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"Why, what's the matter with it?" asked Millie.
"No, but seriously, a lot of us have been considering you lately. You see, you're honestno one would deny thatand you're independent, and even if you're proud you're not so damned proud as Monteith, and you haven't got a literary nursery of admiring pupils. You'd be surprised, though, if you knew how many friends you have got."
I
Henry said nothing. He was shaking from head to foot.
"No, no," Henry half started up, his book dropping on to the floor. "Indeed, Lady Bell-Hall, it isn't. He hopes it will be all right in a week or two."
His journey, then, was full of surprises. The house was deserted. The passage in which he found himself was bordered with rooms, and after passing two or three doors he timidly opened one and peered in. In the dusk he could see but little, the air that met him was close and heavy, dust blew into his nostrils, and he could just discern a high four-poster bed. The floor was bare and chill. Another room into which he looked was apparently quite empty. The passage was now very dark and he had no candle; he stumbled along, knocking his elbow against the wall. "They might have put me in a livelier part of the house," he thought; and yet he was not displeased, carrying still with him the sense that he was welcome here and not alone. In the dusk he nearly pitched forward over a sudden staircase, but finding an oak banister he felt his way cautiously downward. On the next floor he was faced with a large oak door, which would lead, he fancied, to the other part of the house. He pushed it slowly back and found himself in a chapel suffused with a dark purple light that fell from the stained-glass window above the altar.
"A man called Westcott, a friend of Henry's."
"Millie, darling, what's the matter? Tell me. Aren't you happy? Tell me. I can't bear you to be unhappy. What does it matter what happens to a silly old woman like me? I've only got a few more years to live in any case. But you, so lovely, with all your life in front of you. . . . Tell me, darling"
I have thought of them sometimesI think of the Drydens nowas the Young Enchanted. And it seems to me that England is especially the country of such men and women as these. All the other peoples of the world carry in their souls age and sophistication. They are too old for that sense of enchantment, but in England that wonder that is so far from common sense and yet is the highest kind of common sense in the world has always flourished. It is not imagination; the English have less imagination than any other race, it is not joy of life nor animal spirits, but the child's trust in life before it has grown old enough for life to deceive it. I think Adam and Eve before the Fall were English.
"'Give me just five minutes,' he begged, 'that's all I ask. If you knew what it would mean to me.' And, I knowing all the time, my dear, about the awful things he'd been doing to his wifeI let him go on for a little while, and then very quietly I said"
He suddenly came down and knelt beside her sofa putting his arm round her. "Clare, please, please don't talk like that. My life's with you now. I daresay you find me dull. I am dull I know. But I'm old enough to understand now that you must have your freedom. All that I care about is for you to get well; then you shall do as you like. I won't tie you in any way; only be there if you want a friend."
"What a lot you think you know," said Henry.
She was nearing the Park. There were trees, festoons above the water making dark patterns and yet darker shadows.
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"What did he want to take her away for?" asked Henry.
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"Because he was one of those most unfortunate of human[Pg 62] beingsa man who had one great ambition in life, worked for it all his days, realized it before he died and found it dust in the mouth. The one thing he wanted from life was money. He was a poor man all his days until the Warthen he made a corner in rum and made so much money he didn't know what to do with himself. The confusion and excitement of it all was too much for him and he died of apoplexy.
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"Homesickness and indigestion and general confusion," he answered. "You don't look as though you'll cry."
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He washed his face, put on a clean collar, placed the note carefully in his pocket-book and started out on the great adventure of his life. The rain was driving so lustily down Peter Street that no one was about. He moved like a man in a dream, driven by some fantastic force of his imagination as though he were still sitting in Panton Street and this were a new chapter that he was writing in his romanceor as though his body were in Panton Street and it was his soul that sallied forth. And yet the details about Mrs. Tenssen were real enoughhe could still hear her crunching the sardine-bones, and Peter Street was real enough, and the rain as it trickled inside his collar, and the bump on his forehead.
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There was silence again. The cab bumped along. Henry could think of nothing but that agonizing whisper. Only terrible suffering could have produced that and from such a man as Duncombe. The affection and devotion that had grown through these months was now redoubled. He would do anything for him, anything. Had he known? Memories came back to him of hours in the library when Sir Charles had sat there, his face white, his eyes sternly staring. Perhaps then. . . . But surely some one knew? He moved impatiently, longing for this horrible journey to be ended. Then there were lights, a gate swung back, and they were jolting down between an avenue of trees. Soon the cab stopped with a jerk before a high grey stone building that stood in the half-light as a veiling shadow for a high black doorway and broad sweeping steps. Behind, in front and on every side they were surrounded,[Pg 159] it seemed, by dripping and sighing trees. Lady Bell-Hall climbed out with many little tweaks of dismay and difficulty, then Henry. He turned and caught one revealing vision of Sir Charles's facewhite, drawn and most strangely agedas he stood under the yellow light from a hanging square lantern before moving into the house.
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"Why not?"
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"Dishonesty," pursued Mrs. Martin, rising still higher on[Pg 143] her toes and apparently addressing Eve, "is dishonesty and there's no way out of it, either one's dishonest or one isn't andif one is dishonest the sooner one leaves and finds a place where one isn't the better for all parties and the least said the sooner mended"
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He had not, of course, any time to see these things. He filled in the picture afterwards. What exactly occurred was that the diamond earrings flashed before him, the thick legs stepped into the space between two omnibuses, there was a shout from a driver and for a horrible moment it seemed that both the girl and the supercilious Pomeranian had been run over. Henry dashed forward, himself only narrowly avoided instant death, then, reaching, breathless and confused, an island, saw the trio, all safe and well, moving towards the stoutest of the flower-women. He also saw the stout woman take the girl by the arm, shake her violently, say something to her in obvious anger. He also saw the girl turn for an instant her head, look back as though beseeching some one to help her and then follow her green diamond-flashing dragon.
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Somewhere else he heard a man's deep bass voice"Oh, he's no good. He'll always be an amateur. Of course it's obvious you miss truth the moment you go outside the narrator's brain. Now Truth . . ."
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Bunny.
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Their whispers had been low, but the eager conversation at the other end of the table suddenly ceased.
Millie spoke: "You've seen his mother, Ellen? What right had you to interfere? What business was it of yours?"
Moreover, he personally knew no old men, which made the cry much simpler. This old man was not over seventy, he might indeed be still under sixty, but his small peak of a white beard, his immaculate clothing and his elegantly pointed patent leather shoes were sufficient for Henry. Immaculate old men! How dared they wear anything but sackcloth and ashes?
"Of course he's going to come through it," he said. "And be better than he's ever been in his life before. Doctors are so wonderful now. They can do anything."
[Pg 333]
To-day everything occurred as usual, and just as he came to ground some one struck him violently in the back with an umbrella. The jerk flung his glasses from his nose and he was only just in time to put out his hands and catch them. As he did this some books that he was carrying under his arm fell to the ground. He bent to pick them up and then was at once involved in the strangest medley of books and ankles and trouser-legs and the fringes of skirts. People pushed him and abused him. It was the busiest hour of the day and he was groping at the busiest part of the pavement. He had not had time to replace his pince-nez on his nosethey were reposing[Pg 15] in his waistcoat pocketand he was groping therefore in a darkened and confusing world. A large boot stamped on his fingers and he cried out; some one knocked off his hat, some one else prodded him in the tenderest part of his back.
[Pg 270]