitted to this cov=
eted
opportunity; but until quite recently no traces of his success in the
Government institution could be found.
It has now, howev=
er,
been shown that in spite of his professed zeal for research, Filmer, before=
he
had held this scholarship a year, was tempted, by the possibility of a small
increase in his immediate income, to abandon it in order to become one of t=
he
nine-pence-an-hour computers employed by a well-known Professor in his
vicarious conduct of those extensive researches of his in solar
physics--researches which are still a matter of perplexity to astronomers.
Afterwards, for the space of seven years, save for the pass lists of the Lo=
ndon
University, in which he is seen to climb slowly to a double first class B.S=
c.,
in mathematics and chemistry, there is no evidence of how Filmer passed his
life. No one knows how or where he lived, though it seems highly probable t=
hat
he continued to support himself by teaching while he prosecuted the studies=
necessary
for this distinction. And then, oddly enough, one finds him mentioned in the
correspondence of Arthur Hicks, the poet.
"You remember
Filmer," Hicks writes to his friend Vance; "well, HE hasn't alter=
ed a
bit, the same hostile mumble and the nasty chin--how CAN a man contrive to =
be
always three days from shaving?--and a sort of furtive air of being engaged=
in
sneaking in front of one; even his coat and that frayed collar of his show =
no
further signs of the passing years. He was writing in the library and I sat
down beside him in the name of God's charity, whereupon he deliberately
insulted me by covering up his memoranda. It seems he has some brilliant
research on hand that he suspects me of all people--with a Bodley Booklet
a-printing!--of stealing. He has taken remarkable honours at the University=
--he
went through them with a sort of hasty slobber, as though he feared I might=
interrupt
him before he had told me all--and he spoke of taking his D.Sc. as one might
speak of taking a cab. And he asked what I was doing--with a sort of
comparative accent, and his arm was spread nervously, positively a protecti=
ng
arm, over the paper that hid the precious idea--his one hopeful idea.
"'Poetry,' h=
e said,
'Poetry. And what do you profess to teach in it, Hicks?'
"The thing's=
a
Provincial professorling in the very act of budding, and I thank the Lord
devoutly that but for the precious gift of indolence I also might have gone
this way to D.Sc. and destruction..."
A curious little
vignette that I am inclined to think caught Filmer in or near the very birt=
h of
his discovery. Hicks was wrong in anticipating a provincial professorship f=
or
Filmer. Our next glimpse of him is lecturing on "rubber and rubber sub=
stitutes,"
to the Society of Arts--he had become manager to a great plastic-substance
manufactory--and at that time, it is now known, he was a member of the
Aeronautical Society, albeit he contributed nothing to the discussions of t=
hat
body, preferring no doubt to mature his great conception without external a=
ssistance.
And within two years of that paper before the Society of Arts he was hastily
taking out a number of patents and proclaiming in various undignified ways =
the
completion of the divergent inquiries which made his flying machine possibl=
e.
The first definite statement to that effect appeared in a halfpenny evening
paper through the agency of a man who lodged in the same house with Filmer.=
His
final haste after his long laborious secret patience seems to have been due=
to
a needless panic, Bootle, the notorious American scientific quack, having m=
ade
an announcement that Filmer interpreted wrongly as an anticipation of his i=
dea.
Now what precisely
was Filmer's idea? Really a very simple one. Before his time the pursuit of
aeronautics had taken two divergent lines, and had developed on the one hand
balloons--large apparatus lighter than air, easy in ascent, and comparative=
ly
safe in descent, but floating helplessly before any breeze that took them; =
and on
the other, flying machines that flew only in theory--vast flat structures
heavier than air, propelled and kept up by heavy engines and for the most p=
art smashing
at the first descent. But, neglecting the fact that the inevitable final
collapse rendered them impossible, the weight of the flying machines gave t=
hem
this theoretical advantage, that they could go through the air against a wi=
nd,
a necessary condition if aerial navigation was to have any practical value.=
It
is Filmer's particular merit that he perceived the way in which the contras=
ted
and hitherto incompatible merits of balloon and heavy flying machine might =
be combined
in one apparatus, which should be at choice either heavier or lighter than =
air.
He took hints from the contractile bladders of fish and the pneumatic cavit=
ies
of birds. He devised an arrangement of contractile and absolutely closed
balloons which when expanded could lift the actual flying apparatus with ea=
se,
and when retracted by the complicated "musculature" he wove about
them, were withdrawn almost completely into the frame; and he built the lar=
ge
framework which these balloons sustained, of hollow, rigid tubes, the air in
which, by an ingenious contrivance, was automatically pumped out as the
apparatus fell, and which then remained exhausted so long as the aeronaut
desired. There were no wings or propellers to his machine, such as there had
been to all previous aeroplanes, and the only engine required was the compa=
ct and
powerful little appliance needed to contract the balloons. He perceived that
such an apparatus as he had devised might rise with frame exhausted and
balloons expanded to a considerable height, might then contract its balloons
and let the air into its frame, and by an adjustment of its weights slide d=
own
the air in any desired direction. As it fell it would accumulate velocity a=
nd
at the same time lose weight, and the momentum accumulated by its down-rush
could be utilised by means of a shifting of its weights to drive it up in t=
he
air again as the balloons expanded. This conception, which is still the
structural conception of all successful flying machines, needed, however, a
vast amount of toil upon its details before it could actually be realised, =
and
such toil Filmer--as he was accustomed to tell the numerous interviewers who
crowded upon him in the heyday of his fame--"ungrudgingly and unsparin=
gly
gave." His particular difficulty was the elastic lining of the contrac=
tile
balloon. He found he needed a new substance, and in the discovery and
manufacture of that new substance he had, as he never failed to impress upon
the interviewers, "performed a far more arduous work than even in the
actual achievement of my seemingly greater discovery."
But it must not be
imagined that these interviews followed hard upon Filmer's proclamation of =
his
invention. An interval of nearly five years elapsed during which he timidly
remained at his rubber factory--he seems to have been entirely dependent on=
his
small income from this source--making misdirected attempts to assure a quit=
e indifferent
public that he really HAD invented what he had invented. He occupied the
greater part of his leisure in the composition of letters to the scientific=
and
daily press, and so forth, stating precisely the net result of his
contrivances, and demanding financial aid. That alone would have sufficed f=
or
the suppression of his letters. He spent such holidays as he could arrange =
in
unsatisfactory interviews with the door-keepers of leading London papers--he
was singularly not adapted for inspiring hall-porters with confidence--and =
he
positively attempted to induce the War Office to take up his work with him.
There remains a confidential letter from Major-General Volleyfire to the Ea=
rl
of Frogs. "The man's a crank and a bounder to boot," says the
Major-General in his bluff, sensible, army way, and so left it open for the
Japanese to secure, as they subsequently did, the priority in this side of =
warfare--a
priority they still to our great discomfort retain.
And then by a str=
oke
of luck the membrane Filmer had invented for his contractile balloon was
discovered to be useful for the valves of a new oil-engine, and he obtained=
the
means for making a trial model of his invention. He threw up his rubber fac=
tory
appointment, desisted from all further writing, and, with a certain secrecy
that seems to have been an inseparable characteristic of all his proceeding=
s,
set to work upon the apparatus. He seems to have directed the making of its
parts and collected most of it in a room in Shoreditch, but its final putti=
ng together
was done at Dymchurch, in Kent. He did not make the affair large enough to
carry a man, but he made an extremely ingenious use of what were then called
the Marconi rays to control its flight. The first flight of this first
practicable flying machine took place over some fields near Burford Bridge,
near Hythe, in Kent, and Filmer followed and controlled its flight upon a
specially constructed motor tricycle.
The flight was,
considering all things, an amazing success. The apparatus was brought in a =
cart
from Dymchurch to Burford Bridge, ascended there to a height of nearly three
hundred feet, swooped thence very nearly back to Dymchurch, came about in i=
ts
sweep, rose again, circled, and finally sank uninjured in a field behind the
Burford Bridge Inn. At its descent a curious thing happened. Filmer got off=
his
tricycle, scrambled over the intervening dyke, advanced perhaps twenty yards
towards his triumph, threw out his arms in a strange gesticulation, and fell
down in a dead faint. Every one could then recall the ghastliness of his
features and all the evidences of extreme excitement they had observed
throughout the trial, things they might otherwise have forgotten. Afterward=
s in
the inn he had an unaccountable gust of hysterical weeping.
Altogether there =
were
not twenty witnesses of this affair, and those for the most part uneducated
men. The New Romney doctor saw the ascent but not the descent, his horse be=
ing
frightened by the electrical apparatus on Filmer's tricycle and giving him a
nasty spill. Two members of the Kent constabulary watched the affair from a
cart in an unofficial spirit, and a grocer calling round the Marsh for orde=
rs
and two lady cyclists seem almost to complete the list of educated people.
There were two reporters present, one representing a Folkestone paper and t=
he other
being a fourth-class interviewer and "symposium" journalist, whos=
e expenses
down, Filmer, anxious as ever for adequate advertisement--and now quite
realising the way in which adequate advertisement may be obtained--had paid.
The latter was one of those writers who can throw a convincing air of unrea=
lity
over the most credible events, and his half-facetious account of the affair
appeared in the magazine page of a popular journal. But, happily for Filmer,
this person's colloquial methods were more convincing. He went to offer some
further screed upon the subject to Banghurst, the proprietor of the New Pap=
er,
and one of the ablest and most unscrupulous men in London journalism, and
Banghurst instantly seized upon the situation. The interviewer vanishes fro=
m the
narrative, no doubt very doubtfully remunerated, and Banghurst, Banghurst
himself, double chin, grey twill suit, abdomen, voice, gestures and all,
appears at Dymchurch, following his large, unrivalled journalistic nose. He=
had
seen the whole thing at a glance, just what it was and what it might be.
At his touch, as =
it
were, Filmer's long-pent investigations exploded into fame. He instantly and
most magnificently was a Boom. One turns over the files of the journals of =
the
year 1907 with a quite incredulous recognition of how swift and flaming the
boom of those days could be. The July papers know nothing of flying, see
nothing in flying, state by a most effective silence that men never would,
could or should fly. In August flying and Filmer and flying and parachutes =
and
aerial tactics and the Japanese Government and Filmer and again flying,
shouldered the war in Yunnan and the gold mines of Upper Greenland off the
leading page. And Banghurst had given ten thousand pounds, and, further, Ba=
nghurst
was giving five thousand pounds, and Banghurst had devoted his well-known,
magnificent (but hitherto sterile) private laboratories and several acres of
land near his private residence on the Surrey hills to the strenuous and vi=
olent
completion--Banghurst fashion--of the life-size practicable flying machine.
Meanwhile, in the sight of privileged multitudes in the walled-garden of the
Banghurst town residence in Fulham, Filmer was exhibited at weekly garden
parties putting the working model through its paces. At enormous initial co=
st, but
with a final profit, the New Paper presented its readers with a beautiful
photographic souvenir of the first of these occasions.
Here again the
correspondence of Arthur Hicks and his friend Vance comes to our aid.
"I saw Filme=
r in
his glory," he writes, with just the touch of envy natural to his posi=
tion
as a poet passe. "The man is brushed and shaved, dressed in the fashio=
n of
a Royal-Institution-Afternoon Lecturer, the very newest shape in frock-coats
and long patent shoes, and altogether in a state of extraordinary streakine=
ss
between an owlish great man and a scared abashed self-conscious bounder cru=
elly
exposed. He hasn't a touch of colour in the skin of his face, his head juts
forward, and those queer little dark amber eyes of his watch furtively round
him for his fame. His clothes fit perfectly and yet sit upon him as though =
he had
bought them ready-made. He speaks in a mumble still, but he says, you perce=
ive
indistinctly, enormous self-assertive things, he backs into the rear of gro=
ups
by instinct if Banghurst drops the line for a minute, and when he walks acr=
oss
Banghurst's lawn one perceives him a little out of breath and going jerky, =
and
that his weak white hands are clenched. His is a state of tension--horrible
tension. And he is the Greatest Discoverer of This or Any Age--the Greatest
Discoverer of This or Any Age! What strikes one so forcibly about him is th=
at
he didn't somehow quite expect it ever, at any rate, not at all like this. =
Banghurst
is about everywhere, the energetic M.C. of his great little catch, and I sw=
ear
he will have every one down on his lawn there before he has finished with t=
he
engine; he had bagged the prime minister yesterday, and he, bless his heart!
didn't look particularly outsize, on the very first occasion. Conceive it!
Filmer! Our obscure unwashed Filmer, the Glory of British science! Duchesses
crowd upon him, beautiful, bold peeresses say in their beautiful, clear loud
voices--have you noticed how penetrating the great lady is becoming
nowadays?--'Oh, Mr. Filmer, how DID you do it?'
"Common men =
on
the edge of things are too remote for the answer. One imagines something in=
the
way of that interview, 'toil ungrudgingly and unsparingly given, Madam, and,
perhaps--I don't know--but perhaps a little special aptitude.'"
So far Hicks, and=
the
photographic supplement to the New Paper is in sufficient harmony with the
description. In one picture the machine swings down towards the river, and =
the
tower of Fulham church appears below it through a gap in the elms, and in
another, Filmer sits at his guiding batteries, and the great and beautiful =
of
the earth stand around him, with Banghurst massed modestly but resolutely in
the rear. The grouping is oddly apposite. Occluding much of Banghurst, and
looking with a pensive, speculative expression at Filmer, stands the Lady M=
ary Elkinghorn,
still beautiful, in spite of the breath of scandal and her eight-and-thirty
years, the only person whose face does not admit a perception of the camera
that was in the act of snapping them all.
So much for the
exterior facts of the story, but, after all, they are very exterior facts.
About the real interest of the business one is necessarily very much in the
dark. How was Filmer feeling at the time? How much was a certain unpleasant
anticipation present inside that very new and fashionable frock-coat? He wa=
s in
the halfpenny, penny, six-penny, and more expensive papers alike, and
acknowledged by the whole world as "the Greatest Discoverer of This or=
Any
Age." He had invented a practicable flying machine, and every day down
among the Surrey hills the life-sized model was getting ready. And when it =
was ready,
it followed as a clear inevitable consequence of his having invented and ma=
de
it--everybody in the world, indeed, seemed to take it for granted; there wa=
sn't
a gap anywhere in that serried front of anticipation--that he would proudly=
and
cheerfully get aboard it, ascend with it, and fly.
But we know now
pretty clearly that simple pride and cheerfulness in such an act were
singularly out of harmony with Filmer's private constitution. It occurred t=
o no
one at the time, but there the fact is. We can guess with some confidence n=
ow
that it must have been drifting about in his mind a great deal during the d=
ay,
and, from a little note to his physician complaining of persistent insomnia=
, we
have the soundest reason for supposing it dominated his nights,--the idea t=
hat
it would be after all, in spite of his theoretical security, an abominably =
sickening,
uncomfortable, and dangerous thing for him to flap about in nothingness a
thousand feet or so in the air. It must have dawned upon him quite early in=
the
period of being the Greatest Discoverer of This or Any Age, the vision of d=
oing
this and that with an extensive void below. Perhaps somewhen in his youth he
had looked down a great height or fallen down in some excessively uncomfort=
able
way; perhaps some habit of sleeping on the wrong side had resulted in that
disagreeable falling nightmare one knows, and given him his horror; of the
strength of that horror there remains now not a particle of doubt.
Apparently he had
never weighed this duty of flying in his earlier days of research; the mach=
ine
had been his end, but now things were opening out beyond his end, and
particularly this giddy whirl up above there. He was a Discoverer and he had
Discovered. But he was not a Flying Man, and it was only now that he was
beginning to perceive clearly that he was expected to fly. Yet, however much
the thing was present in his mind he gave no expression to it until the very
end, and meanwhile he went to and fro from Banghurst's magnificent
laboratories, and was interviewed and lionised, and wore good clothes, and =
ate
good food, and lived in an elegant flat, enjoying a very abundant feast of =
such
good, coarse, wholesome Fame and Success as a man, starved for all his year=
s as
he had been starved, might be reasonably expected to enjoy.
After a time, the
weekly gatherings in Fulham ceased. The model had failed one day just for a
moment to respond to Filmer's guidance, or he had been distracted by the
compliments of an archbishop. At any rate, it suddenly dug its nose into the
air just a little too steeply as the archbishop was sailing through a Latin
quotation for all the world like an archbishop in a book, and it came down =
in
the Fulham Road within three yards of a 'bus horse. It stood for a second
perhaps, astonishing and in its attitude astonished, then it crumpled, shiv=
ered
into pieces, and the 'bus horse was incidentally killed.
Filmer lost the e=
nd
of the archiepiscopal compliment. He stood up and stared as his invention
swooped out of sight and reach of him. His long, white hands still gripped =
his
useless apparatus. The archbishop followed his skyward stare with an appreh=
ension
unbecoming in an archbishop.
Then came the cra=
sh
and the shouts and uproar from the road to relieve Filmer's tension. "=
My
God!" he whispered, and sat down.
Every one else al=
most
was staring to see where the machine had vanished, or rushing into the hous=
e.
The making of the=
big
machine progressed all the more rapidly for this. Over its making presided
Filmer, always a little slow and very careful in his manner, always with a
growing preoccupation in his mind. His care over the strength and soundness=
of
the apparatus was prodigious. The slightest doubt, and he delayed everything
until the doubtful part could be replaced. Wilkinson, his senior assistant,
fumed at some of these delays, which, he insisted, were for the most part
unnecessary. Banghurst magnified the patient certitude of Filmer in the New=
Paper,
and reviled it bitterly to his wife, and MacAndrew, the second assistant,
approved Filmer's wisdom. "We're not wanting a fiasco, man," said
MacAndrew. "He's perfectly well advised."
And whenever an
opportunity arose Filmer would expound to Wilkinson and MacAndrew just exac=
tly
how every part of the flying machine was to be controlled and worked, so th=
at
in effect they would be just as capable, and even more capable, when at last
the time came, of guiding it through the skies.
Now I should imag=
ine
that if Filmer had seen fit at this stage to define just what he was feelin=
g,
and to take a definite line in the matter of his ascent, he might have esca=
ped
that painful ordeal quite easily. If he had had it clearly in his mind he c=
ould
have done endless things. He would surely have found no difficulty with a
specialist to demonstrate a weak heart, or something gastric or pulmonary, =
to
stand in his way--that is the line I am astonished he did not take,--or he
might, had he been man enough, have declared simply and finally that he did=
not
intend to do the thing. But the fact is, though the dread was hugely presen=
t in
his mind, the thing was by no means sharp and clear. I fancy that all throu=
gh
this period he kept telling himself that when the occasion came he would fi=
nd
himself equal to it. He was like a man just gripped by a great illness, who
says he feels a little out of sorts, and expects to be better presently.
Meanwhile he delayed the completion of the machine, and let the assumption =
that
he was going to fly it take root and flourish exceedingly about him. He even
accepted anticipatory compliments on his courage. And, barring this secret
squeamishness, there can be no doubt he found all the praise and distinction
and fuss he got a delightful and even intoxicating draught.
The Lady Mary
Elkinghorn made things a little more complicated for him.
How THAT began wa=
s a
subject of inexhaustible speculation to Hicks. Probably in the beginning she
was just a little "nice" to him with that impartial partiality of
hers, and it may be that to her eyes, standing out conspicuously as he did
ruling his monster in the upper air, he had a distinction that Hicks was not
disposed to find. And somehow they must have had a moment of sufficient
isolation, and the great Discoverer a moment of sufficient courage for
something just a little personal to be mumbled or blurted. However it began,
there is no doubt that it did begin, and presently became quite perceptible=
to
a world accustomed to find in the proceedings of the Lady Mary Elkinghorn a
matter of entertainment. It complicated things, because the state of love i=
n such
a virgin mind as Filmer's would brace his resolution, if not sufficiently, =
at
any rate considerably towards facing a danger he feared, and hampered him in
such attempts at evasion as would otherwise be natural and congenial.
It remains a matt=
er
for speculation just how the Lady Mary felt for Filmer and just what she
thought of him. At thirty-eight one may have gathered much wisdom and still=
be
not altogether wise, and the imagination still functions actively enough in
creating glamours and effecting the impossible. He came before her eyes as a
very central man, and that always counts, and he had powers, unique powers =
as
it seemed, at any rate in the air. The performance with the model had just a
touch of the quality of a potent incantation, and women have ever displayed=
an unreasonable
disposition to imagine that when a man has powers he must necessarily have =
Power.
Given so much, and what was not good in Filmer's manner and appearance beca=
me
an added merit. He was modest, he hated display, but given an occasion where
TRUE qualities are needed, then--then one would see!
The late Mrs. Bam=
pton
thought it wise to convey to Lady Mary her opinion that Filmer, all things
considered, was rather a "grub." "He's certainly not a sort =
of
man I have ever met before," said the Lady Mary, with a quite unruffled
serenity. And Mrs. Bampton, after a swift, imperceptible glance at that
serenity, decided that so far as saying anything to Lady Mary went, she had
done as much as could be expected of her. But she said a great deal to other
people.
And at last, with=
out
any undue haste or unseemliness, the day dawned, the great day, when Banghu=
rst
had promised his public--the world in fact--that flying should be finally
attained and overcome. Filmer saw it dawn, watched even in the darkness bef=
ore
it dawned, watched its stars fade and the grey and pearly pinks give place =
at
last to the clear blue sky of a sunny, cloudless day. He watched it from the
window of his bedroom in the new-built wing of Banghurst's Tudor house. And=
as
the stars were overwhelmed and the shapes and substances of things grew into
being out of the amorphous dark, he must have seen more and more distinctly=
the
festive preparations beyond the beech clumps near the green pavilion in the
outer park, the three stands for the privileged spectators, the raw, new
fencing of the enclosure, the sheds and workshops, the Venetian masts and
fluttering flags that Banghurst had considered essential, black and limp in=
the
breezeless dawn, and amidst all these things a great shape covered with
tarpauling. A strange and terrible portent for humanity was that shape, a
beginning that must surely spread and widen and change and dominate all the
affairs of men, but to Filmer it is very doubtful whether it appeared in
anything but a narrow and personal light. Several people heard him pacing in
the small hours--for the vast place was packed with guests by a proprietor
editor who, before all understood compression. And about five o'clock, if n=
ot before,
Filmer left his room and wandered out of the sleeping house into the park,
alive by that time with sunlight and birds and squirrels and the fallow dee=
r.
MacAndrew, who was also an early riser, met him near the machine, and they =
went
and had a look at it together.
It is doubtful if
Filmer took any breakfast, in spite of the urgency of Banghurst. So soon as=
the
guests began to be about in some number he seems to have retreated to his r=
oom.
Thence about ten he went into the shrubbery, very probably because he had s=
een
the Lady Mary Elkinghorn there. She was walking up and down, engaged in
conversation with her old school friend, Mrs. Brewis-Craven, and although
Filmer had never met the latter lady before, he joined them and walked besi=
de
them for some time. There were several silences in spite of the Lady Mary's
brilliance. The situation was a difficult one, and Mrs. Brewis-Craven did n=
ot
master its difficulty. "He struck me," she said afterwards with a
luminous self-contradiction, "as a very unhappy person who had somethi=
ng
to say, and wanted before all things to be helped to say it. But how was on=
e to
help him when one didn't know what it was?"
At half-past elev=
en
the enclosures for the public in the outer park were crammed, there was an
intermittent stream of equipages along the belt which circles the outer par=
k,
and the house party was dotted over the lawn and shrubbery and the corner of
the inner park, in a series of brilliantly attired knots, all making for the
flying machine. Filmer walked in a group of three with Banghurst, who was
supremely and conspicuously happy, and Sir Theodore Hickle, the president of
the Aeronautical Society. Mrs. Banghurst was close behind with the Lady Mar=
y Elkinghorn,
Georgina Hickle, and the Dean of Stays. Banghurst was large and copious in
speech, and such interstices as he left were filled in by Hickle with
complimentary remarks to Filmer. And Filmer walked between them saying not a
word except by way of unavoidable reply. Behind, Mrs. Banghurst listened to=
the
admirably suitable and shapely conversation of the Dean with that fluttered
attention to the ampler clergy ten years of social ascent and ascendency had
not cured in her; and the Lady Mary watched, no doubt with an entire confid=
ence
in the world's disillusionment, the drooping shoulders of the sort of man s=
he
had never met before.
There was some
cheering as the central party came into view of the enclosures, but it was =
not
very unanimous nor invigorating cheering. They were within fifty yards of t=
he
apparatus when Filmer took a hasty glance over his shoulder to measure the
distance of the ladies behind them, and decided to make the first remark he=
had
initiated since the house had been left. His voice was just a little hoarse,
and he cut in on Banghurst in mid-sentence on Progress.
"I say,
Banghurst," he said, and stopped.
"Yes," =
said
Banghurst.
"I wish--&qu=
ot;
He moistened his lips. "I'm not feeling well."
Banghurst stopped
dead. "Eh?" he shouted.
"A queer
feeling." Filmer made to move on, but Banghurst was immovable. "I
don't know. I may be better in a minute. If not--perhaps... MacAndrew--&quo=
t;
"You're not
feeling WELL?" said Banghurst, and stared at his white face.
"My dear!&qu=
ot;
he said, as Mrs. Banghurst came up with them, "Filmer says he isn't
feeling WELL."
"A little
queer," exclaimed Filmer, avoiding the Lady Mary's eyes. "It may =
pass
off--"
There was a pause=
.
It came to Filmer
that he was the most isolated person in the world.
"In any
case," said Banghurst, "the ascent must be made. Perhaps if you w=
ere
to sit down somewhere for a moment--"
"It's the cr=
owd,
I think," said Filmer.
There was a second
pause. Banghurst's eye rested in scrutiny on Filmer, and then swept the sam=
ple
of public in the enclosure.
"It's
unfortunate," said Sir Theodore Hickle; "but still--I suppose--Yo=
ur assistants--Of
course, if you feel out of condition and disinclined--"
"I don't thi=
nk
Mr. Filmer would permit THAT for a moment," said Lady Mary.
"But if Mr.
Filmer's nerve is run--It might even be dangerous for him to attempt--"
Hickle coughed.
"It's just
because it's dangerous," began the Lady Mary, and felt she had made her
point of view and Filmer's plain enough.
Conflicting motiv=
es
struggled for Filmer.
"I feel I ou=
ght
to go up," he said, regarding the ground. He looked up and met the Lady
Mary's eyes. "I want to go up," he said, and smiled whitely at he=
r.
He turned towards Banghurst. "If I could just sit down somewhere for a
moment out of the crowd and sun--"
Banghurst, at lea=
st,
was beginning to understand the case. "Come into my little room in the
green pavilion," he said. "It's quite cool there." He took
Filmer by the arm.
Filmer turned his
face to the Lady Mary Elkinghorn again. "I shall be all right in five
minutes," he said. "I'm tremendously sorry--"
The Lady Mary
Elkinghorn smiled at him. "I couldn't think--" he said to Hickle,=
and
obeyed the compulsion of Banghurst's pull.
The rest remained
watching the two recede.
"He is so
fragile," said the Lady Mary.
"He's certai=
nly
a highly nervous type," said the Dean, whose weakness it was to regard=
the
whole world, except married clergymen with enormous families, as
"neurotic."
"Of
course," said Hickle, "it isn't absolutely necessary for him to g=
o up
because he has invented--"
"How COULD he
avoid it?" asked the Lady Mary, with the faintest shadow of scorn.
"It's certai=
nly
most unfortunate if he's going to be ill now," said Mrs. Banghurst a
little severely.
"He's not go=
ing
to be ill," said the Lady Mary, and certainly she had met Filmer's eye=
.
"YOU'LL be a=
ll
right," said Banghurst, as they went towards the pavilion. "All y=
ou
want is a nip of brandy. It ought to be you, you know. You'll be--you'd get=
it
rough, you know, if you let another man--"
"Oh, I want =
to
go," said Filmer. "I shall be all right. As a matter of fact I'm
almost inclined NOW--. No! I think I'll have that nip of brandy first."=
;
Banghurst took him
into the little room and routed out an empty decanter. He departed in searc=
h of
a supply. He was gone perhaps five minutes.
The history of th=
ose
five minutes cannot be written. At intervals Filmer's face could be seen by=
the
people on the easternmost of the stands erected for spectators, against the
window pane peering out, and then it would recede and fade. Banghurst vanis=
hed
shouting behind the grand stand, and presently the butler appeared going
pavilionward with a tray.
The apartment in
which Filmer came to his last solution was a pleasant little room very simp=
ly
furnished with green furniture and an old bureau--for Banghurst was simple =
in
all his private ways. It was hung with little engravings after Morland and =
it
had a shelf of books. But as it happened, Banghurst had left a rook rifle he
sometimes played with on the top of the desk, and on the corner of the
mantelshelf was a tin with three or four cartridges remaining in it. As Fil=
mer
went up and down that room wrestling with his intolerable dilemma he went f=
irst
towards the neat little rifle athwart the blotting-pad and then towards the
neat little red label
".22 LONG.&q=
uot;
The thing must ha=
ve
jumped into his mind in a moment.
Nobody seems to h=
ave
connected the report with him, though the gun, being fired in a confined sp=
ace,
must have sounded loud, and there were several people in the billiard-room,
separated from him only by a lath-and-plaster partition. But directly
Banghurst's butler opened the door and smelt the sour smell of the smoke, he
knew, he says, what had happened. For the servants at least of Banghurst's
household had guessed something of what was going on in Filmer's mind.
All through that
trying afternoon Banghurst behaved as he held a man should behave in the
presence of hopeless disaster, and his guests for the most part succeeded in
not insisting upon the fact--though to conceal their perception of it
altogether was impossible--that Banghurst had been pretty elaborately and
completely swindled by the deceased. The public in the enclosure, Hicks told
me, dispersed "like a party that has been ducking a welsher," and
there wasn't a soul in the train to London, it seems, who hadn't known all
along that flying was a quite impossible thing for man. "But he might =
have
tried it," said many, "after carrying the thing so far."
In the evening, w=
hen
he was comparatively alone, Banghurst broke down and went on like a man of
clay. I have been told he wept, which must have made an imposing scene, and=
he
certainly said Filmer had ruined his life, and offered and sold the whole
apparatus to MacAndrew for half-a-crown. "I've been thinking--" s=
aid
MacAndrew at the conclusion of the bargain, and stopped.
The next morning =
the
name of Filmer was, for the first time, less conspicuous in the New Paper t=
han
in any other daily paper in the world. The rest of the world's instructors,
with varying emphasis, according to their dignity and the degree of competi=
tion
between themselves and the New Paper, proclaimed the "Entire Failure of
the New Flying Machine," and "Suicide of the Impostor." But =
in
the district of North Surrey the reception of the news was tempered by a
perception of unusual aerial phenomena.
Overnight Wilkins=
on
and MacAndrew had fallen into violent argument on the exact motives of their
principal's rash act.
"The man was
certainly a poor, cowardly body, but so far as his science went he was NO
impostor," said MacAndrew, "and I'm prepared to give that proposi=
tion
a very practical demonstration, Mr. Wilkinson, so soon as we've got the pla=
ce a
little more to ourselves. For I've no faith in all this publicity for
experimental trials."
And to that end,
while all the world was reading of the certain failure of the new flying
machine, MacAndrew was soaring and curvetting with great amplitude and dign=
ity
over the Epsom and Wimbledon divisions; and Banghurst, restored once more to
hope and energy, and regardless of public security and the Board of Trade, =
was
pursuing his gyrations and trying to attract his attention, on a motor car =
and
in his pyjamas--he had caught sight of the ascent when pulling up the blind=
of his
bedroom window--equipped, among other things, with a film camera that was s=
ubsequently
discovered to be jammed. And Filmer was lying on the billiard table in the
green pavilion with a sheet about his body.
I had seen the Ma=
gic
Shop from afar several times; I had passed it once or twice, a shop window =
of
alluring little objects, magic balls, magic hens, wonderful cones,
ventriloquist dolls, the material of the basket trick, packs of cards that
LOOKED all right, and all that sort of thing, but never had I thought of go=
ing
in until one day, almost without warning, Gip hauled me by my finger right =
up
to the window, and so conducted himself that there was nothing for it but to
take him in. I had not thought the place was there, to tell the truth--a
modest-sized frontage in Regent Street, between the picture shop and the pl=
ace
where the chicks run about just out of patent incubators, but there it was =
sure
enough. I had fancied it was down nearer the Circus, or round the corner in
Oxford Street, or even in Holborn; always over the way and a little
inaccessible it had been, with something of the mirage in its position; but
here it was now quite indisputably, and the fat end of Gip's pointing finger
made a noise upon the glass.
"If I was ri=
ch,"
said Gip, dabbing a finger at the Disappearing Egg, "I'd buy myself th=
at.
And that"--which was The Crying Baby, Very Human--"and that,"
which was a mystery, and called, so a neat card asserted, "Buy One and
Astonish Your Friends."
"Anything,&q=
uot;
said Gip, "will disappear under one of those cones. I have read about =
it
in a book.
"And there,
dadda, is the Vanishing Halfpenny--, only they've put it this way up so's we
can't see how it's done."
Gip, dear boy,
inherits his mother's breeding, and he did not propose to enter the shop or
worry in any way; only, you know, quite unconsciously he lugged my finger
doorward, and he made his interest clear.
"That,"=
he
said, and pointed to the Magic Bottle.
"If you had
that?" I said; at which promising inquiry he looked up with a sudden
radiance.
"I could sho=
w it
to Jessie," he said, thoughtful as ever of others.
"It's less t=
han
a hundred days to your birthday, Gibbles," I said, and laid my hand on=
the
door-handle.
Gip made no answe=
r,
but his grip tightened on my finger, and so we came into the shop.
It was no common =
shop
this; it was a magic shop, and all the prancing precedence Gip would have t=
aken
in the matter of mere toys was wanting. He left the burthen of the conversa=
tion
to me.
It was a little,
narrow shop, not very well lit, and the door-bell pinged again with a plain=
tive
note as we closed it behind us. For a moment or so we were alone and could
glance about us. There was a tiger in papier-mache on the glass case that
covered the low counter--a grave, kind-eyed tiger that waggled his head in a
methodical manner; there were several crystal spheres, a china hand holding
magic cards, a stock of magic fish-bowls in various sizes, and an immodest
magic hat that shamelessly displayed its springs. On the floor were magic
mirrors; one to draw you out long and thin, one to swell your head and vani=
sh
your legs, and one to make you short and fat like a draught; and while we w=
ere
laughing at these the shopman, as I suppose, came in.
At any rate, ther=
e he
was behind the counter--a curious, sallow, dark man, with one ear larger th=
an
the other and a chin like the toe-cap of a boot.
"What can we
have the pleasure?" he said, spreading his long, magic fingers on the
glass case; and so with a start we were aware of him.
"I want,&quo=
t; I
said, "to buy my little boy a few simple tricks."
"Legerdemain=
?"
he asked. "Mechanical? Domestic?"
"Anything
amusing?" said I.
"Um!" s=
aid
the shopman, and scratched his head for a moment as if thinking. Then, quite
distinctly, he drew from his head a glass ball. "Something in this
way?" he said, and held it out.
The action was
unexpected. I had seen the trick done at entertainments endless times
before--it's part of the common stock of conjurers--but I had not expected =
it
here.
"That's
good," I said, with a laugh.
"Isn't it?&q=
uot;
said the shopman.
Gip stretched out=
his
disengaged hand to take this object and found merely a blank palm.
"It's in your
pocket," said the shopman, and there it was!
"How much wi=
ll
that be?" I asked.
"We make no
charge for glass balls," said the shopman politely. "We get them,=
"--he
picked one out of his elbow as he spoke--"free." He produced anot=
her
from the back of his neck, and laid it beside its predecessor on the counte=
r.
Gip regarded his glass ball sagely, then directed a look of inquiry at the =
two
on the counter, and finally brought his round-eyed scrutiny to the shopman,=
who
smiled.
"You may have
those too," said the shopman, "and, if you DON'T mind, one from my
mouth. SO!"
Gip counselled me
mutely for a moment, and then in a profound silence put away the four balls,
resumed my reassuring finger, and nerved himself for the next event.
"We get all =
our
smaller tricks in that way," the shopman remarked.
I laughed in the
manner of one who subscribes to a jest. "Instead of going to the whole=
sale
shop," I said. "Of course, it's cheaper."
"In a way,&q=
uot;
the shopman said. "Though we pay in the end. But not so heavily--as pe=
ople
suppose.... Our larger tricks, and our daily provisions and all the other
things we want, we get out of that hat... And you know, sir, if you'll excu=
se
my saying it, there ISN'T a wholesale shop, not for Genuine Magic goods, si=
r. I
don't know if you noticed our inscription--the Genuine Magic shop." He
drew a business-card from his cheek and handed it to me. "Genuine,&quo=
t;
he said, with his finger on the word, and added, "There is absolutely =
no deception,
sir."
He seemed to be
carrying out the joke pretty thoroughly, I thought.
He turned to Gip =
with
a smile of remarkable affability. "You, you know, are the Right Sort of
Boy."
I was surprised at
his knowing that, because, in the interests of discipline, we keep it rathe=
r a
secret even at home; but Gip received it in unflinching silence, keeping a
steadfast eye on him.
"It's only t=
he
Right Sort of Boy gets through that doorway."
And, as if by way=
of
illustration, there came a rattling at the door, and a squeaking little voi=
ce
could be faintly heard. "Nyar! I WARN 'a go in there, dadda, I WARN 'a=
go
in there. Ny-a-a-ah!" and then the accents of a down-trodden parent,
urging consolations and propitiations. "It's locked, Edward," he
said.
"But it
isn't," said I.
"It is,
sir," said the shopman, "always--for that sort of child," an=
d as
he spoke we had a glimpse of the other youngster, a little, white face, pal=
lid
from sweet-eating and over-sapid food, and distorted by evil passions, a
ruthless little egotist, pawing at the enchanted pane. "It's no good,
sir," said the shopman, as I moved, with my natural helpfulness, doorw=
ard,
and presently the spoilt child was carried off howling.
"How do you
manage that?" I said, breathing a little more freely.
"Magic!"
said the shopman, with a careless wave of the hand, and behold! sparks of
coloured fire flew out of his fingers and vanished into the shadows of the
shop.
"You were
saying," he said, addressing himself to Gip, "before you came in,
that you would like one of our 'Buy One and Astonish your Friends' boxes?&q=
uot;
Gip, after a gall=
ant
effort, said "Yes."
"It's in your
pocket."
And leaning over =
the
counter--he really had an extraordinarily long body--this amazing person
produced the article in the customary conjurer's manner. "Paper,"=
he
said, and took a sheet out of the empty hat with the springs;
"string," and behold his mouth was a string-box, from which he dr=
ew
an unending thread, which when he had tied his parcel he bit off--and, it
seemed to me, swallowed the ball of string. And then he lit a candle at the
nose of one of the ventriloquist's dummies, stuck one of his fingers (which=
had
become sealing-wax red) into the flame, and so sealed the parcel. "Then
there was the Disappearing Egg," he remarked, and produced one from wi=
thin
my coat-breast and packed it, and also The Crying Baby, Very Human. I handed
each parcel to Gip as it was ready, and he clasped them to his chest.
He said very litt=
le,
but his eyes were eloquent; the clutch of his arms was eloquent. He was the
playground of unspeakable emotions. These, you know, were REAL Magics. Then,
with a start, I discovered something moving about in my hat--something soft=
and
jumpy. I whipped it off, and a ruffled pigeon--no doubt a confederate--drop=
ped
out and ran on the counter, and went, I fancy, into a cardboard box behind =
the
papier-mache tiger.
"Tut, tut!&q=
uot;
said the shopman, dexterously relieving me of my headdress; "careless
bird, and--as I live--nesting!"
He shook my hat, =
and
shook out into his extended hand two or three eggs, a large marble, a watch,
about half-a-dozen of the inevitable glass balls, and then crumpled, crinkl=
ed
paper, more and more and more, talking all the time of the way in which peo=
ple
neglect to brush their hats INSIDE as well as out, politely, of course, but
with a certain personal application. "All sorts of things accumulate,
sir.... Not YOU, of course, in particular.... Nearly every customer....
Astonishing what they carry about with them...." The crumpled paper ro=
se
and billowed on the counter more and more and more, until he was nearly hid=
den
from us, until he was altogether hidden, and still his voice went on and on.
"We none of us know what the fair semblance of a human being may conce=
al, sir.
Are we all then no better than brushed exteriors, whited sepulchres--"=
His voice
stopped--exactly like when you hit a neighbour's gramophone with a well-aim=
ed
brick, the same instant silence, and the rustle of the paper stopped, and
everything was still....
"Have you do=
ne
with my hat?" I said, after an interval.
There was no answ=
er.
I stared at Gip, =
and
Gip stared at me, and there were our distortions in the magic mirrors, look=
ing
very rum, and grave, and quiet....
"I think we'=
ll
go now," I said. "Will you tell me how much all this comes to?...=
.
"I say,"=
; I
said, on a rather louder note, "I want the bill; and my hat, please.&q=
uot;
It might have bee=
n a
sniff from behind the paper pile....
"Let's look
behind the counter, Gip," I said. "He's making fun of us."
I led Gip round t=
he
head-wagging tiger, and what do you think there was behind the counter? No =
one
at all! Only my hat on the floor, and a common conjurer's lop-eared white
rabbit lost in meditation, and looking as stupid and crumpled as only a
conjurer's rabbit can do. I resumed my hat, and the rabbit lolloped a lollo=
p or
so out of my way.
"Dadda!"
said Gip, in a guilty whisper.
"What is it,
Gip?" said I.
"I DO like t=
his
shop, dadda."
"So should
I," I said to myself, "if the counter wouldn't suddenly extend it=
self
to shut one off from the door." But I didn't call Gip's attention to t=
hat.
"Pussy!" he said, with a hand out to the rabbit as it came lollop=
ing
past us; "Pussy, do Gip a magic!" and his eyes followed it as it
squeezed through a door I had certainly not remarked a moment before. Then =
this
door opened wider, and the man with one ear larger than the other appeared
again. He was smiling still, but his eye met mine with something between
amusement and defiance. "You'd like to see our show-room, sir," he
said, with an innocent suavity. Gip tugged my finger forward. I glanced at =
the
counter and met the shopman's eye again. I was beginning to think the magic
just a little too genuine. "We haven't VERY much time," I said. B=
ut
somehow we were inside the show-room before I could finish that.
"All goods of
the same quality," said the shopman, rubbing his flexible hands togeth=
er,
"and that is the Best. Nothing in the place that isn't genuine Magic, =
and
warranted thoroughly rum. Excuse me, sir!"
I felt him pull at
something that clung to my coat-sleeve, and then I saw he held a little,
wriggling red demon by the tail--the little creature bit and fought and tri=
ed
to get at his hand--and in a moment he tossed it carelessly behind a counte=
r.
No doubt the thing was only an image of twisted indiarubber, but for the
moment--! And his gesture was exactly that of a man who handles some petty
biting bit of vermin. I glanced at Gip, but Gip was looking at a magic
rocking-horse. I was glad he hadn't seen the thing. "I say," I sa=
id,
in an undertone, and indicating Gip and the red demon with my eyes, "y=
ou
haven't many things like THAT about, have you?"
"None of our=
s!
Probably brought it with you," said the shopman--also in an undertone,=
and
with a more dazzling smile than ever. "Astonishing what people WILL ca=
rry
about with them unawares!" And then to Gip, "Do you see anything =
you
fancy here?"
There were many
things that Gip fancied there.
He turned to this=
astonishing
tradesman with mingled confidence and respect. "Is that a Magic
Sword?" he said.
"A Magic Toy
Sword. It neither bends, breaks, nor cuts the fingers. It renders the bearer
invincible in battle against any one under eighteen. Half-a-crown to seven =
and
sixpence, according to size. These panoplies on cards are for juvenile
knights-errant and very useful--shield of safety, sandals of swiftness, hel=
met
of invisibility."
"Oh,
daddy!" gasped Gip.
I tried to find o=
ut
what they cost, but the shopman did not heed me. He had got Gip now; he had=
got
him away from my finger; he had embarked upon the exposition of all his
confounded stock, and nothing was going to stop him. Presently I saw with a
qualm of distrust and something very like jealousy that Gip had hold of this
person's finger as usually he has hold of mine. No doubt the fellow was
interesting, I thought, and had an interestingly faked lot of stuff, really
GOOD faked stuff, still--
I wandered after
them, saying very little, but keeping an eye on this prestidigital fellow.
After all, Gip was enjoying it. And no doubt when the time came to go we sh=
ould
be able to go quite easily.
It was a long,
rambling place, that show-room, a gallery broken up by stands and stalls and
pillars, with archways leading off to other departments, in which the
queerest-looking assistants loafed and stared at one, and with perplexing
mirrors and curtains. So perplexing, indeed, were these that I was presently
unable to make out the door by which we had come.
The shopman showed
Gip magic trains that ran without steam or clockwork, just as you set the
signals, and then some very, very valuable boxes of soldiers that all came
alive directly you took off the lid and said--. I myself haven't a very qui=
ck
ear and it was a tongue-twisting sound, but Gip--he has his mother's ear--g=
ot
it in no time. "Bravo!" said the shopman, putting the men back in=
to
the box unceremoniously and handing it to Gip. "Now," said the
shopman, and in a moment Gip had made them all alive again.
"You'll take
that box?" asked the shopman.
"We'll take =
that
box," said I, "unless you charge its full value. In which case it
would need a Trust Magnate--"
"Dear heart!
NO!" and the shopman swept the little men back again, shut the lid, wa=
ved
the box in the air, and there it was, in brown paper, tied up and--WITH GIP=
'S
FULL NAME AND ADDRESS ON THE PAPER!
The shopman laugh=
ed
at my amazement.
"This is the
genuine magic," he said. "The real thing."
"It's a litt=
le
too genuine for my taste," I said again.
After that he fel=
l to
showing Gip tricks, odd tricks, and still odder the way they were done. He
explained them, he turned them inside out, and there was the dear little ch=
ap
nodding his busy bit of a head in the sagest manner.
I did not attend =
as
well as I might. "Hey, presto!" said the Magic Shopman, and then
would come the clear, small "Hey, presto!" of the boy. But I was
distracted by other things. It was being borne in upon me just how tremendo=
usly
rum this place was; it was, so to speak, inundated by a sense of rumness. T=
here
was something a little rum about the fixtures even, about the ceiling, about
the floor, about the casually distributed chairs. I had a queer feeling that
whenever I wasn't looking at them straight they went askew, and moved about,
and played a noiseless puss-in-the-corner behind my back. And the cornice h=
ad a
serpentine design with masks--masks altogether too expressive for proper
plaster.
Then abruptly my
attention was caught by one of the odd-looking assistants. He was some way =
off
and evidently unaware of my presence--I saw a sort of three-quarter length =
of
him over a pile of toys and through an arch--and, you know, he was leaning
against a pillar in an idle sort of way doing the most horrid things with h=
is
features! The particular horrid thing he did was with his nose. He did it j=
ust
as though he was idle and wanted to amuse himself. First of all it was a sh=
ort,
blobby nose, and then suddenly he shot it out like a telescope, and then ou=
t it
flew and became thinner and thinner until it was like a long, red, flexible
whip. Like a thing in a nightmare it was! He flourished it about and flung =
it
forth as a fly-fisher flings his line.
My instant thought
was that Gip mustn't see him. I turned about, and there was Gip quite
preoccupied with the shopman, and thinking no evil. They were whispering
together and looking at me. Gip was standing on a little stool, and the sho=
pman
was holding a sort of big drum in his hand.
"Hide and se=
ek,
dadda!" cried Gip. "You're He!"
And before I coul=
d do
anything to prevent it, the shopman had clapped the big drum over him. I saw
what was up directly. "Take that off," I cried, "this instan=
t!
You'll frighten the boy. Take it off!"
The shopman with =
the
unequal ears did so without a word, and held the big cylinder towards me to
show its emptiness. And the little stool was vacant! In that instant my boy=
had
utterly disappeared?...
You know, perhaps,
that sinister something that comes like a hand out of the unseen and grips =
your
heart about. You know it takes your common self away and leaves you tense a=
nd
deliberate, neither slow nor hasty, neither angry nor afraid. So it was with
me.
I came up to this
grinning shopman and kicked his stool aside.
"Stop this
folly!" I said. "Where is my boy?"
"You see,&qu=
ot;
he said, still displaying the drum's interior, "there is no deception-=
--"
I put out my hand=
to
grip him, and he eluded me by a dexterous movement. I snatched again, and he
turned from me and pushed open a door to escape. "Stop!" I said, =
and
he laughed, receding. I leapt after him--into utter darkness.
THUD!
"Lor' bless =
my
'eart! I didn't see you coming, sir!"
I was in Regent
Street, and I had collided with a decent-looking working man; and a yard aw=
ay,
perhaps, and looking a little perplexed with himself, was Gip. There was so=
me
sort of apology, and then Gip had turned and come to me with a bright little
smile, as though for a moment he had missed me.
And he was carryi=
ng
four parcels in his arm!
He secured immedi=
ate
possession of my finger.
For the second I =
was
rather at a loss. I stared round to see the door of the magic shop, and,
behold, it was not there! There was no door, no shop, nothing, only the com=
mon
pilaster between the shop where they sell pictures and the window with the
chicks!...
I did the only th=
ing
possible in that mental tumult; I walked straight to the kerbstone and held=
up
my umbrella for a cab.
"'Ansoms,&qu=
ot;
said Gip, in a note of culminating exultation.
I helped him in,
recalled my address with an effort, and got in also. Something unusual proc=
laimed
itself in my tail-coat pocket, and I felt and discovered a glass ball. With=
a
petulant expression I flung it into the street.
Gip said nothing.=
For a space neith=
er
of us spoke.
"Dada!"
said Gip, at last, "that WAS a proper shop!"
I came round with
that to the problem of just how the whole thing had seemed to him. He looked
completely undamaged--so far, good; he was neither scared nor unhinged, he =
was
simply tremendously satisfied with the afternoon's entertainment, and there=
in
his arms were the four parcels.
Confound it! what
could be in them?
"Um!" I
said. "Little boys can't go to shops like that every day."
He received this =
with
his usual stoicism, and for a moment I was sorry I was his father and not h=
is
mother, and so couldn't suddenly there, coram publico, in our hansom, kiss =
him.
After all, I thought, the thing wasn't so very bad.
But it was only w=
hen
we opened the parcels that I really began to be reassured. Three of them
contained boxes of soldiers, quite ordinary lead soldiers, but of so good a
quality as to make Gip altogether forget that originally these parcels had =
been
Magic Tricks of the only genuine sort, and the fourth contained a kitten, a
little living white kitten, in excellent health and appetite and temper.
I saw this unpack=
ing
with a sort of provisional relief. I hung about in the nursery for quite an
unconscionable time....
That happened six
months ago. And now I am beginning to believe it is all right. The kitten h=
ad
only the magic natural to all kittens, and the soldiers seem as steady a
company as any colonel could desire. And Gip--?
The intelligent
parent will understand that I have to go cautiously with Gip.
But I went so far=
as
this one day. I said, "How would you like your soldiers to come alive,
Gip, and march about by themselves?"
"Mine do,&qu=
ot;
said Gip. "I just have to say a word I know before I open the lid.&quo=
t;
"Then they m=
arch
about alone?"
"Oh, QUITE,
dadda. I shouldn't like them if they didn't do that."
I displayed no
unbecoming surprise, and since then I have taken occasion to drop in upon h=
im
once or twice, unannounced, when the soldiers were about, but so far I have
never discovered them performing in anything like a magical manner.
It's so difficult=
to
tell.
There's also a
question of finance. I have an incurable habit of paying bills. I have been=
up
and down Regent Street several times, looking for that shop. I am inclined =
to
think, indeed, that in that matter honour is satisfied, and that, since Gip=
's
name and address are known to them, I may very well leave it to these peopl=
e,
whoever they may be, to send in their bill in their own time.
3. THE VALLEY OF SPIDERS<=
/span>
Towards mid-day t=
he
three pursuers came abruptly round a bend in the torrent bed upon the sight=
of
a very broad and spacious valley. The difficult and winding trench of pebbl=
es
along which they had tracked the fugitives for so long, expanded to a broad
slope, and with a common impulse the three men left the trail, and rode to a
little eminence set with olive-dun trees, and there halted, the two others,=
as
became them, a little behind the man with the silver-studded bridle.
For a space they
scanned the great expanse below them with eager eyes. It spread remoter and
remoter, with only a few clusters of sere thorn bushes here and there, and =
the dim
suggestions of some now waterless ravine, to break its desolation of yellow
grass. Its purple distances melted at last into the bluish slopes of the
further hills--hills it might be of a greener kind--and above them invisibly
supported, and seeming indeed to hang in the blue, were the snowclad summit=
s of
mountains that grew larger and bolder to the north-westward as the sides of=
the
valley drew together. And westward the valley opened until a distant darkne=
ss
under the sky told where the forests began. But the three men looked neither
east nor west, but only steadfastly across the valley.
The gaunt man with
the scarred lip was the first to speak. "Nowhere," he said, with a
sigh of disappointment in his voice. "But after all, they had a full d=
ay's
start."
"They don't =
know
we are after them," said the little man on the white horse.
"SHE would
know," said the leader bitterly, as if speaking to himself.
"Even then t=
hey
can't go fast. They've got no beast but the mule, and all to-day the girl's
foot has been bleeding---"
The man with the
silver bridle flashed a quick intensity of rage on him. "Do you think I
haven't seen that?" he snarled.
"It helps,
anyhow," whispered the little man to himself.
The gaunt man with
the scarred lip stared impassively. "They can't be over the valley,&qu=
ot;
he said. "If we ride hard--"
He glanced at the
white horse and paused.
"Curse all w=
hite
horses!" said the man with the silver bridle, and turned to scan the b=
east
his curse included.
The little man lo=
oked
down between the melancholy ears of his steed.
"I did my
best," he said.
The two others st=
ared
again across the valley for a space. The gaunt man passed the back of his h=
and
across the scarred lip.
"Come up!&qu=
ot;
said the man who owned the silver bridle, suddenly. The little man started =
and
jerked his rein, and the horse hoofs of the three made a multitudinous faint
pattering upon the withered grass as they turned back towards the trail....=
They rode cautiou=
sly
down the long slope before them, and so came through a waste of prickly,
twisted bushes and strange dry shapes of horny branches that grew amongst t=
he
rocks, into the levels below. And there the trail grew faint, for the soil =
was
scanty, and the only herbage was this scorched dead straw that lay upon the
ground. Still, by hard scanning, by leaning beside the horses' necks and
pausing ever and again, even these white men could contrive to follow after
their prey.
There were trodden
places, bent and broken blades of the coarse grass, and ever and again the
sufficient intimation of a footmark. And once the leader saw a brown smear =
of
blood where the half-caste girl may have trod. And at that under his breath=
he
cursed her for a fool.
The gaunt man che=
cked
his leader's tracking, and the little man on the white horse rode behind, a=
man
lost in a dream. They rode one after another, the man with the silver bridle
led the way, and they spoke never a word. After a time it came to the little
man on the white horse that the world was very still. He started out of his
dream. Besides the little noises of their horses and equipment, the whole g=
reat
valley kept the brooding quiet of a painted scene.
Before him went h=
is
master and his fellow, each intently leaning forward to the left, each
impassively moving with the paces of his horse; their shadows went before
them--still, noiseless, tapering attendants; and nearer a crouched cool sha=
pe
was his own. He looked about him. What was it had gone? Then he remembered =
the
reverberation from the banks of the gorge and the perpetual accompaniment of
shifting, jostling pebbles. And, moreover--? There was no breeze. That was =
it!
What a vast, still place it was, a monotonous afternoon slumber. And the sky
open and blank, except for a sombre veil of haze that had gathered in the u=
pper
valley.
He straightened h=
is
back, fretted with his bridle, puckered his lips to whistle, and simply sig=
hed.
He turned in his saddle for a time, and stared at the throat of the mountain
gorge out of which they had come. Blank! Blank slopes on either side, with
never a sign of a decent beast or tree--much less a man. What a land it was!
What a wilderness! He dropped again into his former pose.
It filled him wit=
h a
momentary pleasure to see a wry stick of purple black flash out into the fo=
rm
of a snake, and vanish amidst the brown. After all, the infernal valley WAS
alive. And then, to rejoice him still more, came a little breath across his
face, a whisper that came and went, the faintest inclination of a stiff
black-antlered bush upon a little crest, the first intimations of a possible
breeze. Idly he wetted his finger, and held it up.
He pulled up shar=
ply
to avoid a collision with the gaunt man, who had stopped at fault upon the
trail. Just at that guilty moment he caught his master's eye looking towards
him.
For a time he for=
ced
an interest in the tracking. Then, as they rode on again, he studied his
master's shadow and hat and shoulder, appearing and disappearing behind the
gaunt man's nearer contours. They had ridden four days out of the very limi=
ts
of the world into this desolate place, short of water, with nothing but a s=
trip
of dried meat under their saddles, over rocks and mountains, where surely n=
one
but these fugitives had ever been before--for THAT!
And all this was =
for
a girl, a mere wilful child! And the man had whole cityfuls of people to do=
his
basest bidding--girls, women! Why in the name of passionate folly THIS one =
in
particular? asked the little man, and scowled at the world, and licked his
parched lips with a blackened tongue. It was the way of the master, and that
was all he knew. Just because she sought to evade him....
His eye caught a
whole row of high plumed canes bending in unison, and then the tails of silk
that hung before his neck flapped and fell. The breeze was growing stronger.
Somehow it took the stiff stillness out of things--and that was well.
"Hullo!"
said the gaunt man.
All three stopped
abruptly.
"What?"
asked the master. "What?"
"Over
there," said the gaunt man, pointing up the valley.
"What?"=
"Something
coming towards us."
And as he spoke a
yellow animal crested a rise and came bearing down upon them. It was a big =
wild
dog, coming before the wind, tongue out, at a steady pace, and running with
such an intensity of purpose that he did not seem to see the horsemen he
approached. He ran with his nose up, following, it was plain, neither scent=
nor
quarry. As he drew nearer the little man felt for his sword. "He's
mad," said the gaunt rider.
"Shout!"
said the little man, and shouted.
The dog came on. =
Then
when the little man's blade was already out, it swerved aside and went pant=
ing
by them and past. The eyes of the little man followed its flight. "The=
re
was no foam," he said. For a space the man with the silver-studded bri=
dle
stared up the valley. "Oh, come on!" he cried at last. "What
does it matter?" and jerked his horse into movement again.
The little man le=
ft
the insoluble mystery of a dog that fled from nothing but the wind, and lap=
sed
into profound musings on human character. "Come on!" he whispered=
to
himself. "Why should it be given to one man to say 'Come on!' with that
stupendous violence of effect. Always, all his life, the man with the silver
bridle has been saying that. If I said it--!" thought the little man. =
But
people marvelled when the master was disobeyed even in the wildest things. =
This
half-caste girl seemed to him, seemed to every one, mad--blasphemous almost.
The little man, by way of comparison, reflected on the gaunt rider with the
scarred lip, as stalwart as his master, as brave and, indeed, perhaps brave=
r,
and yet for him there was obedience, nothing but to give obedience duly and
stoutly...
Certain sensation=
s of
the hands and knees called the little man back to more immediate things. He
became aware of something. He rode up beside his gaunt fellow. "Do you=
notice
the horses?" he said in an undertone.
The gaunt face lo=
oked
interrogation.
"They don't =
like
this wind," said the little man, and dropped behind as the man with the
silver bridle turned upon him.
"It's all
right," said the gaunt-faced man.
They rode on again
for a space in silence. The foremost two rode downcast upon the trail, the
hindmost man watched the haze that crept down the vastness of the valley,
nearer and nearer, and noted how the wind grew in strength moment by moment.
Far away on the left he saw a line of dark bulks--wild hog perhaps, gallopi=
ng
down the valley, but of that he said nothing, nor did he remark again upon =
the
uneasiness of the horses.
And then he saw f=
irst
one and then a second great white ball, a great shining white ball like a
gigantic head of thistle-down, that drove before the wind athwart the path.
These balls soared high in the air, and dropped and rose again and caught f=
or a
moment, and hurried on and passed, but at the sight of them the restlessnes=
s of
the horses increased.
Then presently he=
saw
that more of these drifting globes--and then soon very many more--were hurr=
ying
towards him down the valley.
They became aware=
of
a squealing. Athwart the path a huge boar rushed, turning his head but for =
one
instant to glance at them, and then hurling on down the valley again. And at
that, all three stopped and sat in their saddles, staring into the thickeni=
ng
haze that was coming upon them.
"If it were =
not
for this thistle-down--" began the leader.
But now a big glo=
be
came drifting past within a score of yards of them. It was really not an ev=
en
sphere at all, but a vast, soft, ragged, filmy thing, a sheet gathered by t=
he
corners, an aerial jelly-fish, as it were, but rolling over and over as it
advanced, and trailing long, cobwebby threads and streamers that floated in=
its
wake.
"It isn't
thistle-down," said the little man.
"I don't like
the stuff," said the gaunt man.
And they looked at
one another.
"Curse it!&q=
uot;
cried the leader. "The air's full of it up there. If it keeps on at th=
is
pace long, it will stop us altogether."
An instinctive
feeling, such as lines out a herd of deer at the approach of some ambiguous
thing, prompted them to turn their horses to the wind, ride forward for a f=
ew
paces, and stare at that advancing multitude of floating masses. They came =
on
before the wind with a sort of smooth swiftness, rising and falling
noiselessly, sinking to earth, rebounding high, soaring--all with a perfect
unanimity, with a still, deliberate assurance.
Right and left of=
the
horsemen the pioneers of this strange army passed. At one that rolled along=
the
ground, breaking shapelessly and trailing out reluctantly into long grappli=
ng
ribbons and bands, all three horses began to shy and dance. The master was
seized with a sudden unreasonable impatience. He cursed the drifting globes
roundly. "Get on!" he cried; "get on! What do these things
matter? How CAN they matter? Back to the trail!" He fell swearing at h=
is
horse and sawed the bit across its mouth.
He shouted aloud =
with
rage. "I will follow that trail, I tell you!" he cried. "Whe=
re
is the trail?"
He gripped the br=
idle
of his prancing horse and searched amidst the grass. A long and clinging th=
read
fell across his face, a grey streamer dropped about his bridle-arm, some bi=
g,
active thing with many legs ran down the back of his head. He looked up to
discover one of those grey masses anchored as it were above him by these th=
ings
and flapping out ends as a sail flaps when a boat comes, about--but
noiselessly.
He had an impress=
ion
of many eyes, of a dense crew of squat bodies, of long, many-jointed limbs
hauling at their mooring ropes to bring the thing down upon him. For a spac=
e he
stared up, reining in his prancing horse with the instinct born of years of
horsemanship. Then the flat of a sword smote his back, and a blade flashed
overhead and cut the drifting balloon of spider-web free, and the whole mass
lifted softly and drove clear and away.
"Spiders!&qu=
ot;
cried the voice of the gaunt man. "The things are full of big spiders!=
Look,
my lord!"
The man with the
silver bridle still followed the mass that drove away.
"Look, my
lord!"
The master found
himself staring down at a red, smashed thing on the ground that, in spite of
partial obliteration, could still wriggle unavailing legs. Then when the ga=
unt
man pointed to another mass that bore down upon them, he drew his sword
hastily. Up the valley now it was like a fog bank torn to rags. He tried to
grasp the situation.
"Ride for
it!" the little man was shouting. "Ride for it down the valley.&q=
uot;
What happened then
was like the confusion of a battle. The man with the silver bridle saw the
little man go past him slashing furiously at imaginary cobwebs, saw him can=
non
into the horse of the gaunt man and hurl it and its rider to earth. His own
horse went a dozen paces before he could rein it in. Then he looked up to a=
void
imaginary dangers, and then back again to see a horse rolling on the ground,
the gaunt man standing and slashing over it at a rent and fluttering mass of
grey that streamed and wrapped about them both. And thick and fast as
thistle-down on waste land on a windy day in July, the cobweb masses were
coming on.
The little man had
dismounted, but he dared not release his horse. He was endeavouring to lug =
the
struggling brute back with the strength of one arm, while with the other he
slashed aimlessly, The tentacles of a second grey mass had entangled themse=
lves
with the struggle, and this second grey mass came to its moorings, and slow=
ly
sank.
The master set his teeth, gripped his bridle, lowered his head, and spurred his horse forward.= The horse on the ground rolled over, there were blood and moving shapes upon the flanks, and the gaunt man, suddenly leaving it, ran forward towards his mas= ter, perhaps ten paces. His legs were swathed and encumbered with grey; he made ineffectual movements with his sword. Grey streamers waved from him; there = was a thin veil of grey across his face. With his left hand he beat at something = on his body, and suddenly he stumbled and fell. He struggled to rise, and fell again, and suddenly, horribly, began to howl, "Oh--ohoo, ohooh!"<= o:p>
The master could =
see
the great spiders upon him, and others upon the ground.
As he strove to f=
orce
his horse nearer to this gesticulating, screaming grey object that struggle=
d up
and down, there came a clatter of hoofs, and the little man, in act of
mounting, swordless, balanced on his belly athwart the white horse, and
clutching its mane, whirled past. And again a clinging thread of grey gossa=
mer
swept across the master's face. All about him, and over him, it seemed this
drifting, noiseless cobweb circled and drew nearer him....
To the day of his
death he never knew just how the event of that moment happened. Did he, ind=
eed,
turn his horse, or did it really of its own accord stampede after its fello=
w?
Suffice it that in another second he was galloping full tilt down the valley
with his sword whirling furiously overhead. And all about him on the quicke=
ning
breeze, the spiders' airships, their air bundles and air sheets, seemed to =
him
to hurry in a conscious pursuit.
Clatter, clatter,
thud, thud--the man with the silver bridle rode, heedless of his direction,
with his fearful face looking up now right, now left, and his sword arm rea=
dy
to slash. And a few hundred yards ahead of him, with a tail of torn cobweb
trailing behind him, rode the little man on the white horse, still but
imperfectly in the saddle. The reeds bent before them, the wind blew fresh =
and
strong, over his shoulder the master could see the webs hurrying to overtak=
e....
He was so intent =
to
escape the spiders' webs that only as his horse gathered together for a leap
did he realise the ravine ahead. And then he realised it only to misunderst=
and
and interfere. He was leaning forward on his horse's neck and sat up and ba=
ck
all too late.
But if in his
excitement he had failed to leap, at any rate he had not forgotten how to f=
all.
He was horseman again in mid-air. He came off clear with a mere bruise upon=
his
shoulder, and his horse rolled, kicking spasmodic legs, and lay still. But =
the
master's sword drove its point into the hard soil, and snapped clean across=
, as
though Chance refused him any longer as her Knight, and the splintered end
missed his face by an inch or so.
He was on his fee=
t in
a moment, breathlessly scanning the onrushing spider-webs. For a moment he =
was
minded to run, and then thought of the ravine, and turned back. He ran aside
once to dodge one drifting terror, and then he was swiftly clambering down =
the
precipitous sides, and out of the touch of the gale.
There under the l=
ee
of the dry torrent's steeper banks he might crouch, and watch these strange,
grey masses pass and pass in safety till the wind fell, and it became possi=
ble
to escape. And there for a long time he crouched, watching the strange, gre=
y,
ragged masses trail their streamers across his narrowed sky.
Once a stray spid=
er
fell into the ravine close beside him--a full foot it measured from leg to =
leg,
and its body was half a man's hand--and after he had watched its monstrous
alacrity of search and escape for a little while, and tempted it to bite his
broken sword, he lifted up his iron-heeled boot and smashed it into a pulp.=
He
swore as he did so, and for a time sought up and down for another.
Then presently, w=
hen
he was surer these spider swarms could not drop into the ravine, he found a
place where he could sit down, and sat and fell into deep thought and began
after his manner to gnaw his knuckles and bite his nails. And from this he =
was
moved by the coming of the man with the white horse.
He heard him long
before he saw him, as a clattering of hoofs, stumbling footsteps, and a
reassuring voice. Then the little man appeared, a rueful figure, still with=
a
tail of white cobweb trailing behind him. They approached each other withou=
t speaking,
without a salutation. The little man was fatigued and shamed to the pitch of
hopeless bitterness, and came to a stop at last, face to face with his seat=
ed
master. The latter winced a little under his dependant's eye. "Well?&q=
uot;
he said at last, with no pretence of authority.
"You left
him?"
"My horse
bolted."
"I know. So =
did
mine."
He laughed at his
master mirthlessly.
"I say my ho=
rse
bolted," said the man who once had a silver-studded bridle.
"Cowards
both," said the little man.
The other gnawed =
his
knuckle through some meditative moments, with his eye on his inferior.
"Don't call =
me a
coward," he said at length.
"You are a
coward like myself."
"A coward
possibly. There is a limit beyond which every man must fear. That I have le=
arnt
at last. But not like yourself. That is where the difference comes in."=
;
"I never cou=
ld
have dreamt you would have left him. He saved your life two minutes before.=
...
Why are you our lord?"
The master gnawed=
his
knuckles again, and his countenance was dark.
"No man call=
s me
a coward," he said. "No. A broken sword is better than none.... O=
ne
spavined white horse cannot be expected to carry two men a four days' journ=
ey.
I hate white horses, but this time it cannot be helped. You begin to unders=
tand
me?... I perceive that you are minded, on the strength of what you have seen
and fancy, to taint my reputation. It is men of your sort who unmake kings.
Besides which--I never liked you."
"My lord!&qu=
ot;
said the little man.
"No," s=
aid
the master. "NO!"
He stood up sharp=
ly as
the little man moved. For a minute perhaps they faced one another. Overhead=
the
spiders' balls went driving. There was a quick movement among the pebbles; a
running of feet, a cry of despair, a gasp and a blow....
Towards nightfall=
the
wind fell. The sun set in a calm serenity, and the man who had once possess=
ed
the silver bridle came at last very cautiously and by an easy slope out of =
the
ravine again; but now he led the white horse that once belonged to the litt=
le
man. He would have gone back to his horse to get his silver-mounted bridle
again, but he feared night and a quickening breeze might still find him in =
the
valley, and besides he disliked greatly to think he might discover his horse
all swathed in cobwebs and perhaps unpleasantly eaten.
And as he thought=
of
those cobwebs and of all the dangers he had been through, and the manner in
which he had been preserved that day, his hand sought a little reliquary th=
at
hung about his neck, and he clasped it for a moment with heartfelt gratitud=
e.
As he did so his eyes went across the valley.
"I was hot w=
ith
passion," he said, "and now she has met her reward. They also, no
doubt--"
And behold! Far a=
way
out of the wooded slopes across the valley, but in the clearness of the sun=
set
distinct and unmistakable, he saw a little spire of smoke.
At that his
expression of serene resignation changed to an amazed anger. Smoke? He turn=
ed
the head of the white horse about, and hesitated. And as he did so a little
rustle of air went through the grass about him. Far away upon some reeds sw=
ayed
a tattered sheet of grey. He looked at the cobwebs; he looked at the smoke.=
"Perhaps, af=
ter
all, it is not them," he said at last.
But he knew bette=
r.
After he had star=
ed
at the smoke for some time, he mounted the white horse.
As he rode, he pi=
cked
his way amidst stranded masses of web. For some reason there were many dead
spiders on the ground, and those that lived feasted guiltily on their fello=
ws.
At the sound of his horse's hoofs they fled.
Their time had
passed. From the ground without either a wind to carry them or a winding sh=
eet
ready, these things, for all their poison, could do him little evil. He fli=
cked
with his belt at those he fancied came too near. Once, where a number ran
together over a bare place, he was minded to dismount and trample them with=
his
boots, but this impulse he overcame. Ever and again he turned in his saddle,
and looked back at the smoke.
"Spiders,&qu=
ot;
he muttered over and over again. "Spiders! Well, well.... The next tim=
e I
must spin a web."
4. THE TRUTH ABOUT PYECRA=
FT
He sits not a doz=
en
yards away. If I glance over my shoulder I can see him. And if I catch his
eye--and usually I catch his eye--it meets me with an expression.
It is mainly an
imploring look--and yet with suspicion in it.
Confound his
suspicion! If I wanted to tell on him I should have told long ago. I don't =
tell
and I don't tell, and he ought to feel at his ease. As if anything so gross=
and
fat as he could feel at ease! Who would believe me if I did tell?
Poor old Pyecraft!
Great, uneasy jelly of substance! The fattest clubman in London.
He sits at one of=
the
little club tables in the huge bay by the fire, stuffing. What is he stuffi=
ng?
I glance judiciously and catch him biting at a round of hot buttered tea-ca=
ke,
with his eyes on me. Confound him!--with his eyes on me!
That settles it, Pyecraft! Since you WILL be abject, since you WILL behave as though I was n= ot a man of honour, here, right under your embedded eyes, I write the thing down--the plain truth about Pyecraft. The man I helped, the man I shielded,= and who has requited me by making my club unendurable, absolutely unendurable, = with his liquid appeal, with the perpetual "don't tell" of his looks.<= o:p>
And, besides, why
does he keep on eternally eating?
Well, here goes f=
or the
truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth!
Pyecraft--. I made
the acquaintance of Pyecraft in this very smoking-room. I was a young, nerv=
ous
new member, and he saw it. I was sitting all alone, wishing I knew more of =
the
members, and suddenly he came, a great rolling front of chins and abdomina,
towards me, and grunted and sat down in a chair close by me and wheezed for=
a
space, and scraped for a space with a match and lit a cigar, and then addre=
ssed
me. I forget what he said--something about the matches not lighting properl=
y,
and afterwards as he talked he kept stopping the waiters one by one as they
went by, and telling them about the matches in that thin, fluty voice he ha=
s.
But, anyhow, it was in some such way we began our talking.
He talked about
various things and came round to games. And thence to my figure and complex=
ion.
"YOU ought to be a good cricketer," he said. I suppose I am slend=
er,
slender to what some people would call lean, and I suppose I am rather dark,
still--I am not ashamed of having a Hindu great-grandmother, but, for all t=
hat,
I don't want casual strangers to see through me at a glance to HER. So that=
I
was set against Pyecraft from the beginning.
But he only talked
about me in order to get to himself.
"I expect,&q=
uot;
he said, "you take no more exercise than I do, and probably you eat no
less." (Like all excessively obese people he fancied he ate nothing.)
"Yet,"--and he smiled an oblique smile--"we differ."
And then he began=
to
talk about his fatness and his fatness; all he did for his fatness and all =
he
was going to do for his fatness; what people had advised him to do for his
fatness and what he had heard of people doing for fatness similar to his.
"A priori," he said, "one would think a question of nutrition
could be answered by dietary and a question of assimilation by drugs."=
It
was stifling. It was dumpling talk. It made me feel swelled to hear him.
One stands that s=
ort
of thing once in a way at a club, but a time came when I fancied I was stan=
ding
too much. He took to me altogether too conspicuously. I could never go into=
the
smoking-room but he would come wallowing towards me, and sometimes he came =
and
gormandised round and about me while I had my lunch. He seemed at times alm=
ost
to be clinging to me. He was a bore, but not so fearful a bore as to be lim=
ited
to me; and from the first there was something in his manner--almost as thou=
gh he
knew, almost as though he penetrated to the fact that I MIGHT--that there w=
as a
remote, exceptional chance in me that no one else presented.
"I'd give
anything to get it down," he would say--"anything," and peer=
at
me over his vast cheeks and pant.
Poor old Pyecraft=
! He
has just gonged, no doubt to order another buttered tea-cake!
He came to the ac=
tual
thing one day. "Our Pharmacopoeia," he said, "our Western
Pharmacopoeia, is anything but the last word of medical science. In the Eas=
t,
I've been told--"
He stopped and st=
ared
at me. It was like being at an aquarium.
I was quite sudde=
nly
angry with him. "Look here," I said, "who told you about my
great-grandmother's recipes?"
"Well,"=
he
fenced.
"Every time
we've met for a week," I said, "and we've met pretty often--you've
given me a broad hint or so about that little secret of mine."
"Well,"=
he
said, "now the cat's out of the bag, I'll admit, yes, it is so. I had
it--"
"From
Pattison?"
"Indirectly,=
"
he said, which I believe was lying, "yes."
"Pattison,&q=
uot;
I said, "took that stuff at his own risk."
He pursed his mou=
th
and bowed.
"My
great-grandmother's recipes," I said, "are queer things to handle=
. My
father was near making me promise--"
"He
didn't?"
"No. But he
warned me. He himself used one--once."
"Ah!... But =
do
you think--? Suppose--suppose there did happen to be one--"
"The things =
are
curious documents," I said.
"Even the sm=
ell
of 'em.... No!"
But after going so far Pyecraft was resolved I should go farther. I was always a little afraid= if I tried his patience too much he would fall on me suddenly and smother me. I own I was weak. But I was also annoyed with Pyecraft. I had got to that sta= te of feeling for him that disposed me to say, "Well, TAKE the risk!" The little affair of Pattison to which I have alluded was a different matter altogether. What it was doesn't concern us now, but I knew, anyhow, that the particular recipe I used then was safe. The rest I didn't know so much abou= t, and, on the whole, I was inclined to doubt their safety pretty completely.<= o:p>
Yet even if Pyecr=
aft
got poisoned--
I must confess the
poisoning of Pyecraft struck me as an immense undertaking.
That evening I to=
ok
that queer, odd-scented sandalwood box out of my safe and turned the rustli=
ng
skins over. The gentleman who wrote the recipes for my great-grandmother
evidently had a weakness for skins of a miscellaneous origin, and his
handwriting was cramped to the last degree. Some of the things are quite
unreadable to me--though my family, with its Indian Civil Service associati=
ons,
has kept up a knowledge of Hindustani from generation to generation--and no=
ne
are absolutely plain sailing. But I found the one that I knew was there soon
enough, and sat on the floor by my safe for some time looking at it.
"Look
here," said I to Pyecraft next day, and snatched the slip away from his
eager grasp.
"So far as
I--can make it out, this is a recipe for Loss of Weight. ("Ah!" s=
aid
Pyecraft.) I'm not absolutely sure, but I think it's that. And if you take =
my
advice you'll leave it alone. Because, you know--I blacken my blood in your
interest, Pyecraft--my ancestors on that side were, so far as I can gather,=
a
jolly queer lot. See?"
"Let me try
it," said Pyecraft.
I leant back in my
chair. My imagination made one mighty effort and fell flat within me.
"What in Heaven's name, Pyecraft," I asked, "do you think yo=
u'll
look like when you get thin?"
He was impervious=
to
reason. I made him promise never to say a word to me about his disgusting
fatness again whatever happened--never, and then I handed him that little p=
iece
of skin.
"It's nasty
stuff," I said.
"No
matter," he said, and took it.
He goggled at it.
"But--but--" he said.
He had just
discovered that it wasn't English.
"To the best=
of
my ability," I said, "I will do you a translation."
I did my best. Af=
ter
that we didn't speak for a fortnight. Whenever he approached me I frowned a=
nd
motioned him away, and he respected our compact, but at the end of a fortni=
ght
he was as fat as ever. And then he got a word in.
"I must
speak," he said. "It isn't fair. There's something wrong. It's do=
ne
me no good. You're not doing your great-grandmother justice."
"Where's the
recipe?"
He produced it
gingerly from his pocket-book.
I ran my eye over=
the
items. "Was the egg addled?" I asked.
"No. Ought i=
t to
have been?"
"That,"=
I
said, "goes without saying in all my poor dear great-grandmother's
recipes. When condition or quality is not specified you must get the worst.=
She
was drastic or nothing.... And there's one or two possible alternatives to =
some
of these other things. You got FRESH rattlesnake venom."
"I got a
rattlesnake from Jamrach's. It cost--it cost--"
"That's your
affair, anyhow. This last item--"
"I know a man
who--"
"Yes. H'm. W=
ell,
I'll write the alternatives down. So far as I know the language, the spelli=
ng
of this recipe is particularly atrocious. By-the-bye, dog here probably mea=
ns
pariah dog."
For a month after
that I saw Pyecraft constantly at the club and as fat and anxious as ever. =
He
kept our treaty, but at times he broke the spirit of it by shaking his head
despondently. Then one day in the cloakroom he said, "Your
great-grandmother--"
"Not a word
against her," I said; and he held his peace.
I could have fanc=
ied
he had desisted, and I saw him one day talking to three new members about h=
is
fatness as though he was in search of other recipes. And then, quite
unexpectedly, his telegram came.
"Mr. Formaly=
n!"
bawled a page-boy under my nose, and I took the telegram and opened it at o=
nce.
"For Heaven's
sake come.--Pyecraft."
"H'm," =
said
I, and to tell the truth I was so pleased at the rehabilitation of my great
grandmother's reputation this evidently promised that I made a most excelle=
nt
lunch.
I got Pyecraft's
address from the hall porter. Pyecraft inhabited the upper half of a house =
in
Bloomsbury, and I went there so soon as I had done my coffee and Trappistin=
e. I
did not wait to finish my cigar.
"Mr.
Pyecraft?" said I, at the front door.
They believed he =
was
ill; he hadn't been out for two days.
"He expects
me," said I, and they sent me up.
I rang the bell at
the lattice-door upon the landing.
"He shouldn't
have tried it, anyhow," I said to myself. "A man who eats like a =
pig
ought to look like a pig."
An obviously wort=
hy
woman, with an anxious face and a carelessly placed cap, came and surveyed =
me
through the lattice.
I gave my name and
she let me in in a dubious fashion.
"Well?"
said I, as we stood together inside Pyecraft's piece of the landing.
"'E said you=
was
to come in if you came," she said, and regarded me, making no motion to
show me anywhere. And then, confidentially, "'E's locked in, sir."=
;
"Locked
in?"
"Locked hims=
elf
in yesterday morning and 'asn't let any one in since, sir. And ever and aga=
in
SWEARING. Oh, my!"
I stared at the d=
oor
she indicated by her glances.
"In there?&q=
uot;
I said.
"Yes, sir.&q=
uot;
"What's
up?"
She shook her head
sadly, "'E keeps on calling for vittles, sir. 'EAVY vittles 'e wants. I
get 'im what I can. Pork 'e's 'ad, sooit puddin', sossiges, noo bread.
Everythink like that. Left outside, if you please, and me go away. 'E's eat=
in',
sir, somethink AWFUL."
There came a pipi=
ng
bawl from inside the door: "That Formalyn?"
"That you,
Pyecraft?" I shouted, and went and banged the door.
"Tell her to=
go
away."
I did.
Then I could hear=
a
curious pattering upon the door, almost like some one feeling for the handl=
e in
the dark, and Pyecraft's familiar grunts.
"It's all
right," I said, "she's gone."
But for a long ti=
me
the door didn't open.
I heard the key t=
urn.
Then Pyecraft's voice said, "Come in."
I turned the hand=
le
and opened the door. Naturally I expected to see Pyecraft.
Well, you know, he
wasn't there!
I never had such a
shock in my life. There was his sitting-room in a state of untidy disorder,
plates and dishes among the books and writing things, and several chairs
overturned, but Pyecraft--
"It's all ri=
ght,
o' man; shut the door," he said, and then I discovered him.
There he was righ=
t up
close to the cornice in the corner by the door, as though some one had glued
him to the ceiling. His face was anxious and angry. He panted and gesticula=
ted.
"Shut the door," he said. "If that woman gets hold of it--&q=
uot;
I shut the door, =
and
went and stood away from him and stared.
"If anything
gives way and you tumble down," I said, "you'll break your neck,
Pyecraft."
"I wish I
could," he wheezed.
"A man of yo=
ur
age and weight getting up to kiddish gymnastics--"
"Don't,"=
; he
said, and looked agonised.
"I'll tell
you," he said, and gesticulated.
"How the
deuce," said I, "are you holding on up there?"
And then abruptly=
I
realised that he was not holding on at all, that he was floating up there--=
just
as a gas-filled bladder might have floated in the same position. He began a
struggle to thrust himself away from the ceiling and to clamber down the wa=
ll
to me. "It's that prescription," he panted, as he did so. "Y=
our
great-gran--"
He took hold of a
framed engraving rather carelessly as he spoke and it gave way, and he flew
back to the ceiling again, while the picture smashed onto the sofa. Bump he
went against the ceiling, and I knew then why he was all over white on the =
more
salient curves and angles of his person. He tried again more carefully, com=
ing
down by way of the mantel.
It was really a m=
ost
extraordinary spectacle, that great, fat, apoplectic-looking man upside down
and trying to get from the ceiling to the floor. "That prescription,&q=
uot;
he said. "Too successful."
"How?"<= o:p>
"Loss of
weight--almost complete."
And then, of cour=
se,
I understood.
"By Jove,
Pyecraft," said I, "what you wanted was a cure for fatness! But y=
ou
always called it weight. You would call it weight."
Somehow I was
extremely delighted. I quite liked Pyecraft for the time. "Let me help
you!" I said, and took his hand and pulled him down. He kicked about,
trying to get a foothold somewhere. It was very like holding a flag on a wi=
ndy
day.
"That
table," he said, pointing, "is solid mahogany and very heavy. If =
you
can put me under that---"
I did, and there =
he
wallowed about like a captive balloon, while I stood on his hearthrug and
talked to him.
I lit a cigar.
"Tell me," I said, "what happened?"
"I took
it," he said.
"How did it
taste?"
"Oh, BEASTLY=
!"
I should fancy th=
ey
all did. Whether one regards the ingredients or the probable compound or the
possible results, almost all of my great-grandmother's remedies appear to m=
e at
least to be extraordinarily uninviting. For my own part--
"I took a li=
ttle
sip first."
"Yes?"<= o:p>
"And as I fe=
lt
lighter and better after an hour, I decided to take the draught."
"My dear
Pyecraft!"
"I held my
nose," he explained. "And then I kept on getting lighter and ligh=
ter--and
helpless, you know."
He gave way to a
sudden burst of passion. "What the goodness am I to DO?" he said.=
"There's one
thing pretty evident," I said, "that you mustn't do. If you go ou=
t of
doors, you'll go up and up." I waved an arm upward. "They'd have =
to
send Santos-Dumont after you to bring you down again."
"I suppose it
will wear off?"
I shook my head.
"I don't think you can count on that," I said.
And then there was
another burst of passion, and he kicked out at adjacent chairs and banged t=
he
floor. He behaved just as I should have expected a great, fat, self-indulge=
nt
man to behave under trying circumstances--that is to say, very badly. He sp=
oke
of me and my great-grandmother with an utter want of discretion.
"I never ask=
ed
you to take the stuff," I said.
And generously
disregarding the insults he was putting upon me, I sat down in his armchair=
and
began to talk to him in a sober, friendly fashion.
I pointed out to =
him
that this was a trouble he had brought upon himself, and that it had almost=
an
air of poetical justice. He had eaten too much. This he disputed, and for a
time we argued the point.
He became noisy a=
nd
violent, so I desisted from this aspect of his lesson. "And then,"
said I, "you committed the sin of euphuism. You called it not Fat, whi=
ch
is just and inglorious, but Weight. You--"
He interrupted to=
say
he recognised all that. What was he to DO?
I suggested he sh=
ould
adapt himself to his new conditions. So we came to the really sensible part=
of
the business. I suggested that it would not be difficult for him to learn to
walk about on the ceiling with his hands--
"I can't
sleep," he said.
But that was no g=
reat
difficulty. It was quite possible, I pointed out, to make a shake-up under a
wire mattress, fasten the under things on with tapes, and have a blanket,
sheet, and coverlet to button at the side. He would have to confide in his
housekeeper, I said; and after some squabbling he agreed to that. (Afterwar=
ds
it was quite delightful to see the beautifully matter-of-fact way with which
the good lady took all these amazing inversions.) He could have a library
ladder in his room, and all his meals could be laid on the top of his bookc=
ase.
We also hit on an ingenious device by which he could get to the floor whene=
ver
he wanted, which was simply to put the British Encyclopaedia (tenth edition=
) on
the top of his open shelves. He just pulled out a couple of volumes and held
on, and down he came. And we agreed there must be iron staples along the
skirting, so that he could cling to those whenever he wanted to get about t=
he
room on the lower level.
As we got on with=
the
thing I found myself almost keenly interested. It was I who called in the
housekeeper and broke matters to her, and it was I chiefly who fixed up the
inverted bed. In fact, I spent two whole days at his flat. I am a handy, in=
terfering
sort of man with a screw-driver, and I made all sorts of ingenious adaptati=
ons
for him--ran a wire to bring his bells within reach, turned all his electric
lights up instead of down, and so on. The whole affair was extremely curious
and interesting to me, and it was delightful to think of Pyecraft like some=
great,
fat blow-fly, crawling about on his ceiling and clambering round the lintel=
s of
his doors from one room to another, and never, never, never coming to the c=
lub
any more....
Then, you know, my
fatal ingenuity got the better of me. I was sitting by his fire drinking his
whisky, and he was up in his favourite corner by the cornice, tacking a Tur=
key
carpet to the ceiling, when the idea struck me. "By Jove, Pyecraft!&qu=
ot;
I said, "all this is totally unnecessary."
And before I could
calculate the complete consequences of my notion I blurted it out. "Le=
ad
underclothing," said I, and the mischief was done.
Pyecraft received=
the
thing almost in tears. "To be right ways up again--" he said. I g=
ave
him the whole secret before I saw where it would take me. "Buy sheet
lead," I said, "stamp it into discs. Sew 'em all over your
underclothes until you have enough. Have lead-soled boots, carry a bag of s=
olid
lead, and the thing is done! Instead of being a prisoner here you may go ab=
road
again, Pyecraft; you may travel--"
A still happier i=
dea
came to me. "You need never fear a shipwreck. All you need do is just =
slip
off some or all of your clothes, take the necessary amount of luggage in yo=
ur
hand, and float up in the air--"
In his emotion he
dropped the tack-hammer within an ace of my head. "By Jove!" he s=
aid,
"I shall be able to come back to the club again."
The thing pulled =
me
up short. "By Jove!" I said faintly. "Yes. Of course--you
will."
He did. He does.
There he sits behind me now, stuffing--as I live!--a third go of buttered
tea-cake. And no one in the whole world knows--except his housekeeper and
me--that he weighs practically nothing; that he is a mere boring mass of
assimilatory matter, mere clouds in clothing, niente, nefas, the most
inconsiderable of men. There he sits watching until I have done this writin=
g.
Then, if he can, he will waylay me. He will come billowing up to me....
He will tell me o=
ver
again all about it, how it feels, how it doesn't feel, how he sometimes hop=
es
it is passing off a little. And always somewhere in that fat, abundant
discourse he will say, "The secret's keeping, eh? If any one knew of i=
t--I
should be so ashamed.... Makes a fellow look such a fool, you know. Crawlin=
g about
on a ceiling and all that...."
And now to elude
Pyecraft, occupying, as he does, an admirable strategic position between me=
and
the door.
5. MR. SKELMERSDALE IN
FAIRYLAND
"There's a m=
an
in that shop," said the Doctor, "who has been in Fairyland."=
"Nonsense!&q=
uot;
I said, and stared back at the shop. It was the usual village shop,
post-office, telegraph wire on its brow, zinc pans and brushes outside, boo=
ts,
shirtings, and potted meats in the window. "Tell me about it," I
said, after a pause.
"I don't
know," said the Doctor. "He's an ordinary sort of lout--Skelmersd=
ale
is his name. But everybody about here believes it like Bible truth."
I reverted presen=
tly
to the topic.
"I know noth=
ing
about it," said the Doctor, "and I don't WANT to know. I attended=
him
for a broken finger--Married and Single cricket match--and that's when I st=
ruck
the nonsense. That's all. But it shows you the sort of stuff I have to deal
with, anyhow, eh? Nice to get modern sanitary ideas into a people like
this!"
"Very,"=
I
said in a mildly sympathetic tone, and he went on to tell me about that
business of the Bonham drain. Things of that kind, I observe, are apt to we=
igh
on the minds of Medical Officers of Health. I was as sympathetic as I knew =
how,
and when he called the Bonham people "asses," I said they were
"thundering asses," but even that did not allay him.
Afterwards, later=
in
the summer, an urgent desire to seclude myself, while finishing my chapter =
on
Spiritual Pathology--it was really, I believe, stiffer to write than it is =
to
read--took me to Bignor. I lodged at a farmhouse, and presently found myself
outside that little general shop again, in search of tobacco.
"Skelmersdale," said I to myself at the sight of it, and went in.=
I was served by a
short, but shapely, young man, with a fair downy complexion, good, small te=
eth,
blue eyes, and a languid manner. I scrutinised him curiously. Except for a
touch of melancholy in his expression, he was nothing out of the common. He=
was
in the shirt-sleeves and tucked-up apron of his trade, and a pencil was thr=
ust behind
his inoffensive ear. Athwart his black waistcoat was a gold chain, from whi=
ch
dangled a bent guinea.
"Nothing more to-day, sir?" he inquired. He leant forward over my bill as he spoke.<= o:p>
"Are you Mr.
Skelmersdale?" said I.
"I am,
sir," he said, without looking up.
"Is it true =
that
you have been in Fairyland?"
He looked up at me
for a moment with wrinkled brows, with an aggrieved, exasperated face. &quo=
t;O
SHUT it!" he said, and, after a moment of hostility, eye to eye, he we=
nt
on adding up my bill. "Four, six and a half," he said, after a pa=
use.
"Thank you, Sir."
So, unpropitiousl=
y,
my acquaintance with Mr. Skelmersdale began.
Well, I got from =
that
to confidence--through a series of toilsome efforts. I picked him up again =
in
the Village Room, where of a night I went to play billiards after my supper,
and mitigate the extreme seclusion from my kind that was so helpful to work
during the day. I contrived to play with him and afterwards to talk with hi=
m. I
found the one subject to avoid was Fairyland. On everything else he was ope=
n and
amiable in a commonplace sort of way, but on that he had been worried--it w=
as a
manifest taboo. Only once in the room did I hear the slightest allusion to =
his
experience in his presence, and that was by a cross-grained farm hand who w=
as
losing to him. Skelmersdale had run a break into double figures, which, by =
the
Bignor standards, was uncommonly good play. "Steady on!" said his
adversary. "None of your fairy flukes!"
Skelmersdale star=
ed
at him for a moment, cue in hand, then flung it down and walked out of the
room.
"Why can't y=
ou
leave 'im alone?" said a respectable elder who had been enjoying the g=
ame,
and in the general murmur of disapproval the grin of satisfied wit faded fr=
om
the ploughboy's face.
I scented my
opportunity. "What's this joke," said I, "about Fairyland?&q=
uot;
"'Tain't no =
joke
about Fairyland, not to young Skelmersdale," said the respectable elde=
r,
drinking. A little man with rosy cheeks was more communicative. "They =
DO
say, sir," he said, "that they took him into Aldington Knoll an' =
kep'
him there a matter of three weeks."
And with that the
gathering was well under weigh. Once one sheep had started, others were rea=
dy
enough to follow, and in a little time I had at least the exterior aspect of
the Skelmersdale affair. Formerly, before he came to Bignor, he had been in
that very similar little shop at Aldington Corner, and there whatever it was
did happen had taken place. The story was clear that he had stayed out late=
one
night on the Knoll and vanished for three weeks from the sight of men, and =
had returned
with "his cuffs as clean as when he started," and his pockets ful=
l of
dust and ashes. He returned in a state of moody wretchedness that only slow=
ly
passed away, and for many days he would give no account of where it was he =
had
been. The girl he was engaged to at Clapton Hill tried to get it out of him,
and threw him over partly because he refused, and partly because, as she sa=
id,
he fairly gave her the "'ump." And then when, some time after, he=
let
out to some one carelessly that he had been in Fairyland and wanted to go b=
ack,
and when the thing spread and the simple badinage of the countryside came i=
nto
play, he threw up his situation abruptly, and came to Bignor to get out of =
the fuss.
But as to what had happened in Fairyland none of these people knew. There t=
he
gathering in the Village Room went to pieces like a pack at fault. One said
this, and another said that.
Their air in deal=
ing
with this marvel was ostensibly critical and sceptical, but I could see a
considerable amount of belief showing through their guarded qualifications.=
I
took a line of intelligent interest, tinged with a reasonable doubt of the
whole story.
"If Fairylan=
d's
inside Aldington Knoll," I said, "why don't you dig it out?"=
"That's what=
I
says," said the young ploughboy.
"There's a-m=
any
have tried to dig on Aldington Knoll," said the respectable elder,
solemnly, "one time and another. But there's none as goes about to-day=
to
tell what they got by digging."
The unanimity of
vague belief that surrounded me was rather impressive; I felt there must su=
rely
be SOMETHING at the root of so much conviction, and the already pretty keen
curiosity I felt about the real facts of the case was distinctly whetted. If
these real facts were to be got from any one, they were to be got from
Skelmersdale himself; and I set myself, therefore, still more assiduously to
efface the first bad impression I had made and win his confidence to the pi=
tch
of voluntary speech. In that endeavour I had a social advantage. Being a pe=
rson
of affability and no apparent employment, and wearing tweeds and
knickerbockers, I was naturally classed as an artist in Bignor, and in the
remarkable code of social precedence prevalent in Bignor an artist ranks
considerably higher than a grocer's assistant. Skelmersdale, like too many =
of
his class, is something of a snob; he had told me to "shut it," o=
nly
under sudden, excessive provocation, and with, I am certain, a subsequent r=
epentance;
he was, I knew, quite glad to be seen walking about the village with me. In=
due
course, he accepted the proposal of a pipe and whisky in my rooms readily
enough, and there, scenting by some happy instinct that there was trouble of
the heart in this, and knowing that confidences beget confidences, I plied =
him
with much of interest and suggestion from my real and fictitious past. And =
it
was after the third whisky of the third visit of that sort, if I remember
rightly, that a propos of some artless expansion of a little affair that had
touched and left me in my teens, that he did at last, of his own free will =
and motion,
break the ice. "It was like that with me," he said, "over th=
ere at
Aldington. It's just that that's so rum. First I didn't care a bit and it w=
as
all her, and afterwards, when it was too late, it was, in a manner of speak=
ing,
all me."
I forbore to jump
upon this allusion, and so he presently threw out another, and in a little
while he was making it as plain as daylight that the one thing he wanted to
talk about now was this Fairyland adventure he had sat tight upon for so lo=
ng.
You see, I'd done the trick with him, and from being just another
half-incredulous, would-be facetious stranger, I had, by all my wealth of
shameless self-exposure, become the possible confidant. He had been bitten =
by
the desire to show that he, too, had lived and felt many things, and the fe=
ver
was upon him.
He was certainly
confoundedly allusive at first, and my eagerness to clear him up with a few
precise questions was only equalled and controlled by my anxiety not to get=
to
this sort of thing too soon. But in another meeting or so the basis of
confidence was complete; and from first to last I think I got most of the i=
tems
and aspects--indeed, I got quite a number of times over almost everything t=
hat
Mr. Skelmersdale, with his very limited powers of narration, will ever be a=
ble
to tell. And so I come to the story of his adventure, and I piece it all
together again. Whether it really happened, whether he imagined it or dreamt
it, or fell upon it in some strange hallucinatory trance, I do not profess =
to
say. But that he invented it I will not for one moment entertain. The man
simply and honestly believes the thing happened as he says it happened; he =
is
transparently incapable of any lie so elaborate and sustained, and in the
belief of the simple, yet often keenly penetrating, rustic minds about him I
find a very strong confirmation of his sincerity. He believes--and nobody c=
an
produce any positive fact to falsify his belief. As for me, with this much =
of
endorsement, I transmit his story--I am a little old now to justify or expl=
ain.
He says he went to
sleep on Aldington Knoll about ten o'clock one night--it was quite possibly
Midsummer night, though he has never thought of the date, and he cannot be =
sure
within a week or so--and it was a fine night and windless, with a rising mo=
on.
I have been at the pains to visit this Knoll thrice since his story grew up
under my persuasions, and once I went there in the twilight summer moonrise=
on what
was, perhaps, a similar night to that of his adventure. Jupiter was great a=
nd
splendid above the moon, and in the north and northwest the sky was green a=
nd
vividly bright over the sunken sun. The Knoll stands out bare and bleak und=
er
the sky, but surrounded at a little distance by dark thickets, and as I wen=
t up
towards it there was a mighty starting and scampering of ghostly or quite
invisible rabbits. Just over the crown of the Knoll, but nowhere else, was a
multitudinous thin trumpeting of midges. The Knoll is, I believe, an artifi=
cial
mound, the tumulus of some great prehistoric chieftain, and surely no man e=
ver chose
a more spacious prospect for a sepulchre. Eastward one sees along the hills=
to
Hythe, and thence across the Channel to where, thirty miles and more perhap=
s,
away, the great white lights by Gris Nez and Boulogne wink and pass and shi=
ne.
Westward lies the whole tumbled valley of the Weald, visible as far as Hind=
head
and Leith Hill, and the valley of the Stour opens the Downs in the north to=
interminable
hills beyond Wye. All Romney Marsh lies southward at one's feet, Dymchurch =
and
Romney and Lydd, Hastings and its hill are in the middle distance, and the
hills multiply vaguely far beyond where Eastbourne rolls up to Beachy Head.=
And out upon all =
this
it was that Skelmersdale wandered, being troubled in his earlier love affai=
r,
and as he says, "not caring WHERE he went." And there he sat down=
to
think it over, and so, sulking and grieving, was overtaken by sleep. And so=
he
fell into the fairies' power.
The quarrel that =
had
upset him was some trivial matter enough between himself and the girl at
Clapton Hill to whom he was engaged. She was a farmer's daughter, said
Skelmersdale, and "very respectable," and no doubt an excellent m=
atch
for him; but both girl and lover were very young and with just that mutual
jealousy, that intolerantly keen edge of criticism, that irrational hunger =
for
a beautiful perfection, that life and wisdom do presently and most merciful=
ly
dull. What the precise matter of quarrel was I have no idea. She may have s=
aid
she liked men in gaiters when he hadn't any gaiters on, or he may have said=
he
liked her better in a different sort of hat, but however it began, it got b=
y a
series of clumsy stages to bitterness and tears. She no doubt got tearful a=
nd
smeary, and he grew dusty and drooping, and she parted with invidious
comparisons, grave doubts whether she ever had REALLY cared for him, and a
clear certainty she would never care again. And with this sort of thing upon
his mind he came out upon Aldington Knoll grieving, and presently, after a =
long
interval, perhaps, quite inexplicably, fell asleep.
He woke to find
himself on a softer turf than ever he had slept on before, and under the sh=
ade
of very dark trees that completely hid the sky. Always, indeed, in Fairyland
the sky is hidden, it seems. Except for one night when the fairies were
dancing, Mr. Skelmersdale, during all his time with them, never saw a star.=
And
of that night I am in doubt whether he was in Fairyland proper or out where=
the
rings and rushes are, in those low meadows near the railway line at Smeeth.=
But it was light
under these trees for all that, and on the leaves and amidst the turf shone=
a
multitude of glow-worms, very bright and fine. Mr. Skelmersdale's first
impression was that he was SMALL, and the next that quite a number of people
still smaller were standing all about him. For some reason, he says, he was
neither surprised nor frightened, but sat up quite deliberately and rubbed =
the
sleep out of his eyes. And there all about him stood the smiling elves who =
had
caught him sleeping under their privileges and had brought him into Fairyla=
nd.
What these elves =
were
like I have failed to gather, so vague and imperfect is his vocabulary, and=
so
unobservant of all minor detail does he seem to have been. They were clothe=
d in
something very light and beautiful, that was neither wool, nor silk, nor
leaves, nor the petals of flowers. They stood all about him as he sat and
waked, and down the glade towards him, down a glow-worm avenue and fronted =
by a
star, came at once that Fairy Lady who is the chief personage of his memory=
and
tale. Of her I gathered more. She was clothed in filmy green, and about her
little waist was a broad silver girdle. Her hair waved back from her forehe=
ad
on either side; there were curls not too wayward and yet astray, and on her
brow was a little tiara, set with a single star. Her sleeves were some sort=
of
open sleeves that gave little glimpses of her arms; her throat, I think, wa=
s a
little displayed, because he speaks of the beauty of her neck and chin. The=
re
was a necklace of coral about her white throat, and in her breast a
coral-coloured flower. She had the soft lines of a little child in her chin=
and
cheeks and throat. And her eyes, I gather, were of a kindled brown, very so=
ft
and straight and sweet under her level brows. You see by these particulars =
how
greatly this lady must have loomed in Mr. Skelmersdale's picture. Certain
things he tried to express and could not express; "the way she moved,&=
quot;
he said several times; and I fancy a sort of demure joyousness radiated fro=
m this
Lady.
And it was in the
company of this delightful person, as the guest and chosen companion of this
delightful person, that Mr. Skelmersdale set out to be taken into the
intimacies of Fairyland. She welcomed him gladly and a little warmly--I sus=
pect
a pressure of his hand in both of hers and a lit face to his. After all, ten
years ago young Skelmersdale may have been a very comely youth. And once she
took his arm, and once, I think, she led him by the hand adown the glade th=
at
the glow-worms lit.
Just how things
chanced and happened there is no telling from Mr. Skelmersdale's disarticul=
ated
skeleton of description. He gives little unsatisfactory glimpses of strange
corners and doings, of places where there were many fairies together, of
"toadstool things that shone pink," of fairy food, of which he co=
uld
only say "you should have tasted it!" and of fairy music, "l=
ike
a little musical box," that came out of nodding flowers. There was a g=
reat
open place where fairies rode and raced on "things," but what Mr.
Skelmersdale meant by "these here things they rode," there is no
telling. Larvae, perhaps, or crickets, or the little beetles that elude us =
so
abundantly. There was a place where water splashed and gigantic king-cups g=
rew,
and there in the hotter times the fairies bathed together. There were games
being played and dancing and much elvish love-making, too, I think, among t=
he
moss-branch thickets. There can be no doubt that the Fairy Lady made love to
Mr. Skelmersdale, and no doubt either that this young man set himself to re=
sist
her. A time came, indeed, when she sat on a bank beside him, in a quiet,
secluded place "all smelling of vi'lets," and talked to him of lo=
ve.
"When her vo=
ice
went low and she whispered," said Mr. Skelmersdale, "and laid 'er
'and on my 'and, you know, and came close with a soft, warm friendly way she
'ad, it was as much as I could do to keep my 'ead."
It seems he kept =
his
head to a certain limited unfortunate extent. He saw "'ow the wind was
blowing," he says, and so, sitting there in a place all smelling of
violets, with the touch of this lovely Fairy Lady about him, Mr. Skelmersda=
le
broke it to her gently--that he was engaged!
She had told him =
she loved
him dearly, that he was a sweet human lad for her, and whatever he would as=
k of
her he should have--even his heart's desire.
And Mr. Skelmersd=
ale,
who, I fancy, tried hard to avoid looking at her little lips as they just
dropped apart and came together, led up to the more intimate question by sa=
ying
he would like enough capital to start a little shop. He'd just like to feel=
, he
said, he had money enough to do that. I imagine a little surprise in those
brown eyes he talked about, but she seemed sympathetic for all that, and she
asked him many questions about the little shop, "laughing like" a=
ll
the time. So he got to the complete statement of his affianced position, and
told her all about Millie.
"All?" =
said
I.
"Everything,=
"
said Mr. Skelmersdale, "just who she was, and where she lived, and
everything about her. I sort of felt I 'ad to all the time, I did."
"'Whatever y=
ou
want you shall have,' said the Fairy Lady. 'That's as good as done. You SHA=
LL
feel you have the money just as you wish. And now, you know--YOU MUST KISS
ME.'"
And Mr. Skelmersd=
ale
pretended not to hear the latter part of her remark, and said she was very
kind. That he really didn't deserve she should be so kind. And--
The Fairy Lady
suddenly came quite close to him and whispered, "Kiss me!"
"And," =
said
Mr. Skelmersdale, "like a fool, I did."
There are kisses =
and
kisses, I am told, and this must have been quite the other sort from Millie=
's
resonant signals of regard. There was something magic in that kiss; assured=
ly
it marked a turning point. At any rate, this is one of the passages that he
thought sufficiently important to describe most at length. I have tried to =
get
it right, I have tried to disentangle it from the hints and gestures through
which it came to me, but I have no doubt that it was all different from my =
telling
and far finer and sweeter, in the soft filtered light and the subtly stirri=
ng
silences of the fairy glades. The Fairy Lady asked him more about Millie, a=
nd
was she very lovely, and so on--a great many times. As to Millie's loveline=
ss,
I conceive him answering that she was "all right." And then, or on
some such occasion, the Fairy Lady told him she had fallen in love with him=
as
he slept in the moonlight, and so he had been brought into Fairyland, and s=
he
had thought, not knowing of Millie, that perhaps he might chance to love he=
r.
"But now you know you can't," she said, "so you must stop wi=
th
me just a little while, and then you must go back to Millie." She told=
him
that, and you know Skelmersdale was already in love with her, but the pure
inertia of his mind kept him in the way he was going. I imagine him sitting=
in
a sort of stupefaction amidst all these glowing beautiful things, answering=
about
his Millie and the little shop he projected and the need of a horse and
cart.... And that absurd state of affairs must have gone on for days and da=
ys.
I see this little lady, hovering about him and trying to amuse him, too dai=
nty
to understand his complexity and too tender to let him go. And he, you know,
hypnotised as it were by his earthly position, went his way with her hither=
and
thither, blind to everything in Fairyland but this wonderful intimacy that =
had
come to him. It is hard, it is impossible, to give in print the effect of h=
er
radiant sweetness shining through the jungle of poor Skelmersdale's rough a=
nd broken
sentences. To me, at least, she shone clear amidst the muddle of his story =
like
a glow-worm in a tangle of weeds.
There must have b=
een
many days of things while all this was happening--and once, I say, they dan=
ced
under the moonlight in the fairy rings that stud the meadows near Smeeth--b=
ut
at last it all came to an end. She led him into a great cavernous place, li=
t by
a red nightlight sort of thing, where there were coffers piled on coffers, =
and
cups and golden boxes, and a great heap of what certainly seemed to all Mr.=
Skelmersdale's
senses--coined gold. There were little gnomes amidst this wealth, who salut=
ed
her at her coming, and stood aside. And suddenly she turned on him there wi=
th
brightly shining eyes.
"And now,&qu=
ot;
she said, "you have been kind to stay with me so long, and it is time I
let you go. You must go back to your Millie. You must go back to your Milli=
e,
and here--just as I promised you--they will give you gold."
"She choked
like," said Mr. Skelmersdale. "At that, I had a sort of feeling--=
"
(he touched his breastbone) "as though I was fainting here. I felt pal=
e,
you know, and shivering, and even then--I 'adn't a thing to say."
He paused.
"Yes," I said.
The scene was bey=
ond
his describing. But I know that she kissed him good-bye.
"And you said
nothing?"
"Nothing,&qu=
ot;
he said. "I stood like a stuffed calf. She just looked back once, you
know, and stood smiling like and crying--I could see the shine of her eyes-=
-and
then she was gone, and there was all these little fellows bustling about me,
stuffing my 'ands and my pockets and the back of my collar and everywhere w=
ith
gold."
And then it was, =
when
the Fairy Lady had vanished, that Mr. Skelmersdale really understood and kn=
ew.
He suddenly began plucking out the gold they were thrusting upon him, and
shouting out at them to prevent their giving him more. "'I don't WANT =
yer
gold,' I said. 'I 'aven't done yet. I'm not going. I want to speak to that
Fairy Lady again.' I started off to go after her and they held me back. Yes,
stuck their little 'ands against my middle and shoved me back. They kept gi=
ving
me more and more gold until it was running all down my trouser legs and
dropping out of my 'ands. 'I don't WANT yer gold,' I says to them, 'I want =
just
to speak to the Fairy Lady again.'"
"And did
you?"
"It came to a
tussle."
"Before you =
saw
her?"
"I didn't see
her. When I got out from them she wasn't anywhere to be seen."
So he ran in sear=
ch
of her out of this red-lit cave, down a long grotto, seeking her, and thenc=
e he
came out in a great and desolate place athwart which a swarm of
will-o'-the-wisps were flying to and fro. And about him elves were dancing =
in
derision, and the little gnomes came out of the cave after him, carrying go=
ld
in handfuls and casting it after him, shouting, "Fairy love and fairy
gold! Fairy love and fairy gold!"
And when he heard
these words, came a great fear that it was all over, and he lifted up his v=
oice
and called to her by her name, and suddenly set himself to run down the slo=
pe
from the mouth of the cavern, through a place of thorns and briers, calling
after her very loudly and often. The elves danced about him unheeded, pinch=
ing
him and pricking him, and the will-o'-the-wisps circled round him and dashed
into his face, and the gnomes pursued him shouting and pelting him with fai=
ry
gold. As he ran with all this strange rout about him and distracting him,
suddenly he was knee-deep in a swamp, and suddenly he was amidst thick twis=
ted roots,
and he caught his foot in one and stumbled and fell....
He fell and he ro=
lled
over, and in that instant he found himself sprawling upon Aldington Knoll, =
all
lonely under the stars.
He sat up sharply=
at
once, he says, and found he was very stiff and cold, and his clothes were d=
amp
with dew. The first pallor of dawn and a chilly wind were coming up togethe=
r.
He could have believed the whole thing a strangely vivid dream until he thr=
ust
his hand into his side pocket and found it stuffed with ashes. Then he knew=
for
certain it was fairy gold they had given him. He could feel all their pinch=
es
and pricks still, though there was never a bruise upon him. And in that man=
ner,
and so suddenly, Mr. Skelmersdale came out of Fairyland back into this worl=
d of
men. Even then he fancied the thing was but the matter of a night until he
returned to the shop at Aldington Corner and discovered amidst their
astonishment that he had been away three weeks.
"Lor'! the
trouble I 'ad!" said Mr. Skelmersdale.
"How?"<= o:p>
"Explaining.=
I
suppose you've never had anything like that to explain."
"Never,"=
; I
said, and he expatiated for a time on the behaviour of this person and that.
One name he avoided for a space.
"And
Millie?" said I at last.
"I didn't se=
em
to care a bit for seeing Millie," he said.
"I expect she
seemed changed?"
"Every one w=
as
changed. Changed for good. Every one seemed big, you know, and coarse. And
their voices seemed loud. Why, the sun, when it rose in the morning, fair h=
it
me in the eye!"
"And
Millie?"
"I didn't wa=
nt
to see Millie."
"And when you
did?"
"I came up
against her Sunday, coming out of church. 'Where you been?' she said, and I=
saw
there was a row. I didn't care if there was. I seemed to forget about her e=
ven
while she was there a-talking to me. She was just nothing. I couldn't make =
out
whatever I 'ad seen in 'er ever, or what there could 'ave been. Sometimes w=
hen
she wasn't about, I did get back a little, but never when she was there. Th=
en
it was always the other came up and blotted her out.... Anyow, it didn't br=
eak
her heart."
"Married?&qu=
ot;
I asked.
"Married 'er
cousin," said Mr. Skelmersdale, and reflected on the pattern of the
tablecloth for a space.
When he spoke aga=
in
it was clear that his former sweetheart had clean vanished from his mind, a=
nd
that the talk had brought back the Fairy Lady triumphant in his heart. He
talked of her--soon he was letting out the oddest things, queer love secret=
s it
would be treachery to repeat. I think, indeed, that was the queerest thing =
in
the whole affair, to hear that neat little grocer man after his story was d=
one,
with a glass of whisky beside him and a cigar between his fingers, witnessi=
ng,
with sorrow still, though now, indeed, with a time-blunted anguish, of the
inappeasable hunger of the heart that presently came upon him. "I coul=
dn't
eat," he said, "I couldn't sleep. I made mistakes in orders and g=
ot
mixed with change. There she was day and night, drawing me and drawing me. =
Oh,
I wanted her. Lord! how I wanted her! I was up there, most evenings I was up
there on the Knoll, often even when it rained. I used to walk over the Knoll
and round it and round it, calling for them to let me in. Shouting. Near
blubbering I was at times. Daft I was and miserable. I kept on saying it was
all a mistake. And every Sunday afternoon I went up there, wet and fine, th=
ough
I knew as well as you do it wasn't no good by day. And I've tried to go to
sleep there."
He stopped sharply
and decided to drink some whisky.
"I've tried =
to
go to sleep there," he said, and I could swear his lips trembled.
"I've tried to go to sleep there, often and often. And, you know, I
couldn't, sir--never. I've thought if I could go to sleep there, there migh=
t be
something. But I've sat up there and laid up there, and I couldn't--not for
thinking and longing. It's the longing.... I've tried--"
He blew, drank up=
the
rest of his whisky spasmodically, stood up suddenly and buttoned his jacket,
staring closely and critically at the cheap oleographs beside the mantel
meanwhile. The little black notebook in which he recorded the orders of his=
daily
round projected stiffly from his breast pocket. When all the buttons were q=
uite
done, he patted his chest and turned on me suddenly. "Well," he s=
aid,
"I must be going."
There was somethi=
ng
in his eyes and manner that was too difficult for him to express in words.
"One gets talking," he said at last at the door, and smiled wanly,
and so vanished from my eyes. And that is the tale of Mr. Skelmersdale in
Fairyland just as he told it to me.
6. THE STORY OF THE
INEXPERIENCED GHOST
The scene amidst =
which
Clayton told his last story comes back very vividly to my mind. There he sa=
t,
for the greater part of the time, in the corner of the authentic settle by =
the
spacious open fire, and Sanderson sat beside him smoking the Broseley clay =
that
bore his name. There was Evans, and that marvel among actors, Wish, who is =
also
a modest man. We had all come down to the Mermaid Club that Saturday mornin=
g,
except Clayton, who had slept there overnight--which indeed gave him the
opening of his story. We had golfed until golfing was invisible; we had din=
ed,
and we were in that mood of tranquil kindliness when men will suffer a stor=
y.
When Clayton began to tell one, we naturally supposed he was lying. It may =
be
that indeed he was lying--of that the reader will speedily be able to judge=
as
well as I. He began, it is true, with an air of matter-of-fact anecdote, but
that we thought was only the incurable artifice of the man.
"I say!"=
; he
remarked, after a long consideration of the upward rain of sparks from the =
log
that Sanderson had thumped, "you know I was alone here last night?&quo=
t;
"Except for =
the
domestics," said Wish.
"Who sleep in
the other wing," said Clayton. "Yes. Well--" He pulled at his
cigar for some little time as though he still hesitated about his confidenc=
e.
Then he said, quite quietly, "I caught a ghost!"
"Caught a gh=
ost,
did you?" said Sanderson. "Where is it?"
And Evans, who
admires Clayton immensely and has been four weeks in America, shouted,
"CAUGHT a ghost, did you, Clayton? I'm glad of it! Tell us all about it
right now."
Clayton said he w=
ould
in a minute, and asked him to shut the door.
He looked
apologetically at me. "There's no eavesdropping of course, but we don't
want to upset our very excellent service with any rumours of ghosts in the
place. There's too much shadow and oak panelling to trifle with that. And t=
his,
you know, wasn't a regular ghost. I don't think it will come again--ever.&q=
uot;
"You mean to=
say
you didn't keep it?" said Sanderson.
"I hadn't the
heart to," said Clayton.
And Sanderson sai=
d he
was surprised.
We laughed, and
Clayton looked aggrieved. "I know," he said, with the flicker of a
smile, "but the fact is it really WAS a ghost, and I'm as sure of it a=
s I
am that I am talking to you now. I'm not joking. I mean what I say."
Sanderson drew de=
eply
at his pipe, with one reddish eye on Clayton, and then emitted a thin jet of
smoke more eloquent than many words.
Clayton ignored t=
he
comment. "It is the strangest thing that has ever happened in my life.=
You
know, I never believed in ghosts or anything of the sort, before, ever; and
then, you know, I bag one in a corner; and the whole business is in my
hands."
He meditated still
more profoundly, and produced and began to pierce a second cigar with a cur=
ious
little stabber he affected.
"You talked =
to
it?" asked Wish.
"For the spa=
ce,
probably, of an hour."
"Chatty?&quo=
t; I
said, joining the party of the sceptics.
"The poor de=
vil
was in trouble," said Clayton, bowed over his cigar-end and with the v=
ery
faintest note of reproof.
"Sobbing?&qu=
ot;
some one asked.
Clayton heaved a
realistic sigh at the memory. "Good Lord!" he said; "yes.&qu=
ot;
And then, "Poor fellow! yes."
"Where did y=
ou
strike it?" asked Evans, in his best American accent.
"I never
realised," said Clayton, ignoring him, "the poor sort of thing a
ghost might be," and he hung us up again for a time, while he sought f=
or
matches in his pocket and lit and warmed to his cigar.
"I took an
advantage," he reflected at last.
We were none of u=
s in
a hurry. "A character," he said, "remains just the same
character for all that it's been disembodied. That's a thing we too often
forget. People with a certain strength or fixity of purpose may have ghosts=
of
a certain strength and fixity of purpose--most haunting ghosts, you know, m=
ust
be as one-idea'd as monomaniacs and as obstinate as mules to come back again
and again. This poor creature wasn't." He suddenly looked up rather
queerly, and his eye went round the room. "I say it," he said,
"in all kindliness, but that is the plain truth of the case. Even at t=
he
first glance he struck me as weak."
He punctuated with
the help of his cigar.
"I came upon
him, you know, in the long passage. His back was towards me and I saw him
first. Right off I knew him for a ghost. He was transparent and whitish; cl=
ean
through his chest I could see the glimmer of the little window at the end. =
And
not only his physique but his attitude struck me as being weak. He looked, =
you
know, as though he didn't know in the slightest whatever he meant to do. One
hand was on the panelling and the other fluttered to his mouth. Like--SO!&q=
uot;
"What sort of
physique?" said Sanderson.
"Lean. You k=
now
that sort of young man's neck that has two great flutings down the back, he=
re
and here--so! And a little, meanish head with scrubby hair--And rather bad
ears. Shoulders bad, narrower than the hips; turn-down collar, ready-made s=
hort
jacket, trousers baggy and a little frayed at the heels. That's how he took=
me.
I came very quietly up the staircase. I did not carry a light, you know--the
candles are on the landing table and there is that lamp--and I was in my li=
st
slippers, and I saw him as I came up. I stopped dead at that--taking him in=
. I wasn't
a bit afraid. I think that in most of these affairs one is never nearly so
afraid or excited as one imagines one would be. I was surprised and interes=
ted.
I thought, 'Good Lord! Here's a ghost at last! And I haven't believed for a
moment in ghosts during the last five-and-twenty years.'"
"Um," s=
aid
Wish.
"I suppose I
wasn't on the landing a moment before he found out I was there. He turned o=
n me
sharply, and I saw the face of an immature young man, a weak nose, a scrubby
little moustache, a feeble chin. So for an instant we stood--he looking over
his shoulder at me and regarded one another. Then he seemed to remember his
high calling. He turned round, drew himself up, projected his face, raised =
his
arms, spread his hands in approved ghost fashion--came towards me. As he di=
d so
his little jaw dropped, and he emitted a faint, drawn-out 'Boo.' No, it
wasn't--not a bit dreadful. I'd dined. I'd had a bottle of champagne, and b=
eing
all alone, perhaps two or three--perhaps even four or five--whiskies, so I =
was
as solid as rocks and no more frightened than if I'd been assailed by a fro=
g.
'Boo!' I said. 'Nonsense. You don't belong to THIS place. What are you doing
here?'
"I could see=
him
wince. 'Boo-oo,' he said.
"'Boo--be
hanged! Are you a member?' I said; and just to show I didn't care a pin for=
him
I stepped through a corner of him and made to light my candle. 'Are you a
member?' I repeated, looking at him sideways.
"He moved a
little so as to stand clear of me, and his bearing became crestfallen. 'No,=
' he
said, in answer to the persistent interrogation of my eye; 'I'm not a
member--I'm a ghost.'
"'Well, that=
doesn't
give you the run of the Mermaid Club. Is there any one you want to see, or
anything of that sort?' and doing it as steadily as possible for fear that =
he
should mistake the carelessness of whisky for the distraction of fear, I go=
t my
candle alight. I turned on him, holding it. 'What are you doing here?' I sa=
id.
"He had drop=
ped
his hands and stopped his booing, and there he stood, abashed and awkward, =
the
ghost of a weak, silly, aimless young man. 'I'm haunting,' he said.
"'You haven't
any business to,' I said in a quiet voice.
"'I'm a ghos=
t,'
he said, as if in defence.
"'That may b=
e,
but you haven't any business to haunt here. This is a respectable private c=
lub;
people often stop here with nursemaids and children, and, going about in the
careless way you do, some poor little mite could easily come upon you and be
scared out of her wits. I suppose you didn't think of that?'
"'No, sir,' =
he
said, 'I didn't.'
"'You should
have done. You haven't any claim on the place, have you? Weren't murdered h=
ere,
or anything of that sort?'
"'None, sir;=
but
I thought as it was old and oak-panelled--'
"'That's NO
excuse.' I regarded him firmly. 'Your coming here is a mistake,' I said, in=
a
tone of friendly superiority. I feigned to see if I had my matches, and the=
n looked
up at him frankly. 'If I were you I wouldn't wait for cock-crow--I'd vanish
right away.'
"He looked
embarrassed. 'The fact IS, sir--' he began.
"'I'd vanish=
,' I
said, driving it home.
"'The fact i=
s,
sir, that--somehow--I can't.'
"'You CAN'T?=
'
"'No, sir.
There's something I've forgotten. I've been hanging about here since midnig=
ht
last night, hiding in the cupboards of the empty bedrooms and things like t=
hat.
I'm flurried. I've never come haunting before, and it seems to put me out.'=
"'Put you ou=
t?'
"'Yes, sir. =
I've
tried to do it several times, and it doesn't come off. There's some little
thing has slipped me, and I can't get back.'
"That, you k=
now,
rather bowled me over. He looked at me in such an abject way that for the l=
ife
of me I couldn't keep up quite the high, hectoring vein I had adopted. 'Tha=
t's
queer,' I said, and as I spoke I fancied I heard some one moving about down
below. 'Come into my room and tell me more about it,' I said. 'I didn't, of
course, understand this,' and I tried to take him by the arm. But, of cours=
e,
you might as well have tried to take hold of a puff of smoke! I had forgott=
en
my number, I think; anyhow, I remember going into several bedrooms--it was
lucky I was the only soul in that wing--until I saw my traps. 'Here we are,=
' I said,
and sat down in the arm-chair; 'sit down and tell me all about it. It seems=
to
me you have got yourself into a jolly awkward position, old chap.'
"Well, he sa=
id
he wouldn't sit down! he'd prefer to flit up and down the room if it was all
the same to me. And so he did, and in a little while we were deep in a long=
and
serious talk. And presently, you know, something of those whiskies and sodas
evaporated out of me, and I began to realise just a little what a thundering
rum and weird business it was that I was in. There he was,
semi-transparent--the proper conventional phantom, and noiseless except for=
his
ghost of a voice--flitting to and fro in that nice, clean, chintz-hung old
bedroom. You could see the gleam of the copper candlesticks through him, and
the lights on the brass fender, and the corners of the framed engravings on=
the
wall,--and there he was telling me all about this wretched little life of h=
is
that had recently ended on earth. He hadn't a particularly honest face, you=
know,
but being transparent, of course, he couldn't avoid telling the truth."=
;
"Eh?" s=
aid
Wish, suddenly sitting up in his chair.
"What?"
said Clayton.
"Being
transparent--couldn't avoid telling the truth--I don't see it," said W=
ish.
"I don't see
it," said Clayton, with inimitable assurance. "But it IS so, I can
assure you nevertheless. I don't believe he got once a nail's breadth off t=
he
Bible truth. He told me how he had been killed--he went down into a London
basement with a candle to look for a leakage of gas--and described himself =
as a
senior English master in a London private school when that release
occurred."
"Poor
wretch!" said I.
"That's what=
I
thought, and the more he talked the more I thought it. There he was,
purposeless in life and purposeless out of it. He talked of his father and
mother and his schoolmaster, and all who had ever been anything to him in t=
he
world, meanly. He had been too sensitive, too nervous; none of them had ever
valued him properly or understood him, he said. He had never had a real fri=
end
in the world, I think; he had never had a success. He had shirked games and
failed examinations. 'It's like that with some people,' he said; 'whenever I
got into the examination-room or anywhere everything seemed to go.' Engaged=
to
be married of course--to another over-sensitive person, I suppose--when the=
indiscretion
with the gas escape ended his affairs. 'And where are you now?' I asked. 'N=
ot
in--?'
"He wasn't c=
lear
on that point at all. The impression he gave me was of a sort of vague, int=
ermediate
state, a special reserve for souls too non-existent for anything so positiv=
e as
either sin or virtue. I don't know. He was much too egotistical and unobser=
vant
to give me any clear idea of the kind of place, kind of country, there is on
the Other Side of Things. Wherever he was, he seems to have fallen in with a
set of kindred spirits: ghosts of weak Cockney young men, who were on a foo=
ting
of Christian names, and among these there was certainly a lot of talk about
'going haunting' and things like that. Yes--going haunting! They seemed to
think 'haunting' a tremendous adventure, and most of them funked it all the
time. And so primed, you know, he had come."
"But
really!" said Wish to the fire.
"These are t=
he
impressions he gave me, anyhow," said Clayton, modestly. "I may, =
of
course, have been in a rather uncritical state, but that was the sort of
background he gave to himself. He kept flitting up and down, with his thin
voice going talking, talking about his wretched self, and never a word of c=
lear,
firm statement from first to last. He was thinner and sillier and more
pointless than if he had been real and alive. Only then, you know, he would=
not
have been in my bedroom here--if he HAD been alive. I should have kicked him
out."
"Of
course," said Evans, "there ARE poor mortals like that."
"And there's
just as much chance of their having ghosts as the rest of us," I admit=
ted.
"What gave a
sort of point to him, you know, was the fact that he did seem within limits=
to
have found himself out. The mess he had made of haunting had depressed him
terribly. He had been told it would be a 'lark'; he had come expecting it t=
o be
a 'lark,' and here it was, nothing but another failure added to his record!=
He
proclaimed himself an utter out-and-out failure. He said, and I can quite
believe it, that he had never tried to do anything all his life that he had=
n't
made a perfect mess of--and through all the wastes of eternity he never wou=
ld.
If he had had sympathy, perhaps--. He paused at that, and stood regarding m=
e.
He remarked that, strange as it might seem to me, nobody, not any one, ever,
had given him the amount of sympathy I was doing now. I could see what he
wanted straight away, and I determined to head him off at once. I may be a
brute, you know, but being the Only Real Friend, the recipient of the
confidences of one of these egotistical weaklings, ghost or body, is beyond=
my
physical endurance. I got up briskly. 'Don't you brood on these things too
much,' I said. 'The thing you've got to do is to get out of this get out of
this--sharp. You pull yourself together and TRY.' 'I can't,' he said. 'You
try,' I said, and try he did."
"Try!" =
said
Sanderson. "HOW?"
"Passes,&quo=
t;
said Clayton.
"Passes?&quo=
t;
"Complicated
series of gestures and passes with the hands. That's how he had come in and
that's how he had to get out again. Lord! what a business I had!"
"But how cou=
ld
ANY series of passes--?" I began.
"My dear
man," said Clayton, turning on me and putting a great emphasis on cert=
ain
words, "you want EVERYTHING clear. I don't know HOW. All I know is that
you DO--that HE did, anyhow, at least. After a fearful time, you know, he g=
ot
his passes right and suddenly disappeared."
"Did you,&qu=
ot;
said Sanderson, slowly, "observe the passes?"
"Yes," =
said
Clayton, and seemed to think. "It was tremendously queer," he sai=
d.
"There we were, I and this thin vague ghost, in that silent room, in t=
his
silent, empty inn, in this silent little Friday-night town. Not a sound exc=
ept
our voices and a faint panting he made when he swung. There was the bedroom
candle, and one candle on the dressing-table alight, that was all--sometimes
one or other would flare up into a tall, lean, astonished flame for a space.
And queer things happened. 'I can't,' he said; 'I shall never--!' And sudde=
nly
he sat down on a little chair at the foot of the bed and began to sob and s=
ob. Lord!
what a harrowing, whimpering thing he seemed!
"'You pull
yourself together,' I said, and tried to pat him on the back, and... my
confounded hand went through him! By that time, you know, I wasn't nearly
so--massive as I had been on the landing. I got the queerness of it full. I
remember snatching back my hand out of him, as it were, with a little thril=
l,
and walking over to the dressing-table. 'You pull yourself together,' I sai=
d to
him, 'and try.' And in order to encourage and help him I began to try as
well."
"What!"
said Sanderson, "the passes?"
"Yes, the
passes."
"But--"=
I
said, moved by an idea that eluded me for a space.
"This is
interesting," said Sanderson, with his finger in his pipe-bowl. "=
You
mean to say this ghost of yours gave away--"
"Did his lev=
el
best to give away the whole confounded barrier? YES."
"He
didn't," said Wish; "he couldn't. Or you'd have gone there too.&q=
uot;
"That's precisely it," I said, finding my elusive idea put into words for me.<= o:p>
"That IS
precisely it," said Clayton, with thoughtful eyes upon the fire.
For just a little
while there was silence.
"And at last=
he
did it?" said Sanderson.
"At last he =
did
it. I had to keep him up to it hard, but he did it at last--rather suddenly=
. He
despaired, we had a scene, and then he got up abruptly and asked me to go
through the whole performance, slowly, so that he might see. 'I believe,' he
said, 'if I could SEE I should spot what was wrong at once.' And he did. 'I
know,' he said. 'What do you know?' said I. 'I know,' he repeated. Then he
said, peevishly, 'I CAN'T do it if you look at me--I really CAN'T; it's been
that, partly, all along. I'm such a nervous fellow that you put me out.' We=
ll,
we had a bit of an argument. Naturally I wanted to see; but he was as obsti=
nate
as a mule, and suddenly I had come over as tired as a dog--he tired me out.
'All right,' I said, 'I won't look at you,' and turned towards the mirror, =
on
the wardrobe, by the bed.
"He started =
off
very fast. I tried to follow him by looking in the looking-glass, to see ju=
st
what it was had hung. Round went his arms and his hands, so, and so, and so,
and then with a rush came to the last gesture of all--you stand erect and o=
pen
out your arms--and so, don't you know, he stood. And then he didn't! He did=
n't!
He wasn't! I wheeled round from the looking-glass to him. There was nothing=
, I
was alone, with the flaring candles and a staggering mind. What had happene=
d?
Had anything happened? Had I been dreaming?... And then, with an absurd not=
e of
finality about it, the clock upon the landing discovered the moment was ripe
for striking ONE. So!--Ping! And I was as grave and sober as a judge, with =
all
my champagne and whisky gone into the vast serene. Feeling queer, you
know--confoundedly QUEER! Queer! Good Lord!"
He regarded his
cigar-ash for a moment. "That's all that happened," he said.
"And then you
went to bed?" asked Evans.
"What else w=
as
there to do?"
I looked Wish in =
the
eye. We wanted to scoff, and there was something, something perhaps in
Clayton's voice and manner, that hampered our desire.
"And about t=
hese
passes?" said Sanderson.
"I believe I
could do them now."
"Oh!" s=
aid
Sanderson, and produced a penknife and set himself to grub the dottel out of
the bowl of his clay.
"Why don't y=
ou
do them now?" said Sanderson, shutting his pen-knife with a click.
"That's what=
I'm
going to do," said Clayton.
"They won't
work," said Evans.
"If they
do--" I suggested.
"You know, I=
'd
rather you didn't," said Wish, stretching out his legs.
"Why?"
asked Evans.
"I'd rather =
he
didn't," said Wish.
"But he hasn=
't
got 'em right," said Sanderson, plugging too much tobacco in his pipe.=
"All the sam=
e,
I'd rather he didn't," said Wish.
We argued with Wi=
sh.
He said that for Clayton to go through those gestures was like mocking a
serious matter. "But you don't believe--?" I said. Wish glanced at
Clayton, who was staring into the fire, weighing something in his mind. &qu=
ot;I
do--more than half, anyhow, I do," said Wish.
"Clayton,&qu=
ot;
said I, "you're too good a liar for us. Most of it was all right. But =
that
disappearance... happened to be convincing. Tell us, it's a tale of cock and
bull."
He stood up witho=
ut
heeding me, took the middle of the hearthrug, and faced me. For a moment he
regarded his feet thoughtfully, and then for all the rest of the time his e=
yes
were on the opposite wall, with an intent expression. He raised his two han=
ds
slowly to the level of his eyes and so began....
Now, Sanderson is=
a
Freemason, a member of the lodge of the Four Kings, which devotes itself so
ably to the study and elucidation of all the mysteries of Masonry past and
present, and among the students of this lodge Sanderson is by no means the
least. He followed Clayton's motions with a singular interest in his reddish
eye. "That's not bad," he said, when it was done. "You really
do, you know, put things together, Clayton, in a most amazing fashion. But
there's one little detail out."
"I know,&quo=
t;
said Clayton. "I believe I could tell you which."
"Well?"=
"This,"
said Clayton, and did a queer little twist and writhing and thrust of the
hands.
"Yes."<= o:p>
"That, you k=
now,
was what HE couldn't get right," said Clayton. "But how do
YOU--?"
"Most of this
business, and particularly how you invented it, I don't understand at
all," said Sanderson, "but just that phase--I do." He reflec=
ted.
"These happen to be a series of gestures--connected with a certain bra=
nch
of esoteric Masonry. Probably you know. Or else--HOW?" He reflected st=
ill
further. "I do not see I can do any harm in telling you just the proper
twist. After all, if you know, you know; if you don't, you don't."
"I know
nothing," said Clayton, "except what the poor devil let out last =
night."
"Well,
anyhow," said Sanderson, and placed his churchwarden very carefully up=
on
the shelf over the fireplace. Then very rapidly he gesticulated with his ha=
nds.
"So?" s=
aid
Clayton, repeating.
"So," s=
aid
Sanderson, and took his pipe in hand again.
"Ah, NOW,&qu=
ot;
said Clayton, "I can do the whole thing--right."
He stood up before
the waning fire and smiled at us all. But I think there was just a little
hesitation in his smile. "If I begin--" he said.
"I wouldn't
begin," said Wish.
"It's all
right!" said Evans. "Matter is indestructible. You don't think any
jiggery-pokery of this sort is going to snatch Clayton into the world of
shades. Not it! You may try, Clayton, so far as I'm concerned, until your a=
rms
drop off at the wrists."
"I don't bel=
ieve
that," said Wish, and stood up and put his arm on Clayton's shoulder.
"You've made me half believe in that story somehow, and I don't want to
see the thing done!"
"Goodness!&q=
uot;
said I, "here's Wish frightened!"
"I am,"
said Wish, with real or admirably feigned intensity. "I believe that i=
f he
goes through these motions right he'll GO."
"He'll not do
anything of the sort," I cried. "There's only one way out of this
world for men, and Clayton is thirty years from that. Besides... And such a
ghost! Do you think--?"
Wish interrupted =
me
by moving. He walked out from among our chairs and stopped beside the tole =
and
stood there. "Clayton," he said, "you're a fool."
Clayton, with a
humorous light in his eyes, smiled back at him. "Wish," he said,
"is right and all you others are wrong. I shall go. I shall get to the=
end
of these passes, and as the last swish whistles through the air, Presto!--t=
his
hearthrug will be vacant, the room will be blank amazement, and a respectab=
ly
dressed gentleman of fifteen stone will plump into the world of shades. I'm
certain. So will you be. I decline to argue further. Let the thing be
tried."
"NO," s=
aid
Wish, and made a step and ceased, and Clayton raised his hands once more to
repeat the spirit's passing.
By that time, you know, we were all in a state of tension--largely because of the behaviour of Wish. We sat all of us with our eyes on Clayton--I, at least, with a sort of tight, stiff feeling about me as though from the back of my skull to the mi= ddle of my thighs my body had been changed to steel. And there, with a gravity t= hat was imperturbably serene, Clayton bowed and swayed and waved his hands and = arms before us. As he drew towards the end one piled up, one tingled in one's te= eth. The last gesture, I have said, was to swing the arms out wide open, with th= e face held up. And when at last he swung out to this closing gesture I ceased eve= n to breathe. It was ridiculous, of course, but you know that ghost-story feelin= g. It was after dinner, in a queer, old shadowy house. Would he, after all--?<= o:p>
There he stood for
one stupendous moment, with his arms open and his upturned face, assured and
bright, in the glare of the hanging lamp. We hung through that moment as if=
it
were an age, and then came from all of us something that was half a sigh of
infinite relief and half a reassuring "NO!" For visibly--he wasn't
going. It was all nonsense. He had told an idle story, and carried it almos=
t to
conviction, that was all!... And then in that moment the face of Clayton,
changed.
It changed. It
changed as a lit house changes when its lights are suddenly extinguished. H=
is
eyes were suddenly eyes that were fixed, his smile was frozen on his lips, =
and
he stood there still. He stood there, very gently swaying.
That moment, too,=
was
an age. And then, you know, chairs were scraping, things were falling, and =
we
were all moving. His knees seemed to give, and he fell forward, and Evans r=
ose
and caught him in his arms....
It stunned us all.
For a minute I suppose no one said a coherent thing. We believed it, yet co=
uld
not believe it.... I came out of a muddled stupefaction to find myself knee=
ling
beside him, and his vest and shirt were torn open, and Sanderson's hand lay=
on
his heart....
Well--the simple =
fact
before us could very well wait our convenience; there was no hurry for us to
comprehend. It lay there for an hour; it lies athwart my memory, black and
amazing still, to this day. Clayton had, indeed, passed into the world that
lies so near to and so far from our own, and he had gone thither by the only
road that mortal man may take. But whether he did indeed pass there by that
poor ghost's incantation, or whether he was stricken suddenly by apoplexy in
the midst of an idle tale--as the coroner's jury would have us believe--is =
no
matter for my judging; it is just one of those inexplicable riddles that mu=
st
remain unsolved until the final solution of all things shall come. All I
certainly know is that, in the very moment, in the very instant, of conclud=
ing
those passes, he changed, and staggered, and fell down before us--dead!
7. JIMMY GOGGLES THE GOD<=
/span>
"It isn't ev=
ery
one who's been a god," said the sunburnt man. "But it's happened =
to
me. Among other things."
I intimated my se=
nse
of his condescension.
"It don't le=
ave
much for ambition, does it?" said the sunburnt man.
"I was one of
those men who were saved from the Ocean Pioneer. Gummy! how time flies! It's
twenty years ago. I doubt if you'll remember anything of the Ocean
Pioneer?"
The name was
familiar, and I tried to recall when and where I had read it. The Ocean
Pioneer? "Something about gold dust," I said vaguely, "but t=
he
precise--"
"That's
it," he said. "In a beastly little channel she hadn't no business
in--dodging pirates. It was before they'd put the kybosh on that business. =
And
there'd been volcanoes or something and all the rocks was wrong. There's pl=
aces
about by Soona where you fair have to follow the rocks about to see where
they're going next. Down she went in twenty fathoms before you could have d=
ealt
for whist, with fifty thousand pounds worth of gold aboard, it was said, in=
one
form or another."
"Survivors?&=
quot;
"Three."=
;
"I remember =
the
case now," I said. "There was something about salvage--"
But at the word
salvage the sunburnt man exploded into language so extraordinarily horrible
that I stopped aghast. He came down to more ordinary swearing, and pulled
himself up abruptly. "Excuse me," he said, "but--salvage!&qu=
ot;
He leant over tow=
ards
me. "I was in that job," he said. "Tried to make myself a ri=
ch
man, and got made a god instead. I've got my feelings--
"It ain't all
jam being a god," said the sunburnt man, and for some time conversed by
means of such pithy but unprogressive axioms. At last he took up his tale
again.
"There was
me," said the sunburnt man, "and a seaman named Jacobs, and Alway=
s,
the mate of the Ocean Pioneer. And him it was that set the whole thing goin=
g. I
remember him now, when we was in the jolly-boat, suggesting it all to our m=
inds
just by one sentence. He was a wonderful hand at suggesting things. 'There =
was
forty thousand pounds,' he said, 'on that ship, and it's for me to say just
where she went down.' It didn't need much brains to tumble to that. And he =
was
the leader from the first to the last. He got hold of the Sanderses and the=
ir
brig; they were brothers, and the brig was the Pride of Banya, and he it was
bought the diving-dress--a second-hand one with a compressed air apparatus =
instead
of pumping. He'd have done the diving too, if it hadn't made him sick going
down. And the salvage people were mucking about with a chart he'd cooked up=
, as
solemn as could be, at Starr Race, a hundred and twenty miles away.
"I can tell =
you
we was a happy lot aboard that brig, jokes and drink and bright hopes all t=
he
time. It all seemed so neat and clean and straightforward, and what rough c=
haps
call a 'cert.' And we used to speculate how the other blessed lot, the prop=
er
salvagers, who'd started two days before us, were getting on, until our sid=
es
fairly ached. We all messed together in the Sanderses' cabin--it was a curi=
ous
crew, all officers and no men--and there stood the diving-dress waiting its
turn. Young Sanders was a humorous sort of chap, and there certainly was so=
mething
funny in the confounded thing's great fat head and its stare, and he made us
see it too. 'Jimmie Goggles,' he used to call it, and talk to it like a
Christian. Asked if he was married, and how Mrs. Goggles was, and all the
little Goggleses. Fit to make you split. And every blessed day all of us us=
ed
to drink the health of Jimmy Goggles in rum, and unscrew his eye and pour a
glass of rum in him, until, instead of that nasty mackintosheriness, he sme=
lt
as nice in his inside as a cask of rum. It was jolly times we had in those
days, I can tell you--little suspecting, poor chaps! what was a-coming.
"We weren't
going to throw away our chances by any blessed hurry, you know, and we spen=
t a
whole day sounding our way towards where the Ocean Pioneer had gone down, r=
ight
between two chunks of ropy grey rock--lava rocks that rose nearly out of the
water. We had to lay off about half a mile to get a safe anchorage, and the=
re
was a thundering row who should stop on board. And there she lay just as she
had gone down, so that you could see the top of the masts that was still
standing perfectly distinctly. The row ending in all coming in the boat. I =
went
down in the diving-dress on Friday morning directly it was light.
"What a surp=
rise
it was! I can see it all now quite distinctly. It was a queer-looking place,
and the light was just coming. People over here think every blessed place in
the tropics is a flat shore and palm trees and surf, bless 'em! This place,=
for
instance, wasn't a bit that way. Not common rocks they were, undermined by
waves; but great curved banks like ironwork cinder heaps, with green slime
below, and thorny shrubs and things just waving upon them here and there, a=
nd
the water glassy calm and clear, and showing you a kind of dirty grey-black
shine, with huge flaring red-brown weeds spreading motionless, and crawling=
and
darting things going through it. And far away beyond the ditches and pools =
and
the heaps was a forest on the mountain flank, growing again after the fires=
and
cinder showers of the last eruption. And the other way forest, too, and a k=
ind
of broken--what is it?--ambytheatre of black and rusty cinders rising out o=
f it
all, and the sea in a kind of bay in the middle.
"The dawn, I
say, was just coming, and there wasn't much colour about things, and not a
human being but ourselves anywhere in sight up or down the channel. Except =
the
Pride of Banya, lying out beyond a lump of rocks towards the line of the se=
a.
"Not a human
being in sight," he repeated, and paused.
"I don't know
where they came from, not a bit. And we were feeling so safe that we were a=
ll
alone that poor young Sanders was a-singing. I was in Jimmy Goggles, all ex=
cept
the helmet. 'Easy,' says Always, 'there's her mast.' And after I'd had just=
one
squint over the gunwale, I caught up the bogey and almost tipped out as old
Sanders brought the boat round. When the windows were screwed and everything
was all right, I shut the valve from the air belt in order to help my sinki=
ng,
and jumped overboard, feet foremost--for we hadn't a ladder. I left the boa=
t pitching,
and all of them staring down into the water after me, as my head sank down =
into
the weeds and blackness that lay about the mast. I suppose nobody, not the =
most
cautious chap in the world, would have bothered about a lookout at such a
desolate place. It stunk of solitude.
"Of course y=
ou
must understand that I was a greenhorn at diving. None of us were divers. W=
e'd
had to muck about with the thing to get the way of it, and this was the fir=
st
time I'd been deep. It feels damnable. Your ears hurt beastly. I don't know=
if
you've ever hurt yourself yawning or sneezing, but it takes you like that, =
only
ten times worse. And a pain over the eyebrows here--splitting--and a feeling
like influenza in the head. And it isn't all heaven in your lungs and thing=
s.
And going down feels like the beginning of a lift, only it keeps on. And you
can't turn your head to see what's above you, and you can't get a fair squi=
nt
at what's happening to your feet without bending down something painful. And
being deep it was dark, let alone the blackness of the ashes and mud that
formed the bottom. It was like going down out of the dawn back into the nig=
ht,
so to speak.
"The mast ca=
me
up like a ghost out of the black, and then a lot of fishes, and then a lot =
of
flapping red seaweed, and then whack I came with a kind of dull bang on the
deck of the Ocean Pioneer, and the fishes that had been feeding on the dead
rose about me like a swarm of flies from road stuff in summer time. I turne=
d on
the compressed air again--for the suit was a bit thick and mackintoshery af=
ter
all, in spite of the rum--and stood recovering myself. It struck coolish do=
wn there,
and that helped take off the stuffiness a bit.
"When I bega=
n to
feel easier, I started looking about me. It was an extraordinary sight. Even
the light was extraordinary, a kind of reddy-coloured twilight, on account =
of
the streamers of seaweed that floated up on either side of the ship. And far
overhead just a moony, deep green-blue. The deck of the ship, except for a
slight list to starboard, was level, and lay all dark and long between the
weeds, clear except where the masts had snapped when she rolled, and vanish=
ing
into black night towards the forecastle. There wasn't any dead on the decks=
, most
were in the weeds alongside, I suppose; but afterwards I found two skeletons
lying in the passengers' cabins, where death had come to them. It was curio=
us
to stand on that deck and recognise it all, bit by bit; a place against the
rail where I'd been fond of smoking by starlight, and the corner where an o=
ld
chap from Sydney used to flirt with a widow we had aboard. A comfortable co=
uple
they'd been, only a month ago, and now you couldn't have got a meal for a b=
aby
crab off either of them.
"I've always=
had
a bit of a philosophical turn, and I dare say I spent the best part of five
minutes in such thoughts before I went below to find where the blessed dust=
was
stored. It was slow work hunting, feeling it was for the most part, pitchy
dark, with confusing blue gleams down the companion. And there were things
moving about, a dab at my glass once, and once a pinch at my leg. Crabs, I
expect. I kicked a lot of loose stuff that puzzled me, and stooped and pick=
ed
up something all knobs and spikes. What do you think? Backbone! But I never=
had
any particular feeling for bones. We had talked the affair over pretty thor=
oughly,
and Always knew just where the stuff was stowed. I found it that trip. I li=
fted
a box one end an inch or more."
He broke off in h=
is
story. "I've lifted it," he said, "as near as that! Forty
thousand pounds worth of pure gold! Gold! I shouted inside my helmet as a k=
ind
of cheer and hurt my ears. I was getting confounded stuffy and tired by this
time--I must have been down twenty-five minutes or more--and I thought this=
was
good enough. I went up the companion again, and as my eyes came up flush wi=
th
the deck, a thundering great crab gave a kind of hysterical jump and went s=
cuttling
off sideways. Quite a start it gave me. I stood up clear on deck and shut t=
he
valve behind the helmet to let the air accumulate to carry me up again--I n=
oticed
a kind of whacking from above, as though they were hitting the water with an
oar, but I didn't look up. I fancied they were signalling me to come up.
"And then
something shot down by me--something heavy, and stood a-quiver in the plank=
s. I
looked, and there was a long knife I'd seen young Sanders handling. Thinks =
I,
he's dropped it, and I was still calling him this kind of fool and that--fo=
r it
might have hurt me serious--when I began to lift and drive up towards the
daylight. Just about the level of the top spars of the Ocean Pioneer, whack=
! I
came against something sinking down, and a boot knocked in front of my helm=
et.
Then something else, struggling frightful. It was a big weight atop of me,
whatever it was, and moving and twisting about. I'd have thought it a big
octopus, or some such thing, if it hadn't been for the boot. But octopuses =
don't
wear boots. It was all in a moment, of course. I felt myself sinking down
again, and I threw my arms about to keep steady, and the whole lot rolled f=
ree
of me and shot down as I went up--"
He paused.
"I saw young Sanders's face, over a naked black shoulder, and a spear driven clean throu= gh his neck, and out of his mouth and neck what looked like spirts of pink smo= ke in the water. And down they went clutching one another, and turning over, a= nd both too far gone to leave go. And in another second my helmet came a whack, fit to split, against the niggers' canoe. It was niggers! Two canoes full.<= o:p>
"It was live=
ly
times, I tell you! Overboard came Always with three spears in him. There was
the legs of three or four black chaps kicking about me in the water. I coul=
dn't
see much, but I saw the game was up at a glance, gave my valve a tremendous
twist, and went bubbling down again after poor Always, in as awful a state =
of
scare and astonishment as you can well imagine. I passed young Sanders and =
the
nigger going up again and struggling still a bit, and in another moment I w=
as
standing in the dim again on the deck of the Ocean Pioneer.
"'Gummy,' th=
inks
I, 'here's a fix!' Niggers? At first I couldn't see anything for it but Sti=
fle
below or Stabs above. I didn't properly understand how much air there was to
last me, but I didn't feel like standing very much more of it down below. I=
was
hot and frightfully heady--quite apart from the blue funk I was in. We'd ne=
ver
repined with these beastly natives, filthy Papuan beasts. It wasn't any goo=
d,
coming up where I was, but I had to do something. On the spur of the moment=
, I clambered
over the side of the brig and landed among the weeds, and set off through t=
he
darkness as fast as I could. I just stopped once and knelt, and twisted bac=
k my
head in the helmet and had a look up. It was a most extraordinary bright
green-blue above, and the two canoes and the boat floating there very small=
and
distant like a kind of twisted H. And it made me feel sick to squint up at =
it,
and think what the pitching and swaying of the three meant.
"It was just
about the most horrible ten minutes I ever had, blundering about in that
darkness, pressure something awful, like being buried in sand, pain across =
the
chest, sick with funk, and breathing nothing as it seemed but the smell of =
rum
and mackintosh. Gummy! After a bit, I found myself going up a steepish sort=
of
slope. I had another squint to see if anything was visible of the canoes and
boats, and then kept on. I stopped with my head a foot from the surface, and
tried to see where I was going, but, of course, nothing was to be seen but =
the
reflection of the bottom. Then out I dashed like knocking my head through a
mirror. Directly I got my eyes out of the water, I saw I'd come up a kind o=
f beach
near the forest. I had a look round, but the natives and the brig were both
hidden by a big, hummucky heap of twisted lava, the born fool in me suggest=
ed a
run for the woods. I didn't take the helmet off, but eased open one of the
windows, and, after a bit of a pant, went on out of the water. You'd hardly
imagine how clean and light the air tasted.
"Of course, =
with
four inches of lead in your boot soles, and your head in a copper knob the =
size
of a football, and been thirty-five minutes under water, you don't break any
records running. I ran like a ploughboy going to work. And half way to the
trees I saw a dozen niggers or more, coming out in a gaping, astonished sor=
t of
way to meet me.
"I just stop=
ped
dead, and cursed myself for all the fools out of London. I had about as much
chance of cutting back to the water as a turned turtle. I just screwed up my
window again to leave my hands free, and waited for them. There wasn't anyt=
hing
else for me to do.
"But they di=
dn't
come on very much. I began to suspect why. 'Jimmy Goggles,' I says, 'it's y=
our
beauty does it.' I was inclined to be a little light-headed, I think, with =
all
these dangers about and the change in the pressure of the blessed air. 'Who=
're
ye staring at?' I said, as if the savages could hear me. 'What d'ye take me
for? I'm hanged if I don't give you something to stare at,' I said, and with
that I screwed up the escape valve and turned on the compressed air from th=
e belt,
until I was swelled out like a blown frog. Regular imposing it must have be=
en. I'm
blessed if they'd come on a step; and presently one and then another went d=
own
on their hands and knees. They didn't know what to make of me, and they was
doing the extra polite, which was very wise and reasonable of them. I had h=
alf
a mind to edge back seaward and cut and run, but it seemed too hopeless. A =
step
back and they'd have been after me. And out of sheer desperation I began to
march towards them up the beach, with slow, heavy steps, and waving my
blown-out arms about, in a dignified manner. And inside of me I was singing=
as
small as a tomtit.
"But there's
nothing like a striking appearance to help a man over a difficulty,--I've f=
ound
that before and since. People like ourselves, who're up to diving-dresses by
the time we're seven, can scarcely imagine the effect of one on a simple-mi=
nded
savage. One or two of these niggers cut and run, the others started in a gr=
eat
hurry trying to knock their brains out on the ground. And on I went as slow=
and
solemn and silly-looking and artful as a jobbing plumber. It was evident th=
ey
took me for something immense.
"Then up jum=
ped
one and began pointing, making extraordinary gestures to me as he did so, a=
nd
all the others began sharing their attention between me and something out at
sea. 'What's the matter now?' I said. I turned slowly on account of my dign=
ity,
and there I saw, coming round a point, the poor old Pride of Banya towed by=
a
couple of canoes. The sight fairly made me sick. But they evidently expected
some recognition, so I waved my arms in a striking sort of non-committal
manner. And then I turned and stalked on towards the trees again. At that t=
ime
I was praying like mad, I remember, over and over again: 'Lord help me thro=
ugh with
it! Lord help me through with it!' It's only fools who know nothing of dang=
ers
can afford to laugh at praying.
"But these
niggers weren't going to let me walk through and away like that. They start=
ed a
kind of bowing dance about me, and sort of pressed me to take a pathway that
lay through the trees. It was clear to me they didn't take me for a British
citizen, whatever else they thought of me, and for my own part I was never =
less
anxious to own up to the old country.
"You'd hardly
believe it, perhaps, unless you're familiar with savages, but these poor
misguided, ignorant creatures took me straight to their kind of joss place =
to
present me to the blessed old black stone there. By this time I was beginni=
ng
to sort of realise the depth of their ignorance, and directly I set eyes on
this deity I took my cue. I started a baritone howl, 'wow-wow,' very long on
one note, and began waving my arms about a lot, and then very slowly and
ceremoniously turned their image over on its side and sat down on it. I wan=
ted
to sit down badly, for diving-dresses ain't much wear in the tropics. Or, t=
o put
it different like, they're a sight too much. It took away their breath, I c=
ould
see, my sitting on their joss, but in less time than a minute they made up
their minds and were hard at work worshipping me. And I can tell you I felt=
a
bit relieved to see things turning out so well, in spite of the weight on my
shoulders and feet.
"But what ma=
de
me anxious was what the chaps in the canoes might think when they came back=
. If
they'd seen me in the boat before I went down, and without the helmet on--f=
or
they might have been spying and hiding since over night--they would very li=
kely
take a different view from the others. I was in a deuce of a stew about that
for hours, as it seemed, until the shindy of the arrival began.
"But they to=
ok
it down--the whole blessed village took it down. At the cost of sitting up
stiff and stern, as much like those sitting Egyptian images one sees as I c=
ould
manage, for pretty nearly twelve hours, I should guess at least, on end, I =
got
over it. You'd hardly think what it meant in that heat and stink. I don't t=
hink
any of them dreamt of the man inside. I was just a wonderful leathery great
joss that had come up with luck out of the water. But the fatigue! the heat!
the beastly closeness! the mackintosheriness and the rum! and the fuss! They
lit a stinking fire on a kind of lava slab there was before me, and brought=
in
a lot of gory muck--the worst parts of what they were feasting on outside, =
the
Beasts--and burnt it all in my honour. I was getting a bit hungry, but I
understand now how gods manage to do without eating, what with the smell of
burnt offerings about them. And they brought in a lot of the stuff they'd g=
ot
off the brig and, among other stuff, what I was a bit relieved to see, the =
kind
of pneumatic pump that was used for the compressed air affair, and then a l=
ot
of chaps and girls came in and danced about me something disgraceful. It's
extraordinary the different ways different people have of showing respect. =
If
I'd had a hatchet handy I'd have gone for the lot of them--they made me feel
that wild. All this time I sat as stiff as company, not knowing anything be=
tter
to do. And at last, when nightfall came, and the wattle joss-house place go=
t a
bit too shadowy for their taste--all these here savages are afraid of the d=
ark,
you know--and I started a sort of 'Moo' noise, they built big bonfires outs=
ide
and left me alone in peace in the darkness of my hut, free to unscrew my
windows a bit and think things over, and feel just as bad as I liked. And,
Lord! I was sick.
"I was weak =
and
hungry, and my mind kept on behaving like a beetle on a pin, tremendous
activity and nothing done at the end of it. Come round just where it was
before. There was sorrowing for the other chaps, beastly drunkards certainl=
y,
but not deserving such a fate, and young Sanders with the spear through his
neck wouldn't go out of my mind. There was the treasure down there in the O=
cean
Pioneer, and how one might get it and hide it somewhere safer, and get away=
and
come back for it. And there was the puzzle where to get anything to eat. I =
tell
you I was fair rambling. I was afraid to ask by signs for food, for fear of=
behaving
too human, and so there I sat and hungered until very near the dawn. Then t=
he
village got a bit quiet, and I couldn't stand it any longer, and I went out=
and
got some stuff like artichokes in a bowl and some sour milk. What was left =
of
these I put away among the other offerings, just to give them a hint of my
tastes. And in the morning they came to worship, and found me sitting up st=
iff
and respectable on their previous god, just as they'd left me overnight. I'd
got my back against the central pillar of the hut, and, practically, I was
asleep. And that's how I became a god among the heathen--a false god no dou=
bt, and
blasphemous, but one can't always pick and choose.
"Now, I don't
want to crack myself up as a god beyond my merits, but I must confess that
while I was god to these people they was extraordinary successful. I don't =
say
there's anything in it, mind you. They won a battle with another tribe--I g=
ot a
lot of offerings I didn't want through it--they had wonderful fishing, and
their crop of pourra was exceptional fine. And they counted the capture of =
the
brig among the benefits I brought 'em. I must say I don't think that was a =
poor
record for a perfectly new hand. And, though perhaps you'd scarcely credit =
it, I
was the tribal god of those beastly savages for pretty nearly four months..=
..
"What else c=
ould
I do, man? But I didn't wear that diving-dress all the time. I made 'em rig=
me
up a sort of holy of holies, and a deuce of a time I had too, making them
understand what it was I wanted them to do. That indeed was the great
difficulty--making them understand my wishes. I couldn't let myself down by
talking their lingo badly--even if I'd been able to speak at all--and I
couldn't go flapping a lot of gestures at them. So I drew pictures in sand =
and
sat down beside them and hooted like one o'clock. Sometimes they did the th=
ings
I wanted all right, and sometimes they did them all wrong. They was always =
very
willing, certainly. All the while I was puzzling how I was to get the
confounded business settled. Every night before the dawn I used to march ou=
t in
full rig and go off to a place where I could see the channel in which the O=
cean
Pioneer lay sunk, and once even, one moonlight night, I tried to walk out to
her, but the weeds and rocks and dark clean beat me. I didn't get back till
full day, and then I found all those silly niggers out on the beach praying
their sea-god to return to them. I was that vexed and tired, messing and
tumbling about, and coming up and going down again, I could have punched th=
eir
silly heads all round when they started rejoicing. I'm hanged if I like so =
much
ceremony.
"And then ca=
me
the missionary. That missionary! It was in the afternoon, and I was sitting=
in
state in my outer temple place, sitting on that old black stone of theirs w=
hen
he came. I heard a row outside and jabbering, and then his voice speaking t=
o an
interpreter. 'They worship stocks and stones,' he said, and I knew what was=
up,
in a flash. I had one of my windows out for comfort, and I sang out straight
away on the spur of the moment. 'Stocks and stones!' I says. 'You come insi=
de,'
I says, 'and I'll punch your blooming head.' There was a kind of silence and
more jabbering, and in he came, Bible in hand, after the manner of them--a =
little
sandy chap in specks and a pith helmet. I flatter myself that me sitting th=
ere
in the shadows, with my copper head and my big goggles, struck him a bit of=
a
heap at first. 'Well,' I says, 'how's the trade in calico?' for I don't hold
with missionaries.
"I had a lark
with that missionary. He was a raw hand, and quite outclassed with a man li=
ke
me. He gasped out who was I, and I told him to read the inscription at my f=
eet
if he wanted to know. Down he goes to read, and his interpreter, being of
course as superstitious as any of them, took it as an act of worship and
plumped down like a shot. All my people gave a howl of triumph, and there
wasn't any more business to be done in my village after that journey, not by
the likes of him.
"But, of cou=
rse,
I was a fool to choke him off like that. If I'd had any sense I should have
told him straight away of the treasure and taken him into Co. I've no doubt
he'd have come into Co. A child, with a few hours to think it over, could h=
ave
seen the connection between my diving-dress and the loss of the Ocean Pione=
er.
A week after he left I went out one morning and saw the Motherhood, the
salver's ship from Starr Race, towing up the channel and sounding. The whole
blessed game was up, and all my trouble thrown away. Gummy! How wild I felt!
And guying it in that stinking silly dress! Four months!"
The sunburnt man's
story degenerated again. "Think of it," he said, when he emerged =
to
linguistic purity once more. "Forty thousand pounds worth of gold.&quo=
t;
"Did the lit=
tle
missionary come back?" I asked.
"Oh, yes! Bl=
ess
him! And he pledged his reputation there was a man inside the god, and star=
ted
out to see as much with tremendous ceremony. But there wasn't--he got sold
again. I always did hate scenes and explanations, and long before he came I=
was
out of it all--going home to Banya along the coast, hiding in bushes by day,
and thieving food from the villages by night. Only weapon, a spear. No clot=
hes,
no money. Nothing. My face was my fortune, as the saying is. And just a squ=
eak of
eight thousand pounds of gold--fifth share. But the natives cut up rusty, t=
hank
goodness, because they thought it was him had driven their luck away."=
Certainly, if eve=
r a
man found a guinea when he was looking for a pin it is my good friend Profe=
ssor
Gibberne. I have heard before of investigators overshooting the mark, but n=
ever
quite to the extent that he has done. He has really, this time at any rate,
without any touch of exaggeration in the phrase, found something to
revolutionise human life. And that when he was simply seeking an all-round
nervous stimulant to bring languid people up to the stresses of these pushf=
ul
days. I have tasted the stuff now several times, and I cannot do better than
describe the effect the thing had on me. That there are astonishing experie=
nces
in store for all in search of new sensations will become apparent enough.
Professor Gibbern=
e,
as many people know, is my neighbour in Folkestone. Unless my memory plays =
me a
trick, his portrait at various ages has already appeared in The Strand
Magazine--I think late in 1899; but I am unable to look it up because I have
lent that volume to some one who has never sent it back. The reader may,
perhaps, recall the high forehead and the singularly long black eyebrows th=
at
give such a Mephistophelian touch to his face. He occupies one of those
pleasant little detached houses in the mixed style that make the western en=
d of
the Upper Sandgate Road so interesting. His is the one with the Flemish gab=
les
and the Moorish portico, and it is in the little room with the mullioned ba=
y window
that he works when he is down here, and in which of an evening we have so o=
ften
smoked and talked together. He is a mighty jester, but, besides, he likes to
talk to me about his work; he is one of those men who find a help and stimu=
lus
in talking, and so I have been able to follow the conception of the New
Accelerator right up from a very early stage. Of course, the greater portio=
n of
his experimental work is not done in Folkestone, but in Gower Street, in the
fine new laboratory next to the hospital that he has been the first to use.=
As every one know=
s,
or at least as all intelligent people know, the special department in which
Gibberne has gained so great and deserved a reputation among physiologists =
is
the action of drugs upon the nervous system. Upon soporifics, sedatives, and
anaesthetics he is, I am told, unequalled. He is also a chemist of consider=
able
eminence, and I suppose in the subtle and complex jungle of riddles that
centres about the ganglion cell and the axis fibre there are little cleared
places of his making, little glades of illumination, that, until he sees fi=
t to
publish his results, are still inaccessible to every other living man. And =
in
the last few years he has been particularly assiduous upon this question of
nervous stimulants, and already, before the discovery of the New Accelerato=
r,
very successful with them. Medical science has to thank him for at least th=
ree
distinct and absolutely safe invigorators of unrivalled value to practising
men. In cases of exhaustion the preparation known as Gibberne's B Syrup has=
, I
suppose, saved more lives already than any lifeboat round the coast.
"But none of
these little things begin to satisfy me yet," he told me nearly a year
ago. "Either they increase the central energy without affecting the ne=
rves
or they simply increase the available energy by lowering the nervous
conductivity; and all of them are unequal and local in their operation. One
wakes up the heart and viscera and leaves the brain stupefied, one gets at =
the
brain champagne fashion and does nothing good for the solar plexus, and wha=
t I
want--and what, if it's an earthly possibility, I mean to have--is a stimul=
ant
that stimulates all round, that wakes you up for a time from the crown of y=
our
head to the tip of your great toe, and makes you go two--or even three--to
everybody else's one. Eh? That's the thing I'm after."
"It would ti=
re a
man," I said.
"Not a doubt=
of
it. And you'd eat double or treble--and all that. But just think what the t=
hing
would mean. Imagine yourself with a little phial like this"--he held u=
p a
little bottle of green glass and marked his points with it--"and in th=
is
precious phial is the power to think twice as fast, move twice as quickly, =
do
twice as much work in a given time as you could otherwise do."
"But is such=
a
thing possible?"
"I believe s=
o.
If it isn't, I've wasted my time for a year. These various preparations of =
the
hypophosphites, for example, seem to show that something of the sort... Eve=
n if
it was only one and a half times as fast it would do."
"It WOULD
do," I said.
"If you were=
a
statesman in a corner, for example, time rushing up against you, something
urgent to be done, eh?"
"He could do=
se
his private secretary," I said.
"And
gain--double time. And think if YOU, for example, wanted to finish a
book."
"Usually,&qu=
ot;
I said, "I wish I'd never begun 'em."
"Or a doctor,
driven to death, wants to sit down and think out a case. Or a barrister--or=
a
man cramming for an examination."
"Worth a gui=
nea
a drop," said I, "and more to men like that."
"And in a du=
el,
again," said Gibberne, "where it all depends on your quickness in
pulling the trigger."
"Or in
fencing," I echoed.
"You see,&qu=
ot;
said Gibberne, "if I get it as an all-round thing it will really do yo=
u no
harm at all--except perhaps to an infinitesimal degree it brings you nearer=
old
age. You will just have lived twice to other people's once--"
"I
suppose," I meditated, "in a duel--it would be fair?"
"That's a
question for the seconds," said Gibberne.
I harked back
further. "And you really think such a thing IS possible?" I said.=
"As
possible," said Gibberne, and glanced at something that went throbbing=
by
the window, "as a motor-bus. As a matter of fact--"
He paused and smi=
led
at me deeply, and tapped slowly on the edge of his desk with the green phia=
l.
"I think I know the stuff.... Already I've got something coming."=
The
nervous smile upon his face betrayed the gravity of his revelation. He rare=
ly
talked of his actual experimental work unless things were very near the end.
"And it may be, it may be--I shouldn't be surprised--it may even do the
thing at a greater rate than twice."
"It will be
rather a big thing," I hazarded.
"It will be,=
I
think, rather a big thing."
But I don't think=
he
quite knew what a big thing it was to be, for all that.
I remember we had
several talks about the stuff after that. "The New Accelerator" he
called it, and his tone about it grew more confident on each occasion.
Sometimes he talked nervously of unexpected physiological results its use m=
ight
have, and then he would get a little unhappy; at others he was frankly
mercenary, and we debated long and anxiously how the preparation might be
turned to commercial account. "It's a good thing," said Gibberne,
"a tremendous thing. I know I'm giving the world something, and I thin=
k it
only reasonable we should expect the world to pay. The dignity of science is
all very well, but I think somehow I must have the monopoly of the stuff fo=
r,
say, ten years. I don't see why ALL the fun in life should go to the dealer=
s in
ham."
My own interest in
the coming drug certainly did not wane in the time. I have always had a que=
er
little twist towards metaphysics in my mind. I have always been given to
paradoxes about space and time, and it seemed to me that Gibberne was really
preparing no less than the absolute acceleration of life. Suppose a man
repeatedly dosed with such a preparation: he would live an active and record
life indeed, but he would be an adult at eleven, middle-aged at twenty-five,
and by thirty well on the road to senile decay. It seemed to me that so far
Gibberne was only going to do for any one who took his drug exactly what Na=
ture
has done for the Jews and Orientals, who are men in their teens and aged by
fifty, and quicker in thought and act than we are all the time. The marvel =
of
drugs has always been great to my mind; you can madden a man, calm a man, m=
ake
him incredibly strong and alert or a helpless log, quicken this passion and
allay that, all by means of drugs, and here was a new miracle to be added to
this strange armoury of phials the doctors use! But Gibberne was far too ea=
ger
upon his technical points to enter very keenly into my aspect of the questi=
on.
It was the 7th or=
8th
of August when he told me the distillation that would decide his failure or
success for a time was going forward as we talked, and it was on the 10th t=
hat
he told me the thing was done and the New Accelerator a tangible reality in=
the
world. I met him as I was going up the Sandgate Hill towards Folkestone--I
think I was going to get my hair cut, and he came hurrying down to meet me-=
-I
suppose he was coming to my house to tell me at once of his success. I reme=
mber
that his eyes were unusually bright and his face flushed, and I noted even =
then
the swift alacrity of his step.
"It's
done," he cried, and gripped my hand, speaking very fast; "it's m=
ore
than done. Come up to my house and see."
"Really?&quo=
t;
"Really!&quo=
t;
he shouted. "Incredibly! Come up and see."
"And it
does--twice?
"It does mor=
e,
much more. It scares me. Come up and see the stuff. Taste it! Try it! It's =
the
most amazing stuff on earth." He gripped my arm and, walking at such a=
pace
that he forced me into a trot, went shouting with me up the hill. A whole
char-a-banc-ful of people turned and stared at us in unison after the manne=
r of
people in chars-a-banc. It was one of those hot, clear days that Folkestone
sees so much of, every colour incredibly bright and every outline hard. The=
re
was a breeze, of course, but not so much breeze as sufficed under these
conditions to keep me cool and dry. I panted for mercy.
"I'm not wal= king fast, am I?" cried Gibberne, and slackened his pace to a quick march.<= o:p>
"You've been
taking some of this stuff," I puffed.
"No," he
said. "At the utmost a drop of water that stood in a beaker from which=
I
had washed out the last traces of the stuff. I took some last night, you kn=
ow.
But that is ancient history, now."
"And it goes
twice?" I said, nearing his doorway in a grateful perspiration.
"It goes a
thousand times, many thousand times!" cried Gibberne, with a dramatic
gesture, flinging open his Early English carved oak gate.
"Phew!"
said I, and followed him to the door.
"I don't know
how many times it goes," he said, with his latch-key in his hand.
"And you--&q=
uot;
"It throws a=
ll
sorts of light on nervous physiology, it kicks the theory of vision into a
perfectly new shape!... Heaven knows how many thousand times. We'll try all
that after--The thing is to try the stuff now."
"Try the
stuff?" I said, as we went along the passage.
"Rather,&quo=
t;
said Gibberne, turning on me in his study. "There it is in that little
green phial there! Unless you happen to be afraid?"
I am a careful ma=
n by
nature, and only theoretically adventurous. I WAS afraid. But on the other =
hand
there is pride.
"Well,"=
I
haggled. "You say you've tried it?"
"I've tried
it," he said, "and I don't look hurt by it, do I? I don't even lo=
ok
livery and I FEEL--"
I sat down.
"Give me the potion," I said. "If the worst comes to the wor=
st
it will save having my hair cut, and that I think is one of the most hateful
duties of a civilised man. How do you take the mixture?"
"With
water," said Gibberne, whacking down a carafe.
He stood up in fr=
ont
of his desk and regarded me in his easy chair; his manner was suddenly affe=
cted
by a touch of the Harley Street specialist. "It's rum stuff, you
know," he said.
I made a gesture =
with
my hand.
"I must warn=
you
in the first place as soon as you've got it down to shut your eyes, and open
them very cautiously in a minute or so's time. One still sees. The sense of
vision is a question of length of vibration, and not of multitude of impact=
s;
but there's a kind of shock to the retina, a nasty giddy confusion just at =
the
time, if the eyes are open. Keep 'em shut."
"Shut,"=
I
said. "Good!"
"And the next
thing is, keep still. Don't begin to whack about. You may fetch something a
nasty rap if you do. Remember you will be going several thousand times fast=
er
than you ever did before, heart, lungs, muscles, brain--everything--and you
will hit hard without knowing it. You won't know it, you know. You'll feel =
just
as you do now. Only everything in the world will seem to be going ever so m=
any
thousand times slower than it ever went before. That's what makes it so deu=
ced queer."
"Lor',"=
I
said. "And you mean--"
"You'll
see," said he, and took up a little measure. He glanced at the materia=
l on
his desk. "Glasses," he said, "water. All here. Mustn't take=
too
much for the first attempt."
The little phial
glucked out its precious contents.
"Don't forget
what I told you," he said, turning the contents of the measure into a
glass in the manner of an Italian waiter measuring whisky. "Sit with t=
he
eyes tightly shut and in absolute stillness for two minutes," he said.
"Then you will hear me speak."
He added an inch =
or
so of water to the little dose in each glass.
"By-the-by,&=
quot;
he said, "don't put your glass down. Keep it in your hand and rest your
hand on your knee. Yes--so. And now--"
He raised his gla=
ss.
"The New
Accelerator," I said.
"The New
Accelerator," he answered, and we touched glasses and drank, and insta=
ntly
I closed my eyes.
You know that bla=
nk
non-existence into which one drops when one has taken "gas." For =
an
indefinite interval it was like that. Then I heard Gibberne telling me to w=
ake
up, and I stirred and opened my eyes. There he stood as he had been standin=
g,
glass still in hand. It was empty, that was all the difference.
"Well?"
said I.
"Nothing out=
of
the way?"
"Nothing. A
slight feeling of exhilaration, perhaps. Nothing more."
"Sounds?&quo=
t;
"Things are
still," I said. "By Jove! yes! They ARE still. Except the sort of
faint pat, patter, like rain falling on different things. What is it?"=
"Analysed
sounds," I think he said, but I am not sure. He glanced at the window.
"Have you ever seen a curtain before a window fixed in that way before=
?"
I followed his ey=
es,
and there was the end of the curtain, frozen, as it were, corner high, in t=
he
act of flapping briskly in the breeze.
"No," s=
aid
I; "that's odd."
"And here,&q=
uot;
he said, and opened the hand that held the glass. Naturally I winced, expec=
ting
the glass to smash. But so far from smashing it did not even seem to stir; =
it
hung in mid-air--motionless.
"Roughly
speaking," said Gibberne, "an object in these latitudes falls 16 =
feet
in the first second. This glass is falling 16 feet in a second now. Only, y=
ou
see, it hasn't been falling yet for the hundredth part of a second. That gi=
ves
you some idea of the pace of my Accelerator." And he waved his hand ro=
und
and round, over and under the slowly sinking glass. Finally, he took it by =
the
bottom, pulled it down, and placed it very carefully on the table.
"Eh?" he said to me, and laughed.
"That seems =
all
right," I said, and began very gingerly to raise myself from my chair.=
I
felt perfectly well, very light and comfortable, and quite confident in my
mind. I was going fast all over. My heart, for example, was beating a thous=
and
times a second, but that caused me no discomfort at all. I looked out of the
window. An immovable cyclist, head down and with a frozen puff of dust behi=
nd
his driving-wheel, scorched to overtake a galloping char-a-banc that did not
stir. I gaped in amazement at this incredible spectacle. "Gibberne,&qu=
ot;
I cried, "how long will this confounded stuff last?"
"Heaven
knows!" he answered. "Last time I took it I went to bed and slept=
it
off. I tell you, I was frightened. It must have lasted some minutes, I thin=
k--it
seemed like hours. But after a bit it slows down rather suddenly, I
believe."
I was proud to
observe that I did not feel frightened--I suppose because there were two of=
us.
"Why shouldn't we go out?" I asked.
"Why not?&qu=
ot;
"They'll see
us."
"Not they.
Goodness, no! Why, we shall be going a thousand times faster than the quick=
est
conjuring trick that was ever done. Come along! Which way shall we go? Wind=
ow,
or door?"
And out by the wi=
ndow
we went.
Assuredly of all =
the
strange experiences that I have ever had, or imagined, or read of other peo=
ple
having or imagining, that little raid I made with Gibberne on the Folkestone
Leas, under the influence of the New Accelerator, was the strangest and mad=
dest
of all. We went out by his gate into the road, and there we made a minute
examination of the statuesque passing traffic. The tops of the wheels and s=
ome
of the legs of the horses of this char-a-banc, the end of the whip-lash and=
the
lower jaw of the conductor--who was just beginning to yawn--were perceptibl=
y in
motion, but all the rest of the lumbering conveyance seemed still. And quite
noiseless except for a faint rattling that came from one man's throat! And =
as
parts of this frozen edifice there were a driver, you know, and a conductor,
and eleven people! The effect as we walked about the thing began by being m=
adly
queer, and ended by being disagreeable. There they were, people like oursel=
ves
and yet not like ourselves, frozen in careless attitudes, caught in
mid-gesture. A girl and a man smiled at one another, a leering smile that
threatened to last for evermore; a woman in a floppy capelline rested her a=
rm
on the rail and stared at Gibberne's house with the unwinking stare of
eternity; a man stroked his moustache like a figure of wax, and another
stretched a tiresome stiff hand with extended fingers towards his loosened =
hat.
We stared at them, we laughed at them, we made faces at them, and then a so=
rt
of disgust of them came upon us, and we turned away and walked round in fro=
nt
of the cyclist towards the Leas.
"Goodness!&q=
uot;
cried Gibberne, suddenly; "look there!"
He pointed, and t=
here
at the tip of his finger and sliding down the air with wings flapping slowly
and at the speed of an exceptionally languid snail--was a bee.
And so we came out
upon the Leas. There the thing seemed madder than ever. The band was playin=
g in
the upper stand, though all the sound it made for us was a low-pitched, whe=
ezy
rattle, a sort of prolonged last sigh that passed at times into a sound like
the slow, muffled ticking of some monstrous clock. Frozen people stood erec=
t,
strange, silent, self-conscious-looking dummies hung unstably in mid-stride,
promenading upon the grass. I passed close to a little poodle dog suspended=
in
the act of leaping, and watched the slow movement of his legs as he sank to
earth. "Lord, look here!" cried Gibberne, and we halted for a mom=
ent before
a magnificent person in white faint-striped flannels, white shoes, and a Pa=
nama
hat, who turned back to wink at two gaily dressed ladies he had passed. A w=
ink,
studied with such leisurely deliberation as we could afford, is an unattrac=
tive
thing. It loses any quality of alert gaiety, and one remarks that the winki=
ng
eye does not completely close, that under its drooping lid appears the lower
edge of an eyeball and a little line of white. "Heaven give me
memory," said I, "and I will never wink again."
"Or smile,&q=
uot;
said Gibberne, with his eye on the lady's answering teeth.
"It's infern=
ally
hot, somehow," said I. "Let's go slower."
"Oh, come
along!" said Gibberne.
We picked our way
among the bath-chairs in the path. Many of the people sitting in the chairs
seemed almost natural in their passive poses, but the contorted scarlet of =
the
bandsmen was not a restful thing to see. A purple-faced little gentleman was
frozen in the midst of a violent struggle to refold his newspaper against t=
he
wind; there were many evidences that all these people in their sluggish way
were exposed to a considerable breeze, a breeze that had no existence so fa=
r as
our sensations went. We came out and walked a little way from the crowd, an=
d turned
and regarded it. To see all that multitude changed, to a picture, smitten
rigid, as it were, into the semblance of realistic wax, was impossibly
wonderful. It was absurd, of course; but it filled me with an irrational, an
exultant sense of superior advantage. Consider the wonder of it! All that I=
had
said, and thought, and done since the stuff had begun to work in my veins h=
ad
happened, so far as those people, so far as the world in general went, in t=
he twinkling
of an eye. "The New Accelerator--" I began, but Gibberne interrup=
ted
me.
"There's that
infernal old woman!" he said.
"What old
woman?"
"Lives next =
door
to me," said Gibberne. "Has a lapdog that yaps. Gods! The temptat=
ion
is strong!"
There is something
very boyish and impulsive about Gibberne at times. Before I could expostula=
te
with him he had dashed forward, snatched the unfortunate animal out of visi=
ble
existence, and was running violently with it towards the cliff of the Leas.=
It
was most extraordinary. The little brute, you know, didn't bark or wriggle =
or
make the slightest sign of vitality. It kept quite stiffly in an attitude of
somnolent repose, and Gibberne held it by the neck. It was like running abo=
ut
with a dog of wood. "Gibberne," I cried, "put it down!"
Then I said something else. "If you run like that, Gibberne," I
cried, "you'll set your clothes on fire. Your linen trousers are going
brown as it is!"
He clapped his ha=
nd
on his thigh and stood hesitating on the verge. "Gibberne," I cri=
ed,
coming up, "put it down. This heat is too much! It's our running so! T=
wo
or three miles a second! Friction of the air!"
"What?"=
he
said, glancing at the dog.
"Friction of=
the
air," I shouted. "Friction of the air. Going too fast. Like
meteorites and things. Too hot. And, Gibberne! Gibberne! I'm all over prick=
ing
and a sort of perspiration. You can see people stirring slightly. I believe=
the
stuff's working off! Put that dog down."
"Eh?" he
said.
"It's working
off," I repeated. "We're too hot and the stuff's working off! I'm=
wet
through."
He stared at me. =
Then
at the band, the wheezy rattle of whose performance was certainly going fas=
ter.
Then with a tremendous sweep of the arm he hurled the dog away from him and=
it
went spinning upward, still inanimate, and hung at last over the grouped
parasols of a knot of chattering people. Gibberne was gripping my elbow.
"By Jove!" he cried. "I believe--it is! A sort of hot pricki=
ng
and--yes. That man's moving his pocket-handkerchief! Perceptibly. We must g=
et
out of this sharp."
But we could not =
get
out of it sharply enough. Luckily, perhaps! For we might have run, and if we
had run we should, I believe, have burst into flames. Almost certainly we
should have burst into flames! You know we had neither of us thought of
that.... But before we could even begin to run the action of the drug had
ceased. It was the business of a minute fraction of a second. The effect of=
the
New Accelerator passed like the drawing of a curtain, vanished in the movem=
ent
of a hand. I heard Gibberne's voice in infinite alarm. "Sit down,"=
; he
said, and flop, down upon the turf at the edge of the Leas I sat--scorching=
as
I sat. There is a patch of burnt grass there still where I sat down. The wh=
ole stagnation
seemed to wake up as I did so, the disarticulated vibration of the band rus=
hed
together into a blast of music, the promenaders put their feet down and wal=
ked
their ways, the papers and flags began flapping, smiles passed into words, =
the
winker finished his wink and went on his way complacently, and all the seat=
ed
people moved and spoke.
The whole world h=
ad
come alive again, was going as fast as we were, or rather we were going no
faster than the rest of the world. It was like slowing down as one comes in=
to a
railway station. Everything seemed to spin round for a second or two, I had=
the
most transient feeling of nausea, and that was all. And the little dog which
had seemed to hang for a moment when the force of Gibberne's arm was expend=
ed
fell with a swift acceleration clean through a lady's parasol!
That was the savi=
ng
of us. Unless it was for one corpulent old gentleman in a bath-chair, who
certainly did start at the sight of us and afterwards regarded us at interv=
als
with a darkly suspicious eye, and, finally, I believe, said something to his
nurse about us, I doubt if a solitary person remarked our sudden appearance
among them. Plop! We must have appeared abruptly. We ceased to smoulder alm=
ost
at once, though the turf beneath me was uncomfortably hot. The attention of
every one--including even the Amusements' Association band, which on this o=
ccasion,
for the only time in its history, got out of tune--was arrested by the amaz=
ing
fact, and the still more amazing yapping and uproar caused by the fact that=
a
respectable, over-fed lap-dog sleeping quietly to the east of the bandstand
should suddenly fall through the parasol of a lady on the west--in a slight=
ly
singed condition due to the extreme velocity of its movements through the a=
ir.
In these absurd days, too, when we are all trying to be as psychic, and sil=
ly,
and superstitious as possible! People got up and trod on other people, chai=
rs
were overturned, the Leas policeman ran. How the matter settled itself I do=
not
know--we were much too anxious to disentangle ourselves from the affair and=
get
out of range of the eye of the old gentleman in the bath-chair to make minu=
te
inquiries. As soon as we were sufficiently cool and sufficiently recovered =
from
our giddiness and nausea and confusion of mind to do so we stood up and,
skirting the crowd, directed our steps back along the road below the Metrop=
ole
towards Gibberne's house. But amidst the din I heard very distinctly the
gentleman who had been sitting beside the lady of the ruptured sunshade usi=
ng
quite unjustifiable threats and language to one of those chair-attendants w=
ho have
"Inspector" written on their caps. "If you didn't throw the
dog," he said, "who DID?"
The sudden return=
of
movement and familiar noises, and our natural anxiety about ourselves (our
clothe's were still dreadfully hot, and the fronts of the thighs of Gibbern=
e's
white trousers were scorched a drabbish brown), prevented the minute
observations I should have liked to make on all these things. Indeed, I rea=
lly
made no observations of any scientific value on that return. The bee, of
course, had gone. I looked for that cyclist, but he was already out of sigh=
t as
we came into the Upper Sandgate Road or hidden from us by traffic; the
char-a-banc, however, with its people now all alive and stirring, was
clattering along at a spanking pace almost abreast of the nearer church.
We noted, however,
that the window-sill on which we had stepped in getting out of the house was
slightly singed, and that the impressions of our feet on the gravel of the =
path
were unusually deep.
So it was I had my
first experience of the New Accelerator. Practically we had been running ab=
out
and saying and doing all sorts of things in the space of a second or so of
time. We had lived half an hour while the band had played, perhaps, two bar=
s.
But the effect it had upon us was that the whole world had stopped for our
convenient inspection. Considering all things, and particularly considering=
our
rashness in venturing out of the house, the experience might certainly have
been much more disagreeable than it was. It showed, no doubt, that Gibberne=
has
still much to learn before his preparation is a manageable convenience, but=
its
practicability it certainly demonstrated beyond all cavil.
Since that advent=
ure
he has been steadily bringing its use under control, and I have several tim=
es,
and without the slightest bad result, taken measured doses under his direct=
ion;
though I must confess I have not yet ventured abroad again while under its
influence. I may mention, for example, that this story has been written at =
one
sitting and without interruption, except for the nibbling of some chocolate=
, by
its means. I began at 6.25, and my watch is now very nearly at the minute p=
ast
the half-hour. The convenience of securing a long, uninterrupted spell of w=
ork
in the midst of a day full of engagements cannot be exaggerated. Gibberne is
now working at the quantitative handling of his preparation, with especial
reference to its distinctive effects upon different types of constitution. =
He
then hopes to find a Retarder with which to dilute its present rather exces=
sive
potency. The Retarder will, of course, have the reverse effect to the
Accelerator; used alone it should enable the patient to spread a few seconds
over many hours of ordinary time,--and so to maintain an apathetic inaction=
, a
glacier-like absence of alacrity, amidst the most animated or irritating
surroundings. The two things together must necessarily work an entire
revolution in civilised existence. It is the beginning of our escape from t=
hat
Time Garment of which Carlyle speaks. While this Accelerator will enable us=
to concentrate
ourselves with tremendous impact upon any moment or occasion that demands o=
ur
utmost sense and vigour, the Retarder will enable us to pass in passive
tranquillity through infinite hardship and tedium. Perhaps I am a little
optimistic about the Retarder, which has indeed still to be discovered, but
about the Accelerator there is no possible sort of doubt whatever. Its
appearance upon the market in a convenient, controllable, and assimilable f=
orm
is a matter of the next few months. It will be obtainable of all chemists a=
nd
druggists, in small green bottles, at a high but, considering its extraordi=
nary
qualities, by no means excessive price. Gibberne's Nervous Accelerator it w=
ill
be called, and he hopes to be able to supply it in three strengths: one in =
200,
one in 900, and one in 2000, distinguished by yellow, pink, and white label=
s respectively.
No doubt its use
renders a great number of very extraordinary things possible; for, of cours=
e,
the most remarkable and, possibly, even criminal proceedings may be effected
with impunity by thus dodging, as it were, into the interstices of time. Li=
ke
all potent preparations it will be liable to abuse. We have, however, discu=
ssed
this aspect of the question very thoroughly, and we have decided that this =
is
purely a matter of medical jurisprudence and altogether outside our provinc=
e. We
shall manufacture and sell the Accelerator, and, as for the consequences--we
shall see.
9. MR. LEDBETTER'S VACATI=
ON
My friend, Mr.
Ledbetter, is a round-faced little man, whose natural mildness of eye is
gigantically exaggerated when you catch the beam through his glasses, and w=
hose
deep, deliberate voice irritates irritable people. A certain elaborate
clearness of enunciation has come with him to his present vicarage from his
scholastic days, an elaborate clearness of enunciation and a certain nervous
determination to be firm and correct upon all issues, important and unimpor=
tant
alike. He is a sacerdotalist and a chess player, and suspected by many of t=
he
secret practice of the higher mathematics--creditable rather than interesti=
ng things.
His conversation is copious and given much to needless detail. By many, ind=
eed,
his intercourse is condemned, to put it plainly, as "boring," and
such have even done me the compliment to wonder why I countenance him. But,=
on
the other hand, there is a large faction who marvel at his countenancing su=
ch a
dishevelled, discreditable acquaintance as myself. Few appear to regard our
friendship with equanimity. But that is because they do not know of the link
that binds us, of my amiable connection via Jamaica with Mr. Ledbetter's pa=
st.
About that past he
displays an anxious modesty. "I do not KNOW what I should do if it bec=
ame
known," he says; and repeats, impressively, "I do not know WHAT I
should do." As a matter of fact, I doubt if he would do anything except
get very red about the ears. But that will appear later; nor will I tell he=
re
of our first encounter, since, as a general rule--though I am prone to break
it--the end of a story should come after, rather than before, the beginning.
And the beginning of the story goes a long way back; indeed, it is now near=
ly
twenty years since Fate, by a series of complicated and startling manoeuvre=
s, brought
Mr. Ledbetter, so to speak, into my hands.
In those days I w=
as
living in Jamaica, and Mr. Ledbetter was a schoolmaster in England. He was =
in
orders, and already recognisably the same man that he is to-day: the same
rotundity of visage, the same or similar glasses, and the same faint shadow=
of
surprise in his resting expression. He was, of course, dishevelled when I s=
aw
him, and his collar less of a collar than a wet bandage, and that may have
helped to bridge the natural gulf between us--but of that, as I say, later.=
The business bega=
n at
Hithergate-on-Sea, and simultaneously with Mr. Ledbetter's summer vacation.
Thither he came for a greatly needed rest, with a bright brown portmanteau
marked "F. W. L.", a new white-and-black straw hat, and two pairs=
of
white flannel trousers. He was naturally exhilarated at his release from
school--for he was not very fond of the boys he taught. After dinner he fell
into a discussion with a talkative person established in the boarding-house=
to
which, acting on the advice of his aunt, he had resorted. This talkative pe=
rson
was the only other man in the house. Their discussion concerned the melanch=
oly disappearance
of wonder and adventure in these latter days, the prevalence of globe-trott=
ing,
the abolition of distance by steam and electricity, the vulgarity of
advertisement, the degradation of men by civilisation, and many such things.
Particularly was the talkative person eloquent on the decay of human courage
through security, a security Mr. Ledbetter rather thoughtlessly joined him =
in
deploring. Mr. Ledbetter, in the first delight of emancipation from
"duty," and being anxious, perhaps, to establish a reputation for
manly conviviality, partook, rather more freely than was advisable, of the
excellent whisky the talkative person produced. But he did not become
intoxicated, he insists.
He was simply
eloquent beyond his sober wont, and with the finer edge gone from his judgm=
ent.
And after that long talk of the brave old days that were past forever, he w=
ent
out into moonlit Hithergate--alone and up the cliff road where the villas
cluster together.
He had bewailed, =
and
now as he walked up the silent road he still bewailed, the fate that had ca=
lled
him to such an uneventful life as a pedagogue's. What a prosaic existence he
led, so stagnant, so colourless! Secure, methodical, year in year out, what
call was there for bravery? He thought enviously of those roving, mediaeval
days, so near and so remote, of quests and spies and condottieri and many a
risky blade-drawing business. And suddenly came a doubt, a strange doubt, s=
pringing
out of some chance thought of tortures, and destructive altogether of the
position he had assumed that evening.
Was he--Mr.
Ledbetter--really, after all, so brave as he assumed? Would he really be so
pleased to have railways, policemen, and security vanish suddenly from the
earth?
The talkative man=
had
spoken enviously of crime. "The burglar," he said, "is the o=
nly
true adventurer left on earth. Think of his single-handed fight against the
whole civilised world!" And Mr. Ledbetter had echoed his envy. "T=
hey
DO have some fun out of life," Mr. Ledbetter had said. "And about=
the
only people who do. Just think how it must feel to wire a lawn!" And he
had laughed wickedly. Now, in this franker intimacy of self-communion he fo=
und
himself instituting a comparison between his own brand of courage and that =
of
the habitual criminal. He tried to meet these insidious questionings with b=
lank
assertion. "I could do all that," said Mr. Ledbetter. "I lon=
g to
do all that. Only I do not give way to my criminal impulses. My moral coura=
ge
restrains me." But he doubted even while he told himself these things.=
Mr. Ledbetter pas=
sed
a large villa standing by itself. Conveniently situated above a quiet,
practicable balcony was a window, gaping black, wide open. At the time he
scarcely marked it, but the picture of it came with him, wove into his
thoughts. He figured himself climbing up that balcony, crouching--plunging =
into
that dark, mysterious interior. "Bah! You would not dare," said t=
he
Spirit of Doubt. "My duty to my fellow-men forbids," said Mr.
Ledbetter's self-respect.
It was nearly ele=
ven,
and the little seaside town was already very still. The whole world slumber=
ed
under the moonlight. Only one warm oblong of window-blind far down the road
spoke of waking life. He turned and came back slowly towards the villa of t=
he
open window. He stood for a time outside the gate, a battlefield of motives.
"Let us put things to the test," said Doubt. "For the
satisfaction of these intolerable doubts, show that you dare go into that
house. Commit a burglary in blank. That, at any rate, is no crime." Ve=
ry
softly he opened and shut the gate and slipped into the shadow of the
shrubbery. "This is foolish," said Mr. Ledbetter's caution. "=
;I
expected that," said Doubt. His heart was beating fast, but he was
certainly not afraid. He was NOT afraid. He remained in that shadow for some
considerable time.
The ascent of the
balcony, it was evident, would have to be done in a rush, for it was all in
clear moonlight, and visible from the gate into the avenue. A trellis thinly
set with young, ambitious climbing roses made the ascent ridiculously easy.
There, in that black shadow by the stone vase of flowers, one might crouch =
and
take a closer view of this gaping breach in the domestic defences, the open
window. For a while Mr. Ledbetter was as still as the night, and then that
insidious whisky tipped the balance. He dashed forward. He went up the trel=
lis
with quick, convulsive movements, swung his legs over the parapet of the ba=
lcony,
and dropped panting in the shadow even as he had designed. He was trembling
violently, short of breath, and his heart pumped noisily, but his mood was
exultation. He could have shouted to find he was so little afraid.
A happy line that=
he
had learnt from Wills's "Mephistopheles" came into his mind as he
crouched there. "I feel like a cat on the tiles," he whispered to
himself. It was far better than he had expected--this adventurous exhilarat=
ion.
He was sorry for all poor men to whom burglary was unknown. Nothing happene=
d.
He was quite safe. And he was acting in the bravest manner!
And now for the
window, to make the burglary complete! Must he dare do that? Its position a=
bove
the front door defined it as a landing or passage, and there were no
looking-glasses or any bedroom signs about it, or any other window on the f=
irst
floor, to suggest the possibility of a sleeper within. For a time he listen=
ed
under the ledge, then raised his eyes above the sill and peered in. Close at
hand, on a pedestal, and a little startling at first, was a nearly life-size
gesticulating bronze. He ducked, and after some time he peered again. Beyond
was a broad landing, faintly gleaming; a flimsy fabric of bead curtain, ver=
y black
and sharp, against a further window; a broad staircase, plunging into a gul=
f of
darkness below; and another ascending to the second floor. He glanced behind
him, but the stillness of the night was unbroken. "Crime," he
whispered, "crime," and scrambled softly and swiftly over the sill
into the house. His feet fell noiselessly on a mat of skin. He was a burglar
indeed!
He crouched for a
time, all ears and peering eyes. Outside was a scampering and rustling, and=
for
a moment he repented of his enterprise. A short "miaow," a spitti=
ng,
and a rush into silence, spoke reassuringly of cats. His courage grew. He s=
tood
up. Every one was abed, it seemed. So easy is it to commit a burglary, if o=
ne
is so minded. He was glad he had put it to the test. He determined to take =
some
petty trophy, just to prove his freedom from any abject fear of the law, and
depart the way he had come.
He peered about h=
im,
and suddenly the critical spirit arose again. Burglars did far more than su=
ch
mere elementary entrance as this: they went into rooms, they forced safes.
Well--he was not afraid. He could not force safes, because that would be a
stupid want of consideration for his hosts. But he would go into rooms--he
would go upstairs. More: he told himself that he was perfectly secure; an e=
mpty
house could not be more reassuringly still. He had to clench his hands,
nevertheless, and summon all his resolution before he began very softly to
ascend the dim staircase, pausing for several seconds between each step. Ab=
ove
was a square landing with one open and several closed doors; and all the ho=
use
was still. For a moment he stood wondering what would happen if some sleeper
woke suddenly and emerged. The open door showed a moonlit bedroom, the cove=
rlet
white and undisturbed. Into this room he crept in three interminable minutes
and took a piece of soap for his plunder--his trophy. He turned to descend =
even
more softly than he had ascended. It was as easy as--
Hist!...
Footsteps! On the
gravel outside the house--and then the noise of a latchkey, the yawn and ba=
ng
of a door, and the spitting of a match in the hall below. Mr. Ledbetter sto=
od
petrified by the sudden discovery of the folly upon which he had come.
"How on earth am I to get out of this?" said Mr. Ledbetter.
The hall grew bri=
ght
with a candle flame, some heavy object bumped against the umbrella-stand, a=
nd
feet were ascending the staircase. In a flash Mr. Ledbetter realised that h=
is
retreat was closed. He stood for a moment, a pitiful figure of penitent
confusion. "My goodness! What a FOOL I have been!" he whispered, =
and
then darted swiftly across the shadowy landing into the empty bedroom from
which he had just come. He stood listening--quivering. The footsteps reached
the first-floor landing.
Horrible thought!
This was possibly the latecomer's room! Not a moment was to be lost! Mr.
Ledbetter stooped beside the bed, thanked Heaven for a valance, and crawled
within its protection not ten seconds too soon. He became motionless on han=
ds
and knees. The advancing candle-light appeared through the thinner stitches=
of
the fabric, the shadows ran wildly about, and became rigid as the candle was
put down.
"Lord, what a
day!" said the newcomer, blowing noisily, and it seemed he deposited s=
ome
heavy burthen on what Mr. Ledbetter, judging by the feet, decided to be a
writing-table. The unseen then went to the door and locked it, examined the
fastenings of the windows carefully and pulled down the blinds, and returni=
ng
sat down upon the bed with startling ponderosity.
"WHAT a
day!" he said. "Good Lord!" and blew again, and Mr. Ledbette=
r inclined
to believe that the person was mopping his face. His boots were good stout
boots; the shadows of his legs upon the valance suggested a formidable
stoutness of aspect. After a time he removed some upper garments--a coat an=
d waistcoat,
Mr. Ledbetter inferred--and casting them over the rail of the bed remained
breathing less noisily, and as it seemed cooling from a considerable
temperature. At intervals he muttered to himself, and once he laughed softl=
y.
And Mr. Ledbetter muttered to himself, but he did not laugh. "Of all t=
he
foolish things," said Mr. Ledbetter. "What on earth am I to do
now?"
His outlook was
necessarily limited. The minute apertures between the stitches of the fabri=
c of
the valance admitted a certain amount of light, but permitted no peeping. T=
he
shadows upon this curtain, save for those sharply defined legs, were
enigmatical, and intermingled confusingly with the florid patterning of the
chintz. Beneath the edge of the valance a strip of carpet was visible, and,=
by
cautiously depressing his eye, Mr. Ledbetter found that this strip broadened
until the whole area of the floor came into view. The carpet was a luxuriou=
s one,
the room spacious, and, to judge by the castors and so forth of the furnitu=
re,
well equipped.
What he should do=
he
found it difficult to imagine. To wait until this person had gone to bed, a=
nd
then, when he seemed to be sleeping, to creep to the door, unlock it, and b=
olt
headlong for that balcony seemed the only possible thing to do. Would it be
possible to jump from the balcony? The danger of it! When he thought of the
chances against him, Mr. Ledbetter despaired. He was within an ace of thrus=
ting
forth his head beside the gentleman's legs, coughing if necessary to attract
his attention, and then, smiling, apologising and explaining his unfortunat=
e intrusion
by a few well-chosen sentences. But he found these sentences hard to choose.
"No doubt, sir, my appearance is peculiar," or, "I trust, si=
r,
you will pardon my somewhat ambiguous appearance from beneath you," was
about as much as he could get.
Grave possibiliti=
es
forced themselves on his attention. Suppose they did not believe him, what
would they do to him? Would his unblemished high character count for nothin=
g?
Technically he was a burglar, beyond dispute. Following out this train of
thought, he was composing a lucid apology for "this technical crime I =
have
committed," to be delivered before sentence in the dock, when the stout
gentleman got up and began walking about the room. He locked and unlocked
drawers, and Mr. Ledbetter had a transient hope that he might be undressing.
But, no! He seated himself at the writing-table, and began to write and then
tear up documents. Presently the smell of burning cream-laid paper mingled =
with
the odour of cigars in Mr. Ledbetter's nostrils.
"The positio=
n I
had assumed," said Mr. Ledbetter when he told me of these things,
"was in many respects an ill-advised one. A transverse bar beneath the=
bed
depressed my head unduly, and threw a disproportionate share of my weight u=
pon
my hands. After a time, I experienced what is called, I believe, a crick in=
the
neck. The pressure of my hands on the coarsely-stitched carpet speedily bec=
ame
painful. My knees, too, were painful, my trousers being drawn tightly over
them. At that time I wore rather higher collars than I do now--two and a ha=
lf
inches, in fact--and I discovered what I had not remarked before, that the =
edge
of the one I wore was frayed slightly under the chin. But much worse than t=
hese
things was an itching of my face, which I could only relieve by violent gri=
macing--I
tried to raise my hand, but the rustle of the sleeve alarmed me. After a ti=
me I
had to desist from this relief also, because--happily in time--I discovered
that my facial contortions were shifting my glasses down my nose. Their fall
would, of course, have exposed me, and as it was they came to rest in an
oblique position of by no means stable equilibrium. In addition I had a sli=
ght
cold, and an intermittent desire to sneeze or sniff caused me inconvenience=
. In
fact, quite apart from the extreme anxiety of my position, my physical disc=
omfort
became in a short time very considerable indeed. But I had to stay there
motionless, nevertheless."
After an intermin=
able
time, there began a chinking sound. This deepened into a rhythm: chink, chi=
nk,
chink--twenty-five chinks--a rap on the writing-table, and a grunt from the
owner of the stout legs. It dawned upon Mr. Ledbetter that this chinking was
the chinking of gold. He became incredulously curious as it went on. His
curiosity grew. Already, if that was the case, this extraordinary man must =
have
counted some hundreds of pounds. At last Mr. Ledbetter could resist it no
longer, and he began very cautiously to fold his arms and lower his head to=
the
level of the floor, in the hope of peeping under the valance. He moved his
feet, and one made a slight scraping on the floor. Suddenly the chinking
ceased. Mr. Ledbetter became rigid. After a while the chinking was resumed.
Then it ceased again, and everything was still, except Mr. Ledbetter's
heart--that organ seemed to him to be beating like a drum.
The stillness
continued. Mr. Ledbetter's head was now on the floor, and he could see the
stout legs as far as the shins. They were quite still. The feet were restin=
g on
the toes and drawn back, as it seemed, under the chair of the owner. Everyt=
hing
was quite still, everything continued still. A wild hope came to Mr. Ledbet=
ter
that the unknown was in a fit or suddenly dead, with his head upon the
writing-table....
The stillness
continued. What had happened? The desire to peep became irresistible. Very
cautiously Mr. Ledbetter shifted his hand forward, projected a pioneer fing=
er,
and began to lift the valance immediately next his eye. Nothing broke the
stillness. He saw now the stranger's knees, saw the back of the writing-tab=
le,
and then--he was staring at the barrel of a heavy revolver pointed over the
writing-table at his head.
"Come out of
that, you scoundrel!" said the voice of the stout gentleman in a tone =
of
quiet concentration. "Come out. This side, and now. None of your
hanky-panky--come right out, now."
Mr. Ledbetter came
right out, a little reluctantly perhaps, but without any hanky-panky, and at
once, even as he was told.
"Kneel,"
said the stout gentleman, "and hold up your hands."
The valance dropp=
ed
again behind Mr. Ledbetter, and he rose from all-fours and held up his hand=
s.
"Dressed like a parson," said the stout gentleman. "I'm bles=
t if
he isn't! A little chap, too! You SCOUNDREL! What the deuce possessed you to
come here to-night? What the deuce possessed you to get under my bed?"=
He did not appear=
to
require an answer, but proceeded at once to several very objectionable rema=
rks
upon Mr. Ledbetter's personal appearance. He was not a very big man, but he
looked strong to Mr. Ledbetter: he was as stout as his legs had promised, he
had rather delicately-chiselled small features distributed over a considera=
ble
area of whitish face, and quite a number of chins. And the note of his voice
had a sort of whispering undertone.
"What the de=
uce,
I say, possessed you to get under my bed?"
Mr. Ledbetter, by=
an
effort, smiled a wan propitiatory smile. He coughed. "I can quite
understand--" he said.
"Why! What on
earth? It's SOAP! No!--you scoundrel. Don't you move that hand."
"It's
soap," said Mr. Ledbetter. "From your washstand. No doubt it--&qu=
ot;
"Don't
talk," said the stout man. "I see it's soap. Of all incredible th=
ings."
"If I might
explain--"
"Don't expla=
in.
It's sure to be a lie, and there's no time for explanations. What was I goi=
ng
to ask you? Ah! Have you any mates?"
"In a few
minutes, if you--"
"Have you any
mates? Curse you. If you start any soapy palaver I'll shoot. Have you any
mates?"
"No," s=
aid
Mr. Ledbetter.
"I suppose i=
t's
a lie," said the stout man. "But you'll pay for it if it is. Why =
the
deuce didn't you floor me when I came upstairs? You won't get a chance to n=
ow,
anyhow. Fancy getting under the bed! I reckon it's a fair cop, anyhow, so f=
ar
as you are concerned."
"I don't see=
how
I could prove an alibi," remarked Mr. Ledbetter, trying to show by his
conversation that he was an educated man. There was a pause. Mr. Ledbetter
perceived that on a chair beside his captor was a large black bag on a heap=
of
crumpled papers, and that there were torn and burnt papers on the table. An=
d in
front of these, and arranged methodically along the edge were rows and rows=
of
little yellow rouleaux--a hundred times more gold than Mr. Ledbetter had se=
en
in all his life before. The light of two candles, in silver candlesticks, f=
ell upon
these. The pause continued. "It is rather fatiguing holding up my hands
like this," said Mr. Ledbetter, with a deprecatory smile.
"That's all
right," said the fat man. "But what to do with you I don't exactly
know."
"I know my p=
osition
is ambiguous."
"Lord!"
said the fat man, "ambiguous! And goes about with his own soap, and we=
ars
a thundering great clerical collar. You ARE a blooming burglar, you are--if
ever there was one!"
"To be stric=
tly
accurate," said Mr. Ledbetter, and suddenly his glasses slipped off and
clattered against his vest buttons.
The fat man chang=
ed
countenance, a flash of savage resolution crossed his face, and something in
the revolver clicked. He put his other hand to the weapon. And then he look=
ed
at Mr. Ledbetter, and his eye went down to the dropped pince-nez.
"Full-cock n=
ow,
anyhow," said the fat man, after a pause, and his breath seemed to cat=
ch.
"But I'll tell you, you've never been so near death before. Lord! I'M
almost glad. If it hadn't been that the revolver wasn't cocked you'd be lyi=
ng
dead there now."
Mr. Ledbetter said
nothing, but he felt that the room was swaying.
"A miss is as
good as a mile. It's lucky for both of us it wasn't. Lord!" He blew
noisily. "There's no need for you to go pale-green for a little thing =
like
that."
"If I can as=
sure
you, sir--" said Mr. Ledbetter, with an effort.
"There's only
one thing to do. If I call in the police, I'm bust--a little game I've got =
on
is bust. That won't do. If I tie you up and leave you again, the thing may =
be
out to-morrow. Tomorrow's Sunday, and Monday's Bank Holiday--I've counted on
three clear days. Shooting you's murder--and hanging; and besides, it will =
bust
the whole blooming kernooze. I'm hanged if I can think what to do--I'm hang=
ed
if I can."
"Will you pe=
rmit
me--"
"You gas as =
much
as if you were a real parson, I'm blessed if you don't. Of all the burglars=
you
are the--Well! No!--I WON'T permit you. There isn't time. If you start off
jawing again, I'll shoot right in your stomach. See? But I know now-I know =
now!
What we're going to do first, my man, is an examination for concealed arms-=
-an
examination for concealed arms. And look here! When I tell you to do a thin=
g,
don't start off at a gabble--do it brisk."
And with many
elaborate precautions, and always pointing the pistol at Mr. Ledbetter's he=
ad,
the stout man stood him up and searched him for weapons. "Why, you ARE=
a
burglar!" he said "You're a perfect amateur. You haven't even a
pistol-pocket in the back of your breeches. No, you don't! Shut up, now.&qu=
ot;
So soon as the is=
sue
was decided, the stout man made Mr. Ledbetter take off his coat and roll up=
his
shirt-sleeves, and, with the revolver at one ear, proceed with the packing =
his
appearance had interrupted. From the stout man's point of view that was
evidently the only possible arrangement, for if he had packed, he would have
had to put down the revolver. So that even the gold on the table was handle=
d by
Mr. Ledbetter. This nocturnal packing was peculiar. The stout man's idea wa=
s evidently
to distribute the weight of the gold as unostentatiously as possible through
his luggage. It was by no means an inconsiderable weight. There was, Mr.
Ledbetter says, altogether nearly L18,000 in gold in the black bag and on t=
he
table. There were also many little rolls of L5 bank-notes. Each rouleau of =
L25
was wrapped by Mr. Ledbetter in paper. These rouleaux were then put neatly =
in
cigar boxes and distributed between a travelling trunk, a Gladstone bag, an=
d a
hatbox. About L600 went in a tobacco tin in a dressing-bag. L10 in gold and=
a number
of L5 notes the stout man pocketed. Occasionally he objurgated Mr. Ledbette=
r's
clumsiness, and urged him to hurry, and several times he appealed to Mr.
Ledbetter's watch for information.
Mr. Ledbetter
strapped the trunk and bag, and returned the stout man the keys. It was then
ten minutes to twelve, and until the stroke of midnight the stout man made =
him
sit on the Gladstone bag, while he sat at a reasonably safe distance on the
trunk and held the revolver handy and waited. He appeared to be now in a le=
ss
aggressive mood, and having watched Mr. Ledbetter for some time, he offered=
a
few remarks.
"From your
accent I judge you are a man of some education," he said, lighting a
cigar. "No--DON'T begin that explanation of yours. I know it will be
long-winded from your face, and I am much too old a liar to be interested in
other men's lying. You are, I say, a person of education. You do well to dr=
ess
as a curate. Even among educated people you might pass as a curate."
"I AM a
curate," said Mr. Ledbetter, "or, at least--"
"You are try=
ing
to be. I know. But you didn't ought to burgle. You are not the man to burgl=
e.
You are, if I may say it--the thing will have been pointed out to you befor=
e--a
coward."
"Do you
know," said Mr. Ledbetter, trying to get a final opening, "it was
that very question--"
The stout man wav=
ed
him into silence.
"You waste y=
our
education in burglary. You should do one of two things. Either you should f=
orge
or you should embezzle. For my own part, I embezzle. Yes; I embezzle. What =
do
you think a man could be doing with all this gold but that? Ah! Listen!
Midnight!... Ten. Eleven. Twelve. There is something very impressive to me =
in
that slow beating of the hours. Time--space; what mysteries they are! What =
mysteries....
It's time for us to be moving. Stand up!"
And then kindly, =
but
firmly, he induced Mr. Ledbetter to sling the dressing bag over his back by=
a
string across his chest, to shoulder the trunk, and, overruling a gasping
protest, to take the Gladstone bag in his disengaged hand. So encumbered, M=
r.
Ledbetter struggled perilously downstairs. The stout gentleman followed wit=
h an
overcoat, the hatbox, and the revolver, making derogatory remarks about Mr.
Ledbetter's strength, and assisting him at the turnings of the stairs.
"The back
door," he directed, and Mr. Ledbetter staggered through a conservatory,
leaving a wake of smashed flower-pots behind him. "Never mind the
crockery," said the stout man; "it's good for trade. We wait here
until a quarter past. You can put those things down. You have!"
Mr. Ledbetter
collapsed panting on the trunk. "Last night," he gasped, "I =
was
asleep in my little room, and I no more dreamt--"
"There's no =
need
for you to incriminate yourself," said the stout gentleman, looking at=
the
lock of the revolver. He began to hum. Mr. Ledbetter made to speak, and tho=
ught
better of it.
There presently c=
ame
the sound of a bell, and Mr. Ledbetter was taken to the back door and
instructed to open it. A fair-haired man in yachting costume entered. At the
sight of Mr. Ledbetter he started violently and clapped his hand behind him.
Then he saw the stout man. "Bingham!" he cried, "who's
this?"
"Only a litt=
le
philanthropic do of mine--burglar I'm trying to reform. Caught him under my=
bed
just now. He's all right. He's a frightful ass. He'll be useful to carry so=
me
of our things."
The newcomer seem=
ed
inclined to resent Mr. Ledbetter's presence at first, but the stout man
reassured him.
"He's quite
alone. There's not a gang in the world would own him. No!--don't start talk=
ing,
for goodness' sake."
They went out into
the darkness of the garden with the trunk still bowing Mr. Ledbetter's
shoulders. The man in the yachting costume walked in front with the Gladsto=
ne
bag and a pistol; then came Mr. Ledbetter like Atlas; Mr. Bingham followed =
with
the hat-box, coat, and revolver as before. The house was one of those that =
have
their gardens right up to the cliff. At the cliff was a steep wooden stairw=
ay,
descending to a bathing tent dimly visible on the beach. Below was a boat
pulled up, and a silent little man with a black face stood beside it. "=
;A
few moments' explanation," said Mr. Ledbetter; "I can assure
you--" Somebody kicked him, and he said no more.
They made him wad=
e to
the boat, carrying the trunk, they pulled him aboard by the shoulders and h=
air,
they called him no better name than "scoundrel" and
"burglar" all that night. But they spoke in undertones so that the
general public was happily unaware of his ignominy. They hauled him aboard a
yacht manned by strange, unsympathetic Orientals, and partly they thrust him
and partly he fell down a gangway into a noisome, dark place, where he was =
to
remain many days--how many he does not know, because he lost count among ot=
her
things when he was seasick. They fed him on biscuits and incomprehensible
words; they gave him water to drink mixed with unwished-for rum. And there =
were
cockroaches where they put him, night and day there were cockroaches, and in
the night-time there were rats. The Orientals emptied his pockets and took =
his
watch--but Mr. Bingham, being appealed to, took that himself. And five or s=
ix
times the five Lascars--if they were Lascars--and the Chinaman and the negro
who constituted the crew, fished him out and took him aft to Bingham and his
friend to play cribbage and euchre and three-anded whist, and to listen to
their stories and boastings in an interested manner.
Then these princi=
pals
would talk to him as men talk to those who have lived a life of crime.
Explanations they would never permit, though they made it abundantly clear =
to
him that he was the rummiest burglar they had ever set eyes on. They said as
much again and again. The fair man was of a taciturn disposition and irasci=
ble
at play; but Mr. Bingham, now that the evident anxiety of his departure from
England was assuaged, displayed a vein of genial philosophy. He enlarged up=
on
the mystery of space and time, and quoted Kant and Hegel--or, at least, he =
said
he did. Several times Mr. Ledbetter got as far as: "My position under =
your
bed, you know--," but then he always had to cut, or pass the whisky, o=
r do
some such intervening thing. After his third failure, the fair man got quit=
e to
look for this opening, and whenever Mr. Ledbetter began after that, he would
roar with laughter and hit him violently on the back. "Same old start,
same old story; good old burglar!" the fair-haired man would say.
So Mr. Ledbetter
suffered for many days, twenty perhaps; and one evening he was taken, toget=
her
with some tinned provisions, over the side and put ashore on a rocky little
island with a spring. Mr. Bingham came in the boat with him, giving him good
advice all the way, and waving his last attempts at an explanation aside.
"I am really=
NOT
a burglar," said Mr. Ledbetter.
"You never w=
ill
be," said Mr. Bingham. "You'll never make a burglar. I'm glad you=
are
beginning to see it. In choosing a profession a man must study his temperam=
ent.
If you don't, sooner or later you will fail. Compare myself, for example. A=
ll
my life I have been in banks--I have got on in banks. I have even been a ba=
nk
manager. But was I happy? No. Why wasn't I happy? Because it did not suit my
temperament. I am too adventurous--too versatile. Practically I have thrown=
it
over. I do not suppose I shall ever manage a bank again. They would be glad=
to
get me, no doubt; but I have learnt the lesson of my temperament--at last..=
.. No!
I shall never manage a bank again.
"Now, your
temperament unfits you for crime--just as mine unfits me for respectability=
. I
know you better than I did, and now I do not even recommend forgery. Go bac=
k to
respectable courses, my man. YOUR lay is the philanthropic lay--that is your
lay. With that voice--the Association for the Promotion of Snivelling among=
the
Young--something in that line. You think it over.
"The island =
we
are approaching has no name apparently--at least, there is none on the char=
t.
You might think out a name for it while you are there--while you are thinki=
ng
about all these things. It has quite drinkable water, I understand. It is o=
ne
of the Grenadines--one of the Windward Islands. Yonder, dim and blue, are
others of the Grenadines. There are quantities of Grenadines, but the major=
ity
are out of sight. I have often wondered what these islands are for--now, you
see, I am wiser. This one at least is for you. Sooner or later some simple
native will come along and take you off. Say what you like about us then--a=
buse
us, if you like--we shan't care a solitary Grenadine! And here--here is hal=
f a
sovereign's worth of silver. Do not waste that in foolish dissipation when =
you
return to civilisation. Properly used, it may give you a fresh start in lif=
e.
And do not--Don't beach her, you beggars, he can wade!--Do not waste the
precious solitude before you in foolish thoughts. Properly used, it may be a
turning-point in your career. Waste neither money nor time. You will die ri=
ch.
I'm sorry, but I must ask you to carry your tucker to land in your arms. No;
it's not deep. Curse that explanation of yours! There's not time. No, no, n=
o! I
won't listen. Overboard you go!"
And the falling n=
ight
found Mr. Ledbetter--the Mr. Ledbetter who had complained that adventure was
dead--sitting beside his cans of food, his chin resting upon his drawn-up
knees, staring through his glasses in dismal mildness over the shining, vac=
ant
sea.
He was picked up =
in
the course of three days by a negro fisherman and taken to St. Vincent's, a=
nd
from St. Vincent's he got, by the expenditure of his last coins, to Kingsto=
n,
in Jamaica. And there he might have foundered. Even nowadays he is not a ma=
n of
affairs, and then he was a singularly helpless person. He had not the remot=
est
idea what he ought to do. The only thing he seems to have done was to visit=
all
the ministers of religion he could find in the place to borrow a passage ho=
me.
But he was much too dirty and incoherent--and his story far too incredible =
for
them. I met him quite by chance. It was close upon sunset, and I was walking
out after my siesta on the road to Dunn's Battery, when I met him--I was ra=
ther
bored, and with a whole evening on my hands--luckily for him. He was trudgi=
ng
dismally towards the town. His woebegone face and the quasi-clerical cut of=
his
dust-stained, filthy costume caught my humour. Our eyes met. He hesitated.
"Sir," he said, with a catching of the breath, "could you sp=
are
a few minutes for what I fear will seem an incredible story?"
"Incredible!=
"
I said.
"Quite,"=
; he
answered eagerly. "No one will believe it, alter it though I may. Yet I
can assure you, sir--"
He stopped
hopelessly. The man's tone tickled me. He seemed an odd character. "I
am," he said, "one of the most unfortunate beings alive."
"Among other
things, you haven't dined?" I said, struck with an idea.
"I have
not," he said solemnly, "for many days."
"You'll tell=
it
better after that," I said; and without more ado led the way to a low
place I knew, where such a costume as his was unlikely to give offence. And
there--with certain omissions which he subsequently supplied--I got his sto=
ry.
At first I was incredulous, but as the wine warmed him, and the faint
suggestion of cringing which his misfortunes had added to his manner
disappeared, I began to believe. At last, I was so far convinced of his
sincerity that I got him a bed for the night, and next day verified the
banker's reference he gave me through my Jamaica banker. And that done, I t=
ook
him shopping for underwear and such like equipments of a gentleman at large.
Presently came the verified reference. His astonishing story was true. I wi=
ll
not amplify our subsequent proceedings. He started for England in three day=
s'
time.
"I do not kn=
ow
how I can possibly thank you enough," began the letter he wrote me from
England, "for all your kindness to a total stranger," and proceed=
ed
for some time in a similar strain. "Had it not been for your generous
assistance, I could certainly never have returned in time for the resumptio=
n of
my scholastic duties, and my few minutes of reckless folly would, perhaps, =
have
proved my ruin. As it is, I am entangled in a tissue of lies and evasions, =
of
the most complicated sort, to account for my sunburnt appearance and my
whereabouts. I have rather carelessly told two or three different stories, =
not
realising the trouble this would mean for me in the end. The truth I dare n=
ot
tell. I have consulted a number of law-books in the British Museum, and the=
re
is not the slightest doubt that I have connived at and abetted and aided a =
felony.
That scoundrel Bingham was the Hithergate bank manager, I find, and guilty =
of
the most flagrant embezzlement. Please, please burn this letter when read--I
trust you implicitly. The worst of it is, neither my aunt nor her friend who
kept the boarding-house at which I was staying seem altogether to believe a
guarded statement I have made them practically of what actually happened. T=
hey
suspect me of some discreditable adventure, but what sort of discreditable
adventure they suspect me of, I do not know. My aunt says she would forgive=
me
if I told her everything. I have--I have told her MORE than everything, and=
still
she is not satisfied. It would never do to let them know the truth of the c=
ase,
of course, and so I represent myself as having been waylaid and gagged upon=
the
beach. My aunt wants to know WHY they waylaid and gagged me, why they took =
me
away in their yacht. I do not know. Can you suggest any reason? I can think=
of
nothing. If, when you wrote, you could write on TWO sheets so that I could =
show
her one, and on that one if you could show clearly that I really WAS in Jam=
aica
this summer, and had come there by being removed from a ship, it would be of
great service to me. It would certainly add to the load of my obligation to
you--a load that I fear I can never fully repay. Although if gratitude...&q=
uot;
And so forth. At the end he repeated his request for me to burn the letter.=
So the remarkable
story of Mr. Ledbetter's Vacation ends. That breach with his aunt was not of
long duration. The old lady had forgiven him before she died.
Mr. Bessel was the
senior partner in the firm of Bessel, Hart, and Brown, of St. Paul's
Churchyard, and for many years he was well known among those interested in
psychical research as a liberal-minded and conscientious investigator. He w=
as
an unmarried man, and instead of living in the suburbs, after the fashion of
his class, he occupied rooms in the Albany, near Piccadilly. He was
particularly interested in the questions of thought transference and of
apparitions of the living, and in November, 1896, he commenced a series of
experiments in conjunction with Mr. Vincey, of Staple Inn, in order to test=
the
alleged possibility of projecting an apparition of one's self by force of w=
ill
through space.
Their experiments
were conducted in the following manner: At a pre-arranged hour Mr. Bessel s=
hut
himself in one of his rooms in the Albany and Mr. Vincey in his sitting-roo=
m in
Staple Inn, and each then fixed his mind as resolutely as possible on the
other. Mr. Bessel had acquired the art of self-hypnotism, and, so far as he
could, he attempted first to hypnotise himself and then to project himself =
as a
"phantom of the living" across the intervening space of nearly two
miles into Mr. Vincey's apartment. On several evenings this was tried witho=
ut any
satisfactory result, but on the fifth or sixth occasion Mr. Vincey did actu=
ally
see or imagine he saw an apparition of Mr. Bessel standing in his room. He
states that the appearance, although brief, was very vivid and real. He not=
iced
that Mr. Bessel's face was white and his expression anxious, and, moreover,
that his hair was disordered. For a moment Mr. Vincey, in spite of his stat=
e of
expectation, was too surprised to speak or move, and in that moment it seem=
ed
to him as though the figure glanced over its shoulder and incontinently
vanished.
It had been arran=
ged
that an attempt should be made to photograph any phantasm seen, but Mr. Vin=
cey
had not the instant presence of mind to snap the camera that lay ready on t=
he
table beside him, and when he did so he was too late. Greatly elated, howev=
er,
even by this partial success, he made a note of the exact time, and at once
took a cab to the Albany to inform Mr. Bessel of this result.
He was surprised =
to
find Mr. Bessel's outer door standing open to the night, and the inner
apartments lit and in an extraordinary disorder. An empty champagne magnum =
lay
smashed upon the floor; its neck had been broken off against the inkpot on =
the
bureau and lay beside it. An octagonal occasional table, which carried a br=
onze
statuette and a number of choice books, had been rudely overturned, and down
the primrose paper of the wall inky fingers had been drawn, as it seemed fo=
r the
mere pleasure of defilement. One of the delicate chintz curtains had been
violently torn from its rings and thrust upon the fire, so that the smell of
its smouldering filled the room. Indeed the whole place was disarranged in =
the
strangest fashion. For a few minutes Mr. Vincey, who had entered sure of
finding Mr. Bessel in his easy chair awaiting him, could scarcely believe h=
is
eyes, and stood staring helplessly at these unanticipated things.
Then, full of a v=
ague
sense of calamity, he sought the porter at the entrance lodge. "Where =
is
Mr. Bessel?" he asked. "Do you know that all the furniture is bro=
ken
in Mr. Bessel's room?" The porter said nothing, but, obeying his gestu=
res,
came at once to Mr. Bessel's apartment to see the state of affairs. "T=
his
settles it," he said, surveying the lunatic confusion. "I didn't =
know
of this. Mr. Bessel's gone off. He's mad!"
He then proceeded=
to
tell Mr. Vincey that about half an hour previously, that is to say, at about
the time of Mr. Bessel's apparition in Mr. Vincey's rooms, the missing
gentleman had rushed out of the gates of the Albany into Vigo Street, hatle=
ss
and with disordered hair, and had vanished into the direction of Bond Stree=
t.
"And as he went past me," said the porter, "he laughed--a so=
rt
of gasping laugh, with his mouth open and his eyes glaring--I tell you, sir=
, he
fair scared me!--like this."
According to his
imitation it was anything but a pleasant laugh. "He waved his hand, wi=
th
all his fingers crooked and clawing--like that. And he said, in a sort of
fierce whisper, 'LIFE!' Just that one word, 'LIFE!'"
"Dear me,&qu=
ot;
said Mr. Vincey. "Tut, tut," and "Dear me!" He could th=
ink of
nothing else to say. He was naturally very much surprised. He turned from t=
he
room to the porter and from the porter to the room in the gravest perplexit=
y.
Beyond his suggestion that probably Mr. Bessel would come back presently and
explain what had happened, their conversation was unable to proceed. "=
It
might be a sudden toothache," said the porter, "a very sudden and
violent toothache, jumping on him suddenly-like and driving him wild. I've
broken things myself before now in such a case..." He thought. "I=
f it
was, why should he say 'LIFE' to me as he went past?"
Mr. Vincey did not
know. Mr. Bessel did not return, and at last Mr. Vincey, having done some m=
ore
helpless staring, and having addressed a note of brief inquiry and left it =
in a
conspicuous position on the bureau, returned in a very perplexed frame of m=
ind
to his own premises in Staple Inn. This affair had given him a shock. He wa=
s at
a loss to account for Mr. Bessel's conduct on any sane hypothesis. He tried=
to read,
but he could not do so; he went for a short walk, and was so preoccupied th=
at
he narrowly escaped a cab at the top of Chancery Lane; and at last--a full =
hour
before his usual time--he went to bed. For a considerable time he could not
sleep because of his memory of the silent confusion of Mr. Bessel's apartme=
nt,
and when at length he did attain an uneasy slumber it was at once disturbed=
by
a very vivid and distressing dream of Mr. Bessel.
He saw Mr. Bessel
gesticulating wildly, and with his face white and contorted. And, inexplica=
bly
mingled with his appearance, suggested perhaps by his gestures, was an inte=
nse
fear, an urgency to act. He even believes that he heard the voice of his fe=
llow
experimenter calling distressfully to him, though at the time he considered
this to be an illusion. The vivid impression remained though Mr. Vincey awo=
ke.
For a space he lay awake and trembling in the darkness, possessed with that=
vague,
unaccountable terror of unknown possibilities that comes out of dreams upon
even the bravest men. But at last he roused himself, and turned over and we=
nt
to sleep again, only for the dream to return with enhanced vividness.
He awoke with suc=
h a
strong conviction that Mr. Bessel was in overwhelming distress and need of =
help
that sleep was no longer possible. He was persuaded that his friend had rus=
hed
out to some dire calamity. For a time he lay reasoning vainly against this
belief, but at last he gave way to it. He arose, against all reason, lit his
gas, and dressed, and set out through the deserted streets--deserted, save =
for
a noiseless policeman or so and the early news carts--towards Vigo Street to
inquire if Mr. Bessel had returned.
But he never got
there. As he was going down Long Acre some unaccountable impulse turned him
aside out of that street towards Covent Garden, which was just waking to its
nocturnal activities. He saw the market in front of him--a queer effect of
glowing yellow lights and busy black figures. He became aware of a shouting,
and perceived a figure turn the corner by the hotel and run swiftly towards
him. He knew at once that it was Mr. Bessel. But it was Mr. Bessel
transfigured. He was hatless and dishevelled, his collar was torn open, he
grasped a bone-handled walking-cane near the ferrule end, and his mouth was
pulled awry. And he ran, with agile strides, very rapidly. Their encounter =
was the
affair of an instant. "Bessel!" cried Vincey.
The running man g=
ave
no sign of recognition either of Mr. Vincey or of his own name. Instead, he=
cut
at his friend savagely with the stick, hitting him in the face within an in=
ch
of the eye. Mr. Vincey, stunned and astonished, staggered back, lost his
footing, and fell heavily on the pavement. It seemed to him that Mr. Bessel
leapt over him as he fell. When he looked again Mr. Bessel had vanished, an=
d a
policeman and a number of garden porters and salesmen were rushing past tow=
ards
Long Acre in hot pursuit.
With the assistan=
ce
of several passers-by--for the whole street was speedily alive with running
people--Mr. Vincey struggled to his feet. He at once became the centre of a
crowd greedy to see his injury. A multitude of voices competed to reassure =
him
of his safety, and then to tell him of the behaviour of the madman, as they
regarded Mr. Bessel. He had suddenly appeared in the middle of the market
screaming "LIFE! LIFE!" striking left and right with a blood-stai=
ned
walking-stick, and dancing and shouting with laughter at each successful bl=
ow.
A lad and two women had broken heads, and he had smashed a man's wrist; a
little child had been knocked insensible, and for a time he had driven ever=
y one
before him, so furious and resolute had his behaviour been. Then he made a =
raid
upon a coffee stall, hurled its paraffin flare through the window of the po=
st
office, and fled laughing, after stunning the foremost of the two policemen=
who
had the pluck to charge him.
Mr. Vincey's firs=
t impulse
was naturally to join in the pursuit of his friend, in order if possible to
save him from the violence of the indignant people. But his action was slow,
the blow had half stunned him, and while this was still no more than a
resolution came the news, shouted through the crowd, that Mr. Bessel had el=
uded
his pursuers. At first Mr. Vincey could scarcely credit this, but the
universality of the report, and presently the dignified return of two futile
policemen, convinced him. After some aimless inquiries he returned towards
Staple Inn, padding a handkerchief to a now very painful nose.
He was angry and
astonished and perplexed. It appeared to him indisputable that Mr. Bessel m=
ust
have gone violently mad in the midst of his experiment in thought transfere=
nce,
but why that should make him appear with a sad white face in Mr. Vincey's
dreams seemed a problem beyond solution. He racked his brains in vain to
explain this. It seemed to him at last that not simply Mr. Bessel, but the
order of things must be insane. But he could think of nothing to do. He shut
himself carefully into his room, lit his fire--it was a gas fire with asbes=
tos bricks--and,
fearing fresh dreams if he went to bed, remained bathing his injured face, =
or
holding up books in a vain attempt to read, until dawn. Throughout that vig=
il
he had a curious persuasion that Mr. Bessel was endeavouring to speak to hi=
m,
but he would not let himself attend to any such belief.
About dawn, his
physical fatigue asserted itself, and he went to bed and slept at last in s=
pite
of dreaming. He rose late, unrested and anxious, and in considerable facial
pain. The morning papers had no news of Mr. Bessel's aberration--it had come
too late for them. Mr. Vincey's perplexities, to which the fever of his bru=
ise
added fresh irritation, became at last intolerable, and, after a fruitless
visit to the Albany, he went down to St. Paul's Churchyard to Mr. Hart, Mr.
Bessel's partner, and, so far as Mr. Vincey knew, his nearest friend.
He was surprised =
to
learn that Mr. Hart, although he knew nothing of the outbreak, had also been
disturbed by a vision, the very vision that Mr. Vincey had seen--Mr. Bessel,
white and dishevelled, pleading earnestly by his gestures for help. That was
his impression of the import of his signs. "I was just going to look h=
im
up in the Albany when you arrived," said Mr. Hart. "I was so sure=
of
something being wrong with him."
As the outcome of
their consultation the two gentlemen decided to inquire at Scotland Yard for
news of their missing friend. "He is bound to be laid by the heels,&qu=
ot;
said Mr. Hart. "He can't go on at that pace for long." But the po=
lice
authorities had not laid Mr. Bessel by the heels. They confirmed Mr. Vincey=
's
overnight experiences and added fresh circumstances, some of an even graver
character than those he knew--a list of smashed glass along the upper half =
of
Tottenham Court Road, an attack upon a policeman in Hampstead Road, and an
atrocious assault upon a woman. All these outrages were committed between
half-past twelve and a quarter to two in the morning, and between those
hours--and, indeed, from the very moment of Mr. Bessel's first rush from his
rooms at half-past nine in the evening--they could trace the deepening viol=
ence
of his fantastic career. For the last hour, at least from before one, that =
is,
until a quarter to two, he had run amuck through London, eluding with amazi=
ng
agility every effort to stop or capture him.
But after a quart=
er
to two he had vanished. Up to that hour witnesses were multitudinous. Dozen=
s of
people had seen him, fled from him or pursued him, and then things suddenly
came to an end. At a quarter to two he had been seen running down the Euston
Road towards Baker Street, flourishing a can of burning colza oil and jerki=
ng
splashes of flame therefrom at the windows of the houses he passed. But non=
e of
the policemen on Euston Road beyond the Waxwork Exhibition, nor any of thos=
e in
the side streets down which he must have passed had he left the Euston Road,
had seen anything of him. Abruptly he disappeared. Nothing of his subsequent
doings came to light in spite of the keenest inquiry.
Here was a fresh
astonishment for Mr. Vincey. He had found considerable comfort in Mr. Hart's
conviction: "He is bound to be laid by the heels before long," an=
d in
that assurance he had been able to suspend his mental perplexities. But any
fresh development seemed destined to add new impossibilities to a pile alre=
ady
heaped beyond the powers of his acceptance. He found himself doubting wheth=
er
his memory might not have played him some grotesque trick, debating whether=
any
of these things could possibly have happened; and in the afternoon he hunte=
d up
Mr. Hart again to share the intolerable weight on his mind. He found Mr. Ha=
rt engaged
with a well-known private detective, but as that gentleman accomplished not=
hing
in this case, we need not enlarge upon his proceedings.
All that day Mr.
Bessel's whereabouts eluded an unceasingly active inquiry, and all that nig=
ht.
And all that day there was a persuasion in the back of Vincey's mind that M=
r.
Bessel sought his attention, and all through the night Mr. Bessel with a
tear-stained face of anguish pursued him through his dreams. And whenever he
saw Mr. Bessel in his dreams he also saw a number of other faces, vague but
malignant, that seemed to be pursuing Mr. Bessel.
It was on the
following day, Sunday, that Mr. Vincey recalled certain remarkable stories =
of
Mrs. Bullock, the medium, who was then attracting attention for the first t=
ime
in London. He determined to consult her. She was staying at the house of th=
at
well-known inquirer, Dr. Wilson Paget, and Mr. Vincey, although he had never
met that gentleman before, repaired to him forthwith with the intention of
invoking her help. But scarcely had he mentioned the name of Bessel when Do=
ctor
Paget interrupted him. "Last night--just at the end," he said,
"we had a communication."
He left the room,=
and
returned with a slate on which were certain words written in a handwriting,
shaky indeed, but indisputably the handwriting of Mr. Bessel!
"How did you=
get
this?" said Mr. Vincey. "Do you mean--?"
"We got it l=
ast
night," said Doctor Paget. With numerous interruptions from Mr. Vincey=
, he
proceeded to explain how the writing had been obtained. It appears that in =
her
seances, Mrs. Bullock passes into a condition of trance, her eyes rolling u=
p in
a strange way under her eyelids, and her body becoming rigid. She then begi=
ns
to talk very rapidly, usually in voices other than her own. At the same time
one or both of her hands may become active, and if slates and pencils are p=
rovided
they will then write messages simultaneously with and quite independently of
the flow of words from her mouth. By many she is considered an even more
remarkable medium than the celebrated Mrs. Piper. It was one of these messa=
ges,
the one written by her left hand, that Mr. Vincey now had before him. It
consisted of eight words written disconnectedly: "George Bessel... tri=
al
excavn.... Baker Street... help... starvation." Curiously enough, neit=
her
Doctor Paget nor the two other inquirers who were present had heard of the
disappearance of Mr. Bessel--the news of it appeared only in the evening pa=
pers
of Saturday--and they had put the message aside with many others of a vague=
and
enigmatical sort that Mrs. Bullock has from time to time delivered.
When Doctor Paget
heard Mr. Vincey's story, he gave himself at once with great energy to the
pursuit of this clue to the discovery of Mr. Bessel. It would serve no usef=
ul
purpose here to describe the inquiries of Mr. Vincey and himself; suffice it
that the clue was a genuine one, and that Mr. Bessel was actually discovere=
d by
its aid.
He was found at t=
he
bottom of a detached shaft which had been sunk and abandoned at the
commencement of the work for the new electric railway near Baker Street
Station. His arm and leg and two ribs were broken. The shaft is protected b=
y a
hoarding nearly 20 feet high, and over this, incredible as it seems, Mr.
Bessel, a stout, middle-aged gentleman, must have scrambled in order to fall
down the shaft. He was saturated in colza oil, and the smashed tin lay besi=
de
him, but luckily the flame had been extinguished by his fall. And his madne=
ss
had passed from him altogether. But he was, of course, terribly enfeebled, =
and
at the sight of his rescuers he gave way to hysterical weeping.
In view of the
deplorable state of his flat, he was taken to the house of Dr. Hatton in Up=
per
Baker Street. Here he was subjected to a sedative treatment, and anything t=
hat
might recall the violent crisis through which he had passed was carefully
avoided. But on the second day he volunteered a statement.
Since that occasi=
on
Mr. Bessel has several times repeated this statement--to myself among other
people--varying the details as the narrator of real experiences always does,
but never by any chance contradicting himself in any particular. And the
statement he makes is in substance as follows.
In order to
understand it clearly it is necessary to go back to his experiments with Mr.
Vincey before his remarkable attack. Mr. Bessel's first attempts at
self-projection, in his experiments with Mr. Vincey, were, as the reader wi=
ll
remember, unsuccessful. But through all of them he was concentrating all his
power and will upon getting out of the body--"willing it with all my
might," he says. At last, almost against expectation, came success. And
Mr. Bessel asserts that he, being alive, did actually, by an effort of will,
leave his body and pass into some place or state outside this world.
The release was, =
he
asserts, instantaneous. "At one moment I was seated in my chair, with =
my
eyes tightly shut, my hands gripping the arms of the chair, doing all I cou=
ld
to concentrate my mind on Vincey, and then I perceived myself outside my
body--saw my body near me, but certainly not containing me, with the hands
relaxing and the head drooping forward on the breast."
Nothing shakes hi=
m in
his assurance of that release. He describes in a quiet, matter-of-fact way =
the
new sensation he experienced. He felt he had become impalpable--so much he =
had
expected, but he had not expected to find himself enormously large. So,
however, it would seem he became. "I was a great cloud--if I may expre=
ss
it that way--anchored to my body. It appeared to me, at first, as if I had
discovered a greater self of which the conscious being in my brain was only=
a
little part. I saw the Albany and Piccadilly and Regent Street and all the
rooms and places in the houses, very minute and very bright and distinct,
spread out below me like a little city seen from a balloon. Every now and t=
hen
vague shapes like drifting wreaths of smoke made the vision a little indist=
inct,
but at first I paid little heed to them. The thing that astonished me most,=
and
which astonishes me still, is that I saw quite distinctly the insides of the
houses as well as the streets, saw little people dining and talking in the
private houses, men and women dining, playing billiards, and drinking in
restaurants and hotels, and several places of entertainment crammed with
people. It was like watching the affairs of a glass hive."
Such were Mr.
Bessel's exact words as I took them down when he told me the story. Quite
forgetful of Mr. Vincey, he remained for a space observing these things.
Impelled by curiosity, he says, he stooped down, and, with the shadowy arm =
he
found himself possessed of, attempted to touch a man walking along Vigo Str=
eet.
But he could not do so, though his finger seemed to pass through the man.
Something prevented his doing this, but what it was he finds it hard to
describe. He compares the obstacle to a sheet of glass.
"I felt as a
kitten may feel," he said, "when it goes for the first time to pat
its reflection in a mirror." Again and again, on the occasion when I h=
eard
him tell this story, Mr. Bessel returned to that comparison of the sheet of
glass. Yet it was not altogether a precise comparison, because, as the read=
er
will speedily see, there were interruptions of this generally impermeable
resistance, means of getting through the barrier to the material world agai=
n.
But, naturally, there is a very great difficulty in expressing these
unprecedented impressions in the language of everyday experience.
A thing that
impressed him instantly, and which weighed upon him throughout all this
experience, was the stillness of this place--he was in a world without soun=
d.
At first Mr. Bess=
el's
mental state was an unemotional wonder. His thought chiefly concerned itself
with where he might be. He was out of the body--out of his material body, at
any rate--but that was not all. He believes, and I for one believe also, th=
at
he was somewhere out of space, as we understand it, altogether. By a strenu=
ous
effort of will he had passed out of his body into a world beyond this world=
, a
world undreamt of, yet lying so close to it and so strangely situated with =
regard
to it that all things on this earth are clearly visible both from without a=
nd
from within in this other world about us. For a long time, as it seemed to =
him,
this realisation occupied his mind to the exclusion of all other matters, a=
nd
then he recalled the engagement with Mr. Vincey, to which this astonishing
experience was, after all, but a prelude.
He turned his min=
d to
locomotion in this new body in which he found himself. For a time he was un=
able
to shift himself from his attachment to his earthly carcass. For a time this
new strange cloud body of his simply swayed, contracted, expanded, coiled, =
and
writhed with his efforts to free himself, and then quite suddenly the link =
that
bound him snapped. For a moment everything was hidden by what appeared to b=
e whirling
spheres of dark vapour, and then through a momentary gap he saw his drooping
body collapse limply, saw his lifeless head drop sideways, and found he was
driving along like a huge cloud in a strange place of shadowy clouds that h=
ad
the luminous intricacy of London spread like a model below.
But now he was aw=
are
that the fluctuating vapour about him was something more than vapour, and t=
he
temerarious excitement of his first essay was shot with fear. For he percei=
ved,
at first indistinctly, and then suddenly very clearly, that he was surround=
ed
by FACES! that each roll and coil of the seeming cloud-stuff was a face. And
such faces! Faces of thin shadow, faces of gaseous tenuity. Faces like those
faces that glare with intolerable strangeness upon the sleeper in the evil
hours of his dreams. Evil, greedy eyes that were full of a covetous curiosi=
ty,
faces with knit brows and snarling, smiling lips; their vague hands clutche=
d at
Mr. Bessel as he passed, and the rest of their bodies was but an elusive st=
reak
of trailing darkness. Never a word they said, never a sound from the mouths
that seemed to gibber. All about him they pressed in that dreamy silence,
passing freely through the dim mistiness that was his body, gathering ever =
more
numerously about him. And the shadowy Mr. Bessel, now suddenly fear-stricke=
n,
drove through the silent, active multitude of eyes and clutching hands.
So inhuman were t=
hese
faces, so malignant their staring eyes, and shadowy, clawing gestures, that=
it
did not occur to Mr. Bessel to attempt intercourse with these drifting
creatures. Idiot phantoms, they seemed, children of vain desire, beings unb=
orn
and forbidden the boon of being, whose only expressions and gestures told of
the envy and craving for life that was their one link with existence.
It says much for =
his
resolution that, amidst the swarming cloud of these noiseless spirits of ev=
il,
he could still think of Mr. Vincey. He made a violent effort of will and fo=
und
himself, he knew not how, stooping towards Staple Inn, saw Vincey sitting
attentive and alert in his arm-chair by the fire.
And clustering al=
so
about him, as they clustered ever about all that lives and breathes, was
another multitude of these vain voiceless shadows, longing, desiring, seeki=
ng
some loophole into life.
For a space Mr.
Bessel sought ineffectually to attract his friend's attention. He tried to =
get
in front of his eyes, to move the objects in his room, to touch him. But Mr.
Vincey remained unaffected, ignorant of the being that was so close to his =
own.
The strange something that Mr. Bessel has compared to a sheet of glass
separated them impermeably.
And at last Mr.
Bessel did a desperate thing. I have told how that in some strange way he c=
ould
see not only the outside of a man as we see him, but within. He extended his
shadowy hand and thrust his vague black fingers, as it seemed, through the
heedless brain.
Then, suddenly, M=
r.
Vincey started like a man who recalls his attention from wandering thoughts,
and it seemed to Mr. Bessel that a little dark-red body situated in the mid=
dle
of Mr. Vincey's brain swelled and glowed as he did so. Since that experienc=
e he
has been shown anatomical figures of the brain, and he knows now that this =
is
that useless structure, as doctors call it, the pineal eye. For, strange as=
it
will seem to many, we have, deep in our brains--where it cannot possibly see
any earthly light--an eye! At the time this, with the rest of the internal
anatomy of the brain, was quite new to him. At the sight of its changed
appearance, however, he thrust forth his finger, and, rather fearful still =
of
the consequences, touched this little spot. And instantly Mr. Vincey starte=
d,
and Mr. Bessel knew that he was seen.
And at that insta=
nt
it came to Mr. Bessel that evil had happened to his body, and behold! a gre=
at
wind blew through all that world of shadows and tore him away. So strong was
this persuasion that he thought no more of Mr. Vincey, but turned about
forthwith, and all the countless faces drove back with him like leaves befo=
re a
gale. But he returned too late. In an instant he saw the body that he had l=
eft
inert and collapsed--lying, indeed, like the body of a man just dead--had
arisen, had arisen by virtue of some strength and will beyond his own. It s=
tood
with staring eyes, stretching its limbs in dubious fashion.
For a moment he
watched it in wild dismay, and then he stooped towards it. But the pane of
glass had closed against him again, and he was foiled. He beat himself
passionately against this, and all about him the spirits of evil grinned an=
d pointed
and mocked. He gave way to furious anger. He compares himself to a bird that
has fluttered heedlessly into a room and is beating at the window-pane that
holds it back from freedom.
And behold! the
little body that had once been his was now dancing with delight. He saw it
shouting, though he could not hear its shouts; he saw the violence of its
movements grow. He watched it fling his cherished furniture about in the mad
delight of existence, rend his books apart, smash bottles, drink heedlessly
from the jagged fragments, leap and smite in a passionate acceptance of liv=
ing.
He watched these actions in paralysed astonishment. Then once more he hurled
himself against the impassable barrier, and then with all that crew of mock=
ing
ghosts about him, hurried back in dire confusion to Vincey to tell him of t=
he
outrage that had come upon him.
But the brain of
Vincey was now closed against apparitions, and the disembodied Mr. Bessel
pursued him in vain as he hurried out into Holborn to call a cab. Foiled an=
d terror-stricken,
Mr. Bessel swept back again, to find his desecrated body whooping in a glor=
ious
frenzy down the Burlington Arcade....
And now the atten=
tive
reader begins to understand Mr. Bessel's interpretation of the first part of
this strange story. The being whose frantic rush through London had inflict=
ed
so much injury and disaster had indeed Mr. Bessel's body, but it was not Mr.
Bessel. It was an evil spirit out of that strange world beyond existence, i=
nto
which Mr. Bessel had so rashly ventured. For twenty hours it held possessio=
n of
him, and for all those twenty hours the dispossessed spirit-body of Mr. Bes=
sel was
going to and fro in that unheard-of middle world of shadows seeking help in
vain. He spent many hours beating at the minds of Mr. Vincey and of his fri=
end
Mr. Hart. Each, as we know, he roused by his efforts. But the language that
might convey his situation to these helpers across the gulf he did not know;
his feeble fingers groped vainly and powerlessly in their brains. Once, ind=
eed,
as we have already told, he was able to turn Mr. Vincey aside from his path=
so
that he encountered the stolen body in its career, but he could not make him
understand the thing that had happened: he was unable to draw any help from
that encounter....
All through those
hours the persuasion was overwhelming in Mr. Bessel's mind that presently h=
is
body would be killed by its furious tenant, and he would have to remain in =
this
shadow-land for evermore. So that those long hours were a growing agony of
fear. And ever as he hurried to and fro in his ineffectual excitement,
innumerable spirits of that world about him mobbed him and confused his min=
d.
And ever an envious applauding multitude poured after their successful fell=
ow
as he went upon his glorious career.
For that, it would
seem, must be the life of these bodiless things of this world that is the
shadow of our world. Ever they watch, coveting a way into a mortal body, in
order that they may descend, as furies and frenzies, as violent lusts and m=
ad,
strange impulses, rejoicing in the body they have won. For Mr. Bessel was n=
ot
the only human soul in that place. Witness the fact that he met first one, =
and
afterwards several shadows of men, men like himself, it seemed, who had lost
their bodies even it may be as he had lost his, and wandered, despairingly,=
in
that lost world that is neither life nor death. They could not speak becaus=
e that
world is silent, yet he knew them for men because of their dim human bodies,
and because of the sadness of their faces.
But how they had =
come
into that world he could not tell, nor where the bodies they had lost might=
be,
whether they still raved about the earth, or whether they were closed forev=
er
in death against return. That they were the spirits of the dead neither he =
nor
I believe. But Doctor Wilson Paget thinks they are the rational souls of men
who are lost in madness on the earth.
At last Mr. Bessel
chanced upon a place where a little crowd of such disembodied silent creatu=
res
was gathered, and thrusting through them he saw below a brightly-lit room, =
and
four or five quiet gentlemen and a woman, a stoutish woman dressed in black
bombazine and sitting awkwardly in a chair with her head thrown back. He kn=
ew
her from her portraits to be Mrs. Bullock, the medium. And he perceived that
tracts and structures in her brain glowed and stirred as he had seen the pi=
neal
eye in the brain of Mr. Vincey glow. The light was very fitful; sometimes it
was a broad illumination, and sometimes merely a faint twilight spot, and i=
t shifted
slowly about her brain. She kept on talking and writing with one hand. And =
Mr.
Bessel saw that the crowding shadows of men about him, and a great multitud=
e of
the shadow spirits of that shadowland, were all striving and thrusting to t=
ouch
the lighted regions of her brain. As one gained her brain or another was th=
rust
away, her voice and the writing of her hand changed. So that what she said =
was
disorderly and confused for the most part; now a fragment of one soul's
message, and now a fragment of another's, and now she babbled the insane
fancies of the spirits of vain desire. Then Mr. Bessel understood that she
spoke for the spirit that had touch of her, and he began to struggle very f=
uriously
towards her. But he was on the outside of the crowd and at that time he cou=
ld
not reach her, and at last, growing anxious, he went away to find what had
happened meanwhile to his body. For a long time he went to and fro seeking =
it
in vain and fearing that it must have been killed, and then he found it at =
the
bottom of the shaft in Baker Street, writhing furiously and cursing with pa=
in.
Its leg and an arm and two ribs had been broken by its fall. Moreover, the =
evil
spirit was angry because his time had been so short and because of the
painmaking violent movements and casting his body about.
And at that Mr.
Bessel returned with redoubled earnestness to the room where the seance was
going on, and so soon as he had thrust himself within sight of the place he=
saw
one of the men who stood about the medium looking at his watch as if he mea=
nt
that the seance should presently end. At that a great number of the shadows=
who
had been striving turned away with gestures of despair. But the thought that
the seance was almost over only made Mr. Bessel the more earnest, and he st=
ruggled
so stoutly with his will against the others that presently he gained the
woman's brain. It chanced that just at that moment it glowed very brightly,=
and
in that instant she wrote the message that Doctor Wilson Paget preserved. A=
nd
then the other shadows and the cloud of evil spirits about him had thrust M=
r.
Bessel away from her, and for all the rest of the seance he could regain he=
r no
more.
So he went back a=
nd
watched through the long hours at the bottom of the shaft where the evil sp=
irit
lay in the stolen body it had maimed, writhing and cursing, and weeping and
groaning, and learning the lesson of pain. And towards dawn the thing he had
waited for happened, the brain glowed brightly and the evil spirit came out,
and Mr. Bessel entered the body he had feared he should never enter again. =
As
he did so, the silence--the brooding silence--ended; he heard the tumult of=
traffic
and the voices of people overhead, and that strange world that is the shado=
w of
our world--the dark and silent shadows of ineffectual desire and the shadow=
s of
lost men--vanished clean away.
He lay there for =
the
space of about three hours before he was found. And in spite of the pain and
suffering of his wounds, and of the dim damp place in which he lay; in spit=
e of
the tears--wrung from him by his physical distress--his heart was full of
gladness to know that he was nevertheless back once more in the kindly worl=
d of
men.
"You can't be
TOO careful WHO you marry," said Mr. Brisher, and pulled thoughtfully =
with
a fat-wristed hand at the lank moustache that hides his want of chin.
"That's
why--" I ventured.
"Yes," =
said
Mr. Brisher, with a solemn light in his bleary, blue-grey eyes, moving his =
head
expressively and breathing alcohol INTIMATELY at me. "There's lots as =
'ave
'ad a try at me--many as I could name in this town--but none 'ave done
it--none."
I surveyed the
flushed countenance, the equatorial expansion, the masterly carelessness of=
his
attire, and heaved a sigh to think that by reason of the unworthiness of wo=
men
he must needs be the last of his race.
"I was a sma=
rt
young chap when I was younger," said Mr. Brisher. "I 'ad my work =
cut
out. But I was very careful--very. And I got through..."
He leant over the
taproom table and thought visibly on the subject of my trustworthiness. I w=
as
relieved at last by his confidence.
"I was engag=
ed
once," he said at last, with a reminiscent eye on the shuv-a'penny boa=
rd.
"So near as
that?"
He looked at me.
"So near as that. Fact is--" He looked about him, brought his fac=
e close
to mine, lowered his voice, and fenced off an unsympathetic world with a gr=
imy
hand. "If she ain't dead or married to some one else or anything--I'm
engaged still. Now." He confirmed this statement with nods and facial
contortions. "STILL," he said, ending the pantomime, and broke in=
to a
reckless smile at my surprise. "ME!"
"Run away,&q=
uot;
he explained further, with coruscating eyebrows. "Come 'ome.
"That ain't =
all.
"You'd 'ardly
believe it," he said, "but I found a treasure. Found a regular
treasure."
I fancied this was
irony, and did not, perhaps, greet it with proper surprise. "Yes,"=
; he
said, "I found a treasure. And come 'ome. I tell you I could surprise =
you
with things that has happened to me." And for some time he was content=
to
repeat that he had found a treasure--and left it.
I made no vulgar
clamour for a story, but I became attentive to Mr. Brisher's bodily needs, =
and
presently I led him back to the deserted lady.
"She was a n=
ice
girl," he said--a little sadly, I thought. "AND respectable."=
;
He raised his
eyebrows and tightened his mouth to express extreme respectability--beyond =
the
likes of us elderly men.
"It was a lo=
ng
way from 'ere. Essex, in fact. Near Colchester. It was when I was up in
London--in the buildin' trade. I was a smart young chap then, I can tell yo=
u.
Slim. 'Ad best clo'es 's good as anybody. 'At--SILK 'at, mind you." Mr.
Brisher's hand shot above his head towards the infinite to indicate it silk=
hat
of the highest. "Umbrella--nice umbrella with a 'orn 'andle. Savin's. =
Very
careful I was...."
He was pensive fo=
r a
little while, thinking, as we must all come to think sooner or later, of the
vanished brightness of youth. But he refrained, as one may do in taprooms, =
from
the obvious moral.
"I got to kn=
ow
'er through a chap what was engaged to 'er sister. She was stopping in Lond=
on
for a bit with an aunt that 'ad a 'am an' beef shop. This aunt was very
particular--they was all very particular people, all 'er people was--and
wouldn't let 'er sister go out with this feller except 'er other sister, MY
girl that is, went with them. So 'e brought me into it, sort of to ease the
crowding. We used to go walks in Battersea Park of a Sunday afternoon. Me i=
n my
topper, and 'im in 'is; and the girl's--well--stylish. There wasn't many in
Battersea Park 'ad the larf of us. She wasn't what you'd call pretty, but a
nicer girl I never met. I liked 'er from the start, and, well--though I say=
it
who shouldn't--she liked me. You know 'ow it is, I dessay?"
I pretended I did=
.
"And when th=
is
chap married 'er sister--'im and me was great friends--what must 'e do but =
arst
me down to Colchester, close by where She lived. Naturally I was introjuced=
to
'er people, and well, very soon, her and me was engaged."
He repeated
"engaged."
"She lived at
'ome with 'er father and mother, quite the lady, in a very nice little 'ouse
with a garden--and remarkable respectable people they was. Rich you might c=
all
'em a'most. They owned their own 'ouse--got it out of the Building Society,=
and
cheap because the chap who had it before was a burglar and in prison--and t=
hey
'ad a bit of free'old land, and some cottages and money 'nvested--all nice =
and
tight: they was what you'd call snug and warm. I tell you, I was On. Furnit=
ure
too. Why! They 'ad a pianner. Jane--'er name was Jane--used to play it Sund=
ays,
and very nice she played too. There wasn't 'ardly a 'im toon in the book sh=
e COULDN'T
play...
"Many's the
evenin' we've met and sung 'ims there, me and 'er and the family.
"'Er father =
was
quite a leadin' man in chapel. You should ha' seen him Sundays, interruptin'
the minister and givin' out 'ims. He had gold spectacles, I remember, and u=
sed
to look over 'em at you while he sang hearty--he was always great on singing
'earty to the Lord--and when HE got out o' toon 'arf the people went after
'im--always. 'E was that sort of man. And to walk be'ind 'im in 'is nice bl=
ack
clo'es--'is 'at was a brimmer--made one regular proud to be engaged to such=
a
father-in-law. And when the summer came I went down there and stopped a
fortnight.
"Now, you kn=
ow
there was a sort of Itch," said Mr. Brisher. "We wanted to marry,=
me
and Jane did, and get things settled. But 'E said I 'ad to get a proper
position first. Consequently there was a Itch. Consequently, when I went do=
wn
there, I was anxious to show that I was a good useful sort of chap like. Sh=
ow I
could do pretty nearly everything like. See?"
I made a sympathe=
tic
noise.
"And down at=
the
bottom of their garden was a bit of wild part like. So I says to 'im, 'Why
don't you 'ave a rockery 'ere?' I says. 'It 'ud look nice.'
"'Too much
expense,' he says.
"'Not a penn=
y,'
says I. 'I'm a dab at rockeries. Lemme make you one.' You see, I'd 'elped my
brother make a rockery in the beer garden be'ind 'is tap, so I knew 'ow to =
do
it to rights. 'Lemme make you one,' I says. 'It's 'olidays, but I'm that so=
rt
of chap, I 'ate doing nothing,' I says. 'I'll make you one to rights.' And =
the
long and the short of it was, he said I might.
"And that's =
'ow
I come on the treasure."
"What
treasure?" I asked.
"Why!" =
said
Mr. Brisher, "the treasure I'm telling you about, what's the reason wh=
y I
never married."
"What!--a
treasure--dug up?"
"Yes--buried
wealth--treasure trove. Come out of the ground. What I kept on saying--regu=
lar
treasure...." He looked at me with unusual disrespect.
"It wasn't m=
ore
than a foot deep, not the top of it," he said. "I'd 'ardly got
thirsty like, before I come on the corner."
"Go on,"=
; I
said. "I didn't understand."
"Why! Direct=
ly I
'it the box I knew it was treasure. A sort of instinct told me. Something
seemed to shout inside of me--'Now's your chance--lie low.' It's lucky I kn=
ew
the laws of treasure trove or I'd 'ave been shoutin' there and then. I dare=
say
you know--"
"Crown bags
it," I said, "all but one per cent. Go on. It's a shame. What did=
you
do?"
"Uncovered t=
he
top of the box. There wasn't anybody in the garden or about like. Jane was
'elping 'er mother do the 'ouse. I WAS excited--I tell you. I tried the lock
and then gave a whack at the hinges. Open it came. Silver coins--full! Shin=
ing.
It made me tremble to see 'em. And jest then--I'm blessed if the dustman di=
dn't
come round the back of the 'ouse. It pretty nearly gave me 'eart disease to
think what a fool I was to 'ave that money showing. And directly after I 'e=
ard
the chap next door--'e was 'olidaying, too--I 'eard him watering 'is beans.=
If
only 'e'd looked over the fence!"
"What did you
do?"
"Kicked the =
lid
on again and covered it up like a shot, and went on digging about a yard aw=
ay
from it--like mad. And my face, so to speak, was laughing on its own account
till I had it hid. I tell you I was regular scared like at my luck. I jest
thought that it 'ad to be kep' close and that was all. 'Treasure,' I kep'
whisperin' to myself, 'Treasure' and ''undreds of pounds, 'undreds, 'undred=
s of
pounds.' Whispering to myself like, and digging like blazes. It seemed to me
the box was regular sticking out and showing, like your legs do under the s=
heets
in bed, and I went and put all the earth I'd got out of my 'ole for the roc=
kery
slap on top of it. I WAS in a sweat. And in the midst of it all out toddles=
'er
father. He didn't say anything to me, jest stood behind me and stared, but =
Jane
tole me afterwards when he went indoors, 'e says, 'That there jackanapes of
yours, Jane'--he always called me a jackanapes some'ow--'knows 'ow to put '=
is
back into it after all.' Seemed quite impressed by it, 'e did."
"How long was
the box?" I asked, suddenly.
"'Ow long?&q=
uot;
said Mr. Brisher.
"Yes--in
length?"
"Oh! 'bout
so-by-so." Mr. Brisher indicated a moderate-sized trunk.
"FULL?"
said I.
"Full up of
silver coins--'arf-crowns, I believe."
"Why!" I
cried, "that would mean--hundreds of pounds."
"Thousands,&=
quot;
said Mr. Brisher, in a sort of sad calm. "I calc'lated it out."
"But how did
they get there?"
"All I know =
is
what I found. What I thought at the time was this. The chap who'd owned the
'ouse before 'er father 'd been a regular slap-up burglar. What you'd call a
'igh-class criminal. Used to drive 'is trap--like Peace did." Mr. Bris=
her
meditated on the difficulties of narration and embarked on a complicated
parenthesis. "I don't know if I told you it'd been a burglar's 'ouse
before it was my girl's father's, and I knew 'e'd robbed a mail train once,=
I
did know that. It seemed to me--"
"That's very
likely," I said. "But what did you do?"
"Sweated,&qu=
ot;
said Mr. Brisher. "Regular run orf me. All that morning," said Mr.
Brisher, "I was at it, pretending to make that rockery and wondering w=
hat
I should do. I'd 'ave told 'er father p'r'aps, only I was doubtful of 'is
honesty--I was afraid he might rob me of it like, and give it up to the
authorities--and besides, considering I was marrying into the family, I tho=
ught
it would be nicer like if it came through me. Put me on a better footing, s=
o to
speak. Well, I 'ad three days before me left of my 'olidays, so there wasn'=
t no
hurry, so I covered it up and went on digging, and tried to puzzle out 'ow I
was to make sure of it. Only I couldn't.
"I
thought," said Mr. Brisher, "AND I thought. Once I got regular do=
ubtful
whether I'd seen it or not, and went down to it and 'ad it uncovered again,
just as her ma came out to 'ang up a bit of washin' she'd done. Jumps again!
Afterwards I was just thinking I'd 'ave another go at it, when Jane comes to
tell me dinner was ready. 'You'll want it,' she said, 'seeing all the 'ole
you've dug.'
"I was in a
regular daze all dinner, wondering whether that chap next door wasn't over =
the
fence and filling 'is pockets. But in the afternoon I got easier in my mind=
--it
seemed to me it must 'ave been there so long it was pretty sure to stop a b=
it
longer--and I tried to get up a bit of a discussion to dror out the old man=
and
see what 'E thought of treasure trove."
Mr. Brisher pause=
d,
and affected amusement at the memory.
"The old man=
was
a scorcher," he said; "a regular scorcher."
"What!"
said I; "did he--?"
"It was like
this," explained Mr. Brisher, laying a friendly hand on my arm and
breathing into my face to calm me. "Just to dror 'im out, I told a sto=
ry
of a chap I said I knew--pretendin', you know--who'd found a sovring in a
novercoat 'e'd borrowed. I said 'e stuck to it, but I said I wasn't sure
whether that was right or not. And then the old man began. Lor'! 'e DID let=
me
'ave it!" Mr. Brisher affected an insincere amusement. "'E was,
well--what you might call a rare 'and at Snacks. Said that was the sort of
friend 'e'd naturally expect me to 'ave. Said 'e'd naturally expect that fr=
om
the friend of a out-of-work loafer who took up with daughters who didn't be=
long
to 'im. There! I couldn't tell you 'ARF 'e said. 'E went on most outrageous=
. I
stood up to 'im about it, just to dror 'im out. 'Wouldn't you stick to a
'arf-sov', not if you found it in the street?' I says. 'Certainly not,' 'e
says; 'certainly I wouldn't.' 'What! not if you found it as a sort of
treasure?' 'Young man,' 'e says, 'there's 'i'er 'thority than mine--Render =
unto
Caesar'--what is it? Yes. Well, he fetched up that. A rare 'and at 'itting =
you
over the 'ed with the Bible, was the old man. And so he went on. 'E got to =
such
Snacks about me at last I couldn't stand it. I'd promised Jane not to answer
'im back, but it got a bit TOO thick. I--I give it 'im..."
Mr. Brisher, by m=
eans
of enigmatical facework, tried to make me think he had had the best of that
argument, but I knew better.
"I went out =
in a
'uff at last. But not before I was pretty sure I 'ad to lift that treasure =
by
myself. The only thing that kep' me up was thinking 'ow I'd take it out of =
'im
when I 'ad the cash."
There was a lengt=
hy
pause.
"Now, you'd
'ardly believe it, but all them three days I never 'ad a chance at the bles=
sed
treasure, never got out not even a 'arf-crown. There was always a
Somethink--always.
"'Stonishing
thing it isn't thought of more," said Mr. Brisher. "Finding treas=
ure's
no great shakes. It's gettin' it. I don't suppose I slep' a wink any of tho=
se
nights, thinking where I was to take it, what I was to do with it, 'ow I wa=
s to
explain it. It made me regular ill. And days I was that dull, it made Jane
regular 'uffy. 'You ain't the same chap you was in London,' she says, sever=
al
times. I tried to lay it on 'er father and 'is Snacks, but bless you, she k=
new
better. What must she 'ave but that I'd got another girl on my mind! Said I
wasn't True. Well, we had a bit of a row. But I was that set on the Treasur=
e, I
didn't seem to mind a bit Anything she said.
"Well, at la=
st I
got a sort of plan. I was always a bit good at planning, though carrying out
isn't so much in my line. I thought it all out and settled on a plan. First=
, I
was going to take all my pockets full of these 'ere 'arf-crowns--see?--and
afterwards as I shall tell.
"Well, I got=
to
that state I couldn't think of getting at the Treasure again in the daytime=
, so
I waited until the night before I had to go, and then, when everything was
still, up I gets and slips down to the back door, meaning to get my pockets
full. What must I do in the scullery but fall over a pail! Up gets 'er fath=
er
with a gun--'e was a light sleeper was 'er father, and very suspicious and
there was me: 'ad to explain I'd come down to the pump for a drink because =
my
water-bottle was bad. 'E didn't let me off a Snack or two over that bit, you
lay a bob."
"And you mea=
n to
say--" I began.
"Wait a
bit," said Mr. Brisher. "I say, I'd made my plan. That put the ky=
bosh
on one bit, but it didn't 'urt the general scheme not a bit. I went and I
finished that rockery next day, as though there wasn't a Snack in the world;
cemented over the stones, I did, dabbed it green and everythink. I put a da=
b of
green just to show where the box was. They all came and looked at it, and s=
ai
'ow nice it was--even 'e was a bit softer like to see it, and all he said w=
as,
'It's a pity you can't always work like that, then you might get something
definite to do,' he says.
"'Yes,' I sa=
ys--I
couldn't 'elp it--'I put a lot in that rockery,' I says, like that. See? 'I=
put
a lot in that rockery'--meaning--"
"I see,"
said I--for Mr. Brisher is apt to overelaborate his jokes.
"'E
didn't," said Mr. Brisher. "Not then, anyhow.
"Ar'ever--af=
ter
all that was over, off I set for London.... Orf I set for London."
Pause.
"On'y I wasn=
't
going to no London," said Mr. Brisher, with sudden animation, and
thrusting his face into mine. "No fear! What do YOU think?
"I didn't go=
no
further than Colchester--not a yard.
"I'd left the
spade just where I could find it. I'd got everything planned and right. I '=
ired
a little trap in Colchester, and pretended I wanted to go to Ipswich and st=
op
the night, and come back next day, and the chap I 'ired it from made me lea=
ve
two sovrings on it right away, and off I set.
"I didn't go=
to
no Ipswich neither.
"Midnight the
'orse and trap was 'itched by the little road that ran by the cottage where=
'e
lived--not sixty yards off, it wasn't--and I was at it like a good 'un. It =
was
jest the night for such games--overcast--but a trifle too 'ot, and all round
the sky there was summer lightning and presently a thunderstorm. Down it ca=
me.
First big drops in a sort of fizzle, then 'ail. I kep'on. I whacked at it--I
didn't dream the old man would 'ear. I didn't even trouble to go quiet with=
the
spade, and the thunder and lightning and 'ail seemed to excite me like. I
shouldn't wonder if I was singing. I got so 'ard at it I clean forgot the
thunder and the 'orse and trap. I precious soon got the box showing, and
started to lift it...."
"Heavy?"=
; I
said.
"I couldn't =
no
more lift it than fly. I WAS sick. I'd never thought of that I got regular
wild--I tell you, I cursed. I got sort of outrageous. I didn't think of
dividing it like for the minute, and even then I couldn't 'ave took money a=
bout
loose in a trap. I hoisted one end sort of wild like, and over the whole sh=
ow
went with a tremenjous noise. Perfeck smash of silver. And then right on the
heels of that, Flash! Lightning like the day! and there was the back door o=
pen
and the old man coming down the garden with 'is blooming old gun. He wasn't=
not
a 'undred yards away!
"I tell you I
was that upset--I didn't think what I was doing. I never stopped-not even to
fill my pockets. I went over the fence like a shot, and ran like one o'clock
for the trap, cussing and swearing as I went. I WAS in a state....
"And will you
believe me, when I got to the place where I'd left the 'orse and trap, they=
'd
gone. Orf! When I saw that I 'adn't a cuss left for it. I jest danced on the
grass, and when I'd danced enough I started off to London.... I was done.&q=
uot;
Mr. Brisher was
pensive for an interval. "I was done," he repeated, very bitterly=
.
"Well?"=
I
said.
"That's
all," said Mr. Brisher.
"You didn't =
go
back?"
"No fear. I'd
'ad enough of THAT blooming treasure, any'ow for a bit. Besides, I didn't k=
now
what was done to chaps who tried to collar a treasure trove. I started off =
for
London there and then...."
"And you nev=
er
went back?"
"Never."=
;
"But about J=
ane?
Did you write?"
"Three times,
fishing like. And no answer. We'd parted in a bit of a 'uff on account of '=
er
being jealous. So that I couldn't make out for certain what it meant.
"I didn't kn=
ow
what to do. I didn't even know whether the old man knew it was me. I sort of
kep' an eye open on papers to see when he'd give up that treasure to the Cr=
own,
as I hadn't a doubt 'e would, considering 'ow respectable he'd always
been."
"And did
he?"
Mr. Brisher pursed
his mouth and moved his head slowly from side to side. "Not 'IM,"=
he
said.
"Jane was a =
nice
girl," he said, "a thorough nice girl mind you, if jealous, and
there's no knowing I mightn't 'ave gone back to 'er after a bit. I thought =
if
he didn't give up the treasure I might 'ave a sort of 'old on 'im.... Well,=
one
day I looks as usual under Colchester--and there I saw 'is name. What for,
d'yer think?"
I could not guess=
.
Mr. Brisher's voi=
ce
sank to a whisper, and once more he spoke behind his hand. His manner was
suddenly suffused with a positive joy. "Issuing counterfeit coins,&quo=
t;
he said. "Counterfeit coins!"
"You don't m=
ean
to say--?"
"Yes-It. Bad.
Quite a long case they made of it. But they got 'im, though he dodged
tremenjous. Traced 'is 'aving passed, oh!--nearly a dozen bad
'arf-crowns."
"And you
didn't--?"
"No fear. An=
d it
didn't do 'IM much good to say it was treasure trove."
12. MISS WINCHELSEA'S HEA=
RT
Miss Winchelsea w=
as
going to Rome. The matter had filled her mind for a month or more, and had
overflowed so abundantly into her conversation that quite a number of people
who were not going to Rome, and who were not likely to go to Rome, had made=
it
a personal grievance against her. Some indeed had attempted quite unavailin=
gly
to convince her that Rome was not nearly such a desirable place as it was
reported to be, and others had gone so far as to suggest behind her back th=
at
she was dreadfully "stuck up" about "that Rome of hers."
And little Lily Hardhurst had told her friend Mr. Binns that so far as she =
was
concerned Miss Winchelsea might "go to her old Rome and stop there; SHE
(Miss Lily Hardhurst) wouldn't grieve." And the way in which Miss
Winchelsea put herself upon terms of personal tenderness with Horace and
Benvenuto Cellini and Raphael and Shelley and Keats--if she had been Shelle=
y's widow
she could not have professed a keener interest in his grave--was a matter of
universal astonishment. Her dress was a triumph of tactful discretion,
sensible, but not too "touristy"--Miss Winchelsea, had a great dr=
ead
of being "touristy"--and her Baedeker was carried in a cover of g=
rey
to hide its glaring red. She made a prim and pleasant little figure on the
Charing Cross platform, in spite of her swelling pride, when at last the gr=
eat
day dawned, and she could start for Rome. The day was bright, the Channel
passage would be pleasant, and all the omens promised well. There was the
gayest sense of adventure in this unprecedented departure.
She was going with
two friends who had been fellow-students with her at the training college, =
nice
honest girls both, though not so good at history and literature as Miss
Winchelsea. They both looked up to her immensely, though physically they ha=
d to
look down, and she anticipated some pleasant times to be spent in
"stirring them up" to her own pitch of aesthetic and historical
enthusiasm. They had secured seats already, and welcomed her effusively at =
the
carriage door. In the instant criticism of the encounter she noted that Fan=
ny
had a slightly "touristy" leather strap, and that Helen had succu=
mbed
to a serge jacket with side pockets, into which her hands were thrust. But =
they
were much too happy with themselves and the expedition for their friend to =
attempt
any hint at the moment about these things. As soon as the first ecstasies w=
ere
over--Fanny's enthusiasm was a little noisy and crude, and consisted mainly=
in
emphatic repetitions of "Just FANCY! we're going to Rome, my
dear!--Rome!"--they gave their attention to their fellow-travellers. H=
elen
was anxious to secure a compartment to themselves, and, in order to discour=
age
intruders, got out and planted herself firmly on the step. Miss Winchelsea
peeped out over her shoulder, and made sly little remarks about the
accumulating people on the platform, at which Fanny laughed gleefully.
They were travell=
ing
with one of Mr. Thomas Gunn's parties--fourteen days in Rome for fourteen
pounds. They did not belong to the personally conducted party of course--Mi=
ss
Winchelsea had seen to that--but they travelled with it because of the
convenience of that arrangement. The people were the oddest mixture, and
wonderfully amusing. There was a vociferous red-faced polyglot personal
conductor in a pepper-and-salt suit, very long in the arms and legs and very
active. He shouted proclamations. When he wanted to speak to people he stre=
tched
out an arm and held them until his purpose was accomplished. One hand was f=
ull
of papers, tickets, counterfoils of tourists. The people of the personally =
conducted
party were, it seemed, of two sorts; people the conductor wanted and could =
not
find, and people he did not want and who followed him in a steadily growing
tail up and down the platform. These people seemed, indeed, to think that t=
heir
one chance of reaching Rome lay in keeping close to him. Three little old
ladies were particularly energetic in his pursuit, and at last maddened him=
to
the pitch of clapping them into a carriage and daring them to emerge again.=
For
the rest of the time, one, two, or three of their heads protruded from the =
window
wailing enquiries about "a little wickerwork box" whenever he drew
near. There was a very stout man with a very stout wife in shiny black; the=
re
was a little old man like an aged hostler.
"What CAN su=
ch
people want in Rome?" asked Miss Winchelsea. "What can it mean to
them?" There was a very tall curate in a very small straw hat, and a v=
ery
short curate encumbered by a long camera stand. The contrast amused Fanny v=
ery
much. Once they heard some one calling for "Snooks." "I alwa=
ys
thought that name was invented by novelists," said Miss Winchelsea.
"Fancy! Snooks. I wonder which IS Mr. Snooks." Finally they picked
out a very stout and resolute little man in a large check suit. "If he
isn't Snooks, he ought to be," said Miss Winchelsea.
Presently the
conductor discovered Helen's attempt at a corner in carriages. "Room f=
or
five," he bawled with a parallel translation on his fingers. A party of
four together--mother, father, and two daughters--blundered in, all greatly
excited. "It's all right, Ma, you let me," said one of the daught=
ers,
hitting her mother's bonnet with a handbag she struggled to put in the rack.
Miss Winchelsea detested people who banged about and called their mother
"Ma." A young man travelling alone followed. He was not at all
"touristy" in his costume, Miss Winchelsea observed; his Gladstone
bag was of good pleasant leather with labels reminiscent of Luxembourg and
Ostend, and his boots, though brown, were not vulgar. He carried an overcoa=
t on
his arm. Before these people had properly settled in their places, came an
inspection of tickets and a slamming of doors, and behold! they were gliding
out of Charing Cross station on their way to Rome.
"Fancy!"
cried Fanny, "we are going to Rome, my dear! Rome! I don't seem to bel=
ieve
it, even now."
Miss Winchelsea
suppressed Fanny's emotions with a little smile, and the lady who was called
"Ma" explained to people in general why they had "cut it so
close" at the station. The two daughters called her "Ma" sev=
eral
times, toned her down in a tactless effective way, and drove her at last to=
the
muttered inventory of a basket of travelling requisites. Presently she look=
ed
up. "Lor'!" she said, "I didn't bring THEM!" Both the
daughters said "Oh, Ma!" but what "them" was did not
appear. Presently Fanny produced Hare's Walks in Rome, a sort of mitigated =
guide-book
very popular among Roman visitors; and the father of the two daughters bega=
n to
examine his books of tickets minutely, apparently in a search after English
words. When he had looked at the tickets for a long time right way up, he
turned them upside down. Then he produced a fountain pen and dated them with
considerable care. The young man, having completed an unostentatious survey=
of
his fellow travellers, produced a book and fell to reading. When Helen and
Fanny were looking out of the window at Chiselhurst--the place interested F=
anny
because the poor dear Empress of the French used to live there--Miss Winche=
lsea
took the opportunity to observe the book the young man held. It was not a g=
uide-book,
but a little thin volume of poetry--BOUND. She glanced at his face--it seem=
ed a
refined pleasant face to her hasty glance. He wore a little gilt pince-nez.
"Do you think she lives there now?" said Fanny, and Miss Winchels=
ea's
inspection came to an end.
For the rest of t=
he
journey Miss Winchelsea talked little, and what she said was as pleasant an=
d as
stamped with refinement as she could make it. Her voice was always low and
clear and pleasant, and she took care that on this occasion it was particul=
arly
low and clear and pleasant. As they came under the white cliffs the young m=
an
put his book of poetry away, and when at last the train stopped beside the
boat, he displayed a graceful alacrity with the impedimenta of Miss Winchel=
sea
and her friends. Miss Winchelsea hated nonsense, but she was pleased to see=
the
young man perceived at once that they were ladies, and helped them without =
any
violent geniality; and how nicely he showed that his civilities were to be =
no
excuse for further intrusions. None of her little party had been out of Eng=
land
before, and they were all excited and a little nervous at the Channel passa=
ge.
They stood in a little group in a good place near the middle of the boat--t=
he
young man had taken Miss Winchelsea's carry-all there and had told her it w=
as a
good place--and they watched the white shores of Albion recede and quoted S=
hakespeare
and made quiet fun of their fellow travellers in the English way.
They were
particularly amused at the precautions the bigger-sized people had taken
against the little waves--cut lemons and flasks prevailed, one lady lay
full-length in a deck chair with a handkerchief over her face, and a very b=
road
resolute man in a bright brown "touristy" suit walked all the way
from England to France along the deck, with his legs as widely apart as
Providence permitted. These were all excellent precautions, and, nobody was
ill. The personally conducted party pursued the conductor about the deck wi=
th
enquiries in a manner that suggested to Helen's mind the rather vulgar imag=
e of
hens with a piece of bacon peel, until at last he went into hiding below. A=
nd
the young man with the thin volume of poetry stood at the stern watching
England receding, looking rather lonely and sad to Miss Winchelsea's eye.
And then came Cal=
ais
and tumultuous novelties, and the young man had not forgotten Miss Winchels=
ea's
hold-all and the other little things. All three girls, though they had pass=
ed
government examinations in French to any extent, were stricken with a dumb
shame of their accents, and the young man was very useful. And he did not i=
ntrude.
He put them in a comfortable carriage and raised his hat and went away. Miss
Winchelsea thanked him in her best manner--a pleasing, cultivated manner--a=
nd
Fanny said he was "nice" almost before he was out of earshot. &qu=
ot;I
wonder what he can be," said Helen. "He's going to Italy, because=
I
noticed green tickets in his book." Miss Winchelsea almost told them of
the poetry, and decided not to do so. And presently the carriage windows se=
ized
hold upon them and the young man was forgotten. It made them feel that they=
were
doing an educated sort of thing to travel through a country whose commonest
advertisements were in idiomatic French, and Miss Winchelsea made unpatriot=
ic
comparisons because there were weedy little sign-board advertisements by the
rail side instead of the broad hoardings that deface the landscape in our l=
and.
But the north of France is really uninteresting country, and after a time F=
anny
reverted to Hare's Walks and Helen initiated lunch. Miss Winchelsea awoke o=
ut
of a happy reverie; she had been trying to realise, she said, that she was
actually going to Rome, but she perceived at Helen's suggestion that she was
hungry, and they lunched out of their baskets very cheerfully. In the after=
noon
they were tired and silent until Helen made tea. Miss Winchelsea might have=
dozed,
only she knew Fanny slept with her mouth open; and as their fellow passenge=
rs
were two rather nice critical-looking ladies of uncertain age--who knew Fre=
nch
well enough to talk it--she employed herself in keeping Fanny awake. The rh=
ythm
of the train became insistent, and the streaming landscape outside became at
last quite painful to the eye. They were already dreadfully tired of travel=
ling
before their night's stoppage came.
The stoppage for = the night was brightened by the appearance of the young man, and his manners we= re all that could be desired and his French quite serviceable. His coupons ava= iled for the same hotel as theirs, and by chance as it seemed he sat next Miss Winchelsea at the table d'hote. In spite of her enthusiasm for Rome, she had thought out some such possibility very thoroughly, and when he ventured to = make a remark upon the tediousness of travelling--he let the soup and fish go by before he did this--she did not simply assent to his proposition, but respo= nded with another. They were soon comparing their journeys, and Helen and Fanny = were cruelly overlooked in the conversation. It was to be the same journey, they found; one day for the galleries at Florence--"from what I hear," said the young man, "it is barely enough,"--and the rest at Rome.= He talked of Rome very pleasantly; he was evidently quite well read, and he qu= oted Horace about Soracte. Miss Winchelsea had "done" that book of Hor= ace for her matriculation, and was delighted to cap his quotation. It gave a so= rt of tone to things, this incident--a touch of refinement to mere chatting. F= anny expressed a few emotions, and Helen interpolated a few sensible remarks, but the bulk of the talk on the girls' side naturally fell to Miss Winchelsea.<= o:p>
Before they reach=
ed
Rome this young man was tacitly of their party. They did not know his name =
nor
what he was, but it seemed he taught, and Miss Winchelsea had a shrewd idea=
he
was an extension lecturer. At any rate he was something of that sort, somet=
hing
gentlemanly and refined without being opulent and impossible. She tried onc=
e or
twice to ascertain whether he came from Oxford or Cambridge, but he missed =
her
timid importunities. She tried to get him to make remarks about those place=
s to
see if he would say "come up" to them instead of "go
down"--she knew that was how you told a 'Varsity man. He used the word
"'Varsity"--not university--in quite the proper way.
They saw as much =
of
Mr. Ruskin's Florence as the brief time permitted; he met them in the Pitti
Gallery and went round with them, chatting brightly, and evidently very
grateful for their recognition. He knew a great deal about art, and all four
enjoyed the morning immensely. It was fine to go round recognising old
favourites and finding new beauties, especially while so many people fumbled
helplessly with Baedeker. Nor was he a bit of a prig, Miss Winchelsea said,=
and
indeed she detested prigs. He had a distinct undertone of humour, and was
funny, for example, without being vulgar, at the expense of the quaint work=
of Beato
Angelico. He had a grave seriousness beneath it all, and was quick to seize=
the
moral lessons of the pictures. Fanny went softly among these masterpieces; =
she
admitted "she knew so little about them," and she confessed that =
to
her they were "all beautiful." Fanny's "beautiful" incl=
ined
to be a little monotonous, Miss Winchelsea thought. She had been quite glad
when the last sunny Alp had vanished, because of the staccato of Fanny's
admiration. Helen said little, but Miss Winchelsea had found her a little
wanting on the aesthetic side in the old days and was not surprised; someti=
mes
she laughed at the young man's hesitating delicate little jests and sometim=
es
she didn't, and sometimes she seemed quite lost to the art about them in the
contemplation of the dresses of the other visitors.
At Rome the young=
man
was with them intermittently. A rather "touristy" friend of his t=
ook
him away at times. He complained comically to Miss Winchelsea. "I have
only two short weeks in Rome," he said, "and my friend Leonard wa=
nts
to spend a whole day at Tivoli, looking at a waterfall."
"What is your
friend Leonard?" asked Miss Winchelsea abruptly.
"He's the mo=
st
enthusiastic pedestrian I ever met," the young man replied, amusingly,=
but
a little unsatisfactorily, Miss Winchelsea thought. They had some glorious
times, and Fanny could not think what they would have done without him. Miss
Winchelsea's interest and Fanny's enormous capacity for admiration were
insatiable. They never flagged--through pictures and sculpture galleries,
immense crowded churches, ruins and museums, Judas trees and prickly pears,
wine carts and palaces, they admired their way unflinchingly. They never sa=
w a stone
pine or a eucalyptus but they named and admired it; they never glimpsed Sor=
acte
but they exclaimed. Their common ways were made wonderful by imaginative pl=
ay.
"Here Caesar may have walked," they would say. "Raphael may =
have
seen Soracte from this very point." They happened on the tomb of Bibul=
us.
"Old Bibulus," said the young man. "The oldest monument of
Republican Rome!" said Miss Winchelsea.
"I'm dreadfu=
lly
stupid," said Fanny, "but who WAS Bibulus?"
There was a curio=
us
little pause.
"Wasn't he t=
he
person who built the wall?" said Helen.
The young man gla=
nced
quickly at her and laughed. "That was Balbus," he said. Helen
reddened, but neither he nor Miss Winchelsea threw any light upon Fanny's
ignorance about Bibulus.
Helen was more
taciturn than the other three, but then she was always taciturn, and usually
she took care of the tram tickets and things like that, or kept her eye on =
them
if the young man took them, and told him where they were when he wanted the=
m.
Glorious times they had, these young people, in that pale brown cleanly cit=
y of
memories that was once the world. Their only sorrow was the shortness of the
time. They said indeed that the electric trams and the '70 buildings, and t=
hat
criminal advertisement that glares upon the Forum, outraged their aesthetic=
feelings
unspeakably; but that was only part of the fun. And indeed Rome is such a
wonderful place that it made Miss Winchelsea forget some of her most carefu=
lly
prepared enthusiasms at times, and Helen, taken unawares, would suddenly ad=
mit
the beauty of unexpected things. Yet Fanny and Helen would have liked a sho=
p window
or so in the English quarter if Miss Winchelsea's uncompromising hostility =
to
all other English visitors had not rendered that district impossible.
The intellectual =
and
aesthetic fellowship of Miss Winchelsea and the scholarly young man passed
insensibly towards a deeper feeling. The exuberant Fanny did her best to ke=
ep
pace with their recondite admiration by playing her "beautiful," =
with
vigour, and saying "Oh! LET'S go," with enormous appetite wheneve=
r a
new place of interest was mentioned. But Helen developed a certain want of
sympathy towards the end, that disappointed Miss Winchelsea a little. She
refused to "see anything" in the face of Beatrice Cenci--Shelley's
Beatrice Cenci!--in the Barberini gallery; and one day, when they were
deploring the electric trams, she said rather snappishly that "people =
must
get about somehow, and it's better than torturing horses up these horrid li=
ttle
hills." She spoke of the Seven Hills of Rome as "horrid little
hills!"
And the day they =
went
on the Palatine--though Miss Winchelsea did not know of this--she remarked
suddenly to Fanny, "Don't hurry like that, my dear; THEY don't want us=
to
overtake them. And we don't say the right things for them when we DO get
near."
"I wasn't tr=
ying
to overtake them," said Fanny, slackening her excessive pace; "I
wasn't indeed." And for a minute she was short of breath.
But Miss Winchels=
ea
had come upon happiness. It was only when she came to look back across an
intervening tragedy that she quite realised how happy she had been, pacing
among the cypress-shadowed ruins, and exchanging the very highest class of
information the human mind can possess, the most refined impressions it is
possible to convey. Insensibly emotion crept into their intercourse, sunning
itself openly and pleasantly at last when Helen's modernity was not too nea=
r. Insensibly
their interest drifted from the wonderful associations about them to their =
more
intimate and personal feelings. In a tentative way information was supplied;
she spoke allusively of her school, of her examination successes, of her
gladness that the days of "Cram" were over. He made it quite clear
that he also was a teacher. They spoke of the greatness of their calling, of
the necessity of sympathy to face its irksome details, of a certain lonelin=
ess
they sometimes felt.
That was in the
Colosseum, and it was as far as they got that day, because Helen returned w=
ith
Fanny--she had taken her into the upper galleries. Yet the private dreams of
Miss Winchelsea, already vivid and concrete enough, became now realistic in=
the
highest degree. She figured that pleasant young man, lecturing in the most
edifying way to his students, herself modestly prominent as his intellectual
mate and helper; she figured a refined little home, with two bureaus, with =
white
shelves of high-class books, and autotypes of the pictures of Rossetti and
Burne-Jones, with Morris's wall papers and flowers in pots of beaten copper.
Indeed she figured many things. On the Pincio the two had a few precious
moments together, while Helen marched Fanny off to see the muro Torto, and =
he
spoke at once plainly. He said he hoped their friendship was only beginning,
that he already found her company very precious to him, that indeed it was =
more
than that.
He became nervous,
thrusting at his glasses with trembling fingers as though he fancied his
emotions made them unstable. "I should of course," he said,
"tell you things about myself. I know it is rather unusual my speaking=
to
you like this. Only our meeting has been so accidental--or providential--an=
d I
am snatching at things. I came to Rome expecting a lonely tour... and I have
been so very happy, so very happy. Quite recently I found myself in a
position--I have dared to think--. And--"
He glanced over h=
is
shoulder and stopped. He said "Damn!" quite distinctly--and she d=
id
not condemn him for that manly lapse into profanity. She looked and saw his
friend Leonard advancing. He drew nearer; he raised his hat to Miss Winchel=
sea,
and his smile was almost a grin. "I've been looking for you everywhere,
Snooks," he said. "You promised to be on the Piazza steps half an
hour ago."
Snooks! The name
struck Miss Winchelsea like a blow in the face. She did not hear his reply.=
She
thought afterwards that Leonard must have considered her the vaguest-minded
person. To this day she is not sure whether she was introduced to Leonard or
not, nor what she said to him. A sort of mental paralysis was upon her. Of =
all
offensive surnames--Snooks!
Helen and Fanny w=
ere
returning, there were civilities, and the young men were receding. By a gre=
at
effort she controlled herself to face the enquiring eyes of her friends. All
that afternoon she lived the life of a heroine under the indescribable outr=
age
of that name, chatting, observing, with "Snooks" gnawing at her
heart. From the moment that it first rang upon her ears, the dream of her
happiness was prostrate in the dust. All the refinement she had figured was
ruined and defaced by that cognomen's unavoidable vulgarity.
What was that ref=
ined
little home to her now, spite of autotypes, Morris papers, and bureaus? Ath=
wart
it in letters of fire ran an incredible inscription: "Mrs. Snooks.&quo=
t;
That may seem a little thing to the reader, but consider the delicate
refinement of Miss Winchelsea's mind. Be as refined as you can and then thi=
nk
of writing yourself down:--"Snooks." She conceived herself being
addressed as Mrs. Snooks by all the people she liked least, conceived the
patronymic touched with a vague quality of insult. She figured a card of gr=
ey
and silver bearing "Winchelsea," triumphantly effaced by an arrow,
Cupid's arrow, in favour of "Snooks." Degrading confession of
feminine weakness! She imagined the terrible rejoicings of certain girl
friends, of certain grocer cousins from whom her growing refinement had long
since estranged her. How they would make it sprawl across the envelope that
would bring their sarcastic congratulations. Would even his pleasant company
compensate her for that? "It is impossible," she muttered;
"impossible! SNOOKS!"
She was sorry for
him, but not so sorry as she was for herself. For him she had a touch of
indignation. To be so nice, so refined, while all the time he was
"Snooks," to hide under a pretentious gentility of demeanour the
badge sinister of his surname seemed a sort of treachery. To put it in the
language of sentimental science she felt he had "led her on."
There were of cou=
rse
moments of terrible vacillation, a period even when something almost like
passion bid her throw refinement to the winds. And there was something in h=
er,
an unexpurgated vestige of vulgarity, that made a strenuous attempt at prov=
ing
that Snooks was not so very bad a name after all. Any hovering hesitation f=
lew
before Fanny's manner, when Fanny came with an air of catastrophe to tell t=
hat
she also knew the horror. Fanny's voice fell to a whisper when she said SNO=
OKS.
Miss Winchelsea would not give him any answer when at last, in the Borghese=
, she
could have a minute with him; but she promised him a note.
She handed him th=
at
note in the little book of poetry he had lent her, the little book that had
first drawn them together. Her refusal was ambiguous, allusive. She could no
more tell him why she rejected him than she could have told a cripple of his
hump. He too must feel something of the unspeakable quality of his name. In=
deed
he had avoided a dozen chances of telling it, she now perceived. So she spo=
ke
of "obstacles she could not reveal"--"reasons why the thing =
he
spoke of was impossible." She addressed the note with a shiver, "=
E.
K. Snooks."
Things were worse=
than
she had dreaded; he asked her to explain. How COULD she explain? Those last=
two
days in Rome were dreadful. She was haunted by his air of astonished
perplexity. She knew she had given him intimate hopes, she had not the cour=
age
to examine her mind thoroughly for the extent of her encouragement. She kne=
w he
must think her the most changeable of beings. Now that she was in full retr=
eat,
she would not even perceive his hints of a possible correspondence. But in =
that
matter he did a thing that seemed to her at once delicate and romantic. He =
made
a go-between of Fanny. Fanny could not keep the secret, and came and told h=
er
that night under a transparent pretext of needed advice. "Mr. Snooks,&=
quot;
said Fanny, "wants to write to me. Fancy! I had no idea. But should I =
let
him?" They talked it over long and earnestly, and Miss Winchelsea was
careful to keep the veil over her heart. She was already repenting his
disregarded hints. Why should she not hear of him sometimes--painful though=
his
name must be to her? Miss Winchelsea decided it might be permitted, and Fan=
ny
kissed her good-night with unusual emotion. After she had gone Miss Winchel=
sea
sat for a long time at the window of her little room. It was moonlight, and
down the street a man sang "Santa Lucia" with almost heart-dissol=
ving
tenderness.... She sat very still.
She breathed a wo=
rd
very softly to herself. The word was "SNOOKS." Then she got up wi=
th a
profound sigh, and went to bed. The next morning he said to her meaningly,
"I shall hear of you through your friend."
Mr. Snooks saw th=
em
off from Rome with that pathetic interrogative perplexity still on his face,
and if it had not been for Helen he would have retained Miss Winchelsea's
hold-all in his hand as a sort of encyclopaedic keepsake. On their way back=
to
England Miss Winchelsea on six separate occasions made Fanny promise to wri=
te
to her the longest of long letters. Fanny, it seemed, would be quite near M=
r.
Snooks. Her new school--she was always going to new schools--would be only =
five
miles from Steely Bank, and it was in the Steely Bank Polytechnic, and one =
or two
first-class schools, that Mr. Snooks did his teaching. He might even see he=
r at
times. They could not talk much of him--she and Fanny always spoke of
"him," never of Mr. Snooks,--because Helen was apt to say unsympa=
thetic
things about him. Her nature had coarsened very much, Miss Winchelsea
perceived, since the old Training College days; she had become hard and
cynical. She thought he had a weak face, mistaking refinement for weakness =
as
people of her stamp are apt to do, and when she heard his name was Snooks, =
she
said she had expected something of the sort. Miss Winchelsea was careful to
spare her own feelings after that, but Fanny was less circumspect.
The girls parted =
in
London, and Miss Winchelsea returned, with a new interest in life, to the
Girls' High School in which she had been an increasingly valuable assistant=
for
the last three years. Her new interest in life was Fanny as a correspondent,
and to give her a lead she wrote her a lengthy descriptive letter within a
fortnight of her return. Fanny answered, very disappointingly. Fanny indeed=
had
no literary gift, but it was new to Miss Winchelsea to find herself deplori=
ng
the want of gifts in a friend. That letter was even criticised aloud in the
safe solitude of Miss Winchelsea's study, and her criticism, spoken with gr=
eat
bitterness, was "Twaddle!" It was full of just the things Miss
Winchelsea's letter had been full of, particulars of the school. And of Mr.
Snooks, only this much: "I have had a letter from Mr. Snooks, and he h=
as
been over to see me on two Saturday afternoons running. He talked about Rome
and you; we both talked about you. Your ears must have burnt, my dear....&q=
uot;
Miss Winchelsea
repressed a desire to demand more explicit information, and wrote the sweet=
est
long letter again. "Tell me all about yourself, dear. That journey has
quite refreshed our ancient friendship, and I do so want to keep in touch w=
ith
you." About Mr. Snooks she simply wrote on the fifth page that she was
glad Fanny had seen him, and that if he SHOULD ask after her, she was to be
remembered to him VERY KINDLY (underlined). And Fanny replied most obtusely=
in
the key of that "ancient friendship," reminding Miss Winchelsea o=
f a
dozen foolish things of those old schoolgirl days at the training college, =
and
saying not a word about Mr. Snooks!
For nearly a week
Miss Winchelsea was so angry at the failure of Fanny as a go-between that s=
he
could not write to her. And then she wrote less effusively, and in her lett=
er
she asked point-blank, "Have you seen Mr. Snooks?" Fanny's letter=
was
unexpectedly satisfactory. "I HAVE seen Mr. Snooks," she wrote, a=
nd
having once named him she kept on about him; it was all Snooks--Snooks this=
and
Snooks that. He was to give a public lecture, said Fanny, among other thing=
s.
Yet Miss Winchelsea, after the first glow of gratification, still found this
letter a little unsatisfactory. Fanny did not report Mr. Snooks as saying
anything about Miss Winchelsea, nor as looking a little white and worn, as =
he
ought to have been doing. And behold! before she had replied, came a second=
letter
from Fanny on the same theme, quite a gushing letter, and covering six shee=
ts
with her loose feminine hand.
And about this se=
cond
letter was a rather odd little thing that Miss Winchelsea only noticed as s=
he
re-read it the third time. Fanny's natural femininity had prevailed even
against the round and clear traditions of the training college; she was one=
of
those she-creatures born to make all her m's and n's and u's and r's and e's
alike, and to leave her o's and a's open and her i's undotted. So that it w=
as
only after an elaborate comparison of word with word that Miss Winchelsea f=
elt
assured Mr. Snooks was not really "Mr. Snooks" at all! In Fanny's=
first
letter of gush he was Mr. "Snooks," in her second the spelling wa=
s changed
to Mr. "Senoks." Miss Winchelsea's hand positively trembled as she
turned the sheet over--it meant so much to her. For it had already begun to
seem to her that even the name of Mrs. Snooks might be avoided at too great=
a
price, and suddenly--this possibility! She turned over the six sheets, all
dappled with that critical name, and everywhere the first letter had the fo=
rm
of an E! For a time she walked the room with a hand pressed upon her heart.=
She spent a whole=
day
pondering this change, weighing a letter of inquiry that should be at once
discreet and effectual, weighing too what action she should take after the
answer came. She was resolved that if this altered spelling was anything mo=
re
than a quaint fancy of Fanny's, she would write forthwith to Mr. Snooks. She
had now reached a stage when the minor refinements of behaviour disappear. =
Her
excuse remained uninvented, but she had the subject of her letter clear in =
her
mind, even to the hint that "circumstances in my life have changed ver=
y greatly
since we talked together." But she never gave that hint. There came a
third letter from that fitful correspondent Fanny. The first line proclaimed
her "the happiest girl alive."
Miss Winchelsea
crushed the letter in her hand--the rest unread--and sat with her face sudd=
enly
very still. She had received it just before morning school, and had opened =
it
when the junior mathematicians were well under way. Presently she resumed
reading with an appearance of great calm. But after the first sheet she wen=
t on
reading the third without discovering the error:--"told him frankly I =
did
not like his name," the third sheet began. "He told me he did not
like it himself--you know that sort of sudden frank way he has"--Miss
Winchelsea did know. "So I said 'Couldn't you change it?' He didn't se=
e it
at first. Well, you know, dear, he had told me what it really meant; it mea=
ns
Sevenoaks, only it has got down to Snooks--both Snooks and Noaks, dreadfully
vulgar surnames though they be, are really worn forms of Sevenoaks. So I
said--even I have my bright ideas at times--'if it got down from Sevenoaks =
to
Snooks, why not get it back from Snooks to Sevenoaks?' And the long and the
short of it is, dear, he couldn't refuse me, and he changed his spelling th=
ere
and then to Senoks for the bills of the new lecture. And afterwards, when we
are married, we shall put in the apostrophe and make it Se'noks. Wasn't it =
kind
of him to mind that fancy of mine, when many men would have taken offence? =
But
it is just like him all over; he is as kind as he is clever. Because he kne=
w as
well as I did that I would have had him in spite of it, had he been ten tim=
es
Snooks. But he did it all the same."
The class was
startled by the sound of paper being viciously torn, and looked up to see M=
iss
Winchelsea white in the face, and with some very small pieces of paper clen=
ched
in one hand. For a few seconds they stared at her stare, and then her
expression changed back to a more familiar one. "Has any one finished
number three?" she asked in an even tone. She remained calm after that.
But impositions ruled high that day. And she spent two laborious evenings
writing letters of various sorts to Fanny, before she found a decent
congratulatory vein. Her reason struggled hopelessly against the persuasion
that Fanny had behaved in an exceedingly treacherous manner.
One may be extrem=
ely
refined and still capable of a very sore heart. Certainly Miss Winchelsea's
heart was very sore. She had moods of sexual hostility, in which she
generalised uncharitably about mankind. "He forgot himself with me,&qu=
ot;
she said. "But Fanny is pink and pretty and soft and a fool--a very
excellent match for a Man." And by way of a wedding present she sent F=
anny
a gracefully bound volume of poetry by George Meredith, and Fanny wrote bac=
k a
grossly happy letter to say that it was "ALL beautiful." Miss
Winchelsea hoped that some day Mr. Senoks might take up that slim book and
think for a moment of the donor. Fanny wrote several times before and about=
her
marriage, pursuing that fond legend of their "ancient friendship,"
and giving her happiness in the fullest detail. And Miss Winchelsea wrote to
Helen for the first time after the Roman journey, saying nothing about the
marriage, but expressing very cordial feelings.
They had been in =
Rome
at Easter, and Fanny was married in the August vacation. She wrote a garrul=
ous
letter to Miss Winchelsea, describing her home-coming, and the astonishing
arrangements of their "teeny weeny" little house. Mr. Se'noks was=
now
beginning to assume a refinement in Miss Winchelsea's memory out of all
proportion to the facts of the case, and she tried in vain to imagine his
cultured greatness in a "teeny weeny" little house. "Am busy
enamelling a cosey corner," said Fanny, sprawling to the end of her th=
ird
sheet, "so excuse more." Miss Winchelsea answered in her best sty=
le,
gently poking fun at Fanny's arrangements and hoping intensely that Mr. Sen=
'oks
might see the letter. Only this hope enabled her to write at all, answering=
not
only that letter but one in November and one at Christmas.
The two latter
communications contained urgent invitations for her to come to Steely Bank =
on a
Visit during the Christmas holidays. She tried to think that HE had told he=
r to
ask that, but it was too much like Fanny's opulent good-nature. She could n=
ot
but believe that he must be sick of his blunder by this time; and she had m=
ore
than a hope that he would presently write her a letter beginning "Dear
Friend." Something subtly tragic in the separation was a great support=
to
her, a sad misunderstanding. To have been jilted would have been intolerabl=
e.
But he never wrote that letter beginning "Dear Friend."
For two years Miss
Winchelsea could not go to see her friends, in spite of the reiterated
invitations of Mrs. Sevenoaks--it became full Sevenoaks in the second year.
Then one day near the Easter rest she felt lonely and without a soul to
understand her in the world, and her mind ran once more on what is called
Platonic friendship. Fanny was clearly happy and busy in her new sphere of
domesticity, but no doubt HE had his lonely hours. Did he ever think of tho=
se
days in Rome--gone now beyond recalling? No one had understood her as he had
done; no one in all the world. It would be a sort of melancholy pleasure to
talk to him again, and what harm could it do? Why should she deny herself? =
That
night she wrote a sonnet, all but the last two lines of the octave--which w=
ould
not come, and the next day she composed a graceful little note to tell Fanny
she was coming down.
And so she saw him
again.
Even at the first
encounter it was evident he had changed; he seemed stouter and less nervous,
and it speedily appeared that his conversation had already lost much of its=
old
delicacy. There even seemed a justification for Helen's description of weak=
ness
in his face--in certain lights it WAS weak. He seemed busy and preoccupied
about his affairs, and almost under the impression that Miss Winchelsea had=
come
for the sake of Fanny. He discussed his dinner with Fanny in an intelligent
way. They only had one good long talk together, and that came to nothing. He
did not refer to Rome, and spent some time abusing a man who had stolen an =
idea
he had had for a text-book. It did not seem a very wonderful idea to Miss
Winchelsea. She discovered he had forgotten the names of more than half the
painters whose work they had rejoiced over in Florence.
It was a sadly
disappointing week, and Miss Winchelsea was glad when it came to an end. Un=
der
various excuses she avoided visiting them again. After a time the visitor's
room was occupied by their two little boys, and Fanny's invitations ceased.=
The
intimacy of her letters had long since faded away.
The man with the
white face entered the carriage at Rugby. He moved slowly in spite of the
urgency of his porter, and even while he was still on the platform I noted =
how
ill he seemed. He dropped into the corner over against me with a sigh, made=
an
incomplete attempt to arrange his travelling shawl, and became motionless, =
with
his eyes staring vacantly. Presently he was moved by a sense of my observat=
ion,
looked up at me, and put out a spiritless hand for his newspaper. Then he
glanced again in my direction.
I feigned to read=
. I
feared I had unwittingly embarrassed him, and in a moment I was surprised to
find him speaking.
"I beg your
pardon?" said I.
"That
book," he repeated, pointing a lean finger, "is about dreams.&quo=
t;
"Obviously,&=
quot;
I answered, for it was Fortnum-Roscoe's Dream States, and the title was on =
the
cover. He hung silent for a space as if he sought words. "Yes," he
said at last, "but they tell you nothing." I did not catch his
meaning for a second.
"They don't
know," he added.
I looked a little
more attentively at his face.
"There are
dreams," he said, "and dreams."
That sort of
proposition I never dispute.
"I
suppose--" he hesitated. "Do you ever dream? I mean vividly."=
;
"I dream very
little," I answered. "I doubt if I have three vivid dreams in a
year."
"Ah!" he
said, and seemed for a moment to collect his thoughts.
"Your dreams
don't mix with your memories?" he asked abruptly. "You don't find
yourself in doubt; did this happen or did it not?"
"Hardly ever.
Except just for a momentary hesitation now and then. I suppose few people
do."
"Does HE
say--" he indicated the book.
"Says it hap=
pens
at times and gives the usual explanation about intensity of impression and =
the
like to account for its not happening as a rule. I suppose you know somethi=
ng
of these theories--"
"Very little=
--except
that they are wrong."
His emaciated hand
played with the strap of the window for a time. I prepared to resume readin=
g,
and that seemed to precipitate his next remark. He leant forward almost as
though he would touch me.
"Isn't there
something called consecutive dreaming--that goes on night after night?"=
;
"I believe t=
here
is. There are cases given in most books on mental trouble."
"Mental trou=
ble!
Yes. I dare say there are. It's the right place for them. But what I
mean--" He looked at his bony knuckles. "Is that sort of thing al=
ways
dreaming? IS it dreaming? Or is it something else? Mightn't it be something
else?"
I should have snu=
bbed
his persistent conversation but for the drawn anxiety of his face. I rememb=
er
now the look of his faded eyes and the lids red-stained--perhaps you know t=
hat
look.
"I'm not just
arguing about a matter of opinion," he said. "The thing's killing
me."
"Dreams?&quo=
t;
"If you call
them dreams. Night after night. Vivid!--so vivid... this--" (he indica=
ted
the landscape that went streaming by the window) "seems unreal in
comparison! I can scarcely remember who I am, what business I am on....&quo=
t;
He paused. "=
Even
now--"
"The dream is
always the same--do you mean?" I asked.
"It's
over."
"You mean?&q=
uot;
"I died.&quo=
t;
"Died?"=
"Smashed and
killed, and now, so much of me as that dream was, is dead. Dead for ever. I
dreamt I was another man, you know, living in a different part of the world=
and
in a different time. I dreamt that night after night. Night after night I w=
oke
into that other life. Fresh scenes and fresh happenings--until I came upon =
the
last--"
"When you
died?"
"When I
died."
"And since
then--"
"No," he
said. "Thank God! That was the end of the dream...."
It was clear I wa=
s in
for this dream. And after all, I had an hour before me, the light was fading
fast, and Fortnum-Roscoe has a dreary way with him. "Living in a diffe=
rent
time," I said: "do you mean in some different age?"
"Yes."<= o:p>
"Past?"=
"No, to come=
--to
come."
"The year th=
ree
thousand, for example?"
"I don't know
what year it was. I did when I was asleep, when I was dreaming, that is, but
not now--not now that I am awake. There's a lot of things I have forgotten
since I woke out of these dreams, though I knew them at the time when I was=
--I
suppose it was dreaming. They called the year differently from our way of
calling the year.... What DID they call it?" He put his hand to his
forehead. "No," said he, "I forget."
He sat smiling
weakly. For a moment I feared he did not mean to tell me his dream. As a ru=
le I
hate people who tell their dreams, but this struck me differently. I proffe=
red
assistance even. "It began--" I suggested.
"It was vivid
from the first. I seemed to wake up in it suddenly. And it's curious that in
these dreams I am speaking of I never remembered this life I am living now.=
It
seemed as if the dream life was enough while it lasted. Perhaps--But I will
tell you how I find myself when I do my best to recall it all. I don't reme=
mber
anything dearly until I found myself sitting in a sort of loggia looking out
over the sea. I had been dozing, and suddenly I woke up--fresh and vivid--n=
ot a
bit dream-like--because the girl had stopped fanning me."
"The girl?&q=
uot;
"Yes, the gi=
rl.
You must not interrupt or you will put me out."
He stopped abrupt=
ly.
"You won't think I'm mad?" he said.
"No," I
answered; "you've been dreaming. Tell me your dream."
"I woke up, I
say, because the girl had stopped fanning me. I was not surprised to find
myself there or anything of that sort, you understand. I did not feel I had
fallen into it suddenly. I simply took it up at that point. Whatever memory=
I
had of THIS life, this nineteenth-century life, faded as I woke, vanished l=
ike
a dream. I knew all about myself, knew that my name was no longer Cooper but
Hedon, and all about my position in the world. I've forgotten a lot since I
woke--there's a want of connection--but it was all quite clear and matter of
fact then."
He hesitated agai=
n,
gripping the window strap, putting his face forward and looking up at me
appealingly.
"This seems =
bosh
to you?"
"No, no!&quo=
t; I
cried. "Go on. Tell me what this loggia was like."
"It was not
really a loggia--I don't know what to call it. It faced south. It was small=
. It
was all in shadow except the semicircle above the balcony that showed the s=
ky
and sea and the corner where the girl stood. I was on a couch--it was a met=
al
couch with light striped cushions-and the girl was leaning over the balcony
with her back to me. The light of the sunrise fell on her ear and cheek. Her
pretty white neck and the little curls that nestled there, and her white
shoulder were in the sun, and all the grace of her body was in the cool blu=
e shadow.
She was dressed--how can I describe it? It was easy and flowing. And altoge=
ther
there she stood, so that it came to me how beautiful and desirable she was,=
as
though I had never seen her before. And when at last I sighed and raised my=
self
upon my arm she turned her face to me--"
He stopped.
"I have lived
three-and-fifty years in this world. I have had mother, sisters, friends, w=
ife,
and daughters--all their faces, the play of their faces, I know. But the fa=
ce
of this girl--it is much more real to me. I can bring it back into memory so
that I see it again--I could draw it or paint it. And after all--"
He stopped--but I
said nothing.
"The face of=
a
dream--the face of a dream. She was beautiful. Not that beauty which is
terrible, cold, and worshipful, like the beauty of a saint; nor that beauty
that stirs fierce passions; but a sort of radiation, sweet lips that soften=
ed
into smiles, and grave grey eyes. And she moved gracefully, she seemed to h=
ave
part with all pleasant and gracious things--"
He stopped, and h=
is
face was downcast and hidden. Then he looked up at me and went on, making no
further attempt to disguise his absolute belief in the reality of his story=
.
"You see, I =
had
thrown up my plans and ambitions, thrown up all I had ever worked for or
desired for her sake. I had been a master man away there in the north, with
influence and property and a great reputation, but none of it had seemed wo=
rth
having beside her. I had come to the place, this city of sunny pleasures, w=
ith
her, and left all those things to wreck and ruin just to save a remnant at
least of my life. While I had been in love with her before I knew that she =
had
any care for me, before I had imagined that she would dare--that we should
dare, all my life had seemed vain and hollow, dust and ashes. It WAS dust a=
nd
ashes. Night after night and through the long days I had longed and desired=
--my
soul had beaten against the thing forbidden!
"But it is
impossible for one man to tell another just these things. It's emotion, it'=
s a
tint, a light that comes and goes. Only while it's there, everything change=
s,
everything. The thing is I came away and left them in their Crisis to do wh=
at
they could."
"Left
whom?" I asked, puzzled.
"The people =
up
in the north there. You see--in this dream, anyhow--I had been a big man, t=
he
sort of man men come to trust in, to group themselves about. Millions of men
who had never seen me were ready to do things and risk things because of th=
eir
confidence in me. I had been playing that game for years, that big laborious
game, that vague, monstrous political game amidst intrigues and betrayals,
speech and agitation. It was a vast weltering world, and at last I had a so=
rt
of leadership against the Gang--you know it was called the Gang--a sort of =
compromise
of scoundrelly projects and base ambitions and vast public emotional
stupidities and catchwords--the Gang that kept the world noisy and blind ye=
ar
by year, and all the while that it was drifting, drifting towards infinite
disaster. But I can't expect you to understand the shades and complications=
of
the year--the year something or other ahead. I had it all down to the small=
est
details--in my dream. I suppose I had been dreaming of it before I awoke, a=
nd
the fading outline of some queer new development I had imagined still hung
about me as I rubbed my eyes. It was some grubby affair that made me thank =
God
for the sunlight. I sat up on the couch and remained looking at the woman a=
nd rejoicing--rejoicing
that I had come away out of all that tumult and folly and violence before it
was too late. After all, I thought, this is life--love and beauty, desire a=
nd
delight, are they not worth all those dismal struggles for vague, gigantic
ends? And I blamed myself for having ever sought to be a leader when I might
have given my days to love. But then, thought I, if I had not spent my early
days sternly and austerely, I might have wasted myself upon vain and worthl=
ess
women, and at the thought all my being went out in love and tenderness to my
dear mistress, my dear lady, who had come at last and compelled me--compell=
ed me
by her invincible charm for me--to lay that life aside.
"'You are wo=
rth
it,' I said, speaking without intending her to hear; 'you are worth it, my
dearest one; worth pride and praise and all things. Love! to have YOU is wo=
rth
them all together.' And at the murmur of my voice she turned about.
"'Come and s=
ee,'
she cried--I can hear her now--'come and see the sunrise upon Monte Solaro.=
'
"I remember =
how
I sprang to my feet and joined her at the balcony. She put a white hand upo=
n my
shoulder and pointed towards great masses of limestone, flushing, as it wer=
e,
into life. I looked. But first I noted the sunlight on her face caressing t=
he
lines of her cheeks and neck. How can I describe to you the scene we had be=
fore
us? We were at Capri--"
"I have been
there," I said. "I have clambered up Monte Solaro and drunk vero
Capri--muddy stuff like cider--at the summit."
"Ah!" s=
aid
the man with the white face; "then perhaps you can tell me--you will k=
now
if this was indeed Capri. For in this life I have never been there. Let me
describe it. We were in a little room, one of a vast multitude of little ro=
oms,
very cool and sunny, hollowed out of the limestone of a sort of cape, very =
high
above the sea. The whole island, you know, was one enormous hotel, complex
beyond explaining, and on the other side there were miles of floating hotel=
s,
and huge floating stages to which the flying machines came. They called it a
pleasure city. Of course, there was none of that in your time rather, I sho=
uld
say, IS none of that NOW. Of course. Now!--yes.
"Well, this =
room
of ours was at the extremity of the cape, so that one could see east and we=
st.
Eastward was a great cliff--a thousand feet high perhaps--coldly grey except
for one bright edge of gold, and beyond it the Isle of the Sirens, and a
falling coast that faded and passed into the hot sunrise. And when one turn=
ed
to the west, distinct and near was a little bay, a little beach still in
shadow. And out of that shadow rose Solaro straight and tall, flushed and
golden crested, like a beauty throned, and the white moon was floating behi=
nd
her in the sky. And before us from east to west stretched the many-tinted s=
ea
all dotted with little sailing boats.
"To the
eastward, of course, these little boats were grey and very minute and clear,
but to the westward they were little boats of gold--shining gold--almost li=
ke
little flames. And just below us was a rock with an arch worn through it. T=
he
blue sea-water broke to green and foam all round the rock, and a galley came
gliding out of the arch."
"I know that
rock," I said. "I was nearly drowned there. It is called the
Faraglioni."
"I Faraglion=
i?
Yes, she called it that," answered the man with the white face.
"There was some story--but that--"
He put his hand to
his forehead again. "No," he said, "I forget that story.&quo=
t;
"Well, that =
is
the first thing I remember, the first dream I had, that little shaded room =
and
the beautiful air and sky and that dear lady of mine, with her shining arms=
and
her graceful robe, and how we sat and talked in half whispers to one anothe=
r.
We talked in whispers not because there was any one to hear, but because th=
ere
was still such a freshness of mind between us that our thoughts were a litt=
le
frightened, I think, to find themselves at last in words. And so they went
softly.
"Presently we
were hungry and we went from our apartment, going by a strange passage with=
a
moving floor, until we came to the great breakfast room--there was a founta=
in
and music. A pleasant and joyful place it was, with its sunlight and splash=
ing,
and the murmur of plucked strings. And we sat and ate and smiled at one
another, and I would not heed a man who was watching me from a table near b=
y.
"And afterwa=
rds
we went on to the dancing-hall. But I cannot describe that hall. The place =
was
enormous--larger than any building you have ever seen--and in one place the=
re
was the old gate of Capri, caught into the wall of a gallery high overhead.
Light girders, stems and threads of gold, burst from the pillars like
fountains, streamed like an Aurora across the roof and interlaced, like--li=
ke
conjuring tricks. All about the great circle for the dancers there were
beautiful figures, strange dragons, and intricate and wonderful grotesques
bearing lights. The place was inundated with artificial light that shamed t=
he
newborn day. And as we went through the throng the people turned about and =
looked
at us, for all through the world my name and face were known, and how I had=
suddenly
thrown up pride and struggle to come to this place. And they looked also at=
the
lady beside me, though half the story of how at last she had come to me was
unknown or mistold. And few of the men who were there, I know, but judged m=
e a
happy man, in spite of all the shame and dishonour that had come upon my na=
me.
"The air was
full of music, full of harmonious scents, full of the rhythm of beautiful
motions. Thousands of beautiful people swarmed about the hall, crowded the
galleries, sat in a myriad recesses; they were dressed in splendid colours =
and
crowned with flowers; thousands danced about the great circle beneath the w=
hite
images of the ancient gods, and glorious processions of youths and maidens =
came
and went. We two danced, not the dreary monotonies of your days--of this ti=
me,
I mean--but dances that were beautiful, intoxicating. And even now I can se=
e my
lady dancing--dancing joyously. She danced, you know, with a serious face; =
she
danced with a serious dignity, and yet she was smiling at me and caressing
me--smiling and caressing with her eyes.
"The music w=
as
different," he murmured. "It went--I cannot describe it; but it w=
as
infinitely richer and more varied than any music that has ever come to me
awake.
"And then--it
was when we had done dancing--a man came to speak to me. He was a lean,
resolute man, very soberly clad for that place, and already I had marked his
face watching me in the breakfasting hall, and afterwards as we went along =
the
passage I had avoided his eye. But now, as we sat in a little alcove, smili=
ng
at the pleasure of all the people who went to and fro across the shining fl=
oor,
he came and touched me, and spoke to me so that I was forced to listen. And=
he
asked that he might speak to me for a little time apart.
"'No,' I sai=
d.
'I have no secrets from this lady. What do you want to tell me?'
"He said it =
was
a trivial matter, or at least a dry matter, for a lady to hear.
"'Perhaps fo=
r me
to hear,' said I.
"He glanced =
at
her, as though almost he would appeal to her. Then he asked me suddenly if I
had heard of a great and avenging declaration that Evesham had made. Now,
Evesham had always before been the man next to myself in the leadership of =
that
great party in the north. He was a forcible, hard and tactless man, and onl=
y I
had been able to control and soften him. It was on his account even more th=
an
my own, I think, that the others had been so dismayed at my retreat. So this
question about what he had done reawakened my old interest in the life I had
put aside just for a moment.
"'I have tak=
en
no heed of any news for many days,' I said. 'What has Evesham been saying?'=
"And with th=
at
the man began, nothing loath, and I must confess even I was struck by Evesh=
am's
reckless folly in the wild and threatening words he had used. And this
messenger they had sent to me not only told me of Evesham's speech, but wen=
t on
to ask counsel and to point out what need they had of me. While he talked, =
my
lady sat a little forward and watched his face and mine.
"My old habi=
ts
of scheming and organising reasserted themselves. I could even see myself
suddenly returning to the north, and all the dramatic effect of it. All that
this man said witnessed to the disorder of the party indeed, but not to its
damage. I should go back stronger than I had come. And then I thought of my
lady. You see--how can I tell you? There were certain peculiarities of our
relationship--as things are I need not tell you about that--which would ren=
der
her presence with me impossible. I should have had to leave her; indeed, I
should have had to renounce her clearly and openly, if I was to do all that=
I
could do in the north. And the man knew THAT, even as he talked to her and =
me,
knew it as well as she did, that my steps to duty were--first, separation, =
then
abandonment. At the touch of that thought my dream of a return was shattere=
d. I
turned on the man suddenly, as he was imagining his eloquence was gaining
ground with me.
"'What have =
I to
do with these things now?' I said. 'I have done with them. Do you think I am
coquetting with your people in coming here?'
"'No,' he sa=
id;
'but--'
"'Why cannot=
you
leave me alone? I have done with these things. I have ceased to be anything=
but
a private man.'
"'Yes,' he
answered. 'But have you thought?--this talk of war, these reckless challeng=
es,
these wild aggressions--'
"I stood up.=
"'No,' I cri=
ed.
'I won't hear you. I took count of all those things, I weighed them--and I =
have
come away.'
"He seemed t=
o consider
the possibility of persistence. He looked from me to where the lady sat
regarding us.
"'War,' he s=
aid,
as if he were speaking to himself, and then turned slowly from me and walked
away. I stood, caught in the whirl of thoughts his appeal had set going.
"I heard my
lady's voice.
"'Dear,' she
said; 'but if they have need of you--'
"She did not
finish her sentence, she let it rest there. I turned to her sweet face, and=
the
balance of my mood swayed and reeled.
"'They want =
me
only to do the thing they dare not do themselves,' I said. 'If they distrust
Evesham they must settle with him themselves.'
"She looked =
at
me doubtfully.
"'But war--'=
she
said.
"I saw a dou=
bt
on her face that I had seen before, a doubt of herself and me, the first sh=
adow
of the discovery that, seen strongly and completely, must drive us apart for
ever.
"Now, I was =
an
older mind than hers, and I could sway her to this belief or that.
"'My dear on=
e,'
I said, 'you must not trouble over these things. There will be no war. Cert=
ainly
there will be no war. The age of wars is past. Trust me to know the justice=
of
this case. They have no right upon me, dearest, and no one has a right upon=
me.
I have been free to choose my life, and I have chosen this.'
"'But WAR--'=
she
said.
"I sat down
beside her. I put an arm behind her and took her hand in mine. I set myself=
to
drive that doubt away--I set myself to fill her mind with pleasant things
again. I lied to her, and in lying to her I lied also to myself. And she was
only too ready to believe me, only too ready to forget.
"Very soon t=
he
shadow had gone again, and we were hastening to our bathing-place in the Gr=
otta
del Bovo Marino, where it was our custom to bathe every day. We swam and
splashed one another, and in that buoyant water I seemed to become something
lighter and stronger than a man. And at last we came out dripping and rejoi=
cing
and raced among the rocks. And then I put on a dry bathing-dress, and we sa=
t to
bask in the sun, and presently I nodded, resting my head against her knee, =
and
she put her hand upon my hair and stroked it softly and I dozed. And behold=
! as
it were with the snapping of the string of a violin, I was awakening, and I=
was
in my own bed in Liverpool, in the life of to-day.
"Only for a =
time
I could not believe that all these vivid moments had been no more than the
substance of a dream.
"In truth, I
could not believe it a dream for all the sobering reality of things about m=
e. I
bathed and dressed as it were by habit, and as I shaved I argued why I of a=
ll
men should leave the woman I loved to go back to fantastic politics in the =
hard
and strenuous north. Even if Evesham did force the world back to war, what =
was
that to me? I was a man, with the heart of a man, and why should I feel the
responsibility of a deity for the way the world might go?
"You know th=
at
is not quite the way I think about affairs, about my real affairs. I am a
solicitor, you know, with a point of view.
"The vision =
was
so real, you must understand, so utterly unlike a dream that I kept perpetu=
ally
recalling little irrelevant details; even the ornament of a book-cover that=
lay
on my wife's sewing-machine in the breakfast-room recalled with the utmost
vividness the gilt line that ran about the seat in the alcove where I had
talked with the messenger from my deserted party. Have you ever heard of a
dream that had a quality like that?"
"Like--?&quo=
t;
"So that
afterwards you remembered little details you had forgotten."
I thought. I had
never noticed the point before, but he was right.
"Never,"=
; I
said. "That is what you never seem to do with dreams."
"No," he
answered. "But that is just what I did. I am a solicitor, you must
understand, in Liverpool, and I could not help wondering what the clients a=
nd
business people I found myself talking to in my office would think if I told
them suddenly I was in love with a girl who would be born a couple of hundr=
ed
years or so hence, and worried about the politics of my
great-great-great-grandchildren. I was chiefly busy that day negotiating a
ninety-nine-year building lease. It was a private builder in a hurry, and we
wanted to tie him in every possible way. I had an interview with him, and he
showed a certain want of temper that sent me to bed still irritated. That n=
ight
I had no dream. Nor did I dream the next night, at least, to remember.
"Something of
that intense reality of conviction vanished. I began to feel sure it WAS a
dream. And then it came again.
"When the dr=
eam
came again, nearly four days later, it was very different. I think it certa=
in
that four days had also elapsed in the dream. Many things had happened in t=
he
north, and the shadow of them was back again between us, and this time it w=
as
not so easily dispelled. I began, I know, with moody musings. Why, in spite=
of
all, should I go back, go back for all the rest of my days to toil and stre=
ss,
insults and perpetual dissatisfaction, simply to save hundreds of millions =
of common
people, whom I did not love, whom too often I could do no other than despis=
e,
from the stress and anguish of war and infinite misrule? And after all I mi=
ght
fail. THEY all sought their own narrow ends, and why should not I--why shou=
ld
not I also live as a man? And out of such thoughts her voice summoned me, a=
nd I
lifted my eyes.
"I found mys=
elf
awake and walking. We had come out above the Pleasure City, we were near the
summit of Monte Solaro and looking towards the bay. It was the late afterno=
on
and very clear. Far away to the left Ischia hung in a golden haze between s=
ea
and sky, and Naples was coldly white against the hills, and before us was
Vesuvius with a tall and slender streamer feathering at last towards the so=
uth,
and the ruins of Torre dell' Annunziata and Castellamare glittering and
near."
I interrupted
suddenly: "You have been to Capri, of course?"
"Only in this
dream," he said, "only in this dream. All across the bay beyond
Sorrento were the floating palaces of the Pleasure City moored and chained.=
And
northward were the broad floating stages that received the aeroplanes.
Aeroplanes fell out of the sky every afternoon, each bringing its thousands=
of
pleasure-seekers from the uttermost parts of the earth to Capri and its
delights. All these things, I say, stretched below.
"But we noti=
ced
them only incidentally because of an unusual sight that evening had to show.
Five war aeroplanes that had long slumbered useless in the distant arsenals=
of
the Rhinemouth were manoeuvring now in the eastward sky. Evesham had astoni=
shed
the world by producing them and others, and sending them to circle here and
there. It was the threat material in the great game of bluff he was playing,
and it had taken even me by surprise. He was one of those incredibly stupid
energetic people who seem sent by Heaven to create disasters. His energy to=
the
first glance seemed so wonderfully like capacity! But he had no imagination=
, no
invention, only a stupid, vast, driving force of will, and a mad faith in h=
is
stupid idiot 'luck' to pull him through. I remember how we stood out upon t=
he
headland watching the squadron circling far away, and how I weighed the full
meaning of the sight, seeing clearly the way things must go. And then even =
it
was not too late. I might have gone back, I think, and saved the world. The
people of the north would follow me, I knew, granted only that in one thing=
I respected
their moral standards. The east and south would trust me as they would trus=
t no
other northern man. And I knew I had only to put it to her and she would ha=
ve
let me go.... Not because she did not love me!
"Only I did =
not
want to go; my will was all the other way about. I had so newly thrown off =
the
incubus of responsibility: I was still so fresh a renegade from duty that t=
he
daylight clearness of what I OUGHT to do had no power at all to touch my wi=
ll.
My will was to live, to gather pleasures and make my dear lady happy. But
though this sense of vast neglected duties had no power to draw me, it could
make me silent and preoccupied, it robbed the days I had spent of half their
brightness and roused me into dark meditations in the silence of the night.=
And
as I stood and watched Evesham's aeroplanes sweep to and fro--those birds of
infinite ill omen--she stood beside me watching me, perceiving the trouble
indeed, but not perceiving it clearly her eyes questioning my face, her
expression shaded with perplexity. Her face was grey because the sunset was
fading out of the sky. It was no fault of hers that she held me. She had as=
ked
me to go from her, and again in the night time and with tears she had asked=
me
to go.
"At last it =
was
the sense of her that roused me from my mood. I turned upon her suddenly and
challenged her to race down the mountain slopes. 'No,' she said, as if I ja=
rred
with her gravity, but I was resolved to end that gravity, and made her run-=
-no
one can be very grey and sad who is out of breath--and when she stumbled I =
ran
with my hand beneath her arm. We ran down past a couple of men, who turned =
back
staring in astonishment at my behaviour--they must have recognised my face.=
And
halfway down the slope came a tumult in the air, clang-clank, clang-clank, =
and
we stopped, and presently over the hill-crest those war things came flying =
one
behind the other."
The man seemed
hesitating on the verge of a description.
"What were t=
hey
like?" I asked.
"They had ne=
ver
fought," he said. "They were just like our ironclads are nowadays;
they had never fought. No one knew what they might do, with excited men ins=
ide
them; few even cared to speculate. They were great driving things shaped li=
ke
spearheads without a shaft, with a propeller in the place of the shaft.&quo=
t;
"Steel?"=
;
"Not
steel."
"Aluminium?&=
quot;
"No, no, not=
hing
of that sort. An alloy that was very common--as common as brass, for exampl=
e.
It was called--let me see--." He squeezed his forehead with the finger=
s of
one hand. "I am forgetting everything," he said.
"And they
carried guns?"
"Little guns,
firing high explosive shells. They fired the guns backwards, out of the bas=
e of
the leaf, so to speak, and rammed with the beak. That was the theory, you k=
now,
but they had never been fought. No one could tell exactly what was going to
happen. And meanwhile I suppose it was very fine to go whirling through the=
air
like a flight of young swallows, swift and easy. I guess the captains tried=
not
to think too clearly what the real thing would be like. And these flying wa=
r machines,
you know, were only one sort of the endless war contrivances that had been
invented and had fallen into abeyance during the long peace. There were all
sorts of these things that people were routing out and furbishing up; infer=
nal
things, silly things; things that had never been tried; big engines, terrib=
le
explosives, great guns. You know the silly way of these ingenious sort of m=
en
who make these things; they turn 'em out as beavers build dams, and with no
more sense of the rivers they're going to divert and the lands they're goin=
g to
flood!
"As we went =
down
the winding stepway to our hotel again, in the twilight, I foresaw it all: I
saw how clearly and inevitably things were driving for war in Evesham's sil=
ly,
violent hands, and I had some inkling of what war was bound to be under the=
se
new conditions. And even then, though I knew it was drawing near the limit =
of
my opportunity, I could find no will to go back."
He sighed.
"That was my
last chance.
"We didn't go
into the city until the sky was full of stars, so we walked out upon the hi=
gh
terrace, to and fro, and--she counselled me to go back.
"'My dearest=
,'
she said, and her sweet face looked up to me, 'this is Death. This life you
lead is Death. Go back to them, go back to your duty--.'
"She began to
weep, saying, between her sobs, and clinging to my arm as she said it, 'Go
back--Go back.'
"Then sudden=
ly
she fell mute, and, glancing down at her face, I read in an instant the thi=
ng
she had thought to do. It was one of those moments when one SEES.
"'No!' I sai=
d.
"'No?' she
asked, in surprise, and I think a little fearful at the answer to her thoug=
ht.
"'Nothing,' I
said, 'shall send me back. Nothing! I have chosen. Love, I have chosen, and=
the
world must go. Whatever happens I will live this life--I will live for YOU!
It--nothing shall turn me aside; nothing, my dear one. Even if you died--ev=
en
if you died--'
"'Yes,' she
murmured, softly.
"'Then--I al=
so
would die.'
"And before =
she
could speak again I began to talk, talking eloquently--as I COULD do in that
life--talking to exalt love, to make the life we were living seem heroic and
glorious; and the thing I was deserting something hard and enormously ignob=
le
that it was a fine thing to set aside. I bent all my mind to throw that gla=
mour
upon it, seeking not only to convert her but myself to that. We talked, and=
she
clung to me, torn too between all that she deemed noble and all that she kn=
ew was
sweet. And at last I did make it heroic, made all the thickening disaster of
the world only a sort of glorious setting to our unparalleled love, and we =
two
poor foolish souls strutted there at last, clad in that splendid delusion,
drunken rather with that glorious delusion, under the still stars.
"And so my
moment passed.
"It was my l=
ast
chance. Even as we went to and fro there, the leaders of the south and east
were gathering their resolve, and the hot answer that shattered Evesham's
bluffing for ever, took shape and waited. And all over Asia, and the ocean,=
and
the south, the air and the wires were throbbing with their warnings to
prepare--prepare.
"No one livi=
ng,
you know, knew what war was; no one could imagine, with all these new
inventions, what horror war might bring. I believe most people still believ=
ed
it would be a matter of bright uniforms and shouting charges and triumphs a=
nd
flags and bands--in a time when half the world drew its food supply from
regions ten thousand miles away--."
The man with the
white face paused. I glanced at him, and his face was intent on the floor of
the carriage. A little railway station, a string of loaded trucks, a
signal-box, and the back of a cottage, shot by the carriage window, and a
bridge passed with a clap of noise, echoing the tumult of the train.
"After
that," he said, "I dreamt often. For three weeks of nights that d=
ream
was my life. And the worst of it was there were nights when I could not dre=
am,
when I lay tossing on a bed in THIS accursed life; and THERE--somewhere los=
t to
me--things were happening--momentous, terrible things.... I lived at nights=
--my
days, my waking days, this life I am living now, became a faded, far-away
dream, a drab setting, the cover of the book."
He thought.
"I could tell
you all, tell you every little thing in the dream, but as to what I did in =
the
daytime--no. I could not tell--I do not remember. My memory--my memory has
gone. The business of life slips from me--"
He leant forward,=
and
pressed his hands upon his eyes. For a long time he said nothing.
"And then?&q=
uot;
said I.
"The war bur=
st
like a hurricane."
He stared before =
him
at unspeakable things.
"And then?&q=
uot;
I urged again.
"One touch of
unreality," he said, in the low tone of a man who speaks to himself,
"and they would have been nightmares. But they were not nightmares--th=
ey
were not nightmares. NO!"
He was silent for=
so
long that it dawned upon me that there was a danger of losing the rest of t=
he
story. But he went on talking again in the same tone of questioning
self-communion.
"What was th=
ere
to do but flight? I had not thought the war would touch Capri--I had seemed=
to
see Capri as being out of it all, as the contrast to it all; but two nights
after the whole place was shouting and bawling, every woman almost and every
other man wore a badge--Evesham's badge--and there was no music but a jangl=
ing
war-song over and over again, and everywhere men enlisting, and in the danc=
ing
halls they were drilling. The whole island was awhirl with rumours; it was
said, again and again, that fighting had begun. I had not expected this. I =
had
seen so little of the life of pleasure that I had failed to reckon with thi=
s violence
of the amateurs. And as for me, I was out of it. I was like a man who might
have prevented the firing of a magazine. The time had gone. I was no one; t=
he
vainest stripling with a badge counted for more than I. The crowd jostled us
and bawled in our ears; that accursed song deafened us; a woman shrieked at=
my
lady because no badge was on her, and we two went back to our own place aga=
in,
ruffled and insulted--my lady white and silent, and I aquiver with rage. So
furious was I, I could have quarrelled with her if I could have found one s=
hade
of accusation in her eyes.
"All my
magnificence had gone from me. I walked up and down our rock cell, and outs=
ide
was the darkling sea and a light to the southward that flared and passed and
came again.
"'We must get
out of this place,' I said over and over. 'I have made my choice, and I will
have no hand in these troubles. I will have nothing of this war. We have ta=
ken
our lives out of all these things. This is no refuge for us. Let us go.'
"And the next
day we were already in flight from the war that covered the world.
"And all the
rest was Flight--all the rest was Flight."
He mused darkly.<= o:p>
"How much was
there of it?"
He made no answer=
.
"How many
days?"
His face was white
and drawn and his hands were clenched. He took no heed of my curiosity.
I tried to draw h=
im
back to his story with questions.
"Where did y=
ou
go?" I said.
"When?"=
"When you le=
ft
Capri."
"Southwest,&=
quot;
he said, and glanced at me for a second. "We went in a boat."
"But I should
have thought an aeroplane?"
"They had be=
en
seized."
I questioned him =
no
more. Presently I thought he was beginning again. He broke out in an
argumentative monotone:
"But why sho=
uld
it be? If, indeed, this battle, this slaughter and stress IS life, why have=
we
this craving for pleasure and beauty? If there IS no refuge, if there is no
place of peace, and if all our dreams of quiet places are a folly and a sna=
re,
why have we such dreams? Surely it was no ignoble cravings, no base intenti=
ons,
had brought us to this; it was Love had isolated us. Love had come to me wi=
th
her eyes and robed in her beauty, more glorious than all else in life, in t=
he
very shape and colour of life, and summoned me away. I had silenced all the
voices, I had answered all the questions--I had come to her. And suddenly t=
here
was nothing but War and Death!"
I had an inspirat=
ion.
"After all," I said, "it could have been only a dream."=
"A dream!&qu=
ot;
he cried, flaming upon me, "a dream--when even now--"
For the first tim=
e he
became animated. A faint flush crept into his cheek. He raised his open hand
and clenched it, and dropped it to his knee. He spoke, looking away from me,
and for all the rest of the time he looked away. "We are but
phantoms," he said, "and the phantoms of phantoms, desires like c=
loud
shadows and wills of straw that eddy in the wind; the days pass, use and wo=
nt
carry us through as a train carries the shadow of its lights, so be it! But=
one
thing is real and certain, one thing is no dreamstuff, but eternal and
enduring. It is the centre of my life, and all other things about it are
subordinate or altogether vain. I loved her, that woman of a dream. And she=
and
I are dead together!
"A dream! How
can it be a dream, when it drenched a living life with unappeasable sorrow,
when it makes all that I have lived for and cared for, worthless and unmean=
ing?
"Until that =
very
moment when she was killed I believed we had still a chance of getting
away," he said. "All through the night and morning that we sailed
across the sea from Capri to Salerno, we talked of escape. We were full of
hope, and it clung about us to the end, hope for the life together we should
lead, out of it all, out of the battle and struggle, the wild and empty
passions, the empty arbitrary 'thou shalt' and 'thou shalt not' of the worl=
d.
We were uplifted, as though our quest was a holy thing, as though love for =
one
another was a mission....
"Even when f=
rom
our boat we saw the fair face of that great rock Capri--already scarred and=
gashed
by the gun emplacements and hiding-places that were to make it a fastness--=
we
reckoned nothing of the imminent slaughter, though the fury of preparation =
hung
about in puffs and clouds of dust at a hundred points amidst the grey; but,=
indeed,
I made a text of that and talked. There, you know, was the rock, still
beautiful, for all its scars, with its countless windows and arches and way=
s,
tier upon tier, for a thousand feet, a vast carving of grey, broken by
vine-clad terraces, and lemon and orange groves, and masses of agave and
prickly pear, and puffs of almond blossom. And out under the archway that is
built over the Piccola Marina other boats were coming; and as we came round=
the
cape and within sight of the mainland, another little string of boats came =
into
view, driving before the wind towards the southwest. In a little while a
multitude had come out, the remoter just little specks of ultramarine in the
shadow of the eastward cliff.
"'It is love=
and
reason,' I said, 'fleeing from all this madness, of war.'
"And though = we presently saw a squadron of aeroplanes flying across the southern sky we did not heed it. There it was--a line of little dots in the sky--and then more, dotting the southeastern horizon, and then still more, until all that quart= er of the sky was stippled with blue specks. Now they were all thin little stroke= s of blue, and now one and now a multitude would heel and catch the sun and beco= me short flashes of light. They came rising and falling and growing larger, li= ke some huge flight of gulls or rooks, or such-like birds moving with a marvel= lous uniformity, and ever as they drew nearer they spread over a greater width of sky. The southward wing flung itself in an arrow-headed cloud athwart the s= un. And then suddenly they swept round to the eastward and streamed eastward, growing smaller and smaller and clearer and clearer again until they vanish= ed from the sky. And after that we noted to the northward and very high Evesha= m's fighting machines hanging high over Naples like an evening swarm of gnats.<= o:p>
"It seemed to
have no more to do with us than a flight of birds.
"Even the mu=
tter
of guns far away in the southeast seemed to us to signify nothing....
"Each day, e=
ach
dream after that, we were still exalted, still seeking that refuge where we
might live and love. Fatigue had come upon us, pain and many distresses. For
though we were dusty and stained by our toilsome tramping, and half starved=
and
with the horror of the dead men we had seen and the flight of the peasants-=
-for
very soon a gust of fighting swept up the peninsula--with these things haun=
ting
our minds it still resulted only in a deepening resolution to escape. O, but
she was brave and patient! She who had never faced hardship and exposure ha=
d courage
for herself--and me. We went to and fro seeking an outlet, over a country a=
ll
commandeered and ransacked by the gathering hosts of war. Always we went on
foot. At first there were other fugitives, but we did not mingle with them.
Some escaped northward, some were caught in the torrent of peasantry that s=
wept
along the main roads; many gave themselves into the hands of the soldiery a=
nd
were sent northward. Many of the men were impressed. But we kept away from
these things; we had brought no money to bribe a passage north, and I feare=
d for
my lady at the hands of these conscript crowds. We had landed at Salerno, a=
nd we
had been turned back from Cava, and we had tried to cross towards Taranto b=
y a
pass over Mount Alburno, but we had been driven back for want of food, and =
so
we had come down among the marshes by Paestum, where those great temples st=
and
alone. I had some vague idea that by Paestum it might be possible to find a
boat or something, and take once more to sea. And there it was the battle
overtook us.
"A sort of
soul-blindness had me. Plainly I could see that we were being hemmed in; th=
at
the great net of that giant Warfare had us in its toils. Many times we had =
seen
the levies that had come down from the north going to and fro, and had come
upon them in the distance amidst the mountains making ways for the ammuniti=
on
and preparing the mounting of the guns. Once we fancied they had fired at u=
s,
taking us for spies--at any rate a shot had gone shuddering over us. Several
times we had hidden in woods from hovering aeroplanes.
"But all the=
se
things do not matter now, these nights of flight and pain.... We were in an
open place near those great temples at Paestum, at last, on a blank stony p=
lace
dotted with spiky bushes, empty and desolate and so flat that a grove of
eucalyptus far away showed to the feet of its stems. How I can see it! My l=
ady
was sitting down under a bush, resting a little, for she was very weak and
weary, and I was standing up watching to see if I could tell the distance of
the firing that came and went. They were still, you know, fighting far from
each other, with those terrible new weapons that had never before been used=
: guns
that would carry beyond sight, and aeroplanes that would do--What THEY woul=
d do
no man could foretell.
"I knew that=
we
were between the two armies, and that they drew together. I knew we were in
danger, and that we could not stop there and rest!
"Though all
these things were in my mind, they were in the background. They seemed to be
affairs beyond our concern. Chiefly, I was thinking of my lady. An aching
distress filled me. For the first time she had owned herself beaten and had
fallen a-weeping. Behind me I could hear her sobbing, but I would not turn
round to her because I knew she had need of weeping, and had held herself so
far and so long for me. It was well, I thought, that she would weep and rest
and then we would toil on again, for I had no inkling of the thing that hun=
g so
near. Even now I can see her as she sat there, her lovely hair upon her
shoulder, can mark again the deepening hollow of her cheek.
"'If we had
parted,' she said, 'if I had let you go.'
"'No,' said =
I.
'Even now, I do not repent. I will not repent; I made my choice, and I will
hold on to the end."
"And then--<= o:p>
"Overhead in=
the
sky something flashed and burst, and all about us I heard the bullets makin=
g a
noise like a handful of peas suddenly thrown. They chipped the stones about=
us,
and whirled fragments from the bricks and passed...."
He put his hand to
his mouth, and then moistened his lips.
"At the flas=
h I
had turned about....
"You know--s=
he
stood up--
"She stood u=
p;
you know, and moved a step towards me--
"As though s=
he
wanted to reach me--
"And she had
been shot through the heart."
He stopped and st=
ared
at me. I felt all that foolish incapacity an Englishman feels on such
occasions. I met his eyes for a moment, and then stared out of the window. =
For
a long space we kept silence. When at last I looked at him he was sitting b=
ack
in his corner, his arms folded, and his teeth gnawing at his knuckles.
He bit his nail
suddenly, and stared at it.
"I carried
her," he said, "towards the temples, in my arms--as though it mat=
tered.
I don't know why. They seemed a sort of sanctuary, you know, they had laste=
d so
long, I suppose.
"She must ha=
ve
died almost instantly. Only--I talked to her--all the way."
Silence again.
"I have seen
those temples," I said abruptly, and indeed he had brought those still,
sunlit arcades of worn sandstone very vividly before me.
"It was the
brown one, the big brown one. I sat down on a fallen pillar and held her in=
my
arms.... Silent after the first babble was over. And after a little while t=
he
lizards came out and ran about again, as though nothing unusual was going o=
n,
as though nothing had changed.... It was tremendously still there, the sun
high, and the shadows still; even the shadows of the weeds upon the entabla=
ture
were still--in spite of the thudding and banging that went all about the sk=
y.
"I seem to
remember that the aeroplanes came up out of the south, and that the battle =
went
away to the west. One aeroplane was struck, and overset and fell. I remember
that--though it didn't interest me in the least. It didn't seem to signify.=
It
was like a wounded gull, you know--flapping for a time in the water. I could
see it down the aisle of the temple--a black thing in the bright blue water=
.
"Three or fo=
ur
times shells burst about the beach, and then that ceased. Each time that
happened all the lizards scuttled in and hid for a space. That was all the
mischief done, except that once a stray bullet gashed the stone hard by--ma=
de
just a fresh bright surface.
"As the shad=
ows
grew longer, the stillness seemed greater.
"The curious
thing," he remarked, with the manner of a man who makes a trivial
conversation, "is that I didn't THINK--I didn't think at all. I sat wi=
th
her in my arms amidst the stones--in a sort of lethargy--stagnant.
"And I don't
remember waking up. I don't remember dressing that day. I know I found myse=
lf
in my office, with my letters all slit open in front of me, and how I was
struck by the absurdity of being there, seeing that in reality I was sittin=
g,
stunned, in that Paestum temple with a dead woman in my arms. I read my let=
ters
like a machine. I have forgotten what they were about."
He stopped, and t=
here
was a long silence.
Suddenly I percei=
ved
that we were running down the incline from Chalk Farm to Euston. I started =
at
this passing of time. I turned on him with a brutal question, with the tone=
of
Now or never.
"And did you
dream again?"
"Yes."<= o:p>
He seemed to force
himself to finish. His voice was very low.
"Once more, =
and
as it were only for a few instants. I seemed to have suddenly awakened out =
of a
great apathy, to have risen into a sitting position, and the body lay there=
on
the stones beside me. A gaunt body. Not her, you know. So soon--it was not
her....
"I may have
heard voices. I do not know. Only I knew clearly that men were coming into =
the
solitude and that that was a last outrage.
"I stood up =
and
walked through the temple, and then there came into sight--first one man wi=
th a
yellow face, dressed in a uniform of dirty white, trimmed with blue, and th=
en
several, climbing to the crest of the old wall of the vanished city, and
crouching there. They were little bright figures in the sunlight, and there
they hung, weapon in hand, peering cautiously before them.
"And further
away I saw others and then more at another point in the wall. It was a long=
lax
line of men in open order.
"Presently t=
he
man I had first seen stood up and shouted a command, and his men came tumbl=
ing
down the wall and into the high weeds towards the temple. He scrambled down
with them and led them. He came facing towards me, and when he saw me he
stopped.
"At first I =
had
watched these men with a mere curiosity, but when I had seen they meant to =
come
to the temple I was moved to forbid them. I shouted to the officer.
"'You must n=
ot
come here,' I cried, 'I am here. I am here with my dead.'
"He stared, =
and
then shouted a question back to me in some unknown tongue.
"I repeated =
what
I had said.
"He shouted
again, and I folded my arms and stood still. Presently he spoke to his men =
and
came forward. He carried a drawn sword.
"I signed to=
him
to keep away, but he continued to advance. I told him again very patiently =
and
clearly: 'You must not come here. These are old temples and I am here with =
my
dead.'
"Presently he
was so close I could see his face clearly. It was a narrow face, with dull =
grey
eyes, and a black moustache. He had a scar on his upper lip, and he was dir=
ty
and unshaven. He kept shouting unintelligible things, questions perhaps, at=
me.
"I know now =
that
he was afraid of me, but at the time that did not occur to me. As I tried to
explain to him he interrupted me in imperious tones, bidding me, I suppose,
stand aside.
"He made to =
go past
me, And I caught hold of him.
"I saw his f=
ace
change at my grip.
"'You fool,'=
I
cried. 'Don't you know? She is dead!'
"He started
back. He looked at me with cruel eyes. I saw a sort of exultant resolve leap
into them--delight. Then, suddenly, with a scowl, he swept his sword
back--SO--and thrust."
He stopped abrupt=
ly.
I became aware of a change in the rhythm of the train. The brakes lifted th=
eir
voices and the carriage jarred and jerked. This present world insisted upon
itself, became clamorous. I saw through the steamy window huge electric lig=
hts
glaring down from tall masts upon a fog, saw rows of stationary empty carri=
ages
passing by, and then a signal-box, hoisting its constellation of green and =
red
into the murky London twilight marched after them. I looked again at his dr=
awn features.
"He ran me
through the heart. It was with a sort of astonishment--no fear, no pain--but
just amazement, that I felt it pierce me, felt the sword drive home into my
body. It didn't hurt, you know. It didn't hurt at all."
The yellow platfo=
rm
lights came into the field of view, passing first rapidly, then slowly, and=
at
last stopping with a jerk. Dim shapes of men passed to and fro without.
"Euston!&quo=
t;
cried a voice.
"Do you
mean--?"
"There was no
pain, no sting or smart. Amazement and then darkness sweeping over everythi=
ng.
The hot, brutal face before me, the face of the man who had killed me, seem=
ed
to recede. It swept out of existence--"
"Euston!&quo=
t;
clamoured the voices outside; "Euston!"
The carriage door
opened, admitting a flood of sound, and a porter stood regarding us. The so=
unds
of doors slamming, and the hoof-clatter of cab-horses, and behind these thi=
ngs
the featureless remote roar of the London cobble-stones, came to my ears. A
truckload of lighted lamps blazed along the platform.
"A darkness,= a flood of darkness that opened and spread and blotted out all things."<= o:p>
"Any luggage,
sir?" said the porter.
"And that was
the end?" I asked.
He seemed to
hesitate. Then, almost inaudibly, he answered, "No."
"You mean?&q=
uot;
"I couldn't =
get
to her. She was there on the other side of the Temple--And then--"
"Yes," I
insisted. "Yes?"
"Nightmares,=
"
he cried; "nightmares indeed! My God! Great birds that fought and
tore."