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Title: Random Harvest
Author: Hilton, James (1900-1954)
Date of first publication: 1941
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   Boston: Little, Brown
   [undated, but presumably an early edition: the page
   count is identical to the 1941 U.S. first edition]
Date first posted: 9 March 2019
Date last updated: 9 March 2019
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1599

This ebook was produced by
Al Haines, Mark Akrigg, Cindy Beyer
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Canada Team
at http://www.pgdpcanada.net


PUBLISHER'S NOTE

Italics in the original printed edition are indicated _thus_.

As part of the conversion of the book to its new digital
format, we have made certain minor adjustments in its layout.

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected.






RANDOM HARVEST

by James Hilton




    "According to a British Official Report, bombs fell at Random."

    --GERMAN OFFICIAL REPORT




PART ONE


On the morning of the eleventh of November, 1937, precisely at eleven
o'clock, some well-meaning busybody consulted his watch and loudly
announced the hour, with the result that all of us in the dining car
felt constrained to put aside drinks and newspapers and spend the two
minutes' silence in rather embarrassed stares at one another or out of
the window. Not that anyone had intended disrespect--merely that in a
fast-moving train we knew no rules for correct behavior and would
therefore rather not have behaved at all. Anyhow, it was during those
tense uneasy seconds that I first took notice of the man opposite.
Dark-haired, slim, and austerely good-looking, he was perhaps in his
early or middle forties; he wore an air of prosperous distinction that
fitted well with his neat but quiet standardized clothes. I could not
guess whether he had originally moved in from a third- or a first-class
compartment. Half a million Englishmen are like that. Their
inconspicuous correctness makes almost a display of concealment.

As he looked out of the window I saw something happen to his eyes--a
change from a glance to a gaze and then from a gaze to a glare, a sudden
sharpening of focus, as when a person thinks he recognizes someone
fleetingly in a crowd. Meanwhile a lurch of the train spilt coffee on
the table between us, providing an excuse for apologies as soon as the
two minutes were over; I got in with mine first, but by the time he
turned to reply the focus was lost, his look of recognition unsure. Only
the embarrassment remained, and to ease it I made some comment on the
moorland scenery, which was indeed somberly beautiful that morning, for
overnight snow lay on the summits, and there was one of them,
twin-domed, that seemed to keep pace with the train, moving over the
intervening valley like a ghostly dromedary. "That's Mickle," I said,
pointing to it.

Surprisingly he answered: "Do you know if there's a lake--quite a small
lake--between the peaks?"

Two men at the table across the aisle then intervened with the instant
garrulousness of those who overhear a question put to someone else. They
were also, I think, moved by a common desire to talk down an emotional
crisis, for the entire dining car seemed suddenly full of chatter. One
said there was such a lake, if you called it a lake, but it was really
more of a swamp; and the other said there wasn't any kind of lake at
all, though after heavy rain it might be "a bit soggy" up there, and
then the first man agreed that maybe that was so, and presently it
turned out that though they were both Derbyshire men, neither had
actually climbed Mickle since boyhood.

We listened politely to all this and thanked them, glad to let the
matter drop. Nothing more was said till they left the train at
Leicester; then I leaned across the table and said: "It doesn't pay to
argue with local inhabitants, otherwise I'd have answered your question
myself--because I was on top of Mickle yesterday."

A gleam reappeared in his eyes. "_You_ were?"

"Yes, I'm one of those eccentric people who climb mountains for fun all
the year round."

"So you saw the lake?"

"There wasn't a lake or a swamp or a sign of either."

"Ah...." And the gleam faded.

"You sound disappointed?"

"Well no--hardly that. Maybe I was thinking of somewhere else. I'm
afraid I've a bad memory."

"For mountains?"

"For names too. _Mickle_, did you say it was?" He spoke the word as if
he were trying the sound of it.

"That's the local name. It isn't important enough to be on maps."

He nodded and then, rather deliberately, held up a newspaper throughout
a couple of English counties. The sight of soldiers marching along a
Bedfordshire lane gave us our next exchange of remarks--something about
Hitler, the European situation, chances of war, and so on. It led to my
asking if he had served in the last war.

"Yes."

"Then there must be things you wish you _had_ forgotten?"

"But I have--even _them_--to some extent." He added as if to deflect the
subject from himself: "I imagine you were too young?"

"Too young for the last, but not for the next, the way things are
going."

"Nobody will be either too young or too old for the next."

Meanwhile men's voices were uprising further along the car in talk of
Ypres and Gallipoli; I called his attention and commented that thousands
of other Englishmen were doubtless at that moment reminiscing about
their war experiences. "If you've already forgotten yours, you're
probably lucky."

"I didn't say I'd forgotten _everything_."

He then told me a story which I shall summarize as follows: During the
desperate months of trench warfare in France an English staff officer
reasoned that if some spy whom the Germans had learned to trust were to
give them false details about a big attack, it might have a better
chance of success. The first step was to establish the good faith of
such a spy, and this seemed only possible by allowing him, over a
considerable period, to supply true information. Accordingly, during
several weeks before the planned offensive, small raiding parties
crawled across no man's land at night while German machine gunners,
having been duly tipped off as to time and place, slaughtered them with
much precision. One of these doomed detachments was in charge of a youth
who, after enlisting at the beginning of the war, had just begun his
first spell in the front line. Quixotically eager to lead his men to
storybook victory, he soon found that his less-inspiring task was to
accompany a few wounded and dying survivors into a shell hole so close
to the enemy trenches that he could pick up snatches of German
conversation. Knowing the language fairly well, he connected something
he heard with something he had previously overheard in his commanding
officer's dugout; so that presently he was able to deduce the whole
intrigue of plot and counterplot. It came to him as an additional shock
as he lay there, half drowned in mud, delirious with the pain of a
smashed leg, and sick with watching the far greater miseries of his
companions. Before dawn a shell screamed over and burst a few yards
away, killing the others and wounding him in the head so that he saw,
heard, and could think no more.

"What happened to him afterwards?"

"Oh, he recovered pretty well--except for partial loss of memory....
He's still alive. Of course, when you come to think about it logically,
the whole thing was as justifiable as any other piece of wartime
strategy. The primary aim is to frustrate the enemy's knavish tricks.
Anything that does so is the thing to do, even if it seems a bit knavish
itself."

"You say that defensively, as if you had to keep on convincing yourself
about it."

"I wonder if you're right."

"I wonder if you're the survivor who's still alive?"

He hesitated a moment, then answered with an oblique smile: "I don't
suppose you'd believe me even if I said no." I let it go at that, and
after a pause he went on: "It's curious to reflect that one's death was
planned by _both_ sides--it gives an extra flavor to the life one
managed to sneak away with, as well as a certain irony to the mood in
which one wears a decoration."

"So I should imagine."

I waited for him to make some further comment but he broke a long
silence only to summon the waiter and order a whiskey and soda. "You'll
have one with me?"

"No thanks."

"You don't drink?"

"Not very often in the morning."

"Neither do I, as a rule. Matter of fact, I don't drink much at all."

I felt that these trivial exchanges were to cover an inner stress of
mind he was trying to master. "Coming back to what you were saying," I
coaxed, eventually, but he interrupted: "No, let's _not_ come back to
it--no use raking over these things. Besides, everybody's so bored with
the last war and so scared of the next that it's almost become a social
_gaffe_ to bring up the matter at all."

"Except on one day of the year--which happens to be today. Then the
taboos are lifted."

"Thanks to the rather theatrical device of the two minutes' silence?"

"Yes, and 'thanks' is right. Surely we English need some release from
the tyranny of the stiff upper lip."

He smiled into his drink as the waiter set it before him. "So you think
it does no harm--once a year?"

"On the contrary, I think it makes a very healthy purge of our
normal--which is to say, our _abnormal_--national inhibitions."

Another smile. "Maybe--if you like psychoanalyst's jargon."

"Evidently _you_ don't."

"Sorry. If you're one of them, I apologize."

"No, I'm just interested in the subject, that's all."

"Ever studied it--seriously?"

I said I had, which was true, for I had written several papers on it for
the Philosophical Society. He nodded, then read again for a few score
miles. The train was traveling fast, and when next he looked up it was
as if he realized that anything he still had to say must be hurried; we
were already streaking past the long rows of suburban back gardens. He
suddenly resumed, with a touch of his earlier eagerness: "All right
then--listen to this--and don't laugh... it may be up your
street.... Sometimes I have a feeling of being--if it isn't too
absurd to say such a thing--of being _half somebody else_. Some casual
little thing--a tune or a scent or a name in a newspaper or a look of
something or somebody will remind me, just for a second--and yet I
haven't time to get any grip of what it _does_ remind me of--it's a sort
of wisp of memory that can't be trapped before it fades away.... For
instance, when I saw that mountain this morning I felt I'd been there--I
almost _knew_ I'd been there.... I could see that lake between the
summits--why, I'd _bathed_ in it--there was a slab of rock jutting out
like a diving board--and the day I was there I fell asleep in the shade
and woke up in the sun... but I suppose I've got to believe the whole
thing never happened, just because you say there isn't a lake there at
all.... Does all this strike you as the most utter nonsense?"

"By no means. It's not an uncommon experience."

"Oh, it _isn't_?" He looked slightly dismayed, perhaps robbed of some
comfort in finding himself not unique.

"Dunne says it's due to a half-remembered dream. You should read his
book _An Experiment with Time_. He says--this, of course, is condensing
his theory very crudely--that dreams _do_ foretell the future, only by
the time they come true, we've forgotten them--all except your elusive
wisp of memory."

"So I once dreamed about that mountain?"

"Perhaps. It's an interesting theory even if it can't be proved. Anyhow,
the feeling you have is quite a normal one."

"I don't feel that it _is_ altogether normal, the way I have it."

"You mean it's beginning to worry you?"

"Perhaps sometimes--in a way--yes." He added with a nervous smile: "But
that's no reason why I should worry _you_. I can only plead this
one-day-a-year excuse--the purging of the inhibitions, didn't you call
it? Let's talk about something else--cricket--the Test Match....
Wonder what will happen to England...?"

"Somehow today that doesn't sound like cricket talk."

"I know. After the silence there _are_ overtones... but all I really
wanted to prove was that I'm not a complete lunatic."

"Most people have a spot of lunacy in them somewhere. Its excusable."

"Provided they don't inflict it on strangers."

"Why not, if you feel you want to?"

"I don't want to--not consciously."

"Unconsciously then. Which makes it worst of all. Not that in your case
it sounds very serious."

"You don't think so? You don't think these--er--peculiarities of
memory--are--er--anything to worry about?"

"Since you ask me, may I be perfectly frank?"

"Of course."

"I don't know what your work is, but isn't it possible you've been
overdoing things lately--not enough rest--relaxation?"

"I don't need a psychoanalyst to tell me that. My doctor does--every
time I see him."

"Then why not take his advice?"

"_This_ is why." He pulled a small notebook from his vest pocket. "I
happen to be in what is vaguely called public life--which means I'm on a
sort of treadmill I can't get off until it stops--and it won't stop." He
turned over the pages. "Just to show you--a sample day of my
existence.... Here, you can read it--it's typed." He added, as I took
the book: "My secretary--very neat. _She_ wouldn't let me forget
anything."

"But she can't spell 'archaeological.'"

"Why does she have to?" He snatched the book back for scrutiny and I had
the feeling he was glad of the excuse to do so and keep it. "Calderbury
Archaeological and Historical Society?... Oh, they're my
constituents--I have to show them round the House--guidebook stuff--an
awful bore... that's this afternoon. This evening I have an Embassy
reception; then tomorrow there's a board meeting, a lunch party, and in
the evening I'm guest speaker at a dinner in Cambridge."

"Doesn't look as if there's anything you could cut except possibly
tomorrow's lunch."

"I expect I'll do that, anyway--even though it's at my own house.
There'll be a crowd of novelists and actors and titled people who'd
think me surly because I wouldn't talk to them half as freely as I'm
talking to you now."

I could believe it. So far he had made no move towards an exchange of
names between us, and I guessed that, on his side, the anonymity had
been not only an encouragement to talk, but a temptation to reveal
himself almost to the point of self-exhibition. And there had been a
certain impish exhilaration in the way he had allowed me to glance at
his engagement book for just those few seconds, as if teasing me with
clues to an identity he had neither wish nor intention to disclose. Men
in whom reticence is a part of good form have fantastic ways of
occasional escape, and I should have been the last to embarrass an
interesting fellow traveler had he not added, as the train began braking
into St. Pancras: "Well, it's been a pleasant chat. Some day--who
knows?--we might run into each other again."

Spoken as if he sincerely half meant it, the remark merely emphasized
the other half sense in which he did not mean it at all; and this,
because I already liked him, irked me to the reply: "If it's the
Swithin's Dinner tomorrow night we may as well introduce ourselves now
as then, because I'll be there too. My name's Harrison. I'm on the
Reception Committee."

"Oh, really?"

"And I don't know what your plans are, but after the show I'd be
delighted if you'd come up to my rooms and have some coffee."

"Thanks," he muttered with sudden glumness, gathering up his newspapers
and brief case. Then I suppose he realized it would be pointless, as
well as discourteous, to refuse the name which I should inevitably
discover so soon. He saved it for a last unsmiling afterthought as he
jumped to the platform. "My name's Rainier... Charles Rainier."

                          *        *        *

Rainier nodded rather coldly when I met him again the following day. In
his evening clothes and with an impressive array of decorations he
looked what he was--a guest of honor about to perform his duties with
the touch of apathy that so effectively disguises the British technique
of authority. Not necessarily an aristocratic technique. I had already
looked him up in reference books and found that he was the son of a
longish line of manufacturers--no blue blood, no title (I wondered how
he had evaded that), a public school of the second rank, Parliamentary
membership for a safe Conservative county. I had also mentioned his name
to a few people I knew; the general impression was that he was rich and
influential, and that I was lucky to have made such a chance encounter.
He did not, however, belong to the small group of well-known
personalities recognizable by the man-in-the-street either in the flesh
or in Low cartoons. On the contrary he seemed neither to seek nor to
attract the popular sort of publicity, nor yet to repel it so markedly
as to get in reverse; it was as if he deliberately aimed at being
nondescript. A journalist told me he would be difficult to build up as a
newspaper hero because his personality was "centripetal" instead of
"centrifugal"; I was not quite certain what this meant, but _Who's Who_
was less subtle in confiding that his recreations were mountaineering
and music.

On the whole I secured a fair amount of information without much real
enlightenment; I hoped for more from a second meeting and traveled to
Cambridge in a mood of considerable anticipation. It was the custom of
the secretary and committee of the Swithin's Society to receive guests
informally before dining in the College Hall; so we gathered first in
the Combination Room, where we made introductions, drank sherry, and
exchanged small talk. It is really hard to know what to say to
distinguished people when you first meet them--that is, it is hard to
think of talk small enough to be free from presumption. Rainier, for
instance, had lately been in the financial news in connection with a
proposed merger of cement companies, a difficult achievement for which
negotiations were still proceeding; but it was impossible to say "How is
your merger getting on?" as one might say "How are your chrysanthemums?"
to a man whom you knew to be an enthusiastic gardener. Presently, to my
relief, some other guests arrived whom I had to attend to, and it was
perhaps a quarter of an hour before I saw him edging to me through the
crowd. "Sorry," he began, "but I've got to let you down--awful
toothache--where's the nearest dentist?" I hustled him out as
inconspicuously as possible and at the door of the taxi received his
promise to return to the dinner if he felt equal to it. Then I went back
and explained to the company what had happened. Somehow it did not sound
very convincing, and none of us really expected to see him again. But we
did. An hour later he took the vacant place we had left at the High
Table and was just in time to reply to the toast with one of the best
after-dinner speeches I had ever heard. Maybe the escape from physical
pain plus the Cambridge atmosphere, with its mingling of time-honored
formality and youthful high spirits, suited a mood in which he began
with badinage about toothache and ended with a few graceful compliments
to the College and University. Among other things I remember him
recalling that during his undergraduate days he had had an ambition to
live at Cambridge all his life, as a don of some sort (laughter), but
exactly what sort he hadn't stayed long enough to decide (laughter),
because fate had called him instead to be some sort of businessman
politician, but even what sort of _that_ he hadn't yet entirely made up
his mind (more laughter).... "So because of this fundamental
indecision, I still hope that some day I shall throw off the cares of
too many enterprises and seek the tranquillity of a room overlooking a
quadrangle and an oak that can be sported against the world." (Prolonged
laughter in which the speaker joined.) After he had finished, we all
cheered uproariously and then, relaxing, drank and argued and made a
night of it in the best Swithin's tradition; when eventually the affair
broke up, it was Rainier himself who asked if my invitation to coffee
still held good.

"Why, of course--only I thought maybe after the dentist you'd feel--"

"My dear boy, don't ever try to imagine what my feelings are."

But he smiled in saying it, and I gathered he had forgiven not so much
me as himself for having taken part in our train conversation. A few
friends adjourned to my rooms near-by, where we sat around and continued
discussions informally. Again he charmed us by his talk, but even more
by his easy manners and willingness to laugh and listen; long after most
of the good-nights he still lingered chatting, listening, and smoking
cigarette after cigarette. I didn't know then that he slept badly and
liked to stay up late, that he enjoyed young company and jokes and
midnight argument, that he had no snobbisms, and that public speaking
left him either very dull and listless or very excitable and talkative,
according to the audience. Towards three in the morning, when we found
ourselves sole survivors, I suggested more coffee, and at that he sank
into an armchair with a sigh of content and put his feet against the
mantelpiece as if the place belonged to him--which, in a sense, it did,
as to any Swithin's man since the reign of Elizabeth the Foundress.
"I've been in these rooms before--often. Fellow with the disarming name
of Pal had them in my time--'native of Asia or Africa not of European
parentage,' as the University regulations so tactfully specify.
High-caste Hindoo. Mathematician--genius in his own line--wonder what
he's doing now?--probably distilling salt out of sea water or lying down
in front of trains or some other blind-alley behavior. Used to say he
felt algebra emotionally--told me once he couldn't read through the
Binomial Theorem without tears coming into his eyes--the whole concept,
he said, was so shatteringly beautiful.... Wish I could have got into
his world, somehow or other. And there are other worlds, too--wish
sometimes I could get into any of them--out of my own."

"What's so wrong about your own?"

He laughed defensively. "Now there you've got me.... Maybe, as you
hinted yesterday, just a matter of overwork. But it's true enough that
talking to all you young fellows tonight made me feel terribly ancient
and envious."

"Not _envious_, surely? It's we who are envious of you--because you've
made a success of life. We're a pretty disillusioned crowd when we stop
laughing--we know there won't be decent jobs for more than a minority of
us unless a war comes to give all of us the kind of job we don't want."

He mused over his coffee for a moment and then continued: "Yes, that's
true--and that's probably why I feel how different everything is here
instead of how much the same--because my Cambridge days _were_
different. The war was just over then, and our side had won, and we all
of us thought that winning a great war ought to mean something, either
towards making our lives a sort of well-deserved happy-ever-after--a
long golden afternoon of declining effort and increasing reward--or else
to give us chances to rebuild the world this way or that. It all
depended whether one were tired or eager after the strain. Most of us
were both--tired of the war and everything connected with it, eager to
push ahead into something new. We soon stopped hating the Germans, and
just as soon we began to laugh at the idea of anyone caring enough about
the horrid past to ask us that famous question on the recruiting
posters--'What did you do in the Great War?' But even the most cynical
of us couldn't see ahead to a time when the only logical answer to that
question would be another one--'_Which_ Great War?'

"There was a room over a fish shop in Petty Cury where some of us met
once a week to talk our heads off--we called ourselves the Heretics, but
I can't remember anything said at those meetings half so well as I can
remember the smell of fish coming up from the shop below. And J. M.
Keynes was lecturing in the Art School, politely suggesting that Germany
mightn't be able to pay off so many millions in reparations, or was it
billions?--in those days one just thought of a number and stuck as many
naughts as one fancied after it. And there were Holland Rose on Napoleon
and Pigou on Diminishing Returns, and Bury still explaining the Decline
and Fall of the Roman Empire, and one evening Pal and I--sounds
sentimental, doesn't it, Pal and I?--lined up in a queue that stretched
halfway round Trinity Great Court to hear a lecture by a fellow named
Eddington about some new German fellow named Einstein who had a theory
about light bending in the middle--that brought the house down, of
course--roars of laughter--just as you heard tonight only more so--good
clean undergraduate fun at its best. And behind us on the wall the
portrait of Catholic Mary scowled down on this modern audience that
scoffed at science no less than at religion. Heretics indeed--and
laughing heretics! But my pal Pal didn't laugh--he was transfixed with a
sort of ecstasy about the whole thing.

"I did a good deal of reading on the river, and also at the Orchard at
Grantchester--you remember Rupert Brooke's poem? Brooke would be fifty
today, if he'd lived--think of that.... Still stands the clock at ten
to three, but Rupert Brooke is late for tea--confined to his bed with
rheumatism or something--that's what poets get for not dying young. The
woman at the Orchard who served the teas remembered Brooke--she was a
grand old chatterbox and once I got to know her she'd talk endlessly
about undergraduates and professors past and present--many a yarn, I
daresay, that I've forgotten since and that nobody else remembered even
then.... Trivial talk--just as trivial as the way I'm talking to you
now. Nineteen twenty, that was--Cambridge full of demobilized old-young
men still wearing dyed officers' overcoats--British warms sent up to
Perth and returned chocolate-brown--full of men still apt to go suddenly
berserk in the middle of a rag and turn it into a riot, or start
whimpering during a thunderstorm--aftereffects of shell-shock, you know.
Plenty of us had had that--including myself."

"As a result of the head injury you mentioned yesterday?"

"I suppose so."

"You had a pretty bad time?"

"No, I was one of the lucky ones--comparatively, that is. But when
you're blown up, even if you're not physically smashed to bits..." He
broke off awkwardly. "I'm sorry. It isn't Armistice Day any more. These
confessions are out of place."

"Not at all. I'm interested. It's so hard for my generation to imagine
what it was like."

"Don't worry--you'll learn soon enough."

"How long was it before you were rescued?"

"Haven't the faintest idea. I suppose I was unconscious."

"But you must have recovered consciousness later?"

"Presumably. I don't remember when or where or any of the details. But
I've some reason to believe I was taken prisoner."

"Reason to believe? That's a guarded way of putting it."

"I know--but it happens to be just about all I can say. You see, I
literally don't remember. From that moment of being knocked out my
memory's a complete blank till years later when I found myself lying on
a park seat in Liverpool."

"_Years_ later?"

"Getting on for three years, but of course I didn't know that at first.
And it was a wet day, as luck would have it." He smiled. "You don't find
my story very plausible?"

"I might if you'd tell me the whole of it--without gaps."

"But there _are_ gaps--that's just the trouble."

"What were you doing in Liverpool?"

"Once again, I haven't the faintest idea. I didn't even know it was
Liverpool at first. The main thing was to know _who_ I was--where and
when were easy enough to find out later."

"Do you mean you'd been going by some other name until then?"

"Maybe. I suppose so. That's another of the things I don't know. It's as
if... well, I've sometimes worked it out this way--there were
different rooms in my mind, and as soon as the light came on in one it
had to go out in the other."

"Well, what did you do when you realized who you were?"

"What anybody else would do. I went home. I felt in my pockets and found
I had a small sum in cash, so I bought a new outfit of clothes, took a
bath at a hotel, and then went to the railway station. It was as simple
as that, because along with knowing my own name it had come to me
without apparent effort that I lived at Stourton, that my father owned
the Rainier Steelworks and all the other concerns, that we had a butler
named Sheldon, and any other details I cared to recall. In fact I knew
all about myself in a perfectly normal way up to the moment of that
shell burst near Arras in 1917."

"Your father must have got a very pleasant shock."

"He was too ill to be allowed it, but the family got one all right. Of
course, since I'd been reported missing in the casualty lists, they'd
long since given me up for dead."

"It's a very remarkable story."

"Remarkable's a well-chosen word. It doesn't give you away."

I thought for a moment; then I said: "But the Army authorities must have
had some record of your coming back to England?"

"None--not under the name of Rainier."

"But wasn't there a disc or something you had to wear all the time on
active service?"

"There was, but if you'd ever experienced levitation by high explosive
you wouldn't put much faith in a bit of metal tied round your neck. It's
quite possible there was nothing the Germans could identify me by when
they took me prisoner."

"What makes you think you were ever in Germany at all?"

"Surely if I'd been dragged in by my own men they'd have known who I
was?"

"H'm, yes, I suppose so."

He went on, after a pause: "I don't blame you at all if you don't
believe a word of all this. And it's just as well you're the first
person I've confided in for years--just as well for my reputation as a
sober citizen." He laughed with self-protective cynicism. "It's been a
conspiracy of events to make me talk like this--Armistice Day--our
meeting on the train--and then something the dentist said tonight when I
came out of his nitrous oxide."

"The dentist? What's he got to do with it?"

"He was making polite conversation while I spat blood. One of the things
he said was, 'So you were a prisoner in Germany?' I asked him what gave
him that idea, and he answered, 'Because I notice you have a tooth
filled with a substitute metal German dentists were having to use during
the latter part of the war'--apparently he'd come across other instances
of it."

We were silent for a moment. I could hear the first stir of early
morning traffic beginning along King's Parade. Rainier heard it too, and
as at a signal rose to go. "A strange business, the war. The English
told the Germans exactly where I was, so that the Germans could kill
me... then the Germans did half kill me, patched me up, and saw that
my teeth were properly cared for... after which the English gave me a
medal for having displayed what they called 'conspicuous gallantry in
the field.'" He fingered it on his lapel, adding: "I wear it at shows
like this, along with the Most Noble Order of Something-or-Other which
the Greeks gave me for arranging a loan on their currant crop in 1928."
He began putting on his overcoat, heedless of my assurance that there
was no hurry and that I often sat up till dawn myself. "Please don't
bother to see me out--I'll take a bath at my hotel and be in time for
the first train."

On his way across the room he paused at my shelves of books and asked
what tripos I was taking.

"Economics. I took the first part of the History last year."

"Really? I did the same when I was here. But where does the
psychoanalysis come in?"

"Oh, that's only a side line."

"I see. Made any plans for when you go down?"

"I'd like to be a journalist."

He nodded, shaking hands at the door. "Well, I've got a few contacts in
Fleet Street. Write to me when you're ready for a job--I might be able
to do something for you."

                          *        *        *

Early the following year I took a Ph.D. and began looking around for the
post which, it seemed to me then, ought to drop snugly into the lap of
any bright young man who had written a two-hundred-page thesis on "The
Influence of Voltaire on the English Laissez-Faire Economists."
Cambridge had deemed this worthy of a doctorate; nobody in Fleet Street,
however, held it worth a regular job. I had a very small private income
and could therefore afford to cadge snippets of highbrow reviewing from
some of the more illustrious and penurious weeklies, reckoning myself
well-paid if the books themselves were expensive and could be sold for
more cash to Mr. Reeves of the Strand; but the newspaper world at that
time was full of journalists out of work through amalgamations, and the
chance of getting on the staffs of any of the big dailies was not
encouraging. Of course I remembered Rainier's offer, but apart from my
reluctance to bother him, he was abroad--in South America on some
financial business. But by the time he returned I had been disappointed
often enough to feel I should take him at his word. He replied instantly
to my note, asking me to lunch the next day.

Thus I made my first trip to Kenmore. "Near the World's End pub,"
Rainier used to say, and it was the fashion among certain guests to
pretend it was at some actual world's end if not beyond it--the world in
this super-sophisticated sense being that part of London within normal
taxi range. I went by bus, which puts you down at the corner of the road
with only a hundred yards or so to walk. I had no idea how notable, not
to say notorious, those Kenmore lunches were; indeed, since the
invitation had come so promptly, I had beguiled myself with visions of
an intimate foursome composed of host and hostess with perhaps a press
magnate summoned especially to meet me. I did not know then that Mrs.
Rainier gave lunches for ten or twelve people two or three times a week,
enticing every temporary or permanent celebrity to meet other temporary
or permanent celebrities at her house, and that these affairs were as
frequently joked about as they were infrequently declined. She
functioned, in fact, as a kind of liaison officer between Society and
Bohemia, with a Maecenas glance at moneyless but personable young men;
and though there is no kind of social service I would less willingly
undertake myself, there are few that I respect more when competently
performed by someone else.

Searching my memory for impressions of that first arrival, I find I
cannot put Mrs. Rainier into the picture at all. She was there, she must
have been; but she was so busy making introductions that she could not
have given me more than a few words, and those completely unimportant. I
came a little late and found myself ushered into a drawing room full of
initiates, all talking with great gusto, and all--so it seemed to me
(quite baselessly, of course)--resentful of intrusion by a stranger who
had neither written a banned novel nor flown somewhere and back in an
incredibly short time. I say this because one of the guests had written
such a novel, and another _had_ made such a flight, and it was my fate
to be seated between them while they talked either to their outside
neighbors or across me to each other. There was an empty place at the
head of the table, and presently I gathered from general conversation
that Rainier often arrived late and sometimes not at all, so that he was
never on any account waited for. I had already written off the whole
affair as a rather profitless bore when the guests rose, murmured hasty
good-byes, and dashed out to waiting cars and taxis. (Mrs. Rainier's
lunches were always like that--one-fifteen sharp to two-fifteen sharp
and not too much to drink, so that you did not kill your afternoon.)
Just as I was following the crowd, a touch on my arm accompanied the
whisper: "Stay a moment if you aren't in a hurry."

Mrs. Rainier led me a few paces back along the hall after the others had
gone. "I didn't quite catch your name--"

"Harrison."

"Oh yes.... You're a friend of Charles's--it's too bad he couldn't
get here--he's so busy nowadays."

I murmured something vague, polite, and intended to be reassuring.

"It's a pity people who can fly halfway round the world haven't any
manners," she went on, and I answered: "Well, I suppose there are quite
a number of people who have manners and couldn't fly halfway round the
world."

"But having manners is so much more important," she countered. "Tell
me... what... er... I mean, are you a... let me see... _Harrison_..."

I smiled--suddenly and rather incomprehensibly at ease with her. "You're
trying to recall a Harrison who's written something, married somebody,
or been somewhere," I said. "But it's a waste of time--I'm not _that_
Harrison, even if he exists. I'm just--if I call myself anything--a
journalist."

"Oh... then you must come again when we have really _literary_
parties," she replied, with an eagerness I thought charming though
probably insincere. I promised I would, with equal eagerness, and every
intention of avoiding her really _literary_ parties like the plague.
Then I shook hands, left the house, and on the bus back to Fleet Street
suddenly realized that it had been a very good lunch from one point of
view. I had never tasted better eggs Mornay.

**

The next afternoon Rainier telephoned, profuse in apologies for his
absence from the lunch, and though the matter could hardly have been
important to him, I thought I detected a note of sincerity. "I gather
you didn't have a very good time," he said, and before I could reply
went on: "I'm not keen on the mob, either, but Helen's a born
hostess--almost as good as an American--she can take in twenty new names
all in a row and never make a mistake."

"She didn't take in mine. In fact it was pretty clear she didn't know me
from Adam."

"My fault, I expect. Must have forgotten to tell her."

"So a perfect stranger could walk into your house and get a free lunch?"

"They're doing that all the time--though most of 'em have
invitations.... Look here, if you're not busy just now, why not come
over to the House for tea?"

I said I would, and took the bus again to Chelsea. But at Kenmore the
maid told me that Rainier hadn't been in since morning and never by any
chance took tea at home; and just then, while we were arguing on the
doorstep (I insisting I had been invited less than twenty minutes ago),
Mrs. Rainier came up behind me and began to laugh. "He meant the House
of Commons," she said, passing into the hall. "You'd better let my car
take you there."

Extraordinary how stupid one can be when one would prefer to impress by
being knowledgeable. I knew quite well that the House of Commons, along
with the Stock Exchange and Christchurch, Oxford, was called "the
House," yet somehow, when Rainier had used the phrase over the
telephone, I could only think of Kenmore. Most of the way to Westminster
in the almost aggressively unostentatious Daimler (so impersonal you
could believe it part of an undertaker's fleet), I cursed my mistake as
a poor recommendation for any kind of job. I had feared Rainier might be
waiting for me, and was relieved when, after sending in my name, I had
to kill time for half an hour before a policeman led me through devious
passages to the Terrace, where Rainier greeted me warmly. But his
appearance was slightly disconcerting; there was a twitch about his
mouth and eyes as he spoke, and a general impression of intense nervous
energy in desperate need of relaxation. During tea he talked about his
South American trip, assuming far too modestly that I had read nothing
about it in the papers. Presently the division bell rang and only as we
hurried across the Smoke Room did he broach the matter I had really come
about. "I inquired from a good many people after I got your letter,
Harrison, but there doesn't seem to be a thing doing in Fleet Street
just now."

"That was my own experience too."

"So I wondered if you'd care for a secretary's job until something else
turns up?"

I hadn't really thought about such a thing, and maybe hesitation
revealed my disappointment.

He said, patting my arm: "Well, think it over, anyway. I've had a girl
up to now, but she's due to get married in a few weeks--time enough to
show you the ropes... that is, of course, if you feel you'd like the
job at all...."

                          *        *        *

So I became Rainier's secretary, and Miss Hobbs showed me the ropes. It
had been flattery to call her a girl. She was thin, red-faced,
middle-aged, and so worshipful of Rainier that no husband could hope to
get more than a remnant of any emotion she was capable of; indeed, I
felt that the chance of marriage was tempting her more because she
feared it might be her last than because she was certain she wanted it.
She hinted this much during our first meeting. "I almost feel I'm
deserting _him_," she said, and the stress on "him" was revealing.
Presently, showing me how she filed his correspondence, she added: "I'm
so relieved he isn't going to have another _lady_ secretary. I'd be
afraid of some awful kind of person coming here
and--perhaps--_influencing_ him."

I said I didn't imagine Rainier was the type to be influenced by that
kind of woman.

"Oh, but you never know what kind of a woman will influence a man."

We went on inspecting the filing system. "The main thing is to see he
doesn't forget his appointments. He doesn't do much of his
correspondence here--he has another secretary at his City office. So it
won't matter a great deal if you don't know shorthand and typewriting."

I said I did know shorthand and typewriting.

"Well, so much the better, of course. You'll find him wonderful to work
with--at least _I_ always have, though of course we're more like old
friends than employer and secretary. I call him Charles, you know, when
we're alone together. And he always calls me Elsie, whether we're alone
or not. We've been together now for nearly fifteen years, so it's really
quite natural, don't you think?"

During the next few hours she gave me her own version of the entire
Rainier mnage. "Of course the marriage never has been all it should
be--I daresay you can imagine that. Mrs. Rainier isn't the right kind of
wife for a man like Charles. He's so tired of all those parties she
gives, especially the houseparties at Stourton--that's their big place
in the country, you know... they have no children--that's another
thing, because he'd love children, and I don't know why they don't have
them, maybe there's a reason. When you've worked with him for a time
you'll feel how restless he is--I do blame her for _that_--she doesn't
give him a proper home--Kenmore's just a hotel with different guests
every day. I do believe there's only one room he feels really
comfortable in, and that's this one--with his poor little secretary
slaving away while he smokes--and he shouldn't smoke either, so he's
been told.... D'you know, he often locks himself in when he wants to
work, because the rest of the house is so full of Goyas and Epsteins and
whatnot that people wander in and out of all the rooms as if it were a
museum. Of course there really are priceless things in it--why not?--he
gives her the money to spend, and I suppose she has taste--that is if
you _like_ a house that's like a museum. I sometimes wonder if Charles
does."

After a pause during which I made no comment she turned to the writing
desk. "Charles gets hundreds of letters from complete strangers--about
one thing and another, you know. If they're abusive we take no
notice--in fact, whatever they are, _he_ doesn't bother much about them,
but I'll let you into a secret--something he doesn't suspect and never
will unless you tell him, and I'm sure you won't--I always write a
little note of thanks to anyone who sends a _nice_ letter... of
course I write as if he'd dictated it.... I really think a good
secretary _should_ do little things like that on her own, don't you?"

I said nothing.

"Really, if he were to ask me to stay, I believe I would, marriage or no
marriage--I mean, it would be so hard to refuse him anything--but then,
he's too fine and generous to ask--as soon as he knew about it he urged
me not to delay my happiness on his account--just as if his own marriage
had brought _him_ happiness.... Not that Charles would be an easy man
to _make_ happy, even if he _had_ got the right woman. But he isn't
happy _now_--that I _do_ know--there's always a look in his eyes as if
he were searching for something and couldn't find it."

For two or three days Miss Hobbs continued to show me the ropes; Rainier
was away in Lancashire. During this time Mrs. Rainier gave several lunch
parties to which I was not invited, though I was in the house at the
time and was even privileged to give assistance to a foreign
plenipotentiary who spoke little English and had strayed into the study
in search of a humbler apartment. I could better understand after that
why Rainier sometimes locked the door.

Then he returned, having wired me to meet his train at Euston. As soon
as we had found a taxi and were driving out of the station he asked me
how I'd been getting on, and added without waiting for an answer: "I
don't suppose you'll find it hard to be as good as your predecessor."

I said I should certainly hope to be.

"Then you've already found out a few of the things I've been putting up
with?"

"Yes, but not why you _have_ put up with them, for so many years."

"Pure sentiment, plus the fact that I've always had a submerged sympathy
with crazy people, and Elsie's crazy enough. She used to work at
Stourton in my father's time, then she worked for my brother, and when
he naturally wanted to get rid of her there was no one fool enough to
take her but me. I made her my social secretary--because in those days I
had no social life and it didn't matter. But after I married there were
social things for her to do and she did them with a peculiar and
fascinating idiocy. D'you know I've found out she writes long letters to
people I've never heard of and signs my name to them?... And by the
way, did she tell you I'm not happy with my wife?"

"Well--er--"

"Don't believe it. My wife and I are the best of friends. I suppose she
also hinted it was a marriage of convenience?"

I felt this was incriminating Miss Hobbs too much and was beginning a
noncommittal answer when he interrupted: "Well, _that_ happens to be
true. I married her because it seemed to me she'd be just the person to
turn a tired businessman into a thumping success. She _was_ and she
_did_.... Can you think of a better reason?"

"There's generally considered to be _one_ better reason."

He switched the subject suddenly, pointing out of the window to a news
placard that proclaimed, in letters a foot high: "Collapse of England."
At that moment I felt that one thing Miss Hobbs had said about him _was_
true--that look in his eyes as if he were searching for something and
couldn't find it. He began to talk rapidly and nervously, apropos of the
placard: "Odd to think of some foreigner translating without knowing
it's only about cricket... it was something you said about that on a
train that first made me want to know you better--but really, in a
sense, it doesn't refer to cricket at all, but to how God-damned sure we
are of ourselves--you can't imagine the same phrase in the streets of
Paris or Berlin--it would begin panic or riots or something.... Just
think of it--'_Dbcle de France_' or '_Untergang Deutschlands_.'...
Impossible... but here it means nothing because we don't believe it
could ever happen--and that's not wishful thinking--it's neither wishing
nor thinking, but a kind of inbreathed illusion.... Reminds me of
that last plenary session of the London Conference when it was quite
clear there was to be no effective disarmament by anybody and we were
all hard at work covering up the failure of civilization's last hope
with a mess of smeary platitudes... Lord, how tired I was, listening
to strings of words that meant nothing in any language and even less
when you had to wait for an interpreter to turn 'em into two others...
and all the time the dusty sunlight fell in slabs over the pink bald
heads--godheads from the power entrusted to them and gargoyles from
the way I hated 'em... and during all that morning, full of the
trapped sunlight and the distant drone of traffic past the Cenotaph,
there was only one clean eager thing that happened--young Drexel
whispering to me during a tepid outburst of applause: 'See the old boy
in the third row--fifth from the end--Armenia or Irak or some place...
but did you ever see anybody more like Harry Tate?'... And by Jove,
he _was_ like Harry Tate, and Drexel and I lived on it for the
rest of the session--lived on it and on our own pathetic fancy that
foreigners were strange and at best amusing creatures, rather like music
hall comedians or one's French master at school--tolerable if they
happen to be musicians or dancers or ice-cream sellers--but definitely
to be snubbed if they venture on the really serious business of
governing the world.... Look--there's another!" It was a later
placard, proclaiming in letters equally large, "England Now without
Hope." Rainier laughed. "Maybe some fussy archaeologist of the
twenty-fifth century--a relative of Macaulay's sketching New
Zealander--will dig this up from a rubbish heap and say it establishes
definite proof that we'd all been well warned in advance!... Has my
wife got a party tonight?"

"Yes."

"What sort of a crowd?"

"Mostly sporting and dramatic, I think."

"Then I'll dine and sleep at the Club. Borotra's the only dramatic
sportsman I care about, and he probably won't come."

He put his head out of the cab window, giving the change of address, and
also telling the man to drive more slowly. I could see he was nervously
excited, and I was beginning to know by now that when he was in such a
mood he talked a good deal in an attempt to race his thoughts--an
attempt which usually failed, leaving a litter of unfinished sentences,
mixed metaphors, and unpolished epigrams, with here and there some
phrase worthy of one of his speeches, but flung off so carelessly that
if the hearer did not catch it at the time Rainier himself could never
recall it afterwards. I have tried to give an impression of this kind of
talk, but even the most faithful reportage would miss a curious
excitement of voice and gesture, the orchestration of some inner emotion
turbulent under the surface. Nor, one felt, would such emotion wear out
in fatigue, but rather increase to some extinguishing climax as an
electric globe burns brighter before the final snapping of the filament.
It was of this I felt suddenly afraid, and he noticed the anxious look I
gave him.

"Sorry to be a chatterer like this, Harrison, but it's after a bout of
public speech-making--I always feel I have to use up the words left
over, or perhaps the words I couldn't use.... I suppose you'd call me
a rather good speaker?"

I said I certainly should.

"And you'd guess that it comes easily to me?"

"It always sounds like it."

He laughed. "That's what practice can do. I _loathe_ speaking in
public--I'm always secretly afraid I'm going to break down or stammer or
something. Stammering especially... of course I never do.... By
the way, you remember that mountain in Derbyshire I thought I
recognized?"

"Yes."

"The same sort of thing happened in Lancashire, only it wasn't quite so
romantic. Just a house in a row. I was helping Nixon in the Browdley
by-election--we held meetings at street corners, then Nixon dragged me
round doing the shake-hands and baby-kissing stuff--that's the way his
father got into the Gladstone Parliaments, so Nixon still does it. I
admit I'm pretty cynical about elections--the very look of the voting
results, with two rows of figures adding neatly up to a third one, gives
me the same itch as a company balance sheet, exact to the last penny...
whose penny? Was there ever a penny?... My own majority in Lythamshire,
for instance--precisely twelve--but who _were_ the twelve? Twelve good
men and true, maybe, or twelve drunken illiterates...? Don't you
sometimes feel how _false_ it all is, and how falsely reassuring--this
nineteenth-century gloss of statistical accuracy, as if the flood tide
of history could run in rivulets tidy enough for garden irrigation, safe
enough for a million taps in suburban bathrooms... but when the storm
does come, who'll give a damn if the rows of little figures still add
up--who'll care if the sums are all wrong provided one man knows a right
answer?"

"You were talking about a house."

"Oh yes.... Just an ordinary four-room workingman's house--tens of
thousands like it. A cold day, and as we stood waiting at the door I
could see a great yellow glow of firelight behind the lace curtains of
the parlor window. Nothing extraordinary in that, either, and yet...
it's hard to describe the feelings I had, as if that house were waiting
for me--a welcome--out of the wintry dusk and into the warm firelight...
a welcome home."

His eyes were full of eagerness, and I said, trying to hasten his story
before we reached the end of the journey: "Did the feeling disappear
when a stranger answered the door?"

"I'm coming to that.... There were three of us, Nixon, myself, and
Ransome, the local party secretary, nice little man. We knocked and
knocked and nobody came. Then I saw Ransome fumbling in his pocket.
'Can't think where she is,' he said, 'but I expect she'll be back in a
jiffy.' I realized then that it was _his_ house, and that we were being
invited in. He found a key, unlocked the door, and we entered. No lobby
or hall--straight into the warmth and firelight. There was a kettle
steaming on the hob, cups and saucers set out, plates of bread and
butter. Everything spotlessly neat, furniture that shone, a clock
ticking loudly somewhere. It was all so beautiful, this warm small room.
The man kept talking about his wife--how proud she'd been at the thought
of having two such men as Nixon and myself to tea in her home--such an
honor--she'd never forget it--and how embarrassed she'd be when she came
back and found us already there. 'I'll bet she's gone round the corner
for a Dundee cake,' he laughed. But as time passed he began to be a bit
embarrassed himself, and presently suggested having tea ourselves
without waiting for his wife. So we did--I sat in a rocking chair by the
fireside, and the flames were still leaping up so brightly we didn't
need any other light, even though it was quite dark outside by the time
we left."

"So you never saw his wife at all?"

"No, she didn't come back in time.... But that room--the feeling I
had in it--of comfort, of being _wanted_ there... It's just another
thing of the same kind. That part of my life--well, you remember what I
told you at Cambridge."

"Why do you worry about it so much?"

"I wouldn't if it would leave me alone. But it keeps on teasing me--with
clues. So what can I do?"

"I still say--more rest and less work."

He patted my arm. "It's good to know I can talk to you whenever I'm in
this mood. Watson to my Sherlock, eh? Or perhaps that's not much of a
compliment?"

"Not to yourself, anyhow. Watson was at least an _honest_ idiot."

He smiled. "That must be the Higher Criticism. Of course you were born
too late to feel as I did--Sherlock's in Baker Street, all's right with
the world."

"Since we now realize that most things are wrong with the world--"

"I know--that was part of the illusion. I remember Sheldon taking me on
a trip to London when I was six or seven years old... the first place
I asked to see was Baker Street, and being a sympathetic fellow he
didn't tell me that the stories were just stories. We walked gravely
along the pavement one afternoon early in the century--a small boy and
his father's butler--looking up at the tall houses with respectful hero
worship. Distant thrones might totter, anarchists might throw bombs, a
few lesser breeds might behave provokingly in odd corners of the world,
but when all was said and done, there was nothing to fear while the
stately Holmes of England, doped and dressing-gowned for action, readied
his wits for the final count with Moriarty! And who the deuce _was_ this
Moriarty? Why, just a big-shot crook whom the honest idiot romanticized
in order to build up his hero's reputation! Nothing but a middle-aged
stoop-shouldered Raffles! And that, mind you, was the worst our fathers'
world could imagine when it talked about Underground Forces and Powers
of Evil!... Ah well, happy days. You'd better keep the cab to go home
in. Good night!"

                          *        *        *

I hadn't taken Rainier's problem very seriously till then. For one
thing, loss of memory is normal. We all forget things, and are equally
likely to be reminded of them long after we think they have been
forgotten for good. Often, too, the reminder is faint enough to be no
more than a clue which we fail to follow up because the matter does not
seem important. The unusual part of Rainier's experience was that he
_did_ think it important, so that from something merely puzzling it was
already on the way to becoming an obsession.

Some part of his story could doubtless be verified, and I already felt
enough curiosity to make the attempt. I said nothing to him, but the
next time the chance occurred I led Miss Hobbs to talk in a general way
about her employer's early life and career. She was more than
willing--except for a continual tendency to drift into later and
somewhat disparaging gossip about Mrs. Rainier. "Wasn't he in the war?"
I began, putting the leading question that anyone might have asked.

"Oh yes. He got a medal--didn't you know that? And the strange thing
was--they thought he was dead. So it was given post--post--"

"Posthumously."

"Yes, that's it. But you couldn't blame them, because after the attack
he was reported missing and nothing was heard about him till--oh, it was
years later when he suddenly arrived home without any warning. And then
it turned out he'd lost his memory."

"Seems to me the sort of story for headlines."

"You mean in the papers? Oh no, it was kept out--the family didn't want
any publicity."

"That wouldn't have been enough reason for most of the journalists I
know."

"Ah, but Sheldon arranged it."

"Sheldon?"

"He's the butler at Stourton. You haven't been to Stourton yet, have
you?"

"No."

"It's really a marvelous place."

"Sheldon sounds a marvelous butler if he knows how to stop journalists
from getting a good story and editors from printing it."

"Well, he _is_ rather marvelous, and I don't suppose there's much he
doesn't know--not about the family, anyhow. He really rules
Stourton--lives there all the year round, even during the winter when
the family never go out of town. I really owe him a good deal--I was
only just a local girl in those days, I used to do bookkeeping and
secretarial work at the house, and that brought me into contact with
Sheldon constantly." She added, rather coyly: "You know--perhaps you
don't know--how difficult it can be for a girl employed in a big house
if the butler isn't all he should be."

I said I could imagine it.

"Sheldon was always a gentleman. Never a word--or a gesture--that anyone
could object to."

I said nothing.

"And later, when Mr. Charles took over Stourton, Sheldon personally
asked him if he could do anything for me, otherwise I don't suppose I'd
be here."

"I see.... But coming back to the time when Mr. Rainier--_our_ Mr.
Rainier, I mean--suddenly returned to Stourton. Were you working there
then?"

"Not _just_ then. It was Christmas and as old Mr. Rainier was ill they
canceled the usual parties and gave me a holiday. It was parties that
always kept me busy--writing out invitations and place cards and
things."

"What was Mr. Rainier like when he returned?"

"I didn't see him till a good while afterwards, but I do know there was
a lot of trouble about it, one way and another--Sheldon would never tell
us half that went on."

So there the trail ended; she didn't know much of what had actually
happened; and since then a great many years had passed, old Mr. Rainier
was dead, and probably the same fate had overtaken most of the personnel
from whom any elucidating inquiries might have been made at the time.
Perhaps there were traces somewhere, a dossier preserved in forgotten
files, memoranda hidden away in official archives; but there seemed
small chance of unearthing them, or even of finding if they existed at
all.

"Quite a mystery," I commented. "Didn't Mr. Rainier himself ever try to
solve it?"

"You mean, did he try to remember things?"

"Well, more than that--didn't he ever consult anybody--specialists,
psychoanalysts, or anyone?"

"You don't know him, or you wouldn't ask that. The last thing he'd ever
do is to go to anybody and tell them things about himself. The only
person he ever did talk to was someone he'd known at Cambridge, some
professor--Freeman, I think his name was."

"You mean _Dr_. Freeman--_the_ Dr. Freeman?"

"Maybe he was a doctor."

"A tall white-haired man with a stoop?"

"Yes, that was him--he used to visit Charles a good deal before the
marriage. You know him?"

"Slightly. Why not since the marriage?"

"He didn't like parties, and I don't think he liked Mrs. Rainier for
beginning all that sort of life for Charles. She's very ambitious, you
know. People say she'll make him Prime Minister before she's finished."

I laughed--having heard similar remarks myself, followed as a rule by
some ribald comment on her party-giving technique. Miss Hobbs added:
"Not that she isn't a good hostess--that I _will_ say."

Since the point was raised, it seemed to me that Mrs. Rainier was _too_
good, and that for this reason she might miss the secret English
bull's-eye that can only be hit by guns sighted to a 97 or 98 per cent
degree of accuracy. Anything more than that, even if achievable, is
dangerous in England, because English people mistrust perfection,
regarding it in manners as the stigma of foreigners, just as they
suspect it in teeth to be the product of dentistry. All this, of course,
I did not discuss with Miss Hobbs.

I saw Freeman a few days later. He had been a rather impressive figure
at Cambridge, in my time as well as Rainier's, but had recently retired
to live at Richmond with an unmarried sister. It was probably a lonely
life, and he seemed glad to hear my voice on the telephone and to accept
an invitation to dinner. I had known him fairly well, since he had long
been president of the Philosophical Society and I in my last year its
vice president, and though he had written several standard works on
psychology he was not psychologist enough to suspect an ulterior motive
behind my apparent eagerness to look him up and talk over old times.

We met at Boulestin's that same evening.

After waiting patiently till the inevitable question as to what I was
doing with myself nowadays, I said that I had become Rainier's
secretary.

"Ah, Rainier--yes," he muttered, as if raking over memories. And he
added, with a thin cackle: "Well, history won't repeat itself."

"How do you mean?"

"He married one of them."

"You mean _Mrs_. Rainier? You mean she was his secretary before Miss
Hobbs?"

"Oh, the Hobbs woman was with him all the time--a family heirloom. Must
be forty now, if she's a day. What did she do at last--retire?"

"She's leaving to get married."

"Heavens--I never thought her turn would come. Who's the lucky man?...
But I can answer that myself--Rainier is, to get rid of her."

"You know her then?"

"Hardly at all, I'm glad to say. But she used to write me the most
ridiculous notes whenever Rainier made an appointment to see me. They
were supposed to be from him, but I found out quite casually afterwards
that she forged his name to 'em.... _Absurd_ notes--it interested me,
as a psychologist, that she should have thought them appropriate."

"But to come back to Mrs. Rainier--"

"Oh, she worked in his _City_ office, I think. A different dynasty.
These great magnates have platoons of secretaries."

"Queer Miss Hobbs never mentioned it. I should have thought it was
something she'd have liked to drive home."

"On a point of psychology I think you're wrong. She'd prefer to conceal
the fact though they were both, so to say, equal at the starting post,
the other woman won."

"Maybe. I gather you know Rainier rather well?"

"I used to. You see, I began with the initial advantage of meeting him
anonymously."

"I'm not quite clear what you mean."

He expanded over a further glass of brandy. "Rainier's a peculiar
fellow. He has a curious fear of his own identity. He lets you get to
know him best when he doesn't think you know who he is.... It's an
interesting kink, psychologically. I first met him through Werneth, who
was his tutor at St. Swithin's. Apparently he told Werneth
about--er--well, perhaps I ought not to discuss it, but it was something
interesting to me--as a psychologist--but not particularly to Werneth,
who was a mere historian." Again the cackle. "Anyhow, Werneth could only
get his permission to pass it on to me by promising not to divulge his
name, and on hearing what it was all about I was so interested that we
actually arranged a meeting--again anonymously--I wasn't supposed to
know who he was.... But I'll let you into a secret--Werneth _had_
told me, privately, beforehand--unscrupulous fellow, Werneth. And then
one morning several months later I couldn't find my bicycle outside the
college gate after a lecture, but in its place was a similar model with
the name 'Charles Rainier' on it. I made his mistake an excuse to call
on him--and I must say--after the opening embarrassment--we very soon
became friends." He added: "And now, of course, I know what you're going
to ask me, but being less unscrupulous than Werneth I can't tell you."

"I don't think you need, because I already know about
Rainier's--er--peculiarity. I suppose it _was_ that."

"Suppose you tell me first of all what _that_ is."

"The blank patch in his life that he can't remember."

"A rather inexact description."

"No doubt, and that's why I'd very much like to hear your own."

He smiled. "It was an unusual case--but I've heard of several similar
ones. They're recorded, you know, in technical journals. Rainier had--if
one might so put it--certain threads of recollection about the blank
period, though they were so faint as to be almost nonexistent at first.
After he left Cambridge we didn't meet again for ten years--by that time
the threads had become a little less faint. It was my aim, when I came
to know Rainier again after the ten-year interval, to sort out those
threads, to disentangle them--to expand them, as it were, into a
complete corpus of memory."

"I understand. But you didn't succeed."

"Are you asking me that or telling me?"

"Both, in a way."

He said, smiling: "My expectation all along had been that his full
memory would eventually return--a little bit here, a little bit
there--till finally, like a key turning in a lock, or like the last few
pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, the whole thing would slip into position. But
I gather that it hasn't yet happened?"

"The bits are still being assembled, but nowhere near to completion."

"Tell me, Harrison, if I may ask the question--why are you taking such a
keen interest in this matter? Hardly within the scope of secretarial
duties.... Or _is_ it?"

"I like him and I hate to see him bothered by it as he still is. That's
the only reason."

"A good one."

"Now _you_ tell _me_ something--have you any theories about the blank
patch?"

"Theories? I can only guess it was a pretty bad time. He was injured, if
I remember rightly, just above the left parietal bone of the..." He
went off into a medical survey that conveyed nothing to me. "It was an
injury that would require operative treatment--perhaps a series of
operations. That's why its perhaps a pity that he still bothers, as you
say he does. Even if complete recollection were to return to him now, it
would probably be only of pain, unhappiness, boredom."

"On the other hand, even such memories might be better than an
increasing obsession about the loss of them?"

"Possibly."

We were silent for a time after that. Presently I said: "You know he was
taken prisoner by the Germans?"

"Oh yes. But German or English--all hospitals are unhappy places,
especially for a man who can't tell anyone who he is. I imagine the
Germans treated him namelessly or by error under someone else's name,
and eventually returned him to England under the same condition. Then
there would be other hospitals in England, full of experiences nobody
would wish to remember. There were a great many shell-shock and
loss-of-memory cases that took years--some of them are still taking
years, God help them. The whole thing happened so long ago I don't see
how we can ever expect to know all the details. Tell me _your_ theory,
if you have one."

"That's the trouble, I haven't."

"The real trouble, of course, is Mrs. Rainier."

Curious, the way people sooner or later led the talk to her. Freeman,
reticent at first about a former friend, saw no reason now to conceal
his opinion of a former friend's wife. "She's an unusual sort of woman,
Harrison."

"Well, he's not so usual, either."

"They get on well together? Is that your impression?"

I answered guardedly: "I think she makes a good politician's wife."

"And I suppose, by the same token, you think he makes a good
politician?"

"He has some of the attributes. Clever speaker and a good way with
people."

"When he's in the mood. He isn't always.... Did you ever hear about
the Bridgelow Antiquarian Dinner?"

I shook my head.

"It was--oh, several years ago. He was supposed to be helping the
candidate, and during the campaign we asked him to our annual
beano--strictly non-party--just a semi-learned society, with the accent
on the semi. I was president at the time, and Rainier was next to me at
the table. Halfway through his speech, which began pretty well, there
was a bit of a disturbance caused by old General Wych-Furlough fumbling
in late and apologizing--his car had broken down or something. He talked
rather loudly, like most deaf people, and of course it _was_ annoying to
a speaker, but the whole incident was over in a minute, most people
would have passed it off. Rainier, however, seemed to freeze up
suddenly, couldn't conceal the way he felt about it, finished his speech
almost immediately and left the table rather sooner than he decently
could. I went out with him for a moment, told him frankly I thought his
behavior had been rather childish--surely age and infirmity entitled
people to some latitude--it wasn't as if there'd been any intentional
discourtesy. He said then, in a rather panicky way: 'It wasn't that--it
was something in the fellow himself--something chemical, maybe, in the
way we react to each other.' I thought his explanation even more
peculiar than his behavior."

I checked myself from commenting, and Freeman, noticing it, said: "Go
on--what was it you were going to ask?"

"I was just wondering--is it possible he had one of those submerged
memories--of having met the General before?"

"I thought of that later on, but it didn't seem likely they could ever
have met. He didn't even know the General's name. And if they _had_ met
before, I still can't think of any reason for antagonism--the old boy
was just a fussy, simple-minded, stupid fellow with a distinguished
military career and a repertoire of exceptionally dull stories about
hunting."

"Was Mrs. Rainier at the dinner?"

"No, she wouldn't come to anything _I_ was president of--that's very
certain." He added, as if glad to get back to the subject: "A strange
woman. I'm not sure I altogether trust her--and that isn't because I
don't particularly like her. It's something deeper. She always seems to
me to be hiding something. I suppose it's part of my job to have these
psychic feelings about people.... You know about her famous parties?"

"Who doesn't? I've sampled them."

"Mind you, let's be fair. She's not a snob in the ordinary sense--I mean
about birth or money. Of course it would be too ridiculous if she
were--since she began with neither herself. But what exactly _is_ it
that she goes for? Brains? Celebrity? Notoriety? I went to Kenmore once,
and I must admit she plays the game loathsomely well. But all this
relentless celebrity-hunting and party-giving doesn't make a home--and
I'm damned if I know what it _does_ make."

"Some people say it's made Rainier's career."

"I've heard that too--from people who don't like him. The people who
don't like _her_ will tell you her methods have actually held him back.
Still, I don't deny she's a good mate for a man of affairs. The real
point is whether Rainier's life ought to be cluttered up with business
and politics at all."

"What do you mean?"

"Simply that I've always considered him--abstractly--one of the rare
spirits of our time, so that success of the kind he has attained and may
yet attain becomes a detestable self-betrayal."

"So you think the marriage was a mistake?"

"Not at all, if he felt he had to have that sort of life."

"What other sort of life _could_ he have had?"

"Out of my province to say. I'm talking about the _quality_ of the man,
not his opportunities. I suppose it wasn't his fault his father left him
a small industrial empire to look after--steelworks and newspapers and
interlocking holding companies and whatnot--all more or less bankrupt,
though people didn't know it at the time. Even the seat in Parliament
was a sort of family inheritance he had to take over."

"Like Miss Hobbs?"

"Yes, like _her_--just as idiotic but not so loyal. He only scraped in
by twelve votes last time.... But since you mention the Hobbs woman,
let me assure you she's a modernistic jewel compared with the old butler
they keep at Stourton... Sheldon, I think his name is."

"You don't like him either?"

Freeman shrugged. "It isn't that I mind his eccentric
impertinences--Scottish servants are like that and one takes it from
them--even Queen Victoria had to. What makes me really uncomfortable is
the same feeling I have about Mrs. Rainier--that he's hiding something."

"Maybe they're hiding something together?"

His smile was of another kind and did not answer mine. "You haven't been
to Stourton yet, have you? It's an amazing hiding place for anything
they've got to hide."

**

Miss Hobbs left during the week that followed and I settled down to the
task of becoming her successor. It was not quite as simple as she had
led me to believe. Rainier's interests were manifold; besides holding
directorships of important companies he was a member of many societies
and organizations--all this, of course, on top of his political work. I
had plenty to do, and he expected it done quickly and efficiently. We
had little chance to talk on other than business matters, and for the
time he seemed to have dropped completely the preoccupation that had
begun to interest me. One thing happened that I had not after Freeman's
remarks anticipated: Mrs. Rainier invited me to another of her lunch
parties. This time it was really _literary_, as she had promised
(Maurice Baring, Charles Morgan, Louis Bromfield, Henry Bernstein, Mrs.
Belloc Lowndes, H. G. Wells, and a pale young man whose name I have
forgotten who wrote highbrow detective novels whose names I have also
forgotten), and despite initial misgivings I found the whole affair
quite pleasant. Once more there was the empty chair for Rainier, if he
should turn up, but he failed to, and nobody seemed surprised. Again
also Mrs. Rainier asked me to stay a moment after the others had gone,
but now the request was less remarkable, since I had work in the same
house. "Can you spare time to look at my garden?" she said, leading me
to the back of the hall where the French windows were open.

We sauntered across the lawn to a door in the high surrounding wall;
unlocking it, she watched my face as I showed surprise, for within was a
second garden, not much bigger than a large room, but so enclosed by
trees and carpeted with flowers that one could hardly have believed it
to exist in the middle of a London borough. "It's a secret," she
confided. "I only show it to close friends--or to those who I hope are
going to be."

I murmured something polite that might equally have referred to her last
remark or to the garden itself.

"You see," she went on, "I never cared for Miss Hobbs. I don't think
Charles did, either, but he was too kind to get rid of her. If she told
you things against me, and I'm sure she did, just suspend judgment till
you know me better."

I went on saying polite things.

"You and Charles first met on a train, didn't you?" She stooped to a
vase. "One of those chance meetings--I've had them myself--when you tell
all your secrets to a perfect stranger because you're certain you'll
never meet him again.... Something like that?"

I said guardedly: "I don't know about secrets, but we certainly found it
easy to talk."

"And you like your work here?"

"Very much."

"I'm glad. It will be wonderful if you can really help Charles--apart
from just office work. He needs the right sort of companionship
sometimes--he has difficult moods, you know. Or perhaps you don't
know--_yet_. Anyhow, the thing to do is not to take him too seriously
when he has them." I waited for her to continue, knowing that she too
was waiting for me; even if I were willing to suspend judgment I was
also, like Freeman, unwilling to trust her completely. She suddenly
smiled. "Well, now you know _my_ secret. Keep it for me." And she added,
leading me back through the doorway: "_This_, I mean. It used to be the
place where the gardener threw all the rubbish. I planned it myself--I
do most of the work here still. Charles never looks in--hasn't time.
Hasn't time for my lunches either--not that I mind that so much, but I
do wish--sometimes--I'd find him sitting here--quietly--alone--like men
you sometimes see outside their cottages in the country--at peace. He
never is, you know."

I felt she would like to tell me something if I already knew enough to
make it advisable, but she wasn't certain I did know, so she hesitated.
I asked her why she thought he was never at peace.

"For one thing, he's so terribly overworked."

"Yes, I know, but apart from that?"

"Oh, well, it's hard for anyone to feel at peace these days. Don't you
think so?"

"What about the men you sometimes see outside their cottages in the
country?"

She smiled, suddenly on the defensive, sure now that I didn't know as
much as she had half suspected, and for that reason anxious not to give
me any further opening. "They're probably not really at peace at
all--just too old and tired to worry about things any more." As we
entered the house the social manner closed about her like the fall of a
curtain. "Now that we're becoming friends you must come to Stourton for
week-ends as soon as we open it up. There's a _real_ secret garden
there--I mean one that everybody knows about."

                          *        *        *

I hadn't expected Stourton to be quite so overwhelming. We drove there a
few weeks later in four Daimlers--"like a high-speed funeral," said
Rainier, who was in a macabre mood altogether; three of them packed with
luggage and servants from Kenmore, the first one containing ourselves
and an elegant young man named Woburn, who was coming to catalogue the
Stourton library. Most guests would arrive the following day--perhaps
twenty-odd: politicians, peers, actors, novelists, crack tennis players,
celebrities of all kinds. It was a warm morning and as we drove through
Reading and Newbury the sun broke through the haze and kindled the full
splendor of an English summer, with its ever-changing greens under a
dappled sky.

Presently we turned off the main road and curved for a mile between high
hedges; then suddenly, in a distant fold of the downs, a vision in
cream-colored stone broke through heavy parkland trees. Woburn, who had
not seen it before, joined me in a little gasp of admiration. "You were
intended to do that," said Rainier. "In fact the architect and
roadbuilder conspired about it two hundred years ago. My brother Julian,
who fancied himself as a phrase maker, once called it 'a stucco prima
donna making a stage entrance.' Now, you see, it goes out of sight."
Intervening upland obscured the house for another mile or so until, at a
new turn of the road, it reappeared so much more intimately that one
could only give it a nod of respectful recognition. "But here we are
again, and for the rest of the way we simply have to give it all the
stars in Baedeker." We swooped into the final half-mile stretch that
ended in a wide Palladian portico. "A house like this is like some kinds
of women--too expensive even to cast off. Of course what you really pay
for isn't the thing itself, but the illusion--the sense of ownership,
the intangible Great I Am. Nowadays a bankrupt illusion--the farms don't
pay, the hills that belong to me are just as free for anyone else to
roam over, the whole idea of _possessing_ this place is just a legal
fiction entitling me to pay bills. I think it would sooner possess me,
if I'd let it.... Hello, Sheldon."

Sheldon was waiting on the top step to welcome us. Neither plump nor
cadaverous, obsequious nor pompous, he shook the hand that Rainier
offered him, bowed to Mrs. Rainier, and gave Woburn and myself a faintly
appraising scrutiny until Rainier made the introductions. Then he said:
"Well, Mr. Harrison, if this is your first visit to Stourton it probably
won't be your last. Mr. Rainier keeps his secretaries a long time." The
remark struck me as rather offhandedly familiar as well as a somewhat
gauche reminder of Mrs. Rainier's former position, but there was a
general laugh, from which I gathered that Sheldon enjoyed privileges of
this kind, perhaps on account of age. He was certainly a well-preserved
antiquity, with an air of serene yet somehow guarded responsibility; in
different clothes he might have looked a cabinet minister, in
contradistinction to those cabinet ministers who, even in their own
clothes, look like butlers.

By the time I had been shown to my room in the East Wing (Stourton, like
every grand house of its period, had to have wings) the sun was almost
down over the rim of the hills and the slow magic of a summer twilight
was beginning to unfold; through my window the vista of formal gardens
and distant skyline was entrancingly beautiful. I was admiring it as
Rainier entered with Woburn, whom he had been showing round the library.
"I hope you don't object to views," he said. "I know it's the latest
artistic fad to consider them rather vulgar. I put in these large
windows myself, against all the advice of architects who said this sort
of house shouldn't have them. Otherwise, except for a few extra
bathrooms, I haven't touched the place."

Behind the two of them stood Sheldon, announcing that our baths were
ready; Rainier turned then and led us across the corridor into an
extraordinary room of Moorish design embellished with fluted columns and
Arabic gargoyles and a high domed ceiling. He watched our faces and
seemed to derive a certain satisfaction. "My father built this," he
explained, "as what he called an extra billiard room. He made the bulk
of his fortune during the Edwardian era, when the social hallmark was to
have a billiard room, and during the last year of the war, when money
was coming in so fast he didn't know what to do with it, he conceived
the idea of an _extra_ billiard room as a symbol of utter
superfluity.... At least, that's the only theory I can imagine. I
don't think a single game of billiards was ever played in it, and I
turned it into a bathhouse without any feeling of impiety." We passed
through the room, which was furnished with divans and sun-ray lamps,
into a further apartment containing a row of small but quite modern
cubicle bathrooms, three of which Sheldon was already preparing for our
use. "There were only four bathrooms in the entire house before I made
these," Rainier continued. "One was in the servants' quarters and
Sheldon had actually paid for it out of his own pocket. That gives you
some idea of the times, even as late as 1919." He added, after a pause
and another glance at our faces: "And of my father too--I know that's
what you're thinking. But it wasn't really niggardliness. He gave a
great deal during his lifetime to the more orthodox charities. What he
mostly suffered from were a few strikingly wrong notions. One of them
was doubtless that servants didn't need bathrooms. Another was that he
was really an English gentleman. And another was that the remaining saga
of mankind would be largely a matter of tidying up the jungle and making
the whole earth a well-administered English colony under a Liberal
government. I think when the war ended he assumed that's what was going
to be done to Germany."

"Maybe it should have been," said Woburn quietly. He had done little but
smile until then, and I noticed Rainier give him a look of sharpened
interest. Then we went into our respective cubicles, but the walls were
only neck-high and conversation rose easily with the steam. I could hear
Rainier and Woburn veering on to a political argument, while in my own
cubicle Sheldon, arranging towels, saw me notice the slightly brown
color of the water as it filled the tub. "Won't harm you," he remarked.
"We tell some of our guests it's due to mineral springs that are good
for rheumatism, but as you're one of the family I'll let you into a
family secret--_it's just the rust in the pipes_."

He was going out chuckling when I retorted, quite without secondary
meaning: "I hope all the family secrets are as innocent."

The chuckle ended sharply as he turned on me a look that evidently
reassured him, for his mouth slanted into a slow smile as he resumed his
exit. "I trust you will find them so, Mr. Harrison."

Meanwhile Rainier had come back to the subject of Stourton, and I heard
him saying to Woburn: "My father bought it after it had bankrupted the
Westondales, and the Westondales inherited it from ancestors who had
built it out of profits from the African slave trade. This made my
father's purchase almost appropriate, since my great-great-grandfather
made his pile out of the first steam-driven cotton mills in Lancashire.
You may imagine Stourton, therefore, peopled with the ghosts of Negroes
and little children."

**

A short while later we dressed and dined in the vast room that would
have seated fifty with ease, instead of our four selves. Mrs. Rainier, I
noticed, was particularly gracious to Woburn, whom she probably felt to
be shy in surroundings of such unaccustomed grandeur. There was talk of
how he would set about the library-cataloguing job; most of the books,
it appeared, had been taken over from the Westondales along with the
house. "My father was not a great reader, but he had a curious knack of
reading the right things. One day he read that some pine forests in
Hampshire were supposed to be healthy to live amongst, so he promptly
bought several hundred acres of them--on which part of Bournemouth now
stands. Quite an interesting man, my father. He played the cornet, and
he also cried over all Dickens's deathbed scenes--Little Nell and Paul
Dombey, especially. He liked to have them read to him, for preference,
and his favorite reader was an old governess of mine named Miss
Ponsonby, who hated him and used to come out of one of those tearful
sances muttering 'The old humbug!' But he _wasn't_ altogether a
humbug--at least no more than most of us are. I'm not quite certain
_what_ he was.... Somebody ought to write a really good biography of
him some day. He did have one written just before he died, but it was a
commissioned job and made him into a not very convincing plaster
saint--and, of course, it would be easy to write the other sort, showing
him as a sinister capitalistic villain.... But in between, somewhere,
is probably the truth--if anyone thought it worth while to make the
search."

"Why shouldn't Mr. Woburn try?" asked Mrs. Rainier.

"Not a bad idea, if he wants to. But let him finish the cataloguing
first. Ever write anything, Woburn?"

"A few stories, Mr. Rainier. You read one of them--probably you've
forgotten it--"

"Ah yes, of course. The one about the unfortunate Russian?"

Woburn nodded, and the somewhat mysterious reference was not explained.
After coffee Mrs. Rainier said she was tired and would go to bed;
Rainier mentioned letters he had to write; so there seemed nothing left
for Woburn and me but to pass the evening together, somehow or other.

Sheldon suggested the library, ushering us into the fine somber room
with a touch of evident pride, and obligingly switching on a radio in
time for the news summary of a Hitler speech delivered in Berlin earlier
that day. We listened awhile, then Woburn snapped off the machine with a
gesture--the meager residuum of protest to which modern man has been
reduced. "I hope there isn't a war this year," he remarked, as one
hoping the weather would stay fine. "You see, as soon as I finish this
job I have another with the Kurtzmayers--they have a big collection at
Nice and I daresay I shall spend all the autumn there--unless," he added
with a half-smile, "Mr. Hitler's plans interfere with mine." I smiled
back with a touch of the uncomfortableness that afflicts me when some
facetious travel-film commentator refers to "Mr. and Mrs. Hippopotamus"
and waits for the laugh. I was thinking of this, and also wondering how
a youngster like Woburn (at least ten years my junior) had managed to
establish this cataloguing racket amongst the rich and eminent, when he
disarmingly told me all about it. "It was the Rainiers who gave me an
introduction to the Kurtzmayers--they've been rather good at putting
things in my way."

I asked him how long he had known the Rainiers.

"Only a few months. And you?"

"About two years. I met him first--quite by accident--in a train."

"I met him first in a public library."

"By accident?"

"No, I had a job there and he came to see me. Mrs. Rainier sent him."

"_Mrs._ Rainier?"

"Yes, I met her before him. It was her idea I should do the Stourton
job--that's why she sent him to see me."

"I should have thought she'd have asked you to see him."

"So should I, but it seems he had a queer idea he wanted to see me first
without either of us knowing who the other was, so that if he didn't
like me the whole thing could be dropped."

"I see."

"Haven't you ever noticed that for all his glib speech and ease of
manner he's really shy of meeting new people--in a rather odd way?"

I said perhaps I had, and asked him how his own meeting had happened.

"He didn't have far to come--the library was only just across the river
in Lambeth. Of course I took him for just an ordinary visitor. He first
of all asked at the counter if we had any illustrated books on English
villages. It's the sort of vague request you fairly often get from
people, so I picked a few books off the shelves and left him at a table
with them. Presently he handed them back with a few words of thanks, and
out of politeness I then asked if he'd found what he'd been looking for.
He said, well no, not exactly--he'd just thought the pictures and
photographs in some illustrated book might happen to include one of a
place he'd once seen but had forgotten the name of. They hadn't though,
and it didn't matter."

"You must have thought it curious."

"Yes, but the really curious thing was that I'd just written a short
story based on a similar idea. He seemed quite interested when I told
him this and we talked on for a while--then finally he stared round
rather vaguely and said, 'I'm supposed to see a man who works here
called Woburn.' I said I was Woburn and he pretended to be surprised and
pleased, but somehow I felt he had known all the time, though his
pleasure seemed genuine. He then said his wife had talked about me and
thought I might do some cataloguing, and of course he had to say then
who he was. I told him I'd be very glad, and he said that was fine, he'd
let me know; then he shook hands hurriedly and left."

"Did he let you know?"

"Not immediately. After a few weeks I wrote to him, because I really
wanted the job if I could get it--I was only earning three pounds a
week. Of course I'd found out all about him in the interval--about his
Fleet Street interests--that's really why I sent him that short story
I'd written, because I thought maybe he'd pass it on to one of his
editors." Woburn smiled. "He returned it a few days later, without
comment, but said I could begin the cataloguing any time I liked."

"Tell me about the story."

"Oh, it was nothing much--just a rather feeble yarn about a Russian
soldier returning from the front after the Revolution."

"What happened to him?"

"Nothing exciting. He just roamed about the country trying to find where
he lived."

"Had he--had he lost his memory?"

"No, he was just a simple fellow--couldn't read and write--all he could
give was the name of the village and a description of it that might
equally have applied to ten thousand other Russian villages. The
government officials wouldn't bother with him, because he couldn't fill
out the proper forms, so he just had to go on wandering vaguely about
trying to find the place."

"And did he--eventually?"

"He was run over by a train and carried to a neighboring village where
he died without knowing that it actually was the one he'd been looking
for... of course you might have guessed that."

"Having read Gogol and Chekhov, I think I might."

"I know, it was just an imitation. I haven't any real originality--only
a technique. I suppose Rainier realized that. So I'd better stick to the
catalogues."

It seemed to me a courageous, but also a rather desolate thing for a
young writer to admit.

"Why not try the biography, if they give you the chance?"

"I might, but I doubt if it would work out. You can't be sure they'd
really _want_ anyone to be impartial. That's why it's an affectation of
Rainier's to run down his ancestors. A sort of inverted snobbery put on
to impress people because the direct kind isn't fashionable any
more.... Mind you, I like him _immensely_."

"And her?"

"Oh, she's marvelous, isn't she? The way she can remember dozens of
names when she introduces people...." I remembered Rainier had once
commented on that too. But Woburn added: "Rather a mistake, though, in
English life--never to make a mistake. Like knowing too much--such as
the names of all the states in America. Stamps one as a bit of an
outsider."

"You seem to have sized things up pretty well."

"Probably because I _am_ an outsider."

"So am I. So are most of the people who come here. So are half the names
in Debrett. Come to think about it, that's one healthy symptom of
English so-called society--its inside is full of outsiders."

"I suppose the Rainiers are outsiders--in a sense."

"Well, they haven't a title, but that makes no difference. Owning
Stourton's almost a title in itself."

"Yes, it's a wonderful place. There's an odd atmosphere here, though,
don't you think?"

"Do _you_ think so?"

"You don't know everything, you don't know everything--that's what the
place seems to say."

"Maybe those ghosts of Negroes and little children?"

"They haven't got any children, have they?"

"No."

"Did they ever have?"

"I don't know. One somehow doesn't get to know things like that."

"Do you think they're happy?"

Before I could attempt an answer we both turned sharply to see Sheldon
carrying in a tray with siphon, glasses, and whiskey decanter. "I
thought perhaps you two gentlemen might like to help yourselves, either
now or later." Without offering to serve us he placed the tray on a
table and walked out of the room, pausing at the door to deliver a
quizzical good-night.

We returned the salutation and then, as soon as the door closed, looked
at each other rather uneasily. "I didn't hear him come in," said Woburn,
after a pause. "He didn't knock."

"Good servants don't--except at bedroom doors."

"Oh? I don't know things like that. My mother never had a servant."

"Now who's being an inverted snob? My mother had _one_ servant, whom we
called the skivvy. That sets us both pretty equal so far as Stourton's
concerned."

"You probably went to a good school, though."

I mentioned the name of my school and agreed that it was generally
considered fairly good. "As good as Netherton, which is where Rainier
went. Anyhow, from a social angle, the main thing is the accent--which
you and I both seem to have. Nobody's going to ask us where we picked it
up."

"I don't mind if they do. I was at a board school up to the age of
twelve--then I won a scholarship to a suburban grammar school. I took a
London degree last year, working in the evenings. I never try to conceal
the truth."

"_Conceal_ it? I should think you'd boast about it."

"I suppose that's really what I _am_ doing. Will you have a drink?"

"Yes, please."

He began to mix them and presently, while working off a certain
embarrassment, added: "How does that fellow Sheldon strike you?"

I said I thought he was the kind of person one could avoid a decision
about by calling him a character. "Maybe the keeper of the family
skeleton," I added.

"No--because if there were one, Rainier would take a perverse delight in
dragging it out of the cupboard for everyone to stare at."

We laughed and agreed that that might well be so.

It was past eleven before we yawned our way upstairs. When I reached my
room I found it full of cool air and moonlight; in the vagrant play of
moving curtain shadows I did not at first see Rainier sitting by the
window in an armchair. He spoke as I approached: "Don't let me scare
you--I'm only admiring your view. It's exactly the same as mine, so that
isn't much of an excuse.... How did you and Woburn get along?"

"Quite well. I like him. An intelligent young fellow."

"Spoken with all the superiority of thirty to twenty?"

"No, I don't think so. I _do_ like him, anyhow."

"He's my wife's protg. She wants to see him get on in the world--made
me root him out of a municipal library to do this card-indexing
job.... Yes, he might go far, as they say, if there's anywhere far to
go these days."

"That's the trouble, and he probably realizes it as much as we do."

"Well, we can't change the world for him, but it's nice to have him
around--company for Helen, if nothing else. I like him too, for that
matter. I like most boys of his age--and of your age. Wish I had an army
of 'em."

"What would you do with an army of them?"

"Something better, I hope, than have them catalogue books or write
biographies of my ancestors." He read my thoughts enough to continue: "I
daresay you're rather surprised at my lack of enthusiasm for the family
tree. That may be because I didn't have a very satisfactory home life.
When I was a small boy my father was just something distant and booming
and Olympian--a bit of a bully in the house, or at least a bit of a
Bultitude (if you remember your _Vice-Versa_)--all of which made it
fortunate for the family that he wasn't much in the home at all. My
mother died when I was ten."

"But you liked _her_?"

"I loved her very dearly. She was a delicate, soft-voiced, kind-hearted,
sunny-minded, but rather helpless woman--but then most women would have
been helpless against my father. _He_ loved her, I've no doubt, in his
own possessive way. Perhaps a less loving and more thoughtful husband
would have sent her to a warmer climate during the winters, but my
father wasn't thoughtful--at best his thoughtlessness became comradely,
as when he insisted on taking her for brisk walks over the hills on
January days. It was a cherished saying of his that fresh air would blow
the cobwebs out of your lungs. It also blew the life out of my mother's
lungs, for it was after one of those terrible walks, during which she
gasped and panted while my father shouted Whitmanesque encouragement,
that she called in Sanderstead, our local doctor, who diagnosed t.b. My
father was appalled from that moment and spent a small fortune on all
kinds of cures, but it was too late--she died within the year, and my
father, I have since felt, promptly did something about her in his mind
that corresponded to winding up or writing off or some other operation
that happens even in the best financial circles."

He suddenly stood up and moved to the open window, staring out as if
facing something that challenged him. "Those are the hills where he made
her walk. You can see the line of them against the sky." Then he turned
abruptly and said he was sure I was tired and would want to go to bed.

I assured him I wasn't sleepy at all.

"But you came in yawning."

"Maybe, but I'm wide-awake now. The breeze is so fresh... You must
have hated your father."

He answered slowly: "Yes, I suppose I did. Freud would say so, anyhow.
But of course when I was a boy and even up to my undergraduate days
people only admitted the politer emotions."

"The war changed all that."

"Yes, indeed, and so many other things too."

He was silent for a moment; then I went on: "You once told me about a
certain day, sometime after the war ended, when you found yourself on a
park seat in Liverpool."

"When did I tell you that?" He controlled a momentary alarm, then added
with a smile: "Ah yes, I remember--in your rooms at St. Swithin's. I'm
always garrulous after public speeches.... Well, if I told you, you
know. That's how it was. And don't ask me about anything _before_ the
park seat because I can't answer."

"But how about _after_ the park seat?"

He seemed relieved. "_After?_ Oh, I can stand any amount of
cross-examination there--I'm on safe ground from about noon on December
27, 1919."

"I wish you'd begin your story there, then, and bring it up to date."

"But there _is_ no story--except my life story."

"That's what I'd like to hear."

"How I Made Good? From Park Seat to Parliament?"

"If you like to call it that."

He laughed. "It's mostly a lot of sordid business details and family
squabbles. You don't know the family, either."

"All the same, I wish you'd tell me. The effort of setting it all out
might even help you towards the other memory--if you're still anxious
for it."

I could see the response to that in his eyes as he entered the light
again.

"So you really think memory's like an athlete--keep it in training--take
it for cross-country runs? H'm, might be something in the idea. When do
we start?"

"Now, if you're not too sleepy. I'm not.... Go back to that park seat
in Liverpool."

"But I told you about that once."

"Tell me again. And then go on."

So he began, and as it makes a fairly long story, it goes better in the
third person.




PART TWO


He found himself lying on that park seat. He had opened his eyes to see
clouds and drenched trees, and to feel the drops splashing on his face.
After a while his position began to seem more and more odd, so he raised
himself to a sitting angle, and was immediately aware of sodden clothes,
stiff limbs, a terrific headache, and a man stooping over him. His first
thought was that he must have been drunk the night before, but he soon
rejected it, partly because he could not remember the night before at
all, partly because he somehow did not think he was the sort of young
man to have had that sort of night, but chiefly because of a growing
interest in what the man stooping over him was saying. It was a kind of
muttered chorus--"That's right, mister--take it easy. Didn't 'ardly
touch yer--it was the wet roadway, you sort o' slipped. Cheer up,
mister, no bones broke--you'll be all right--wouldn't leave you 'ere, I
wouldn't, if I didn't know you'd be all right...."

Presently, suggested by the muttered chorus and supported by the fact
that his clothes were not only sopping wet but also muddied and torn,
another hypothesis occurred to him--that he had been run down by a car
whose driver had brought him into the park and was now leaving him
there.

But _where_? His brain refused an answer, and when pressed offered a
jumble of memories connected only with war--shellfire for headaches, a
smashed leg for stiffness, no man's land for all the mud and rain in the
world.

He stood up, feeling dizzy, swayed and almost fell. The man had gone,
was now nowhere to be seen. Then he noticed he had been lying down on
sheets of newspaper. He stooped to peel one off the seat, hoping it
might afford some clue, but the top of the page that would have
contained a name and date was an unreadable mush, and the rest was
rapidly softening under the heavy rain. He peered at it, nevertheless,
searching for some helpful word or phrase before the final
disintegration. Most of the letterpress seemed to be news about floods
and flood damage--rescues from swollen rivers, people stranded in upper
floors, rowboats in streets, and so on.

Then suddenly his eyes caught a paragraph headed "Rainier Still in
Germany"--one of those mock-cheerful items that tired sub-editors put in
to fill an odd corner--something about soaked holiday crowds taking
comfort from the thought that somebody somewhere was faring even worse.

Now it is curious how one's own name, or the name of one's home, or a
word like "cancer," will sometimes leap out of a page as if it were
printed in red ink. It was like that for the young man as he staggered
through the deserted park towards a gate he could see in the distance.
_Rainier Still in Germany_--_Rainier Still in Germany_. It was a
challenge, something he had to answer; and the answer came.
"_Impossible_--I'm _here_, reading a newspaper, and the newspaper's in
English--therefore this can't be Germany."

Presently he passed through the park gate into a busy thoroughfare. A
tram came along, mud-splashed to its upper windows and sluicing swathes
of water from the rails to the gutters. It was difficult to see through
the spray of mud and rain, but on the side of the tram as it passed by
he could just read the inscription--"Liverpool City Corporation."

He walked along by the high railings till the park came to an end and
shops began. Meanwhile he had been feeling in his pockets, finding
money--coins and several treasury notes, amounting in all to over four
pounds. Reaching a news agent's shop he went inside and asked for a
paper.

"_Post_ or _Courier_, sir?"

"Doesn't matter."

A paper was handed over. "Looks like you've had a fall, sir? Terribly
slippery after all this rain.... Like me to give you a bit of a
brush?"

"Er... thanks."

"Why, you're wet through--if I was you I'd get home and to bed as quick
as I could. Like me to get you a cab?"

"No, that wouldn't help. I don't live here. But if there's a tailor
nearabouts--"

"Two doors ahead, sir. He'll fix you up. Say I sent you."

"Thanks."

He walked out, glancing at the paper as he did so. He saw that the date
was December 27, 1919.

So now he knew three important things: _Who_, _Where_, and _When_.

**

Two hours later Charles Rainier was in a train to London. He had had a
hot bath and a meal; his clothes did not fit well, but were dry; and
after a lightning headache-cure across a chemist's counter he felt
somewhat drowsily relieved.

Beside him were several more newspapers and magazines. As it was the end
of December, some contained rsums of the events of 1919; and these at
first he had found very astonishing. Biggest of all surprises was to
find that the war had been over for more than a year and had ended in
complete victory for the Allies; this was surprising because his last
recollected idea on the subject had been that the Allies were just as
likely to lose. But that dated back to a certain night in 1917 when he
lay in a shell hole near Arras, half delirious with the pain of a
smashed leg, watching shell after shell dig other holes round about him,
until finally one came that seemed to connect by a long dark throbbing
corridor with his headache that morning.

Charles arrived in London towards dusk, in time to catch the last train
that would get him to Stourton that night. The train was late in
reaching Fiveoaks, which is the station for Stourton, and three miles
away from it, as anyone knows who has ever received a letter on Stourton
notepaper. From Fiveoaks he walked, because all the cabs were taken
before he reached the station yard, and also because he hoped the cold
air might clear that still-surviving headache. He was glad they were
putting out the lamps as he gave up his ticket at the barrier, so that
the collector did not recognize him.

He realized that his return was bound to come as a shock, and he hardly
knew what reason he could give anyone for his long and peculiar absence;
he hardly knew yet what reason he could give himself. He was puzzled,
too, by an absence of joy in his heart at the prospect of home and
familiar faces; more than by any excitement he was possessed by a deep
and unutterable numbness of spirit, a numbness so far without pain yet
full of the hint of pain withdrawn and waiting.

Presently he turned off the main road. He remembered that turn, and the
curve of the secondary road over the hill to the point where suddenly,
in daylight, the visitor caught his first glimpse of the house. Often,
as a boy, he had met such visitors at Fiveoaks, hoping that when they
reached that particular point of the drive they would not be so immersed
in conversation as to miss the view.

Now when he came to the view there was nothing to see, nothing to hear
but an owl hooting, nothing to feel but the raw air blowing from the
uplands.

He was glad he had sent no wire to tell them of his arrival. He had
refrained because he felt the shock might be greater that way than if he
were to see Sheldon first, and also because he hardly knew how much or
how little to say in a wire; but now he perceived another advantage in
not having sent any message--it preserved for a few extra minutes the
curious halfway comfortableness of being alive only in the first person
singular.

Towards midnight he reached the wrought-iron gates of the main entrance;
they were closed and locked, of course, but there was a glow in one of
the adjacent windows, and as he approached the small square-built lodge
a gap in a curtain revealed a lighted Christmas tree. Odd, because he
remembered Parsloe as a tight-fisted bachelor unlikely to spend money on
that sort of thing--unless, of course, he had married in the interval;
but that was odder still to contemplate--Parsloe married!

It was not Parsloe, however, who opened the door to his persistent
ringing, but a half-dressed stranger--middle-aged, suspicious,
challenging.

"Well, young man?"

"I'd like to go up to the house, if you'll let me through."

"We don't admit anyone, not without you give your name and business."

"I know, but you see..." He hesitated, realizing the difficulties
ahead--his story, told cold with no corroborations, would sound sheerly
incredible. Eventually he added, rather weakly: "If Parsloe were here,
he'd know me."

"Maybe he would, but he ain't here--having been dead these fifteen
months. You'd better be off, sir, dragging people out of bed at this
hour."

The "sir" was some progress anyway; a social acknowledgment that, drunk
or sober, honest or fraudulent, at least one had the right accent.

"Perhaps I could see Sheldon, then--"

"You can't disturb Mr. Sheldon either--especially now."

"You mean there's a party?" (Of course there would be--there were always
big parties at Stourton through Christmas and New Year.)

Suddenly the question: "You wouldn't be Dr. Astley, by any chance?"

Charles was about to ask who Dr. Astley was when he thought better of it
and replied hastily, perhaps too hastily: "Yes, that's who I am."

But the lodgekeeper was still suspicious. Moving over to a telephone
just inside the door, he wound up the instrument, listened, then began
muttering something inaudible. Afterwards he turned to beckon Charles
inside. "Mr. Sheldon says he'd like a word with you first, sir."

"Certainly. I'll be glad of one with him, too."

Good old Sheldon--taking no chances. The voice at the other end was
impersonally wary. "Dr. Astley? Have you come alone?"

No need to say anything but: "Sheldon, it isn't Dr. Astley--whoever he
is. It's Charles--you know, _Charles_."

"_Charles?_"

"Charles who was... Oh, God, I don't want to have to go into all
that, but remember the Left-Handed Room?... _That_ Charles."

"Mr. Charles?"

"Yes--Yes!"

Long pause. Then: "I'll--I'll come along--immediately--if--if you'll
wait there--for me."

"Good--but first of all say something to this fellow--he thinks I'm a
fake. Don't tell him anything--just say it's all right."

He handed the receiver to the lodgekeeper, who took it, listened a
moment, then hung up with more puzzlement than satisfaction. "Well, sir,
you'd better wait here, seeing as how Mr. Sheldon says so."

"Thanks. And please understand that I don't blame you in the least. One
can't be too careful."

Somewhat mollified, the man brought forward a chair, then accepted a
cigarette that Charles proffered. "Marsh is my name, sir. If you're a
friend of the family, you'll know of course there's no parties this year
on account of old Mr. Rainier being ill."

"_Ill?_ No, I--er--I didn't know that."

"That's why I thought you might be Dr. Astley. He's a London doctor
they're expecting."

"But what about Sanderstead?"

"Dr. Sanderstead wanted to consult with Dr. Astley, sir."

"Sounds serious."

"Yes, sir, I'm afraid so. Of course he's an old man, getting to be. It's
his heart."

"Where's the family?"

"They're all here, sir, except Mrs. Jill and Mr. Julian."

"Where are they?"

"On their way back from abroad, I think, sir."

Strange to be edging one's way into such realizations. The sick man was
his father, and yet, somehow, the springs of his emotion were dried up,
could offer nothing in response to the news but an intensification of
that feeling of numbness. He went on smoking thoughtfully. Really, when
he came to think of it, Sheldon was the person he came nearest to any
warm desire to see.... Marsh continued after a pause: "I could get
you a nip of something, sir, if you wanted. It'll take Mr. Sheldon
twenty minutes at least to come down--all the cars are locked up, and
it's a good mile to walk."

(As if he didn't know it was a good mile to walk!) He answered: "That's
not a bad idea."

Marsh went to an adjoining room and came back with two stiff drinks.
"Thought you looked a bit pale, sir, that's why I suggested it."

"_Do_ I look pale?"

"Just a bit, sir. Or maybe it's the light."

Charles walked over to a near-by mirror and stood for a moment examining
himself. Yes--there was a queer look; one could call it pallor, for want
of an exacter word. Actually, he felt overwhelmingly tired, tired after
the long and troubled journey, tired after that knock on the head in the
early morning, tired after something else that was
difficult--impossible--to analyze. He sipped the whiskey and relaxed as
he felt it warming him. "By the way, Marsh--it's some time since I was
here last... any particular changes? You told me of one of them just
now, for instance--Parsloe dead. Anything else?"

"You mean among the staff, sir? I've only been here fifteen months."

"Well, the staff or--oh, anything." He hardly liked to ask direct
questions.

"There's been a few changes in the house, sir--maybe you'll notice. Mr.
Rainier pulled down the old billiard room and built two new ones."

"_Two_ new billiard rooms? Good God!"

"Well, one of them isn't much used. There's just a table in it, in case
anyone wants to play. And of course since Mr. Rainier took ill--"

"He's been ill a long time?"

"Six months, sir, just about. Sort of gradual, it's been..."

And so on; so that when, eventually, the knock came at the door and
Marsh opened it, recognition was silent, tight-lipped, almost wordless
till they were alone together. Just "Hello, Sheldon"--and "Good
evening!"

Leaving Marsh more puzzled than before, they turned into the darkness of
the long curving drive. Out of earshot Charles stopped a moment, feeling
for the other's hand and shaking it rather clumsily.

"Sorry to be sentimental, Sheldon, but that's how glad I am to see you.
Matter of fact, it's too dark to see you, but I've a feeling you look
exactly the same."

"I--I can't quite collect myself yet, Mr. Charles--but--I--I'd like to
be the first to--to congratulate you!"

"Thanks--though I don't know whether congratulation's quite the word."

"It's so--extraordinary--to have you back with us. I can hardly believe
it--"

"Neither can I, Sheldon, so don't press me for details. All I can tell
you is that I was in Liverpool this morning--and don't ask why
Liverpool, because I don't know any more than you. But I had some money
as well as the devil of a headache from having been run down by a car,
maybe... that's all the evidence, so help me God. Before that I can't
remember a thing since--since all sorts of things I don't _want_ to
remember--the war--lying between the lines with shells bursting...
years ago, I realize. There's a sort of dark corridor between then and
this morning--don't ask me about that, either. What you and I've got to
decide now is how to go about the job of reintroducing me, as it
were.... Any ideas?"

"If you'll give me a little time, Mr. Charles--I'm still rather--"

"I know--bumfoozled is the word old Sarah used to use."

"Fancy you remembering that."

"What's happened to her?"

"She's still living in the village. Of course she's very feeble."

"Poor old girl.... And too bad about Parsloe--how did that happen?"

"Pneumonia after the flu. Very sudden. We had quite an epidemic about a
year ago."

"The new man seems all right."

"Marsh? Oh yes. Used to be one of the gardeners."

"Don't remember him.... God, what are we gossiping like this for?"

"Just what I was thinking, sir, because there _are_ more important
things I must tell you about. I'm afraid you'll find the house in a
rather disturbed condition--"

"I know. I realize I couldn't have turned up at a more awkward
moment--in some ways. Much rather have come when it's quiet--nobody
here--"

"You mean the family?"

"Well yes--bit of a problem, how to let them know."

"We have to face it, sir."

"_They_ have to face it, you mean."

"Naturally they'll be delighted to see you once they get over the--the
surprise."

"The surprise of finding I'm still alive?"

"Well, after such an interval, and with no news--"

"I know. For God's sake don't think I'm blaming anybody."

"May I say, sir, speaking for myself--"

"I know, I know, and I'm grateful--think it was marvelous the way you
kept your head in front of Marsh. Of course he'll have to know soon,
like everybody else, but I was glad you postponed the--er--the
sensation. Funny... when I wanted to say something over the telephone
that would make you know I was genuine and yet wouldn't mean a thing to
him, the only thing I could think of was the Left-Handed Room--remember
how we used to call it that because the door opened the other way?"

"You remember those days very clearly, sir."

"So clearly it's like--like headlamps along a road on a dark night.
_Too_ clearly, that is--everything a bit out of focus. It'll all come
right, I daresay."

"I hope so, sir."

"Well, let's not talk about it.... We've got this other problem to
settle, and my suggestion is what we always used to say when we were
kids--leave it to Sheldon."

"I was about to suggest that too."

"Well, go ahead--any way you like. And in the meantime if you'll find me
a bedroom that's a bit off the map I'll get a good night's sleep before
making my bow at the breakfast table."

"I'm afraid--er--Mr. Rainier doesn't come down to breakfast nowadays."

"I know, Marsh said he was ill. I'm sorry. You'd better go easy when you
tell him--the shock, I mean." He caught Sheldon's glance and interpreted
it. "Don't worry about me, Sheldon--I know you're thinking I'm not
behaving according to formula, but I can't help it--I'm too dead tired
to face any reunions tonight."

After a pause Sheldon answered: "I doubt if there _is_ any formula for
what you must be feeling, Mr. Charles. I could give you a bed in my own
apartments if that would suit."

"Excellent.... Thank heaven something's settled.... Been having
decent weather here lately?"

"Fairly, sir, for the time of the year. I noticed the barometer's
rising."

"Good. It was raining in Liverpool this morning."

**

He slept a heavy troubled sleep, full of dreams he could not clarify,
but which left him vaguely restless, unsatisfied. December sunlight
waked him by pouring on to his bed; he stared round, wondering where he
was, then remembering. But he could not recognize the room--somewhere in
the servants' wing, he supposed, and he confirmed this by leaning up to
the window. The central block of Stourton faced him grandly across the
courtyard--there was the terrace, the big curving windows of the dining
room, the East Wing with its corner turret. The spectacle found and
fitted into a groove of his mind--somehow like seeing a well-known place
and deciding it was reasonably like its picture postcards.... He was
still musing when Sheldon came in with a tray.

"Good morning, Mr. Charles. I brought you some tea."

"Thanks."

"The barometer's still rising. Did you sleep well?"

"Pretty well. What time is it?"

"Eight o'clock. The family usually begin to come down about nine, but
perhaps this morning--we stayed up rather late, you see... on the
other hand, they may be anxious...."

"I understand. You can't ever be certain how people will react, can
you?"

"No, sir."

"You should have brought an extra cup for yourself. Sit down and tell me
all about it. What time did _you_ go to bed? You look fagged out."

"To tell you the truth, I haven't been to bed at all. There were so many
things to do--I had to talk to Dr. Sanderstead--and then your
clothes--you'd hardly wish to wear them again, I think."

"No?"

"I took the liberty of borrowing a suit from Mr. Chetwynd--"

"Look here, never mind about all that--let's have first things first.
You told them all?"

"Not your father, sir--but I told the others."

"How did they take it?"

"They were naturally surprised--in fact they could hardly believe me at
first."

"And then?"

"Well, I suppose they _did_ believe me--eventually. They expect to see
you at breakfast."

"Good... but you say you haven't yet told my father?"

"That was why I went to see Dr. Sanderstead--to ask his advice."

"Ah yes, of course. You always think of the sensible things, Sheldon."

"He was rather troubled about the danger of giving the old gentleman a
shock--he says he'd like to have a talk with you about it first."

"All right, if he says so."

"I also took the liberty of telephoning to Mr. Truslove."

"Truslove?"

"It seemed to me that--er--he ought to be informed also, as soon as
possible."

"Well, maybe that's sensible too, though it hadn't occurred to me....
How about a bath?"

"Already waiting for you--if you'll follow me."

"What about the servants, if I meet any of them?"

"They don't know yet, except Wilson and Lucas--I shall call the others
together during the morning and tell them. And Mr. Truslove will be here
for lunch--along with Dr. Sanderstead and Dr. Astley from London."

By that time they were at the door of the bathroom. "Quite elegant,
Sheldon--new since I was here, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir."

"From which I gather the family income remains--er--not so bad?"

A wrinkled smile. "Like the barometer, sir--still rising...."

He bathed, smoked a cigarette, and put on the clothes Sheldon had laid
out for him. Brown tweeds--Chet had always favored them, and they fitted
pretty well--as children he and Chet could generally wear each other's
suits. And a Netherton tie--trust Sheldon to think of details.
_Netherton_; and a whole cloud of memories assailed him suddenly:
strapping on cricket pads in front of the pavilion; strawberries and
cream in the tuckshop; the sunlight slanting into the chapel during
Sunday services; hot cocoa steaming over the study gas ring in
wintertime; the smell of mud and human bodies in a Rugby scrum....
Netherton. And then Cambridge. And then the cadet school. And then
France. And then... the full stop.... He controlled himself,
leading his thoughts back from the barrier, gently insinuating them into
the immediate future. He found he could best do this by adopting a note
of sardonic self-urging: come along--trousers, waistcoat, tie, shoes,
coat--button up for the great family reunion. "All aboard for the
Skylark"--which set him recollecting holidays with his mother as a small
boy--never with his father; his father had always been too busy. They
used to rent a house at Brighton, in Regency Square, taking servants
with them--Miss Ponsonby and a maid named Florrie, and every morning
they would walk along the front not quite as far as Portslade, turning
back so inevitably that Portslade became for him a sort of mysterious
place beyond human access--until, one afternoon while his mother was
having a nap, he escaped from the house and reached Portslade a
dauntless but somewhat disappointed explorer.

"I hope the clothes will do for the time being, Mr. Charles."

"Fine--just a bit loose in front. Chet must be putting on weight."

"I'll have a talk with Mr. Masters sometime today. He has your old
measurements, but it might be safer to have him visit you again."

"Much safer, I'm sure. You think I've changed a lot, Sheldon?"

"Not in appearance, sir. You look very fit."

"And yet there _is_ a difference?"

"In your manner, perhaps. But that's natural. It's a nervous strain one
can well understand after all you've been through."

"I'd understand it better if I knew what I _have_ been through. But
never mind that. Time for breakfast."

He walked across the courtyard, entering the house from the terrace. No
one had yet appeared; the usual new-lit fire was burning, the usual blue
flames distilling a whiff of methylated spirit from under the copper
dishes. The _Morning Post_ and _Times_ on the little table. A cat on the
hearthrug--a new cat, who looked up indifferently and then resumed a
comprehensive toilet. Wilson was standing by the dishes, trying hard to
behave as if the return of a long-lost son were one of the ordinary
events of an English household.

"Good morning, Mr. Charles."

"Morning, Wilson."

"What can I get you, sir? Some kedgeree--or ham and
eggs--kipper--kidneys--"

"Suppose I have a look."

He eased a little of his embarrassment by the act of serving himself. He
knew Wilson must be staring at him all the time. As he carried his plate
back to the table he said: "Well, it's good to be back." It was a remark
without meaning--a tribute to a convention that did not perfectly fit,
like Chetwynd's clothes, but would do for the time being.

"Yes, indeed, sir. Very glad to see you again."

"Thanks." And he opened _The Times_, the dry and crinkly pages engaging
another memory. "You still warm the paper in front of the fire, Wilson?"

"Yes, sir. I always had to when Mr. Rainier used to come down--it's got
to be a sort of habit, I suppose."

"Queer how one always associates big things with little things. I get
the whole picture of my childhood from the smell of toasted printer's
ink."

"Yes, sir."

He ate his ham and eggs, scanning the inside news page. Trouble in
Europe--the usual Balkan mix-up. Trouble in Ireland, and that was usual
too--British officers assassinated. Not much of a paper after the
holiday--never was. The usual chatty leader about Christmas, full of
Latin quotations and schoolmasterly facetiousness--dear old _Times_. A
long letter from somebody advocating simplified spelling--God, were they
still at that? Now that the war was over, it seemed both reassuring and
somehow disappointing that England had picked up so many old threads and
was weaving them into the same pattern.

Then Chetwynd, eldest of the brothers, began the procession.

"Hello, old chap, how are you?"

(What a thing to say! But still, what else?)

(Miss Ponsonby, his old governess, had once adjured him: When people say
"How are you?" the correct answer is "How are _you_?" If you tell them
how you are, you show yourself a person of inferior breeding.... "But
suppose, Miss Ponsonby," he had once asked, "you really _want_ to know
how somebody else is, mustn't they ever tell you?")

However he answered: "Hello, Chet. How are _you_?"

"Want you to meet my wife, Lydia.... Lydia... this is Charlie."

An oversized good-looking woman with small, rather hostile eyes.

And then Julia, plumper than when he had seen her last, but still the
same leathery scarecrow--red-complexioned, full of stiff outdoor
heartiness.

"Hel_lo_, Charles! Sheldon told us _all_ about it, and it's just too
_won_derful. I can't _tell_ you how--"

But then, as he kissed her, the fire went out like a damp match and they
neither of them knew what to say to each other. He and Chet almost
collided in their eagerness to serve her with food; Chet beat him to it;
he slipped back into his chair.

"Kidneys, Julia?"

"Only scrambled eggs, please, Chet."

"Not even a little piece of bacon?"

"No, really, Chet."

"Any news of Father this morning?"

"I saw one of the nurses as I came down--she said he'd had a fairly good
night and was about the same."

"Oh good.... Quite sure about the bacon, Julia?"

"Quite sure."

"Charles, what about you while I'm here? You don't seem to have much on
your plate."

"Nothing more for me, thanks."

"Well, must be my turn then, and I don't mind admitting I'm hungry.
Thrilling events always take me that way.... Too bad Father's
ill--we'd have had a party or something to celebrate."

"I'm sorry he's ill, but not for that reason, I assure you."

"No? Well..." Chet came to the table with his plate, having
deliberately delayed at the sideboard till he heard the voices of others
approaching. Now he looked up as if in surprise. "Morning, George....
Morning, Bridget...."

George, a nervous smile on his plump moustached face; Bridget, the
youngest of the family, sweet and shy, always ready to smile if you
looked at her or she thought you were likely to look at her. George's
wife Vera, and Julia's husband... an introduction necessary
here--"Charles, this is Dick Fontwell"--"Ahdedoo, ahdedoo"--a tall,
long-nosed fellow who threw all his embarrassment into a fierce
handshake.

Breakfast at Stourton was a hard meal at the best of times, only
mitigated by ramparts of newspapers and unwritten permission to be as
morose as one wished. But this morning they all felt that such normal
behavior must be reversed--everybody had to talk and go on talking.
Charles guessed that they were all feeling as uncomfortable as he, with
the additional drawback of having had less sleep. During the interchange
of meaningless remarks about the weather, the news in the paper,
Christmas, and so on, he meditated a little speech which he presently
made to them when Wilson had left to bring in more coffee.

He began, clearing his throat to secure an audience: "Er... I really
do feel I owe you all sorts of explanations, but the fact is, this whole
business of coming back here is in many ways as big a mystery to me as
it must be to you--I suppose loss of memory's like that--but what I _do_
want to tell you is that in spite of all the mystery I'm a perfectly
normal person so far as everyday things are concerned--I'm not ill, you
don't have to be afraid of me or treat me with any special
consideration.... So just carry on here as usual--I'm anxious not to
cause any additional upset at a moment when we're all of us bound to be
upset anyhow."

He hoped that was a helpful thing to have said, but for a moment after
he had finished speaking he caught some of their eyes and wondered if it
had been wise to say anything at all. Then Bridget leaned over and
touched his hand.

"That's all right, Charles."

Chet called out huskily from the far end of the table: "Quite
understand, old chap. We're all more pleased than we can say, God bless.
Of course with the old man being ill we can't exactly kill the fatted
calf, but--but--"

"I'll consider it killed," he interrupted, just as Wilson arrived with
more coffee. They all smiled or laughed, and the situation seemed eased.

Dr. Sanderstead had been expected for lunch, but he arrived a good deal
earlier, along with Dr. Astley. Sanderstead was a wordy, elderly, fairly
efficient general practitioner who could still make a good living out of
his private patients, leaving a more efficient junior partner to take
care of the rest. He had been the Stourton doctor ever since the family
were children. Accompanied by the London heart specialist, whose
herringbone tweeds for a country visit were almost too formally
informal, he spent over an hour in the sickroom, after which Astley left
and gave him a chance to talk to Charles alone.

They shook hands gravely, then at the doctor's suggestion began walking
in the garden. Five minutes were occupied by a seesaw of
congratulations, expressions of pleasure, thanks, and acknowledgments.
Charles became more and more silent as these proceeded, eventually
leading to a blank pause which Sanderstead broke by exclaiming: "Don't
be afraid I'm going to ask you questions--none of my business, anyhow.
Sheldon told me all that you told him--it's a very peculiar case, and I
know very little about such things. There are some who claim to, and if
you wished to consult--"

"At the moment, no."

"Well, I don't blame you--get settled down first, not a bad idea. All
the same, though, if ever you want--"

"That's very kind of you, but I'd rather you tell me something about my
father."

"I was coming to that. I'm afraid he's quite ill."

They walked on a little way in silence; then Sanderstead continued: "I'm
sure the first thing you wished to do on coming back to us in
this--er--remarkable way was to see him, and for that reason I'm
grateful to you for deferring the matter at my request."

Charles did not think there was any particular cause for gratitude. He
said: "Tell me frankly how things are."

"That's what I want to talk to you about. In a man of his age, and
suffering from his complaint, complete recovery can't exactly be counted
on--but we can all hope for some partial improvement that will enable
him to--to--face a situation which will undoubtedly give him a great
deal of pleasure once the initial shock has been--er--overcome."

Charles was beginning to feel irritated. "You don't have to break things
gently with _me_, Sanderstead. What you're hinting at, I take it, is
that my father shouldn't learn of my existence till he's a good deal
better than he is at present."

"Well--er--perhaps--"

"To save you the trouble of arguing the point, I may as well tell you I
entirely agree and I'm willing to wait as long as you think fit."

"I don't know how to express my appreciation--"

"You don't have to. Naturally I'd like to see my father, but if you say
he's not well enough, that settles it. After all this time I daresay we
can both wait a bit longer."

They did not talk much after that. Charles was aware he had rumpled the
doctor's feelings by not living up to the conventional pattern of a
dutiful son; but he began to feel increasingly that he could not live up
to any conventional pattern, still less could he be "himself," whatever
that was; all he could do was to cover his inner numbness with a faade
of slightly cynical objectivity. It was the only attitude that didn't
seem a complete misfit.

A further problem arose later in the morning, but Sheldon broached it,
and somehow he found it easier to talk to _him_.

"Dr. Sanderstead tells me you've agreed to his suggestion that for the
time being--"

"Yes, I agreed."

"I'm afraid that opens up another matter, sir. Now that the servants
know--which of course is inevitable--I don't see how we can prevent the
story from leaking out."

"I don't suppose you can, nor do I see why you should. I'm not breaking
any local bylaws by being alive, am I?"

"It isn't that, Mr. Charles, but your father sometimes asks to see a
paper, and I'm afraid that once the story gets around it'll attract
quite a considerable amount of attention."

"Headlines, you mean?"

"Yes, sir."

"I wouldn't like that for my own sake, let alone my father's."

"It would doubtless be very unpleasant. A young man from the _Daily
Post_ was on the telephone just now."

"_Already?_ Well, if they think they're going to make a national hero of
me, they're damn well mistaken. I won't see _anybody_."

"I'm afraid that might not help, sir. It's their job to get the news and
they usually manage it somehow or other."

"Well, what do you suggest?"

"I was thinking that if somebody were to explain the matter personally
on the telephone, giving the facts and using Mr. Rainier's state of
health as ground for the request--"

"You mean get in touch with all the editors?"

"No, not the editors, sir--the owners. You see Mr. Rainier has a large
newspaper interest himself, and that makes for a certain--"

"Owns a paper, does he? I never knew that."

"It was acquired since your time, sir. The _Evening Record_."

"Well, if you think it'll do any good, let's try. Who do you think
should do the talking--George or Chet? Better Chet, I'd say."

"Well yes, Mr. Chetwynd would perhaps explain it more convincingly than
Mr. George. But what I really had in mind--"

"Yes?"

"Lord Borrell has stayed here several times, sir--bringing his valet, a
very intelligent man named Jackson. So I thought perhaps if I were to
telephone Jackson--"

An hour later Chet came up to Charles with a beaming smile.

"Everything fixed, old boy. Sheldon wangled it through Borrell of the
International Press--there won't be a word anywhere. Censorship at
source. Borrell was puzzled at first, but eventually he said he'd pass
the word round. All of which saves me a job, God bless."

So the story, which became one for curious gossip throughout the local
countryside as well as in many a London club, was never hinted at by
Fleet Street. The only real difficulty was with the editor of the
_Stourton and District Advertiser_, a man of independent mind who did
not see why he should not offer as news an item of local interest that
was undoubtedly true and did not libel anybody. A personal visit by
Chetwynd to the landlord of the premises in which the _Advertiser_
housed its printing plant was necessary before the whole matter could be
satisfactorily cleared up.

Charles spent the morning in a wearying and, he knew, rather foolish
attempt to play down the congratulations. Every servant who had known
him from earlier days sought him out to say a few halting, but
demonstrably sincere words. It rather surprised as well as pleased him
to realize that he had been remembered so well; but the continual
smiling and handshaking became a bore. There were new faces too, recent
additions to the Stourton staff, whom he caught staring at him round
corners and from doorways. They all knew his story by now and wished to
see the hero of it; the whole thing was doubtless more exciting than a
novel because more personal in their lives, something to save up for
relatives when they wrote the weekly letter or took their next day off.

Once, on his way through the house, he passed the room on the first
floor where his father lay ill. It was closed, of course, but the door
of an adjoining room was open, and through it he could see two young
nurses chatting volubly over cups of tea. They stared as he went by, and
from that he knew that they too had heard and were excited over the
news.

When he appeared at lunch, he found Sanderstead and Truslove in the
midst of what was evidently a sharp argument. Truslove was the family
solicitor, a sallow sharp-faced man in his late fifties. During the
little hiatus of deferential how-d'ye-dos and handshaking, the doctor
and the lawyer continued to glare at each other as if eager to make an
end of the truce. It came as soon as Charles said: "Don't let me
interrupt your talk."

"What I was saying, Mr. Charles," resumed Truslove, eager for an ally,
"is that the problem has a legal as well as a medical side. Naturally
one would prefer to spare your father any kind of shock, but can we be
certain that he himself would wish to be spared--when the alternatives
are what they are?"

"All I can say," Sanderstead growled, "is that in his present state a
shock might kill him."

"But we have Mr. Charles to think about," urged Truslove; which made
Charles interject: "Oh, for heaven's sake don't bother about _me_."

"Very natural of you to say that, Mr. Charles, but as a lawyer I'm bound
to take a somewhat stricter viewpoint. There's the question of the
_Will_." He spoke the word reverentially, allowing it to sink in before
continuing: "None of us should forget that we're dealing with an estate
of very considerable value. We should bear in mind what would be your
father's wishes if he were to know that you were so--so happily restored
to us."

"We should also bear in mind that he's a very sick man," retorted
Sanderstead.

"Precisely--and all the more reason that his desire, which I am sure
would be to make certain adjustment necessary for the fair and equal
division--"

Charles drummed his fingers on the table. "I get your point, Truslove,
but I'm really not interested in that side of it."

"But it's my duty, Mr. Charles--my duty to your father and to the family
quite as much as to you. If I feel morally sure that a client of mine--"

Sanderstead interrupted: "If changing his will is what you're thinking
about, he could no more do that than address a board meeting! And that's
apart from the question of shock!"

"Isn't it possible that a shock caused by good news might give him
sudden strength--just enough to do what he would feel at once to be
necessary?"

"Thanks for the interesting theory, Truslove. When you want any advice
about law, just come to _me_."

Charles intervened with a slightly acid smile. "I don't know why you two
should quarrel. You may be right, either of you--but suppose I claim the
casting vote? I don't want to see my father if there's any chance the
shock might be bad for him, and I don't give a damn whether I'm in or
out of his will.... Now are you both satisfied?"

But of course they were not, and throughout lunch, which was a heavy
affair with nobody quite knowing what to talk about, he was aware that
the two men were engrossed in meditations of further argument.

During the afternoon he tried for a little quiet in the library, but
Chet found him there and seemed anxious to express _his_ point of view.
"You see, old chap, I can understand how Truslove feels. Legally
you're--well, I won't say _dead_ exactly--but not normally alive. He's
bound to look at things from that angle. What I mean is, if anything
were to happen to the old man--let's hope it won't, but you never can
tell--you wouldn't get a look in. Now that's not fair to you, especially
as there's plenty for everybody, God bless. That's why I think
Truslove's right--surely there must be a way of breaking good news
gently--Sheldon, for instance--"

"Yes, we all think of Sheldon in emergencies. But I do hope, Chet, you
won't press the matter. Truslove tells me there'll be no difficulty
about my resuming the income we all had from Mother--"

"But good God, man, you can't live on five hundred a year!"

"Oh, I don't know. Quite a number of people seem to manage on it."

"But--my dear chap--_where_? What would you _do_?"

"Don't know exactly. But I daresay I should find something."

"Of course if you fancied a salaried job in one of the firms--"

"I rather feel that most jobs in firms wouldn't appeal to me."

"You wouldn't have to take it very seriously."

"Then it would probably appeal to me even less.... But we don't have
to decide it now, do we?"

"No, of course not. Have a drink?"

"No, thanks."

"I think I will. Tell you the truth, all this is just about wearing me
down. Gave me an appetite at first, but now I feel sort of--"

"You mean all the fuss connected with my return?"

"Oh, not _your_ fault, old chap. After all, what else could you do? But
you know what families are like--and wives. Argue a man off his head."

"But what could there have been any argument about?"

"Well, Truslove and Sanderstead--like cat and dog all day. Personally,
as I told you, I back Truslove--but Lydia--well, she's never seen you
before--she can't help feeling there's something a bit fishy about
it--and of course, old chap, you must admit you haven't explained
everything down to the last detail."

"I'm aware of that. If the last detail were available, I should be very
glad to know it myself."

"Don't misunderstand me, though. Far more things in heaven and earth
than--than something or other--know what I mean? I accept your statement
_absolutely_."

"But I haven't made any statement."

"Well, at breakfast you did--you said you were all right--_normal_, I
mean. And I'm prepared to take your word for it whatever anyone else
thinks."

"Meaning that your wife believes I'm a fake?"

"A fake or else... Well, if she does, she's wrong, that's all I can
tell her."

"I hope you won't bother to."

"Nice of you to put it that way, but still... Sure you won't have a
drink?"

"No thanks."

"Cheerio, then. God bless...."

**

By evening he had decided to leave. It was not that anyone had been
unkind to him--quite the contrary, but he felt that he was causing a
disturbance, and the disturbance disturbed him just as much as the
others. He had given Truslove and Sanderstead his decision; it merely
irritated him that they continued to wrangle. "The fact is, Sheldon, my
remaining here is just an added complication at the moment, affording no
pleasure either to myself or anyone else--so I'll just fold my tent and
silently steal away. But I won't go far and I'll leave you my address so
that you can get in touch with me if there's any need--if, for instance,
Sanderstead decides my father's well enough to see me. Don't tell
Truslove where I am--I don't want any messages from _him_--and as for
what you say to the others, I simply leave it to you, except that I'd
rather they didn't take my departure as a sign of either disgust
or--er--abdication.... Perhaps you could think of something casual
enough? And while I'm in Brighton I'll warm your heart by buying a few
good suits of clothes."

"_Brighton_, sir?"

"Yes, I always did like Brighton. I'll be all right alone--don't worry.
If you could pack a bag for me, and get hold of a little pocket money
from the family vault or archives or wherever it's kept--I suppose the
hardest thing is to find any spare cash in a rich man's house...."

"I can advance it, sir, with pleasure."

"Good... and put a few books in the bag, some of my old college books
if you can find them."

"Maybe you oughtn't to overtax your mind, sir?"

"On the contrary, I feel rather inclined to treat my mind as one does a
clock when it won't go--give it a shake-up and see what happens....
Oh, and one other thing--I'd prefer to have the car drive me to Scoresby
for the train. I'm so tired of shaking hands with people, and most of
the station staff at Fiveoaks--"

"I understand." Sheldon hesitated a moment and then said: "You really
_are_ going to Brighton? I mean, you're not--er--thinking of--er--"

Charles laughed. "Not a bit of it, Sheldon. Put detectives on me if you
like. And to show you it's all open and aboveboard, you can send a wire
booking a room for me at the Berners Hotel."

"_Berners?_ I don't think that's one of the--"

"I know, but I looked it up in the back of the railway guide and it's in
Regency Square--where my mother and Miss Ponsonby used to rent a house
for the summer when I was a small boy."

**

So much for sentiment; actually when he got there he found the Berners
Hotel in Regency Square not quite comfortable enough, and moved to a
better one the next day, notifying Sheldon of the change. It teased him
to realize that though he did not care for grandeur and did not insist
on luxury, he yet inclined to a certain standard in hotels--a standard
above that of the clothes in which he had arrived at Stourton. He wished
he hadn't told the Liverpool tailor to throw away his original torn and
rain-sodden suit; it might have afforded some clue to the mystery. He
pondered over it intermittently, but the effort merely tired him and
brought nearer to the surface an always submerged sadness, that sense of
bewildering, pain-drenched loss. He was afraid of that, and found relief
in recollecting earlier clear-seen days of childhood and boyhood, the
pre-war years during which he had grown up to be--as Miss Ponsonby would
have said (only a governess could say such a thing outright)--an English
gentleman.

Sheldon had packed a few books, chosen almost at random; a further
selection, more carefully made, arrived from Stourton two days later.
They included several he remembered studying in preparation for
Cambridge--Stubbs's _Constitutional History of England_, Bryce's _Holy
Roman Empire_, Gibbon's _Decline and Fall_. Good meaty reading, a little
tough in places, suitable for whole mornings on the Promenade in one of
the glass shelters; equally suitable for wet days in the hotel lounge.
One morning, walking along the cliffs towards Rottingdean, he met an
elderly man with a dog; interest in a wreck on the beach below drew them
into a conversation which presently veered to books and politics. For
three successive mornings afterwards he took the same walk, met the same
man, and continued the same conversation, each time more interestingly;
but on the fourth morning the man didn't appear, nor on any subsequent
morning when Charles took the same walk. He didn't particularly mind;
indeed, it almost comforted him to think of such mutual contacts as
possible without the foolish establishment of names and identities.

Sheldon wrote to him regularly, giving him news of Stourton, but there
wasn't much to relate: Mr. Rainier kept about the same; Sanderstead and
Truslove were still quarreling; while the family chafed more restively,
finding Stourton rather dull to do nothing in, and wondering how long
they must wait before they could decently decide to return to their
respective homes. Not, of course, that they wanted the old man to die,
but they clearly felt they shouldn't have been sent for so soon; on top
of which Charles's return had somehow disturbed their equilibrium, for
if there is one thing more mentally upsetting to a family than death, it
must be (on account of its rarity) resurrection. All of which Charles
either deduced from or read between the lines of Sheldon's direct
reportage of facts--such as that Truslove had had an unsatisfactory
interview with Dr. Astley, that Chet's wife was no longer on speaking
terms with Bridget, that Chet had taken to spending most of his time
practising shots in the billiard room, that the local vicar had paid a
discreet visit hoping to see Charles, and that the weather was still
fine, but the barometer beginning to fall.

One morning at breakfast, while he was in the midst of reading Sheldon's
latest assurance that things were still about the same, a page boy
brought a wire informing him at a glance that things were no longer the
same at all. His father had died suddenly a few hours before.

He packed his bag and left for Stourton by the next train, arriving at
Fiveoaks towards late afternoon. There he acknowledged the greetings of
several of the station staff (noting with relief that the sensation
value of his own existence had considerably diminished), and hurried
into the waiting car. This time the skies were darkening as the moment
of the "view" appeared, but the great house still made its bow
impressively.

Sheldon was waiting at the open door to receive him; within the house,
in the deliberately half-lit hall, Chet stood holding a whiskey and
soda.

"Hello, old chap. Had a good time? Sheldon says you've been dosing
yourself with sea air--don't blame you.... Turned chilly these last
few hours--what about a drink?"

Charles said he would have one, so Chet marched him into the dining
room, where the liquor was kept. "You know, I once went to see a man in
London--somewhere in Campden Hill, I think it was--sort of artist's
studio--but the chap had built a regular bar, like a pub, at one end of
his dining room--awfully good idea, don't you think?... Well, God
bless."

Charles asked for details of his father's death and received them; then,
alone, he went upstairs and entered the room where the old man lay. The
numbness in his heart almost stirred; he touched the dead hand, feeling
a little dead himself as he did so. Then he went downstairs to meet the
others of the family, among them three recent arrivals, Jill with Kitty,
and Julian. Jill was a heavily built, smartly dressed woman in her late
forties, the eldest of the family and the widow of a civil servant who
had left her with a daughter by an earlier marriage of his own. Kitty
was fourteen and generally described, even by those who did not dislike
her, as "a bit of a handful." Julian, back from Cannes, where he had
been spending the winter, gave Charles a languid salutation and a remark
evidently well prepared in advance. "How charming to see you again,
Charles! I understand that when you regained your memory you found
yourself in Liverpool on a wet day! Your only consolation must have been
that it wasn't Manchester!"

Epigrams of this kind had established Julian's reputation as the family
wit, but they lacked spontaneity and his opening remark in any
conversation was generally on a level, however disputable, to which he
did not afterwards attain. In appearance he was tall, lean, and handsome
in a rather saturnine, over-elegant way; he lived most of his life in
fashionable resorts where he played a little tennis, indulged in little
friendships, and painted little pictures of scenery which his friends
said were "not so bad."

So now they were all gathered together, the Rainier family, in
descending order of age, as follows: Jill, Chetwynd, George, Julia,
Charles, Julian, and Bridget. It was a stale family joke to say that
they were seven. Like many families who have dispersed, they found
conversation hard except in exchanges of news about their own
affairs--troubles with servants, new houses, business squabbles, and so
on. During the difficult interval between death and the funeral it was
Sheldon who took control like some well-built machine slipping into a
particularly silent but effective gear. Charles was grateful for this,
and especially, too, that Sheldon had arranged a quiet room for him, his
old turret room, in which he could rest and read a good deal of the
time. He was aware that all the family viewed him with curiosity and
some with suspicion, and that intimacy with any of them would probably
lead to questions about himself that he could not answer.

A minor but on the whole welcome diversion was caused by the revelation
that during the last twelve months of his life old Mr. Rainier had been
having his biography written. The author was a young and unknown man
named Seabury, who had apparently made a business of persuading rich men
that posterity would regret the absence of any definitive story of their
lives. Rainier, usually a shrewd detector of flattery, had in this case
succumbed, so that the book had been commissioned, a sum paid to Seabury
there and then, and a further sum promised "on completion" and "if
approved." When the old man's state of health became serious, Seabury
had evidently begun to fear for the balance of his payment, and so had
hurried his manuscript into final shape, hoping perhaps to impress the
assembled relatives by a certain fulsomeness of treatment that might be
considered additionally appropriate in the circumstances.

The manuscript, neatly typed and with a covering letter, was brought to
Stourton by special messenger on the evening before the funeral; Sheldon
accepted it and placed it on the hall table; Charles, passing by an hour
later, opened it at random. He happened to light on a description of
Cowderton, where the Rainier steelworks were situated, and read:--

    But what has been sacrificed in the sylvan peace of its
    surroundings has been gained in the town's prevalent atmosphere
    of optimism and prosperity; and for these gifts, connected so
    visibly with the firm of Rainier, Cowderton must thank the
    dreams of a lad who was himself born in the heart of rural
    England.

Charles smiled slightly and did not read any more. He felt that the
book, if it were all in such a vein, would probably have pleased his
father, while at the same time affording him the additional pleasure of
not being taken in by it.

Others of the family, however, got hold of the manuscript and read
enough of it to decide it was rather good, though of course they had to
be a little patronizing about a mere writer, especially an unknown one,
while at the same time nourishing the secret wonderment of all
healthy-minded Philistines that the act of writing can be protracted
throughout three hundred pages. But the manuscript's chief value lay in
its usefulness as a subject for conversation during the rather
hard-going lunch party that assembled towards half-past two the
following afternoon. Those who had just seen old Mr. Rainier's remains
lowered into their final resting place in Stourton Churchyard were
relaxing after the strain of the ordeal while steeling themselves for
another--the reading of the will; and there, at the table, with all the
secrets in his pocket, sat Truslove, somehow larger now than life,
munching saddle of mutton in full awareness that his moment was about to
arrive, and striking the exact professional balance between
serious-mindedness and good humor--prepared to respond to a joke if one
were offered, or to commiserate with a tear if one were let fall.

It seemed to be a family convention--unwritten, unspoken, even in a
sense not consciously thought about--that Sheldon was one of them at
such moments, and that as soon as the other servants had left the dining
room his own remaining presence need impose no censorship. Chetwynd had
been talking business optimism with Truslove. "What we've got to do now,
old chap, is to plan for peace as efficiently as we planned for war,
because there's going to be no limit to what British industry can do in
the future--why, only during the last few weeks one of our war factories
turned to making motorcycles--we're snowed under with orders already,
simply can't cope with them." This was vaguely pleasant news to the
family, though business was always tiresome--and yet, what else was
there to talk about? Then somebody thought of the biography, and George
asked Sheldon his opinion of it.

"I looked it over, sir, and it seemed quite respectably written."

"Respectably--or respectfully?" put in Julian, staking out his epigram
rather faster than usual.

"Both, I think, sir."

Sheldon smiled, and then all of them, except Charles, began to laugh, as
if suddenly realizing that there was no reason why they shouldn't. In
the midst of the laughter Chetwynd glanced across the table and caught a
ready eye. "How about an adjournment to the library, Truslove?"

Half an hour later the secrets were known, and there was nothing very
startling about them. The bulk of Henry Rainier's fortune, amounting
after payment of death duties to over one million eight hundred thousand
pounds, was divided equally between six of the children enumerated by
name, except that Chetwynd, because of seniority and closer contacts
with the industrial firms, took over a few additional controlling
interests. Stourton was also left to him, as well as the town house in
London. A few heirlooms went to various members of the family; there
were bequests to servants and a few small gifts to charity. Charles, of
course, was not mentioned.

The whole revelation was so unspectacular that when Truslove had folded
up the will and replaced it in his pocket there was a general feeling of
relief and anticlimax. Any faint fears the family might have entertained
(and there always are such faint fears where money is concerned) could
now be disbanded; they were all going to stay comfortably rich for the
rest of their lives--even richer than most of them had anticipated.

Sheldon had not been present during the actual will reading, but when he
next entered Chetwynd was the first to address him, almost jauntily:
"Well, Sheldon, he remembered you. You get a thousand."

"That was very generous of Mr. Rainier."

"And if you take my advice you'll put it back in the firm--wonderful
chance to double or treble it.... However, we can discuss that later.
By the way, I'm taking it for granted you'll stay with me here?"

"I shall be very pleased to do so, Mr. Chetwynd."

Chet, it was clear, was already seeing himself an Industrial Magnate,
Master of Stourton, and Supreme Arbiter of Family Affairs. There was a
touch of childishness in his attitude that prevented it from being
wholly unpleasant. Having made his gesture, he now turned to Truslove,
whose eye still watchfully waited. "Now, old chap, before we close the
meeting, I think you've something else to say."

Truslove rose, cleared his throat, and began by remarking that it was
perhaps appropriate at such a moment to turn from a sad event to one
which, by being almost contemporaneous, had undoubtedly served to
balance pleasure against pain, gain against loss. Indeed, had the late
Mr. Rainier been permitted to learn of it, who knows but what...
However, they knew his views about _that_, and the differences that had
arisen between himself and Dr. Sanderstead; death had put an end to
them, so it was perhaps unnecessary to refer to them again. What he did
feel was undoubtedly what they all felt--a desire to welcome Mr. Charles
to their midst and to assure him of their unbounded joy at the
extraordinary good fortune that had befallen him. "We don't pretend to
understand exactly how it happened, Mr. Charles, but a very famous hymn
informs us that God moves in a mysterious way." A little titter all
around the room. "And if our congratulations may have seemed either
belated or lacking in expression, I am sure you will make allowances at
this troubled time."

Charles bowed slightly. He did not think their congratulations either
belated or lacking in expression--indeed, his chief complaint was that
there had been so many of them so many times repeated.

The lawyer continued: "Now I come to a matter nearer to my own province,
and one that I must deal with directly and briefly. It has seemed both
to Mr. Chetwynd, as the future head of the family concerns, and to
myself, as representing in some sense the wishes which I feel would have
been those of the late Mr. Rainier, a man whom it was my privilege to
know for over forty years, and whose probable intentions I can therefore
speak of with some justification..."

And so on. What had happened, clearly, was that Truslove, having lost
his battle with the doctors, had talked the family into an equity
settlement--each of them agreeing to sacrifice a seventh part of his or
her bequest in order that Charles should acquire an equal share. Dressed
up in legal jargon, and with a good deal of smooth talk about "justice"
and "common fairness," the matter took ten minutes to enunciate, during
which time Charles sat back in his chair, glancing first at one face and
then at another, feeling that nothing could have been less enthusiastic
than (except for Chet's and Bridget's) their occasional smiles of
approval. Chet was expansive, like Santa Claus basking in an expected
popularity; Bridget was sweet and ready with a smile, as always. But the
others were grimly resigned to doing their duty in the most trying
possible circumstances--each of them saying good-bye to forty thousand
pounds with a glassy determination and a stiff upper lip. They were like
boys at a good English school curbing their natural inclinations in
favor of what had been successfully represented to them as "the thing to
do." Truslove must have given them a headmasterly pi-jaw, explaining
just where their duty lay and how inevitably they must make up their
minds to perform it; Chet had probably backed him up out of sheer
grandiloquence--"Damn it all, we _must_ give the fellow a square deal";
begun under such auspices the campaign could not have failed. But when
Charles looked at George, and Julia, and Jill, and Julian, and Lydia, he
knew they were all desperately compelling themselves to swallow
something unpleasant and get it over; which gave him a key to the mood
in which he felt most of them regarded him: he was just a piece of bad
luck, like the income tax or a horse that comes in last.

Suddenly he found himself on his feet and addressing them; it was almost
as if he heard his own voice, spoken by another person. "I'm sure I
thank you all very much, and you too, Truslove. The proposal you've
outlined is extremely generous--_too_ generous, in fact. I'm a person of
simple tastes--I need very little to live comfortably on--in fact the
small income I already have is ample. So I'm afraid I can't accept your
offer, though I do once again thank you for making it."

He looked round their faces again, noting the sudden amazement and
relief in the eyes of some of them--especially Chet's wife, Lydia.
Clearly they had never contemplated the possibility of his refusing.
That began to amuse him, and then he wondered whether his refusal had
not been partly motivated by a curiosity to see how they would take it.
He really hadn't any definite inclination, either to have the money or
not; but his lack of desire for it himself was certainly not balanced by
any particular wish that they should be enriched.

Truslove and Chetwynd were on their feet with an instant chorus of
objections. Truslove's were doubtless sincere--after all, he had nothing
to lose. But Chet--was it possible that _his_ protests were waging sham
war against an imperceptible hope that had dawned in him, a hope quite
shamelessly reflected in the eyes of his wife? Was he seeking to employ
just a featherweight too little persuasion to succeed? Charles did not
believe that Chet would have attempted this balancing act if left to
himself, but there was Lydia by his side, and he was undoubtedly afraid
of her. Nevertheless he kept up the protesting, and Charles kept up the
refusal; the whole family then began to argue about it, with more
vehement generosity now that they felt the issue was already decided;
but they made the mistake of keeping it up too long, for Charles
suddenly grew tired and exclaimed: "All right then, if you all insist,
I'll agree to take it."

Truslove beamed on what he imagined to be his own victory; Chet, after a
second's hesitation, came across the room and shook Charles by the hand.
"Fine, old chap.... Now we're all set and Truslove can do the rest."
But the others could only stare in renewed astonishment as they forced
deadly smiles into the supervening silence.

There were papers they all had to sign; then Charles escaped upstairs.
His room was the one he had slept in as a boy, though it had since been
refurnished more opulently; it expanded at one corner into a sort of
turret, windowed for three fourths of the circle, and from this
viewpoint the vista of gardens and skyline was beautiful even towards
dusk on a gray day. He was staring at it when Kitty entered. "Oh, Uncle
Charles, I _must_ show you this--it's in today's _Times_...." She
held out the paper, folded at the column of obituary appreciations. The
item she pointed to ended as follows:--

    A lifelong individualist, there was never any wavering in his
    political and economic outlook, while his contributions to the
    cause of Free Trade, both financially and by utterance, were
    continual and ungrudging. A man whose character more easily won
    him the respect of his foes than the applause of the multitude,
    he rightly concentrated on an industrial rather than a political
    career, and though his representation of West Lythamshire in the
    Conservative interest had been in the strictest sense
    uneventful, his influence behind the political scene was never
    entirely withdrawn, nor did his advice go long unsought.

"Uncle Charles, what does it mean?"

"It's just something--that somebody's written."

"But I can't understand it--at least, I can understand some of the
words, but they don't seem to mean anything. It's about _him_, isn't
it?"

He answered then, forgetting whom he was addressing: "It's a charming
letter about my father from a man who probably knew him slightly and
disliked him intensely."

"Why did he dislike him?"

He tried to undo the remark. "Stupid of me to say that--maybe he didn't
dislike him at all.... Run along--haven't you had tea?"

When he had been her age there had been a schoolroom high tea, with Miss
Ponsonby dispensing bread and jam and cakes.

"They're serving it now on the terrace. Aren't you coming down?"

Self-possessed little thing; not quite spoilt yet.

"I'll probably miss tea today."

"Don't you feel well?"

"Oh, I'm all right."

"Did it upset you, going to the funeral?"

"Funerals are always rather upsetting."

She still stood by, as if she wanted to be friendly. Suddenly she said:
"Julian's very funny, isn't he?"

"Yes, he's quite the humorist of the family."

"He's going back to Cannes tonight."

"Oh, is he?"

"Do you mind if I smoke a cigarette?"

"A _cigarette_? Well--"

"I do smoke, you know--most of the girls at Kirby do as soon as they get
into the sixth." She had taken a cigarette out of her bag and was
already lighting it. "You don't mind, do you?"

"Not particularly."

"I knew you wouldn't. You don't give a damn about anything."

"Do they also say 'damn' in the sixth?"

"No--that's what Mother said to Uncle Chet about you."

"I see.... Well..."

"But I've got to stay here now till I finish it.... Don't you think
Sheldon's rather marvelous?"

"Not only rather, but quite."

"I think he's the one who really ought to write a book about
Grandfather."

"Not a bad idea--why don't you tell him?"

"I did, but he only smiled. He's so nice to everybody, isn't he? We had
a wonderful Christmas party here last year, before Grandfather was
ill--we had charades and one of them was his name--_Shell_, you know,
and then _done_--but of course everybody guessed it--it was far too
easy. Then we had Buffalo--_buff_, the color, and then a Frenchman
answering the telephone--and then the whole word _Buffalo_ in
America.... No, it wasn't Christmas, it was New Year, because Bridget
and I had an argument about who had the darkest hair to let the New Year
in with... but I did it."

"You would, I'm sure."

"Will Uncle Chet have any New Year's party this year?"

"I shouldn't think so.... Here's an ashtray."

"What I really came for was to say good-bye. Mother wants to get away
this evening." She held out her hand.

"Good-bye, Kitty--nice of you to come up."

He led her to the door. Then:--

"Uncle Charles, is it true you don't remember a thing that's happened to
you for over two years?"

"Perfectly true."

"But how marvelous. Then _anything_ might have happened to you?"

He laughed at that and patted her on the shoulder. "Yes, and
forgetfulness may have its points. For instance, I daresay you'd rather
I forgot that you smoked a cigarette--or don't you mind?"

"Perhaps I'm like you--I don't give a damn," she answered, scampering
out of the room. "Good-bye, Uncle Charles!"

When she had gone he decided he had behaved pretty badly, encouraging
her to smoke and swear; there was some imp of mischief in him that drove
him to such things, except that "imp" and "mischief" were far too
cheerful words for it.

Dinner, a little later, proved another difficult meal. Julian, Jill, and
Kitty had already left; others were planning a departure the following
day. Julia and her husband had agreed to stay over the New Year,
"helping" Chet and Lydia. Lydia said: "Jill and Julian were anxious to
say good-bye to you, Charles, but they felt you mightn't want to be
disturbed, especially as Kitty said you weren't coming down for tea."

He smiled and said he perfectly understood. Chet talked business again
with Truslove, who was staying the night; Chet also drank too much and
said that British business was headed for the biggest boom in history,
by Jove, always provided the government would keep off their backs.
Which led to politics and the family constituency of West Lythamshire:
"I'm no politician, old chap, but still if the local association were to
make the suggestion... of course it's too early yet even to think of
it."

But Chet evidently _was_ thinking of it, readying himself for the doing
of his duty, wherever it might lead him.

The following morning, when George and his wife had left immediately
after breakfast, taking Bridget with them, Charles suddenly decided to
return to London with Truslove, who had a car. They drove away together,
amidst noisy farewells from Chet and a few quiet words from Sheldon as
the latter stowed away the bags.

"Do you propose to stay in London, Mr. Charles?"

"I'll let you know, Sheldon. I'll be all right, anyway."

"I hope so."

During the journey through Reading and Maidenhead he told Truslove he
had been quite sincere in his original refusal of the equity settlement,
and had only agreed to it because it was what the family said they
wanted, so if they now cared to go back on the decision, it would still
be all right with him.

Truslove, of course, replied that that was out of the question. "In
fact, Mr. Charles, you seem to have given this matter far too little
thought. A quarter of a million pounds is not to be treated lightly."

"That's just the point. I don't know _how_ to treat it."

Truslove assured him, entirely without irony, that there would be no
trouble attaching to the inheritance. "The bulk of it's invested in
shares of the company--you'll merely receive the regular dividends."

"That leads me to what I wanted to say. I'd rather not be connected with
the family business at all. I'm not a businessman. If I _have_ to have
the money, I'd like to sell the shares immediately and invest the
proceeds in government stock."

"But, Mr. Charles, I--I really don't advise--"

"Why not? Isn't it possible to do that?"

"_Possible_, of course--the shares command a very ready market. But I
couldn't _advise_ it--not as things are."

"That's odd--I always thought you lawyers had a passion for government
stocks. Aren't they supposed to be safer than anything else? What about
consols?"

Truslove seemed disturbed at the prospect of having to assess the
relative merits of consols and Rainier ordinaries. "Naturally I've
nothing against government securities--no one _can_ have, and I should
be the first to advise such prudence in investment, but for... well,
perhaps I may let you into a secret--of course the whole matter's very
technical and hasn't been settled yet, but it was on the cards when your
father passed away and I think events will go forward a little quicker
now... it's a question of refloating the entire group of Rainier
companies on terms that would of course be very favorable to present
holders. I can't give you any details, but you'll realize why it would
be unwise to dispose of anything at the present moment."

"Still, I'd rather you sell. I'm not interested in speculation and share
movements. I really mean what I say, so don't wait for me to change my
mind."

"Of course if you give me direct instructions, I can't refuse. But you
realize that, in addition to any question of capital value, the income
from government stocks will be very much less?"

"I don't mind that, either. I'll probably live very well on a fraction
of it. Matter of fact, you might as well know my plans. I'm going to
Cambridge."

"Cambridge?"

"I was going to go there, you know, when war broke out--I'd really taken
the entrance examination. Not a bad idea to go on where you left off,
especially if you can't think of anything else to do."

                          *        *        *

His rooms at St. Swithin's overlooked the river and the Backs, and from
the first January day when he settled in, he felt peace surrounding him.
It was not that he himself was at peace--often the contrary; but he
always felt the rooms and the college weighing _with_ him, as it were,
in the silent pressures of his mind. His rooms were rather austerely
furnished when he took possession; he made them less so by books,
pictures, and a couple of easy chairs, yet they still remained--as
Herring, his gyp, remarked--a _reading_ gentleman's rooms. After half a
century of experience as a college servant, Herring counted himself
fortunate whenever a newcomer to his staircase entered that category.

Charles had visited Cambridge for a week during his last term at
Netherton; he had then put up in back-street lodgings while taking the
Littlego, which had left him no time to make acquaintances or get much
impression of the place except that he thought he was going to like it.
He was glad of this now, for it meant that no one remembered him and
that his past life was neither known nor inquired about. To be a younger
son of a rich industrialist counted for nothing among dons and fellow
undergraduates; that he had served in the war merely placed him among
the vast majority; and that he made few friends and liked to be left
alone was, after all, the not unusual characteristic of reading
gentlemen.

He told his Senior Tutor, a harassed little man named Bragg, that he
would like to take history; and a further interview with Werneth, the
history don, decided him to try for the tripos instead of an ordinary
degree. So he acquired the necessary books, began to attend recommended
lectures, and dined in Hall for the required nights each week--which is
about all a Cambridge life need consist of structurally, until the
scaffolding is removed later and one sees how much else there must have
been.

Sheldon sent him news from Stourton fairly often, generally to say there
wasn't any news. Still reading, however, between the lines, Charles
gathered that Chet and Lydia were failing to evolve a well-controlled
household, and that Sheldon was less comfortable than in the earlier
days of despotism. Truslove also wrote, reporting progress in his own
sphere; transfers of property took time, and it was March before the
lawyer could notify him that he no longer possessed any financial
interest in the Rainier enterprises. The shares had been sold for
seventy shillings (fifteen more than the price at Christmas), and the
purchaser had been none other than Chetwynd, who had apparently been
glad to add to his own already large holding. Truslove added that he
regarded the price as satisfactory, though he still thought the sale
unwise in view of a probably much higher price eventually.

Charles wrote back that he was perfectly satisfied, and that if his
"unwise" action had been the means of obliging Chet, so much the better.
Just about then came the Easter vacation; he did not visit Stourton or
see any of the family, but spent the three weeks in an unplanned trip
around northern France, visiting Chartres, Lisieux, Caen, and Rouen.
Returning to London the day before the Cambridge summer term began, he
bought an evening paper at Victoria Station and glanced through what had
come to be the almost usual news of famine and revolution somewhere or
other on the Continent; not till late at night, in his hotel room, did
he happen to notice a headline on the financial page--"Rainier's Still
Soaring: Reported Terms of Bonus." He read that the shares had topped
five pounds and that there was talk of an issue of new stock to existing
shareholders in the proportion of two for one. It wasn't all very clear
to him, for he never studied the financial columns and did not
understand their jargon; but he realized that from the point of view of
immediate profit, Truslove and Chet had been right, and he himself
wrong; which didn't trouble him at all. He was almost glad for his own
sake, as well as Chet's, for he would have had no use for the extra
money, whereas Chet enjoyed both spending and the chance to say "I told
you so, old chap." In fact he felt so entirely unregretful about what
had happened that he sent both Chet and Truslove short notes of
congratulation.

The next day he went to Cambridge and completely lost track of financial
news amidst the many more interesting pursuits of term time. He still
did not make friends easily, but he joined the "Heretics" and sometimes
attended the weekly debating sessions over the fish shop in Petty Cury;
he also came to know the occupant of the rooms next to his on the same
staircase--a high-caste Hindoo named Pal who was a mathematician and
perhaps also a genius. Pal claimed to feel numerals emotionally and to
find them as recognizable as human faces; Charles took him first as an
oddity, then as a personality, later as a friend. He formed a habit of
having coffee in Pal's rooms once or twice a week.

As summer came, he did most of his reading on the river, generally on
the Upper Cam at Grantchester, and sometimes he would portage the canoe
across the roadway to the deep tranquil reach beyond the Old Mill. One
morning, having done this, he turned to the right, along a tributary;
the going was difficult, for he had to slide over sunken logs and push
away branches that trailed in the water, but after an arduous
yard-by-yard struggle he was suddenly able to paddle into a dark pool
overhung with willows; and there, as he rested, a feeling of discovery
came over him, as if it were the Congo or the Amazon instead of a little
English stream; he felt strangely happy and stayed there all day till it
was time to return for tea at the Orchard, which was the Grantchester
resort patronized by undergraduates. He was on friendly terms with the
old lady there who served strawberries and cream under the apple trees,
and when he showed his scratched arms and said where he had been, she
answered very casually: "Oh, you must have been up the Bourne--Rupert
Brooke used to say how beautiful it was there--_he_ got his arms
scratched too." Somehow the whole incident, with its hint of something
seen by no human eye between Brooke's and his own (highly unlikely, but
tempting to contemplate), gave him a curious pleasure which he felt he
would spoil by ever going there again; so he never did.

He got on well with lecturers and tutors, and soon acquired one of those
intangible reputations, breathed in whispers across High Tables, that
rest on anything except past achievement; he lived retiringly and took
hardly any part in University activities, yet it had already become
expected that he would do well. Werneth had even consented to his taking
the first part of the history tripos in July--after two terms of
preparation for an examination for which most students took three, and
some even six. "But you have a good background of knowledge," he told
Charles, adding with a smile: "And also a good memory."

On an impulse he could not check quickly enough Charles answered: "It's
odd you should compliment me on my memory, because--" And then he told
Werneth about his war injury, and the strange gap of years which he had
christened in his own mind the Dark Corridor.

Werneth listened with an abstract attention beyond the range of mere
inquisitiveness. After the brief account was finished, he tore a sheet
of paper from a pad on his desk and drew a large rectangle. "Not exactly
my province, as a historian, but nevertheless quite a teasing problem,
Rainier. Your life, from what you say, appears to be divided into three
parts--like Caesar's Gaul?"

"Or like Regent Street," Charles interjected, beginning to be amused.

"Or like a Victorian novel," capped Werneth, delightedly.

"Or like an artichoke," recapped Charles.

That put them both in a highly agreeable mood. "Let us call the parts A,
B, and C," resumed Werneth, drawing verticals across the rectangle and
lettering the segments. "A is your life before the war injury; B is your
life between that injury and the moment in Liverpool last December 27
when, according to your statement, you suddenly remembered your name and
identity; C is your life since then. Now it is demonstrably true that
during Period C--that is to say, at the present time--you enjoy a
normally clear recollection of both Period C and Period A, but not of
Period B. Am I right?"

"Perfectly."

"And it must also be inferentially clear that during Period B you could
not have had any recollection at all of Period A?"

"Naturally not."

"Thank you.... There's only one thing more I should like to ask--and
that is if I might send this diagram to my friend Dr. Freeman, of St.
Jude's, along with a brief rsum of the facts which it illustrates?"

When Charles hesitated before replying Werneth added: "I won't mention
your name if you'd prefer not."

Charles then consented. The matter was not referred to at his next
meeting with Werneth, but some weeks later the history don asked Charles
to stay behind after a lecture. "As I expected, my friend Freeman found
my notes on your case extremely teasing. In fact he'd very much like to
meet you if you haven't any objection. You probably know his reputation
as a philosopher and psychologist."

Again Charles was reluctant, and again consented on the understanding
that his name was not to be divulged; so the curious meeting took place
in Werneth's rooms. The eminent authority talked to Charles for over an
hour in a completely detached and anonymous way, stating as his opinion
that Period B would probably return, though there could be no certainty
about it or prophecy as to the time required. Charles had several
further interviews with Freeman, and began to take a certain pleasure in
consulting an expert thus obliquely; he thought it typical of the
amenities of Cambridge civilization that such a plan could have been
worked out to suit him. At the same time he came to like Freeman
personally, so that when his own identity became later revealed through
an accident, it did not bother him much.

Charles took a First Class in the first part of the history tripos,
which was quite a brilliant achievement in the circumstances. After
consultations with Bragg and Werneth, he decided to switch over to
economics during the following year--an effective piece of
specialization, for he had already gone a certain way in economic
history. He was increasingly interested in the background of knowledge
and theory behind the lives of men, and the astounding clumsiness of
world behavior compared with the powers of the planning mind. To use
Werneth's favorite word, he found the paradox teasing.

During the Long Vacation he stayed in Cambridge, putting in mornings and
evenings of study interspersed with afternoons on the river or walks to
Grantchester through the meadows; he liked Cambridge during vacation
time--the quieter streets, the air of perpetual Sunday, the August
sunlight bleaching the blinds in many a shop that would not pull them up
until term time. Most of the bookshops remained open, however, and there
were a few good concerts. The two months passed very quickly.

Sheldon wrote to him every week, but with no news except of domestic
trouble at Stourton--an outbreak of petty thefts due (Charles could
judge) to Chet's refusal to back up Sheldon in some earlier trouble with
one of the gardeners. Now that it was too late, Chet seemed to be
handling the matter rather unfortunately, dealing out wholesale
dismissals to servants who had given years of service, and leaving a
staff both too small and too disgruntled to work well. Chet also wrote,
giving his side of the question, casting doubts on Sheldon's efficiency,
and asking how Charles, as one of the family, would feel about selling
the place. Charles replied instantly that Chet should sell by all means;
Stourton was far too big for any modern uses, and family sentiment
should not weigh against common sense. Chet did not reply to that, but a
few weeks later, at Cambridge, Charles heard from Truslove that Stourton
was on the market, but wouldn't be easy to sell "in these days."

Then one Saturday, returning to his rooms from a lecture, he found Kitty
sprawled on a sofa and Herring teetering doubtfully in the pantry.
"Hello, Uncle Charles," she cried loudly, and then added in a whisper:
"That's for _his_ benefit. He didn't believe me--I could see that."

"But why didn't you tell me you were coming?" Charles began, trying to
infuse a note of mild pleasure into his astonishment.

"Because you'd probably have told me not to," she answered promptly.

He admitted he probably would, and then asked why she _had_ come.

"It's my birthday."

"Is it? But--well, many happy returns--but--"

"Uncle Chet promised me a big party at Stourton, but he canceled it at
the last moment because he said Aunt Lydia wasn't very well, and as I'd
already got leave of absence from Kirby I didn't feel I could _waste_
the week-end."

"But you're not intending to stay here for the whole week-end, are you?"

"Oh yes, I've taken a room at the Bull. Surprising what a girl can do by
herself these days."

"But if they find out--at Kirby--"

"That I've been visiting one uncle instead of another? Will it matter?
And I don't really care if they _do_ find out--I'm tired of school
anyway. I'd like to go to Newnham."

"Anything wrong with Somerville at Oxford?"

"Oh, how you'd loathe to have me anywhere around, wouldn't you?"

He began to laugh and suggested taking her to lunch.

"Can't I have lunch here--in the college?"

"No."

"Well, that's better than the little German at our school who pretends
to be French and gives us art lessons--he gets in an awful temper and
then says, 'In one word I vill not have it.'"

They lunched at Buol's, in King's Parade, and afterwards he said: "Now,
young lady, having invited yourself here, you'll have to take the
consequences. My usual way of spending an afternoon is to punt up the
river, and I don't care how dull you find it, it's either that or off
you go on your own."

"But I don't mind at all--I can punt awfully well."

"You won't get the chance--_I'll_ do the punting."

But she lazed quite happily during the hour-long journey, chatting all
the time about school, life, the family, herself, and himself. "It's
made a great difference, you passing that examination, Uncle Charles. I
believe the family had an idea you were a bit queer till you did
that--now they still think you're queer, but a marvel too. You've quite
pushed Uncle Julian off the shelf as the one in the family with brains."

He made no comment; the effort of digging the pole in and out of the
river bed gave him an easy excuse for silence. He didn't dislike Kitty,
indeed there were certain qualities in her--or perhaps there was only
one quality--that definitely attracted him.

She went on: "Of course the family don't really _respect_ brains--they
just have a scared feeling that brains might come in handy some day."

"What makes you say that?"

"Oh, I don't know--just the general atmosphere before Mother went away.
She's at Cannes, you know--staying with Uncle Julian."

They had tea at the Orchard and then returned to her hotel for dinner.
"I'm glad you're showing up with me here," she said, as they entered the
lobby, he in cap and gown as prescribed by University regulations for
all undergraduates after dark. "It lets them know I'm respectable even
if I _am_ only fifteen.... By the way, how old are _you_?"

"Twenty-six."

"Do you _feel_ twenty-six?"

"Sometimes I feel ninety-six--so I try not to bother about how I feel."

"Are you _happy_?"

"Oh, happy enough."

"Can you remember ever being _terribly_ happy?"

He pondered. "Once when I was a small boy and Sheldon visited us at
Brighton for some reason, and _he_ took me for a walk along the
Promenade instead of Miss Ponsonby." He laughed. "Such a thrill."

She laughed also. "And I was happiest once when I'd had a toothache and
it began to stop. Before it _finished_ stopping. I really enjoyed the
last bit of the pain."

"Morbid creature."

"But pain is part of love, isn't it?"

He was studying the menu. "At the moment I'm rather more concerned with
the question of steak versus lamb chops."

"You _would_ say that, but you don't really mean it.... Oh, and
another time I was happy was Armistice Night, at school. So wonderful,
to think the war was all over, wasn't it? Like waking up on end-of-term
morning and realizing it's really come. But somehow everything's been a
bit of a letdown since, don't you think? I mean, if you stop now and say
to yourself, the war's over, the war's over, it can't keep on making you
happy as it did that first night, can it?"

"I've practically decided on steak. What about you?"

"Uncle Charles, are you sorry I came here to see you?"

"Well, I'm a little puzzled about what to do with you tomorrow."

"I'd like to do whatever you were going to do."

"That's well meant, but I don't think it would work. I intended to read
most of the day and go to a concert in the afternoon."

"I'd love the concert."

"I don't expect you would. Beethoven Quartets make no attempt to be
popular."

"Neither do you, Uncle Charles, but _I_ don't mind."

He smiled, appreciating the repartee whilst resolute to make no
concessions throughout the rest of the evening and the following day; he
would teach her to play truant from school and fasten herself on him
like that. After a long and, he hoped, exhausting walk on Sunday
morning, he took her to the concert in the afternoon, and in the evening
saw her off on the train with much relief and a touch of wry amusement.

"Uncle Charles, you've been so _sweet_ to me."

"I haven't been aware of it."

"Would you really mind if I were to come to Newnham?"

"It isn't in my power to stop you. But don't imagine you'd see much of
me--the Newnham rules wouldn't allow it, for one thing."

"Do you think Newnham would be good for me?"

"Another question is would you be good for Newnham?"

"Won't you be serious a moment? I wish you'd write to Mother and tell
her it would be good for me."

"Oh, I don't know that I could do that. It's for her and you to decide."

"She says she doesn't think she can afford it these days."

"Not _afford_ it? Surely--" But that, after all, wasn't his business
either. If Jill thought she could afford expensive cruises and
winterings abroad, and yet decided to economize on her daughter's
education--well, it still remained outside his province.

The girl added, as the train came in: "It's because trade's not so good,
or something. I think that's really why Uncle Chet canceled my party,
not because of Aunt Lydia." She mimicked Chet as she added: "Time for
economies, old chap."

"I don't think you really know anything about it. After all, a party
wouldn't cost--"

"I know, but Uncle Chet wouldn't think of that. There's nobody worse
than a scared optimist." She gave him a look, then added: "I suppose you
think I heard somebody say that? Well, I didn't--I thought it out
myself. I'm not the fool you think I am."

"I don't think you're a fool at all. But I don't see how you can know
much about financial matters."

"Oh, can't I? Uncle Chet used to rave so much about Rainier shares
whenever I saw him that I and a lot of other girls at Kirby clubbed
together and bought some. We look at the price every morning."

He said sternly: "I think you're very foolish. You and your friends
should have something better to spend your time on--and perhaps your
money, too.... Good-bye."

The train was moving. "Good-bye, Uncle Charles."

Returning to St. Swithin's in the mellow October twilight he pondered on
that phrase "in these days." Truslove had used it in connection with the
possible sale of Stourton, and now Jill also, about the expense of
sending Kitty to college. Always popular as an excuse for action or
inaction, and uttered by Englishmen in 1918 and 1919 with a hint of
victorious pride, it had lately--during 1920--turned downwards from the
highest notes. There was nothing gloomy yet, nothing in the nature of a
dirge; just an allegro simmering down to andante among businessmen and
stockbrokers. Trade, of course, had been so outrageously and
preposterously good that there was nothing for the curve to do except
flatten; the wild boom on the markets could not continue indefinitely.
Charles looked up Rainier shares in _The Times_ when he got back to his
rooms; he found they stood at four pounds after having been
higher--which, allowing for the bonus, really meant that the shares he
had sold to Chet for seventy shillings were now more than twice the
price. Chet shouldn't worry--and yet, according to Kitty, he _was_
worrying--doubtless because there had been a small fall from the peak.
Her comment had been shrewd--nobody like a scared optimist.

The next morning at breakfast his thoughts were enough on the subject
for him to glance at the later financial news, which informed him by
headline that Rainier's had announced an interim dividend of 10 per
cent, as against 15 the previous year. It seemed to him good enough, and
nothing for anyone to worry about, but by evening as he walked along
Petty Cury the newsboys were carrying placards, "Slump on 'Change" and
"Rainier Jolts Markets." He found that the reduced dividend had tipped
over prices rather as an extra brick on a child's toy tower will send
half of it toppling. Rainier's had fallen thirty shillings during the
day's trading, and other leading shares proportionately. It had been
something that sensational journalism delighted to call a "Black
Monday."

Still he did not think there was anything much to worry about. The
theoretical study of economics was far removed from the practical
guesswork of Throgmorton Street, and his reading of Marshall and Pigou
had given him no insight into the psychology of speculation. For a week
afterwards he ignored the financial pages, being temperamentally as well
as personally disinterested in them; not till he received an alarming
letter from Sheldon did he search the financial lists again to discover
that in the interval Rainier ordinaries had continued their fall from
two pounds ten to seventeen shillings. And even then his first thought
was a severely logical one--that they were either worth more than that,
or else had never been worth the higher prices at all.

Sheldon wrote that Chet was terribly worried, had been having long
consultations with bank and Stock Exchange people, and had stayed all
night in his City office on several occasions. Charles could not
understand that; what had bank or Stock Exchange people got to do with
the firm? Surely the Rainier business was principally carried on at
Cowderton and other places, not in the City of London; and as for the
falling price of the shares, what did it matter what the price of
something was, if you didn't have either to buy or to sell? He replied
to Sheldon somewhat on these lines, half wishing he could write a
similar note to Chet, but as Chet had not approached him, he did not
care to offer comment or advice.

But towards the beginning of December a letter from Chet did arrive; and
it was, when one reached the last page, an appeal for a loan. He didn't
say how much, but no sum, it appeared, would be either too small or too
great; he left the choice to Charles with a touch of his vague
expansiveness, assuring him that it was a merely temporary convenience
and would soon be repaid. Charles was puzzled, unable to imagine how
much Chet needed--surely it couldn't be a small sum, a few hundreds, and
if it were a matter of thousands, what could he possibly want it for? He
felt he had a right to inquire, and did so. Back came a franker, longer,
and much more desperate appeal, again saving its pith until the last
page, wherein Chet admitted he had been speculating heavily in the
shares of the firm, borrowing from banks in order to do so. At first the
result had been highly successful; his own constant buying on a rising
market had given him huge profits, and with those (uncashed, of course)
as security he had borrowed and purchased more. Then the inevitable had
happened. Chet didn't put it in this way; he seemed to think that a
conjunction of bad trade, falling share prices, and a request by the
bank for him to begin repayment of loans was some malign coincidence
instead of a series of causes and effects. If only Charles could help
him out with ten or twelve thousand--he'd pay interest, let's call it a
short-term investment, old chap, the badness of trade could only be
exceptional, Rainier shares were destined to far higher levels
eventually--hadn't they once been "talked" to twenty pounds? And Chet
added that he hated making such a request, and only did so because there
was much more at stake than his own personal affairs; Rainier's was a
family concern, there were Julian and Jill and Bridget and Julia and all
the others to think about. If he threw his own shares on the market, it
would make for a further fall in the price, and that would be bad for
the firm itself and so affect the stability of the family property and
livelihood.

The letter arrived on a Friday; Charles answered it that same evening,
enclosing a check for as large a round figure as he happened to have on
hand, and promising more in a few days. But by the following morning the
affairs of Rainier's had already broken out of the financial columns and
were invading the news pages of all the daily papers. Apparently the
shares had crashed in the "Street" after the Stock Exchange closed the
previous evening, the final price being a very nominal half-crown.
Accompanying the collapse were wild rumors--some of them, according to a
discreet reporter, "of a serious nature."

That sent him to Bragg to ask for leave of absence; he then wired
Sheldon and left immediately for Stourton, reaching the house in the
late afternoon. From the cars outside he guessed there was a family
conclave before Sheldon told him who had arrived. He found them
assembled in the library, already in the midst of stormy argument.
Bridget, who was near the door, said "Hello, Charlie," but the others
were too preoccupied to hear this, even to see him at first. It was
curious to note the utter disintegration of formal manners in face of
such a crisis; to watch a favored few, long accustomed to regard the
family business as a rock of ages cleft for them, suddenly contemplating
phenomena so normal in most people's lives--the uncertainties of the
future. Charles stayed close to the door, reluctant to intervene; so far
as he could make out, the family had been heckling Chet for some time,
for his temper was considerably frayed, and at one question he suddenly
lost it and shouted: "Look here, I'm not going to shoulder the blame for
everything! You were all damned glad to leave things in my hands as long
as you thought they were going well--"

"As long as we thought you knew what you were up to--we never guessed
you were monkeying like this--"

"God damn it, Jill--what did _you_ ever do except draw dividends and
spend 'em on Riviera gigolos?"

"How _dare_ you say that!"

"Well, if you can suggest there's been anything crooked in the way
I've--"

Jill was on the verge of hysteria. "I know my life isn't stuffy and
narrow-minded like yours--but did I have to travel all the way here just
to be insulted? Julian knows what a lie it is--he _lives_ there--he's
been at Cannes all the season except when we went to Aix for a
month--Julian, I appeal to you--are you going to stay here and allow
things like this to be said--_Julian_--"

George interposed feebly: "Steady now, steady--both of you."

Julia said, with cold common sense: "I think we might as well stick to
the point, which isn't Jill's morals, but our money."

Jill was still screaming: "Julian can tell you--_Julian_--"

Everybody stared at Julian, who couldn't think of a sufficiently clever
remark and was consequently silent. Meanwhile Chet's anger rose to white
heat. "Look at _me_--don't look at Julian! _I_ haven't had a decent
sleep for weeks, while you've all been gallivanting about in Cannes or
Aix or God knows where! _Look_ at me! I've put on ten years--that's what
they say at the office!" And he added, pathetically: "To say nothing of
it giving Lydia a breakdown."

It was also pathetic that he should have asked them to look at him, for
his claim was a clear exaggeration; he certainly looked tired--perhaps
also in need of a Turkish bath and a shave; but his hair had failed to
turn white after any number of sleepless nights. He was still expansive,
even in self-pity. Charles felt suddenly sorry for him, as much because
as in spite of this.

Julian, having now thought of something, intervened in his sly,
high-pitched voice: "I'm afraid it wasn't your looks we were all relying
on, Chet..."

Then Julia, glancing towards the door, spotted Charles. "Ah, here's the
mystery man arrived! Hello, darling! How wise you were to sell Rainier's
at three pounds ten and buy War Loan, you shrewd man! Come to gloat over
us?"

It was the interpretation Charles had feared. He stepped forward, nodded
slightly to the general assembly. "You're quite wrong, Julia.... How
are you, Chet?"

Chet, on the verge of tears after his outburst, put out his hand rather
as a dog extends an interceding paw; he murmured abjectly: "Hello, old
chap--God bless. Caught us all at a bad moment.... And thanks for
your letter--damn nice of you, but I'm afraid it's a bit late--a sort of
tide in the affairs of men, you know--"

Charles, not fully aware what Chet was talking about, answered for want
of anything else to say: "I should have come earlier, but I just missed
a train."

"You missed Chet's news, too," Jill cried, still half-hysterical. "Such
_splendid_ news! I've been traveling all night to hear it--so has
Julian--would somebody mind repeating it for Charles's benefit?"

"_I'll_ tell him," Julia interrupted, venomously. "We're all on the
rocks, and Chet's just the most wonderful financier in the world!"

"Except," added Julian, "a certain undergraduate who thoughtfully added
a quarter of a million to Chet's bank loan by demanding cash."

Charles swung round on him. "What on earth do you mean by that?"

"Well, you sold your stuff to Chet, didn't you?"

"He wanted to buy--I didn't ask him to."

"But he paid you in cash."

"Naturally--what else?"

"Well, where d'you suppose he found the cash? In his pocket?"

"You mean he had to borrow from the bank to pay me?" Charles then turned
on Chet. "Is this true?"

"'Fraid it is, Charlie. After all, you _wanted_ the cash."

"Well, _you_ wanted the shares."

"Wasn't exactly that I wanted 'em, old chap, but I had to take 'em."

"But--I don't see that--surely I could have sold them to someone else?"

"Not at that price. You try dumping sixty thousand on the market and see
what happens. I had to take 'em to keep the price firm. Isn't that
right, Truslove?"

Charles peered beyond the faces; Truslove was standing in the shadows,
fingering the embroidery at the back of a chair; leaning forward he
answered: "That was your motive, undoubtedly, Mr. Chetwynd. But I think
we can hardly blame Mr. Charles for--"

"Is it a matter for blaming anybody?" Charles interrupted, with
tightened lips. "I can only say that I--I--"

And then he stopped. What _could_ he say? That he was sorry? That had he
known Chet was having to borrow he would have insisted on selling in the
market? That if he could have forecast a crisis like this, he would have
held on to his shares, just to be one of the family in adversity? None
of these things was true, except the first. He said, lamely: "I feel at
a disadvantage--not having known of these things before."

"Well, whose fault was that?" Jill shouted at him.

"My own, I'm perfectly well aware. I took no interest in them."

"It doesn't cost you anything to admit it now, does it?"

There was such bitterness in her voice that he stared with astonishment.
"I--I don't know what you mean, Jill."

"Oh, don't put on that Cambridge air--we're not all fools! And we
haven't all got queer memories either! If you want my opinion, you can
have it--you're morally liable to return that cash--"

Truslove stepped forward with unexpected sprightliness. "I must say I
consider that a most unfair and prejudiced remark--"

Jill screamed on: "I said _morally_, Truslove, not _legally_! Isn't that
the way you argued us all into the equity settlement with Charles after
Father died? We didn't _have_ to do it then! He doesn't _have_ to do it
now! But what he _ought_ is another matter!"

Nobody said anything to that, but Julian stroked his chin thoughtfully,
while Julia stared across at Jill with darkly shining eyes. It was as if
the family were at last converging on a more satisfying emotion than
that of blaming Chet, who, after all, was only one of themselves. But
Charles was different. He took in their various glances, accepting--even
had he never done so before--the position of utter outsider. His own
glance hardened as he answered quietly: "I'm still rather hazy about
what's happened. Can't I talk to somebody--alone, for preference, and
without all this shouting? How about you, Chet?... Or you, Julian?"
Chet shifted weakly; Julian did not stir. "Truslove, then?"

The room was silent as he and the lawyer passed through the French
windows on to the terrace. They did not speak till they were well away
from the house, halfway to the new and expensive tennis courts that Chet
had had installed just before he decided to sell Stourton if he could.
Truslove began by saying how distressed he was at such a scene, as well
as at the events leading up to it; in all his experience with the
family, over forty years... Charles cut him short. "I don't think
this is an occasion for sentiment, Truslove."

"But perhaps, Mr. Charles, you'll allow me to say that I warned Mr.
Chetwynd a great many times during recent months, but in vain--he
fancied he had the Midas touch--there was no arguing with him.... I
only wish he had more of your own level-headedness."

"No compliments either, please. I want facts, that's all. First, is the
firm bankrupt?"

"That's hard to say, Mr. Charles. Many a firm would be bankrupt if its
creditors all jumped at the same moment, and that's just what often
happens when things begin to go wrong. I daresay the firm's still making
profits, but there are loans of various kinds and if they're called in
just now, as they may be with the shares down to half a crown--"

"Is that a fair price for what they're worth?"

"Well, there again it's hard to say--always hard to separate price from
worth."

"What will happen if the loans are called in?"

"The company will have to look for new money--if it can find any."

"And if it can't?"

"Then, of course, there'd be nothing for it but a receivership, or at
any rate some sort of arrangement with creditors."

"May I ask you, though you needn't answer if you don't want--did Chet
speculate with any of the firm's money?"

"Again, it's hard to draw a line between speculation and legitimate
business practice. Mr. Chetwynd bought rather large quantities of raw
materials, thinking prices would continue to rise. In that he made the
same mistake as a great many very shrewd and reputable people."

"Will _he_ be forced into bankruptcy?"

"A good deal depends on what happens to the firm. If it weathers the
storm the bank would probably give him a chance--subject, of course, to
mortgaging Stourton and cutting down personal expenses to the bone. That
applies to the others also."

"I see.... Now may I ask you one final question? You were saying just
now that the firm will need new money. You know how much I have myself.
Would such a sum be any use in weathering the storm, as you put it?"

"That also is hard to say, Mr. Charles. I hardly care to advise you
in--"

"I'm not asking for advice. I want to know how much the firm needs, so
that I can judge whether it's even possible for me to save the situation
at all."

"I--I can't say, Mr. Charles. The whole matter's very complicated. We
should have to see accountants, and find out certain things from the
banks--it's quite impossible for me to make an estimate offhand."

"Well, thanks for telling me all you can. Perhaps we could return by the
side gate--I'd like to escape any more of the family wrangle if it's
still in progress...."

He drove away from Stourton an hour later, without seeing the family
again; but he left a note for Chet with Sheldon, saying he would get in
touch within a day or two. After a dash across London he was just in
time to catch the last train from Liverpool Street and be in his rooms
at St. Swithin's by midnight. He had already decided to help if his help
could do any vital amount of good. He couldn't exactly say why he had
come to this decision; it certainly wasn't any sense of the moral
obligation that Jill had tried to thrust on him. And he didn't think it
could be any sentimental feeling about the family, whom (except for Chet
and Bridget) he didn't particularly like, and whose decline to the
status of those who had to earn their own living would not wring from
him a tear. If sentiment touched him at all it was more for Sheldon and
other servants whom he knew, as well as for the thousands of Rainier
employees whom he didn't know, but whom he could imagine in their little
houses sleeping peacefully without knowledge that their future was being
shaped by one man's decision in a Cambridge college room. That aspect of
the thing was fantastic, but it was true, nevertheless. But perhaps
strongest of all the arguments was the fact that the money didn't matter
to him; even the income from it was more than he could ever spend; if he
could put it to some act, however debatable, at least it would not be
useless, as it was and always would be in his possession. For his own
personal future had already begun to mold itself; he would probably stay
at Cambridge after obtaining a degree. Werneth had once hinted at a
fellowship, and if this should happen, he would be enabled to live
frugally but quite comfortably on his own earnings.

End of term came a couple of days later; he returned to London and took
a room at a hotel. Having conveyed his conditional decision to Chet and
to Truslove, he had now only to discover if his money had any chance to
perform the necessary miracle. This meant interviews in City offices
with bank officials and chartered accountants, long scrutinies of
balance sheets and many wearisome hours in the Rainier Building,
demanding documents and statements that took so long to unearth and were
frequently so confusing that he soon realized how far Chet's slackness
had percolated downwards into all departments.

One of the accountants took him aside after an interview. "It's no
business of mine, Mr. Rainier, but I know something of the situation and
what you're thinking of doing, and my advice to you would be to keep out
of it--don't send good money after bad!"

"Thanks for the tip," Charles answered, with no other comment.

During the next two weeks it became a matter of some absorption to him
to discover exactly what Chet had been up to. So far he hadn't detected
any actual crookedness--only the grossest negligence and the most
preposterous--well, _expansiveness_ was perhaps again the word. Chet had
not only bought shares at absurd prices and in absurd quantities; he had
done the same with office desks, with electric lamps, even with pen
nibs. A small change, apparently fancied by him, in the firm's style of
notepaper heading had condemned enormous stacks of the original kind to
wastepaper. An ugly marble mantelpiece in Chet's private office had cost
six hundred pounds. And so far as Charles could judge from his somewhat
anomalous position of privileged outsider, every department was staffed
by well-paid sycophants whose most pressing daily task was to convince
their immediate superior that they were indispensable.

By Christmas Charles had almost reached the same opinion as the
accountant--that it would be folly to send good money after bad. Even a
total repayment of loans would not alone suffice to lift the firm from
the trough of depression into which the entire trade of the country was
rapidly sinking; nothing could save an enterprise of such complexity but
completely centralized and economical control. Without that a cash loan
could only stave off the inevitable for a few months.

On one of those oddly unbusinesslike days between Christmas and the New
Year he lunched with Chet and Truslove in Chet's office and told them
this. "I must be frank, Chet. I've spent a fortnight looking into every
corner I could find, and I'm not much of an optimist as a result. It
isn't only new _money_ that the firm needs, it's new--well, new other
things."

Chet nodded with an air of magnanimous comprehension. "You're probably
right, old chap. How about a new boss? Suppose I were to swap round with
George on the board?" Charles smiled gently. "I know my faults," Chet
ran on. "I'm a fair-weather pilot--good when everything's on the
up-and-up. Nobody can act and think bigger when times are right for it.
But these days you want a chap who can act and think _small_. That's
what put George in my mind."

Charles was quite willing to subscribe to a theory that left Chet
holding all the laurels, but he felt he had to say more. "I'm afraid it
isn't just a matter of changing the pilot. You've got to change a good
deal of the ship. And you also may have to change the voyage--or perhaps
even lie up in harbor for a time and make no voyages at all."

"Just a figure of speech, old chap--don't press it too far."

"All right, I won't... but take this lunch as an example. Although
I'm a guest, you'll perhaps forgive me for saying it's a pretty bad
lunch. And I know where it comes from--the canteen, as they call it,
downstairs. And I've seen the prices on the menu, so I know your canteen
is either badly managed or a swindle or both."

"Well, maybe--but surely it's not so important--"

"It's one thing with another. The whole place wants reorganizing from
top to bottom, and I can't exactly see George as the new broom."

"Well, let's assume you're right--but the more urgent issue still
remains. The banks don't give a damn whether the canteen serves good
food or not. They just won't wait for their money. What do _you_ say,
Truslove?"

Truslove temporized as usual. "I think we owe Mr. Charles a deep debt of
gratitude for devoting two weeks of his Christmas vacation to making
this inquiry. I'm sure everything he has said is very valuable."

"But some of his cash would be more valuable still--don't we agree, old
chap?"

"That, I understand, is why Mr. Charles has met us here--to give us his
decision."

Both of them looked to Charles, who answered, rather hesitantly: "I was
hoping you'd see what I'm driving at without forcing me to a direct
reply. In my opinion a loan or even a gift wouldn't help unless you
completely reorganize the firm. That's all I can say."

"You mean your answer's a definite 'no'?"

"If you insist on putting it that way, but you've heard my reasons."

"Well, I'm damned." Chet stared gloomily at the tablecloth for a moment,
while the waitress came in with coffee. Transferring his stare to the
cup, he suddenly turned on her with a vehemence that almost made her
drop the tray. "Call this _coffee_? Take it back and bring something
worth drinking. And what's the cause of the rotten meals we get here?
Send up the canteen manager to my office afterwards... and let me
look at your hands! Why... damn it, I won't have this sort of
thing--get your week's wages and don't come here again!"

Throughout all this Truslove and Charles had looked on uncomfortably. As
soon as the girl, too startled and upset to make any reply, had left the
room, Charles said quietly: "I'm not sure that was very fair of you,
Chet. She wasn't responsible."

"What more can I do? Her hands--you should have seen them."

"Yes, yes... I daresay."

There was a long silence. Then Chet exploded:--

"Well, have I done anything _wrong_? You talk about reorganization--what
do you _mean_ by it? If it isn't just a word, _tell_ me. Unless it's
merely that you haven't got the courage to say outright that you're not
going to risk your precious cash. I'd respect you more for saying that
than for hiding behind all this reorganization pi-jaw."

("Pi-jaw"--that was the word they used at Netherton for interviews with
the headmaster. It stirred in him a little instant pity for Chet.)

"I'm not hiding behind anything."

"You mean you'd lend the money if we _did_ reorganize?"

Charles was silent a moment; Chet went on: "That's a fair question,
isn't it, Truslove? Let him answer, then we'll know where we stand.
Let's have a straight 'yes' or 'no,' for God's sake."

"Very well, then... probably I would."

Chet beamed. "Fine, old chap. I take back any aspersions, God bless.
_Now_ all you've got to tell us is what you'd call reorganizing. What
have I got to do? Or what's anybody got to do? And for that matter,
who's got to be the fellow to do it?"

"I--I can't easily answer those questions, Chet. I'm not a business
expert. It's hardly possible for me to suggest a new board, new
managers, new heads of departments--all out of the blue--in a couple of
minutes."

"You think we ought to have new ones--all of them?"

"I do."

"You mean you've seen enough during these last two weeks to get an idea
who's not pulling his weight?"

"To some extent, yes."

Then Chet, beaming again, played his trump card. "Well, all I've got to
say, old chap, is--come here and do the job yourself." He kept on
beaming throughout their stare of immediate astonishment. "Why not? Lend
the money, then come and look after it. What could give you a better
safeguard? You say you're not a businessman, but you know enough to have
found out what's wrong--that's a good deal of the way to knowing what's
right. Truslove, arrange a board meeting or whatever there has to be and
get it all fixed up. I'll resign, and then--"

Charles got up from the table and strode to the window, interrupting as
he stared over the City roof tops. "But I don't _want_ such a job--can't
you understand that? I've got my work at Cambridge--"

"You could go back there afterwards--putting things straight mightn't
take you more than a few weeks, once you got down to it."

"But I've no desire to get down to it!"

"Then it's damnably selfish of you! Worse than that, it's nothing but
hypocrisy the way you've led us on into thinking you'd help us! First
you make terms for getting us all out of a hole--then we agree to the
terms--then you go back on them--"

"But I never made such terms! I never hinted at tackling a job like this
myself! I don't even know that I could do it, anyhow."

Chet shrugged his shoulder, turning round to the lawyer. "Well, that's
his second 'no'--I suppose we'll just have to let the little tick go
back to his study books."

("Tick"--the worst term of Netherton opprobrium, and one that Charles
had never used, even at school, because he had always considered it
childish.)

Afterwards, walking disconsolately along Cheapside and through
Paternoster Row to Ludgate Hill and his hotel in the Strand, he felt he
had considerably bungled the entire interview. He should have said "no"
from the first; then there would have had to be only one "no."

**

Charles took over control of the Rainier firms in January 1921. To do so
he obtained a term's leave of absence from St. Swithin's, smiling at the
tense in Bragg's remark: "You would have done very well here, you know."

"_Would_ have? I still intend to."

"Well, we shall see, we shall see."

He practically lived in Chet's office in Old Broad Street--no longer
Chet's, of course, but he refused to put his own name on the door. At a
special board meeting he had been appointed managing director with the
consent of the bank creditors, to whom he had turned over his own
government securities. The bank men doubtless smiled over the
arrangement, since it was one by which they could not possibly lose;
while the family, faced with even a thousand-to-one chance, grabbed it
gladly if not gratefully. They could not get it out of their minds that
Charles was somehow taking advantage of them, instead of they of him;
but if (as Kitty had said) they had ever had a scared feeling that
brains might come in handy some day, this was undoubtedly the day. The
scared feeling developed until they actually believed in him a little,
but without reasoned conviction and certainly without affection--rather
as if he were some kind of astrologer whose abracadabra might, after
all, perform some miracle of market manipulation. That, of course, was
their only criterion of success; and it so happened that the mere
closing of bear accounts sent up the price of Rainier shares from half a
crown to six shillings within a month of his taking control, a rise that
considerably helped his prestige though he made no attempt to claim any.
Less popular was his early insistence on economies in their personal
lives, but after one or two suggestions had been badly taken, he
contented himself with sending each member of the family a personal
note, merely conveying advance information that the preference dividend
that year would not be paid. (The preference shares were all held by the
family.) Expected protests came in the form of a personal visit from
Chet, telephone calls from Jill, Julia, and George, and a strong letter
from Julian in Cannes. He took no notice of any of them, his only
concession being an offer to Jill to pay for Kitty's college education,
if she still wanted one.

Kitty came to his office to thank him. "Sweet of you, Uncle Charles. But
of course you don't mind my going to Newnham now you're not at St.
Swithin's--isn't that it?"

"Not altogether. Besides, I hope I'll be back there soon."

"You mean you haven't taken on this as a lifework?"

"Good heavens, no!"

"I hear you're dismissing everybody."

"Not _everybody_."

"And nobody wants to buy Stourton."

"That doesn't surprise me."

"Where do you live?"

"In a little apartment near the British Museum."

"How appropriate! Can I visit you there?"

"You wouldn't find me in. I work late most evenings."

"Won't you take me to lunch?"

"I was just going to ask you. But there's no _taking_--we have it
here--on my desk. And it's pretty bad--though not so bad as it used to
be."

She chattered on about her personal affairs, the new and smaller house
Jill and she had had to move into--a little suburban villa at Hendon,
with only one maid--"and there's a house further along the road where a
little man kisses his wife on the doorstep every morning at three
minutes past eight and comes running past our house to catch the
eight-seven--just like you read about in the comic papers."

"I'm glad you live so near a station. It must be very convenient."

"I know--you think I'm a snob."

"Not exactly."

"Then what?"

"I'm not quite certain."

"You mean you haven't made up your mind?"

"That would be too flattering to your sense of importance."

"I believe you _do_ think about me, sometimes."

"Obviously--that's why it occurred to me you might go to college."

"Uncle Charles... what's going to happen to everybody... whether
they go to college or not?"

"I don't think I know what you mean."

"I get terribly upset thinking about it sometimes. The little man who
runs for the train every day--I'm not really a snob about him, I think
he's wonderful, and it's beautiful the way you can always tell the time
by him, and the way he always catches the train--at least I hope he
does, in case somebody like you goes round his firm dismissing everyone
who's late.... Oh, but what's going to happen, Uncle
Charles--eventually?"

"You mean will he stop running?"

"Yes, or will the train stop running, or will he stop kissing his wife,
or will you stop being able to dismiss people--I don't know, it all
seems so fragile--the least touch--"

"I've had that feeling."

"Oh, you _have_?" Then pleadingly: "Don't make a joke about too much to
drink, or lobster for supper. Please don't make a joke."

"I wasn't going to. There isn't any joke."

She said somberly: "I know that too, and I'm only seventeen."

A tap came at the door and a young man entered with a sheaf of papers.
When he had gone Charles scanned them through, then apologized
perfunctorily for having done so. "But you see, Kitty, I'm terribly
busy."

"Perhaps I'd better leave you to it then?"

"If you wouldn't mind." He smiled, escorting her to the door and saying
as she left him: "I'm really glad you're going to Newnham. Write to me
when you're there and tell me what it's like."

Then he went back to his desk. The papers included a list of names, over
a hundred, of employees who would have to go that week. He glanced down
the list, initialed his approval of it, and passed on to another job.

(But what would happen to them? And yet, on the other hand, what else
could he do?)

By Easter he had made economies everywhere, yet the continuing malaise
of trade kept up a tragic pace. There were few positive signs that his
job could be regarded as approaching an end, and it was small
satisfaction to know that without his efforts the whole concern would
have already foundered like a waterlogged ship. As it was, the pumps
were just a few gallons ahead of the still-encroaching ocean. Even the
very energies he devoted to the task, his frequent feelings of
thanklessness and exasperation, fought for a continuance of effort; he
was giving the job so much that he had to give it more, because "if you
work hard enough at something, it begins to make itself part of you,
even though you hate it and the part isn't real." He wrote that in a
letter to Kitty, explaining why he would have to postpone returning to
Cambridge for another term. He found he could write to her more freely
than he could talk to her, and more freely than he could talk to anyone
except Sheldon.

**

He was still at his desk in the Rainier office when Kitty left Newnham
in 1924. The desk was the same, one of Chet's fantastic purchases that
were really more economical to keep and use than to sell in exchange;
but the office was different--no longer opulent in Old Broad Street
within a few yards of the Stock Exchange, but tucked away in an old
shabby building off St. Mary Axe. Convenient, though--within easy reach
of Mark Lane Station, and near enough to the river to get the smell of
the tide and an occasional whiff of tobacco from the big bonding
warehouses.

Much had happened since 1921. He had pulled Rainier's out of the depths
into shallow water; there had even, during the second half of 1923 and
first few months of 1924, been a few definite pointers to dry land. The
preference dividend was now being paid again, while the ordinary shares,
dividendless and without sign of any, stood at twelve shillings and were
occasionally given a run up to sixteen or seventeen. Chet had a
continuing order with a broker to sell a couple of thousand at the
higher figure and buy back at the lower; it was the only speculation
Charles would allow, but Chet derived a good deal of pleasure from it,
imagining himself a titan of finance whenever he made the price of a new
car. Chet still lived at Stourton, though part of the place was closed
up; it was really cheaper to live in a house one couldn't sell than rent
another.

The rest of the family had had to make similar economies, but the real
pressure had been relaxed by the resumption of the preference dividend,
and they were all comfortably off by any standards except those of the
really rich. Jill could afford once more her cruises and flirtations,
with no handicaps to the latter except advancing middle age and none to
the former save an increasing difficulty in finding new places to cruise
to. Julia and her husband lived in Cheltenham, playing golf and breeding
Sealyhams; George and Vera preferred town life and had taken a newly
built _maisonnette_ in Hampstead. Julian was at Cannes, doing nothing in
particular with his usual slightly sinister elegance; once or twice a
year he turned up in London, took Charles for lunch to the Reform Club,
and worked off a few well-polished epigrams. Bridget had married an
officer in an Irish regiment and lived in a suburb of Belfast. She had
had one child, a boy, and was expecting another. With George's girl and
Julia's boy and girl, this made a problematical five as against seven of
the previous generation, unless (as Chet put it) Charles hurried up.
They were not, however, at all anxious for Charles to hurry up; and as
both Lydia and Jill were past the age when any amount of hurry might be
expected to yield result, and as Vera was sickly and Julia (so she
boasted) had nothing to do with her husband any more, the ratio really
depended on Bridget--plus, of course, an outside chance from Charles.
Nobody even considered Julian in such a connection.

Much more, though, had happened between 1921 and 1924. The ancient Irish
problem had apparently been settled; a conference at Washington had
arranged limitation of naval armaments between England, Japan, France,
and the United States; someone had almost climbed Everest; the German
mark had collapsed and French troops had entered the Ruhr; Mussolini was
rebuilding Italy and had already bombarded Corfu; there had been an
earthquake in Japan, there had almost been another war with Turkey,
there was still a war in Morocco, and there was going to be an
exhibition at Wembley.

By 1924 Charles also had changed a little. It was not so much that he
looked older--rather that he seemed to have reached the beginnings of a
certain agelessness that might last indefinitely. He kept himself fit
with careful living and week-ends by the sea; faithful to memories, he
had bought a small house in Portslade that was not too expensive to keep
up in addition to his London apartment--no longer the one near the
British Museum, but a service flat in Smith Square. He worked long
office hours, and had to make frequent journeys to Rainier factories
throughout England; there were certain hotels where he always stayed,
and to the staffs of these he was satisfyingly known as the kind of man
who gave no trouble, drank little, tipped generously but not lavishly,
and always appeared to be wearing the same perfectly neat but
nondescript suit of clothes. The fact that he was head of the Rainier
firm merely added, if it added at all, to the respect they would have
felt for such a man in any case.

In 1924 Charles was thirty and Kitty nineteen. She had done well at
Newnham, obtaining a second in the men's tripos examination, but of
course she could not take a degree. On the day that she finally left the
college she went direct from Liverpool Street Station to the Rainier
offices, hoping Charles might be free for lunch; he was out, but found
her still waiting in his private room on his return during the late
afternoon.

"Oh, Uncle Charles, did you mind? I felt I must call--I feel so sad, I
don't know what to do with my life--I've said good-bye to so many people
there seems nobody left in the world but you!"

He laughed and telephoned for tea. "I'm glad I never had the experience
of leaving Cambridge knowing it would be for good. It was only going to
be for a term, and then two terms, and then a year..."

"And what now? Don't say you've given it up altogether."

"It must have given me up, anyway."

"But that's so awful to think of. You fitted Cambridge life, somehow.
Remember that day I came from Kirby and waited in your rooms at St.
Swithin's--just like this, except that the chair was more comfortable?"

"I don't hold with too comfortable chairs in offices."

"But you _do_ remember that day?"

"Yes--and so does Herring, I'm sure."

"God, I always thought it was a shame to drag you from what you wanted
to do to run a business, but I must say you've done it pretty well--even
Mother admits that, but I'll tell you something that'll amuse you--just
because _you've_ done it she thinks it couldn't have been so very hard
and probably other people could have done it just as well."

"Probably they could. Anyhow, if it releases your mother from any
embarrassment of gratitude, it's a thought worth thinking. Where is she
now, by the way?"

"Somewhere in mid-Mediterranean, drinking cocktails. Chet asked me down
to Stourton for the week-end. Why don't you come?"

"To be quite frank, because when I do go there, I'm usually bored."

"You mightn't be if I were there too."

He laughed and said he'd think about it, and after thinking about it
several times during the next twenty-four hours he rang up Chet and said
he was coming. Chet was delighted. Apparently Kitty was in the same room
with him when the conversation took place, because he heard her excited
voice in the background, then a scuffle to grab the instrument, and
finally a torrent of enthusiasm which he cut short by asking to speak to
Chet again.

He enjoyed himself at Stourton that week-end, and his lack of boredom
was not entirely due to Kitty, for there was another guest, a man who
had traveled in China and was interesting to listen to if difficult to
talk to--a division of labor which suited Charles; and there were also
local people, agreeable enough, who played tennis in the afternoons and
stayed to dinner. Actually he did not see much of Kitty, who seemed
generally to be surrounded by handsome young men in white flannels, and
when chances came to join her group he did not do so. He wondered why he
did not, and with a touch of quizzical self-scrutiny was prepared to
diagnose even a twinge of jealousy; he would really have liked to, just
for the chance to laugh at himself, but honestly he could not. Naturally
the girl liked people of her own age; but there was another sense in
which he had to realize now how old as well as young she was; those
youths treated her with such obvious worship, it would not be fair for
him to come along with his usual offhand badinage as to a child, and so
deflate her adult prestige. And yet that was the only way he knew _how_
to treat her--casually, unsparingly, never very politely. Perhaps that
made up the chief reason he kept out of her way.

As soon as the dinner guests had left on the Sunday evening, he began to
make his own farewells, for he intended to drive off early in the
morning to reach his office by nine. Leaving Chet, Lydia, and Kitty in
the drawing room, he sidestepped into the library for something to read
in bed. It was a superb July night; he did not feel sleepy, yet he knew
he must sleep--he had a busy day tomorrow. One of the library windows
was open to admit the warm breeze; there was a full moon, and the
illumination, tricked by flapping curtains, played over the books like
something alive and restless. He was fumbling along the wall for a
switch when he heard a sound behind him.

"Uncle Charles--don't put on any lights."

He turned round, startled. She went on: "Why have you been avoiding me?
And don't say you haven't."

"Of course I won't. I have. I know I have. And this is why. I can tell
you very clearly, because I've been thinking it out myself."

He made his point about her age, and the young men, and his own offhand
manner. When he had finished she said: "It's _too_ clear, too
_ingenious_."

"But don't you think one's subconscious mind does work ingeniously?"

"Maybe yours does. I'll bet it would."

"You see, Kitty, you're no longer a child."

"Oh God--for _you_ to tell me that!"

Suddenly the wind dropped, the curtains ceased flapping, the moonlight
seemed to focus in a stilled and breathless glare upon her face. It was
not exactly a beautiful face, but he knew at that moment it held
something for him, touched a chord somewhere, very distantly. He said,
smiling: "I'll try to practise company manners for a future occasion."

"No, _never_ do that. Be yourself--as you were in all those letters. And
if you'd rather have the Cambridge life than run the firm, then give it
up--before it's too late!"

"_Now_ what are you talking about?"

"You--_you_--because I'm always thinking about you. You're not
happy--you're not _real_! But those letters you wrote were real--when
you felt crushed and hopeless and things had gone wrong all day, and you
used to sit in your office when everyone had gone home and type them
yourself, with all the mistakes.... I suppose I'm being sentimental.
The little college girl, treasuring letters from the beloved uncle who
saved the family from ruin.... But haven't you _finished_ that yet?
Haven't you done enough for us? You pulled the firm through the worst
years--now trade's improving, Chet says, so _now's_ your time to get
free! Don't you realize that? You still hanker after the other kind of
life, don't you--study, books, all that sort of thing? When I came in
just now and saw you in the moonlight peering along the shelves I could
have cried."

"I don't see why. I was only looking for the lights and hoping there was
a detective novel I hadn't read."

"But--but don't you want--Cambridge--any more?"

"I wonder, sometimes, if I do.... To grow old in a cultured groove,
each year knowing more and more about less and less, as they say about
those specialist dons, till at last one's mental equipment becomes an
infinitely long and narrow strip leading nowhere in particular--"

"Like the Polish Corridor!"

He laughed. "How do you think of such things?"

"My subconscious--like yours--ingenious. But never mind that--what _do_
you want to do?"

"You talk as if I'd been complaining. Far from it. I'm quite satisfied
to go on doing what I am."

"Managing the firm, increasing the dividends, refloating the companies,
a regular Knight of the Prospectus, Savior of the Mites of Widows and
Orphans--"

"Now you're being sarcastic."

"Can't you think of anything you've ever wanted passionately and
still--would like?"

He said after a pause: "Yes, I can, but it's rather trivial. When I was
at school I had a great ambition to paddle down the Danube in a canoe,
but my father didn't approve of the idea and wouldn't let me have the
money for it."

"Oh, but that's not trivial--it's wonderful. And you can afford it now
all right."

"The money, perhaps, but not the time."

"You ought to _make_ the time."

He laughed. "If I can steal a quiet fortnight at Portslade I'll be lucky
this year." He took her arm and led her towards the door. "And now, I'm
afraid, since I have to leave so early in the morning--"

"I know. You want to look for a book." She suddenly took his hand and
pressed it over the switch. "Good night, Uncle Charles."

As he went back to the shelves he heard her footsteps fading through the
house--no longer a child, that was true, but she still scampered like
one. He searched for a while without finding anything he wanted to read.

**

Nineteen twenty-five was another improving year, the year of Locarno,
the false dawn. It was a year perhaps typical of the twenties in its
wishful optimism backed by no growth of overtaking realism; another
sixpence off the income tax, another attempt to harness a vague shape of
things to come with the even vaguer shapes of things that had been. For
the public would not yet look squarely into that evil face (publishers
were still refusing "war books") and few also were those who feared the
specter might return. The England hoped for by the majority of
Englishmen was a harking back to certain frugalities of the past (lower
and lower income tax, smaller and smaller government expenditure) in
order to enjoy more and more the pleasures of the present; the Europe
they dreamed of was a continent in which everybody placidly "saw
reason," while cultivating summer schools, youth hostels, and
peasant-costume festivals in the best tradition of Hampstead Garden
Suburb; in exchange for which the City would make loans, trade would
thus be encouraged, and taxes fall still further. Mixed up with this
almost mystic materialism was the eager, frightened idealism of the
Labour Party (both the eagerness and the fright came to a head a year
later, in the General Strike); the spread of the belief that the League
of Nations never would be much good but was probably better than
nothing, a belief that effectively converted Geneva into a bore and
anyone who talked too much about it into a nuisance. Meanwhile a vast
and paralyzing absence of hostility gripped Englishmen from top to
bottom of the social scale, not a toleration on principle but a muteness
through indifference; they were not _against_ the League of Nations,
they were not _against_ Russia, they were not _against_ disarmament, or
the Treaty of Versailles, or the revision of the Treaty of Versailles,
or the working classes, or Mussolini--who had, after all, made the
Italian trains run on time. Their favorite gesture was to give credit to
an opponent ("You'll find a good many of those Labour chaps are quite
decent fellows"); their favorite conclusion to an argument the opinion
that, "Ah well, these things'll probably right themselves in time."

And amidst such gestures and opinions the postwar England took physical
shape and permitted itself limited expression. By 1925 the main features
were apparent: arterial roads along which the speculative builder was
permitted to put up his 600-pound houses and re-create the problem the
roads themselves had been designed to solve; the week-end trek to the
coasts and country through the bottlenecks of Croydon and Maidenhead;
the blossoming of the huge motor coach, and the mushrooming of outer
suburbs until London almost began where the sprawling coast towns left
off--while in bookshops and theaters the rage was for Michael Arlen and
Noel Coward, two men whose deft orchestrations of nerves without
emotions, cynicism without satire, achieved a success that must have
increased even their own disillusionment.

In this same year 1925 Rainier's made a profit that could have paid a
small dividend on the ordinary shares; but Charles chose not to do so,
despite appeals and protests from the family. And in that same year
Lydia died of pneumonia, and Bridget had another baby, and Kitty got
herself engaged to a young man named Walter Haversham, who preached
Communism at London street corners and had been to Russia. For six
months she was swept by an enthusiasm which considerably shocked the
family, but somehow did not especially disturb Charles. He saw her once
carrying a pictorial banner with Wal (they called him Wal) in a May Day
procession; when he met her some weeks later he chaffed her gently about
it, saying that workmen on banners always had enormous fists, whether
for fraternization or for assault and battery he could never be quite
certain--maybe both. He smiled as he said it, but she suddenly flew into
a rage, accusing him of being a coward who took refuge in cynicism from
the serious issues of the world. "And don't tell me I've lost my sense
of humor. I have--I _know_ I have. There isn't any room for humor in the
world as it is today. And it's that English sense of humor, which
everybody boasts about, that really prevents things from being done."

"You're probably right. But think of all the things that are better left
undone."

"The day will come when men may be _killed_ for laughing."

"And that will also be the day when men laugh at killing."

She went out of his office, banging the door. He did not see her again
for several months--till after the General Strike in 1926. One day she
rang him up on the telephone. "Uncle Charles, may I come and talk to
you?"

"Of course." He was about to add an invitation to lunch when the
receiver was banged down at the other end. Two minutes later she came
bounding into his office.

"I rang up from just outside. I thought you might not want to see me
after our last meeting."

"I don't think I should ever not want to see you. What's been happening
to you all this while?"

"Not much. But I've got my sense of humor back."

"Where's Wal?"

"He's gone to Russia--for good. You know I really _admire_ him. He has
the courage of what he believes, he's going to become a Russian citizen
if they let him. He wanted me to go with him--as his wife, but I just
couldn't. I'm weak--I couldn't live in a little cubicle and learn a new
language and wear rough clothes--I'd die of misery, even if I really
loved him--which I'm beginning to doubt, now that he's gone. I saw him
off at Tilbury and felt awful, and then I went in a little pub near the
docks and a fellow was standing in the doorway, playing a mandolin and
singing with his mouth all crooked,--you know the way they do,--and
inside the bar there was a workman sitting over a glass of beer and
looking up at the other man with a funny sort of adoring expression,
same as you see people looking up at the Madonna in Catholic pictures,
and presently he said to me, quite casual, as if he'd known me for
years--'Gawd, I wish I could do that'... and I wanted to laugh and
cry together. I know I'll never leave England as long as I live, so here
I am--and Wal's in Moscow."

**

Nineteen twenty-six went by, the year of the General Strike, and
Germany's admission to the League of Nations; of an Imperial Conference
and trouble in Shanghai; of large socialist gains in municipal polls
throughout England, and of Hitler's climb towards power in Germany.
Trade remained good; the stock market pushed up Rainier's to twenty-five
shillings in anticipation of a dividend which Charles again declined to
pay. Nineteen twenty-seven brought riots in Vienna and executions in
Russia; while for once Englishmen found themselves suddenly and
astonishingly _against_ something--they were against the Revised Prayer
Book, proposed by the Church Assembly and sent to the House of Commons
to be voted on, according to the curious English custom by which a
political majority decides the dogmatic beliefs of a religious minority.
And during the next year, 1928, the House of Commons again turned down
the Revised Prayer Book, as if it tremendously mattered. But this flurry
of against-ness was soon exhausted, and Englishmen, including Members of
Parliament, resumed their benevolence towards most things that continued
to happen throughout the world.

And in that same year 1928 Bridget had another baby, her fourth, and
Kitty got herself engaged again, to a young man named Roland Turner, who
had advanced ideas about the "cinema," and was understood to be working
on a scenario or something or other that he hoped to sell for a fabulous
price to somebody or other, but was otherwise romantically out of a
job--romantically, because he wasn't eligible for the dole yet managed
to run a car.

"And I suppose if he _did_ draw the dole and _couldn't_ run a car, that
would be prosaic?" Charles queried, when she told him.

"You still think I'm a snob, don't you? But I'm not--it isn't that at
all--I'm just lost in amazement, because he always dresses well and goes
to the best restaurants, and has a sweet little studio off Ebury
Street--I don't know _where_ he gets the money from, but I do wish you
could find him something to do."

"But I don't want any scenarios today, thank you."

"Not _that_, of course, but he can do all kinds of other things--write
and paint, for instance--he does marvelous frescoes, at least they say
the one he did was marvelous, but most of it came off during the damp
weather.... He can paint machinery, too."

"Unfortunately we don't paint our machinery."

"Pictures of machinery, I mean--he did one for an exhibition,
symbolizing something--but I'm sure he could do a serious one, if you
wanted it. Don't you ever have illustrated catalogues?"

Charles smiled. "Suppose you bring him to lunch?"

They met at the Savoy Grill; Roland Turner proved to be rather tall and
thin ("lissom" was almost the word); his clothes were impeccable, with
just a faintly artistic note in his silk bow tie; his manners were
perfect and his choices of food delicate; even his talk was sufficiently
intelligent and modulated to what Charles felt to be an exactly
determined mean between independence and obsequiousness in the presence
of Big Business. Immediately after coffee the youth mentioned an
afternoon appointment and decorously bowed himself out, leaving Kitty
and Charles together.

Laughing, she said: "He's got no appointment, he's just being
tactful--giving me a chance to do the Don't-you-think-he's-wonderful
stuff." She paused for a few seconds, then added: "Well, _don't_ you?"

"He's a very personable young man, and if you like him, that's the main
thing."

"_Personable?_ What exactly do you mean by that?"

"Attractive."

"Are you sure it's not something nice to say about someone you don't
care for?"

"Not at all. I like him all right, and if there's anything he could do
that I wanted done, I'd be glad to give him the job."

"He was wondering about Stourton--do you think I could take him down
there to see Uncle Chet?"

"With what in mind?"

"You're so suspicious, aren't you? Well, he has ideas about landscape
gardening.... Of course he knows Chet and you aren't my real uncles."

"I don't see how he knows that, unless you told him, and I don't see
that it matters, anyway."

"I had to tell him--indirectly. You see, Mother discovered him first of
all--in Mentone. He was staying with somebody there and they danced a
lot--Mother and him, I mean. I think she rather fell for him, because
when he came on to London she had him to stay at the house, with me as a
sort of chaperon. We weren't attracted at all in the beginning, but I
began to be awfully sorry for him when I saw how bored he was with
Mother. He has nice feelings, you know--I don't think he'd have found it
easy to switch over if she'd _really_ been my mother."

"I'm afraid the point is too subtle for me to grasp."

"Well--like the _Vortex_, you know.... Of course Mother was furious."

"The whole situation must have amused you a good deal."

"Well, it had its funny side.... Of course his friends don't like
me--they never thought he'd pick up a girl."

"Are you in love with him?"

"Yes, I think I am.... By the way, he's having an exhibition of
paintings at the Coventry Galleries--you _will_ come, won't you, and buy
something?"

He promised he would, and went to the private view the following week.
He didn't think much of the pictures, but his private view of Roland
Turner was worth the journey--that suave young man, again impeccably
dressed, saying the impeccably correct things about his own paintings to
patrons who greeted him as they walked around, striking another exactly
determined mean, Charles felt--this time between modesty and
self-esteem. To please Kitty he bought a picture for five guineas--a
view of an English country house as Botticelli might have painted it if
he had painted English country houses rather badly.

"It's really very odd, Mr. Rainier," said the young man, as Kitty
proudly stuck the red star on the corner of the canvas, "but you've
chosen the best thing I've ever done!"

"Very odd indeed," Charles answered, "because I know almost nothing
about painting."

Afterwards he took them both to dinner at Kettner's, encouraging them in
a rather vulgar way to choose all the expensive items--caviare and quail
and plenty of champagne. Of course the young man was a poseur, but
halfway through the meal he became aware that he himself was posing just
as artificially as the Philistine industrialist and champagne uncle.
When Turner talked about Stourton (Kitty had evidently taken him there)
and how wonderful it was to own such a place, Charles answered: "Oh,
it's an awfully white elephant, really. The house is uneconomical and
the farms don't pay. If it were nearer London my brother could carve it
up into building plots, but as it's only England's green and pleasant
land nobody wants it and nobody can afford it and nobody will pay a
decent price for anything that grows on it."

"But it's a privilege, all the same, to keep up these old family
possessions."

"It isn't an old family possession--at least not of _our_ family. My
father bought it cheap because the other family couldn't afford it."

"Well, he must have admired the place or he wouldn't have wanted to buy
it at any price."

"Oh, I don't know. He liked buying things cheap. He once bought a
shipload of diseased sharkskins because they were cheap and he thought
he could make a profit."

"And did he?"

"You bet he did."

"A businessman, then?"

"Yes--like myself. But rather more successful because he had a better
eye for a bargain and also because he lived most of his life during a
rising market."

Turner gave a somewhat puzzled sigh. "Well, well, I suppose that's the
system."

"Except in Russia," Kitty interposed. Then brightly: "Roland's been to
Russia too." She must have been remembering Wal.

With a slight awakening of interest as he also remembered Wal, Charles
said: "Oh indeed? And what made _you_ go there, Mr. Turner?"

"I wanted to see what it was like."

"And what _was_ it like?"

The young man smiled defensively. "I don't think I could answer that in
a single sentence."

"Many people do. They say it's all marvelous or else it's all horrible."

"I didn't see all of it, Mr. Rainier, and I didn't think what I did see
was either."

"So you don't believe in the coming Revolution?"

"I daresay it's coming, but I don't particularly believe in it." And he
added, with a gulp of champagne: "Just as you, Mr. Rainier, don't
particularly believe in capitalism, though you go on trying to make it
work."

"I wonder if that's true."

"The fact is, Mr. Rainier--perhaps we can both admit it after a few
drinks--we neither of us believe in a damn thing."

Afterwards Charles regretted the conversation and his own pose
throughout it, but he remained vaguely troubled whenever he thought of
Roland Turner and Kitty; he slightly disapproved of that young man, and
felt avuncular in so doing. He did not see them again that year, for
they were abroad most of the time, and he himself had many other things
to worry about. By April of 1929 he was so exhausted from overwork that,
after settling an especially troublesome labor dispute at the Cowderton
works, he went to Switzerland for a holiday, despite the fact that it
was not a good time of the year--past the snow season, and before the
end of the thaw. He stayed at Interlaken, in an almost empty hotel, and
while he was there a letter came from Kitty, forwarded from an address
in Provence through London. He wondered what she was doing in Provence
until he read that she was with Roland Turner, who was engaged in
painting a portrait of an Indian rajah. "He's a very fat rajah," she
reported, "and he's given Roland five hundred pounds to go on with,
which I expect will be all he'll get out of it, because the picture gets
less and less like the rajah every sitting." Charles replied from
Interlaken, expressing pleasure that her fianc had found such
profitable employment--to which he could not help adding that the fee
was much higher than the Rainier firm could ever have paid for catalogue
illustrations. Two days later came a wire from Avignon: COMING TO
INTERLAKEN DON'T GO AWAY EXPECT ME TEN TOMORROW MORNING.

During the intervening day he wondered at the possible cause of her
visit, though capricious changes of plan were really nothing to wonder
at where Kitty was concerned; the theory he considered likeliest was
that the portrait commission had fallen through, and that she and Roland
had decided to touch him, as it were, for a Swiss holiday. (He had
already discovered, from other sources, that Turner's never-failing
affluence was bound up with his never-failing debts and geared by his
skill and charm in cadging.) He did not mind, particularly; after all,
he could always go back to London if the situation became tiresome.

It was a cold bright day when he waited on the Interlaken platform.
There was still a litter of shoveled snow in the gutters and against the
railings, and the train came in white-roofed from fresh falls in the
Simplon-Ltschberg. She was dressed in a long mackintosh with a little
fur hat, like a fez, and as she jumped from the train before it quite
stopped, it was as if something in his heart jumped also before it quite
stopped.

"Oh, Uncle Charles, I'm so happy--I was afraid you'd take fright and
leave before I got here! It seems ages since I saw you. How _are_ you?"

"I'm fine." (Breaking Miss Ponsonby's old rule.) "And it _is_ ages since
you saw me--nearly a year. Where's Roland?"

"Not with me. I've left him. Take me somewhere for a drink--there was no
diner on the train."

In a deserted restaurant-caf opposite the station she told him more
about it. "I found myself getting _silly_--saying silly things to all
his silly crowd--there's a regular colony of them wherever he goes. But
more than that--after all, I don't mind so much saying silly things
myself, but it got to the point where I didn't notice when things _they_
said were silly. Softening of the brain--" she tapped her head. "I
simply _had_ to take it in time. And I felt sorry for the poor old
rajah. He was pretty awful to look at, but at least he knew what's what
with women--which is more than most of Roland's friends do."

"So I rather imagined."

"Of course _you_ really fixed it--that night at Kettner's."

"_I_ fixed it?"

"I could see you didn't like him."

"On the contrary, I think I began to like him then--just slightly--and
for the first time. He has his wits about him."

"He'd better have--they're what he lives by. But it's no good denying
it--you _don't_ like him. I could feel that."

"Well, I'm not as keen on him as you are."

"_Were_."

"Oh, is it _were_? Well, in that case there couldn't be a better reason
for breaking off the engagement."

"But it never pleased you to think of me marrying him. Did it now?"

"Why should that matter to you?"

"Because it _does_ matter! I can't bear to do things you don't want,
except when you don't want them to my face--like forcing myself on you
here, I don't mind _that_--" She suddenly lowered her head into her
hands and looked up a few seconds later with eyes streaming. "Can't you
see you've spoilt me for other men?"

"But, my dear--that's ridiculous!"

She went on: "I'm not asking for anything. I can go back by the next
train if you'd prefer it. I'll probably marry someone eventually and be
quite happy, but it'll have to be a man whom you like fairly well, and
who doesn't sneer because you do an honest job of work instead of
battening on rich people."

"Battening on poor people is more in my line--according to your former
fianc."

"Poor Wal--I often wonder what's happened to him--I really liked him
more than Roland.... By the way, I saw the papers--you've been having
strikes at Cowderton, haven't you? Was it very serious?"

"While it lasted. That's really why I came out here--for a rest."

"Oh God, why don't you give the whole thing up? You've got enough money,
haven't you?"

"For what?"

"To live on, for the rest of your life, at about a thousand a year."

"Depends on several things--how long I live, how much a thousand a year
will continue to be worth, and how long people will pay me anything at
all for not working.... But that's not the whole point, in any case."

"You mean you _want_ to stay with the firm? It's still a game, as you
said in one of those letters--a game you want to win even if it isn't
worth playing? Haven't you won enough?... Or maybe it's more than a
game now--it's become the lifework?"

He smiled. "Perhaps it's somewhere between the two--more than a game,
but not quite a lifework yet. You know, when I first took over the job
it was with all kinds of reluctance--because I'd been more or less
jockeyed into it by the family crying out to be saved. Well, that was
the idea, originally--to save 'em and then be off quick, before they
needed more saving. Rainier's was just something that kept the family
going, and I didn't respect it enormously for that. But then, when I
began to look into things personally, I found it kept a good many other
families going. Over three thousand, to be precise."

"I see. Responsibility. Uncle Atlas."

"You can laugh at me if you like, provided you believe me sincere. I'm
not a sentimentalist. I don't call the firm the House of Rainier, or
myself a Captain of Industry, or any of that nonsense. But there _is_ a
responsibility, no use denying it, in owning a three-thousand-family
business. If I can contrive a little security for those people--"

"But there _isn't_ any security--as you said yourself when I asked you
about your thousand a year. It's an illusion put up by banks and
insurance companies and lawyers and building societies and everybody who
goes without what he wants today because he thinks he'll enjoy it more
later on. Supposing some day we all find out there isn't any 'later
on'?"

"Then, my dear, will come Wal's revolution."

"And we shall all make a grab for what we can get?"

"Provided there _is_ anything to get by then. If the whole thing's an
illusion, then the rewards may fade equally."

"Then you try to comfort those three thousand families by encouraging
them to believe in a future that doesn't exist?"

"They don't believe in it. Every street-corner speaker warns them not to
at the top of his voice. What I _do_ comfort them with, since you put it
that way, is enough of a regular wage to buy food and pay their rent and
smoke cigarettes and go to the local cinema. That keeps them satisfied
to go on waiting."

"For the big grab?"

"Or for the discovery that there isn't anything left to grab."

"Which makes you one degree more cynical than they are. They don't
believe in the security they accept because they're looking to the
revolution, but _you_ don't believe in either the security of the
present or the revolution of the future!"

"Your other ex-fianc put it even more simply, my dear, when he said I
didn't believe in a damn thing."

"Well, don't you?"

"That's what I've been asking myself very carefully and for a long time,
and I still can't find an answer."

"Probably because you've been asking it _too_ long and _too_ carefully.
The answer to that sort of question ought to _fly_ out--like a child
when he's asked what he wants for his birthday--he always knows
instantly without having to think--either a bicycle or a toy train or
something.... Oh, I'm quite happy again now. I don't miss Roland a
bit. Just talking to you freely like this makes the difference, though
you don't talk to _me_ freely--there always seems a brake on--I can
hardly believe you once sent me those letters."

"Curious--I don't remember much about them. If you kept any, I'd like
to--"

"Oh, no, _never_! That would be a really awful thing to do! And of
course I know why you were so free in _them_--because you thought I was
too young to understand. I was only the vehicle--the letter box, so to
speak--where you posted them to another address."

A gleam came into his eyes. "What on earth are you talking about?"

"Well, what more could I have been in those days? Letters to a
schoolgirl.... Of course I was crazy about you--always have been ever
since that time at Stourton when I came up to your room and smoked a
cigarette. Remember?... It might be fun if you loved me now--we'd
have a good deal in common. I sometimes wonder why you don't."

"In my slow and careful way I've been wondering that too--ever since you
stepped off the train."

"Well, why don't you--just to be curious?"

"I haven't said I don't."

"Oh _no_!"

"Would it be so very incredible?"

"It would be _fantastic_!"

"Then it _is_ fantastic."

"Darling, you don't mean--" She seized his hand across the table.
"You're not saying it just to be kind?"

"I don't feel a bit kind. I feel--well, let's stick to fantastic."

"But I--I--I don't know what else to say for the moment."

"You don't have to say anything."

They sat in silence, his hand changing places over hers. A train entered
the station opposite; the tick of its electric engine was like a clock
measuring the seconds. Presently she said: "There's the oddest thing in
my mind for us to do--if it's all real and not a dream. Let's go down
the Danube in a canoe, as you always wanted."

"Yes, we'll do that. And up the Amazon too, if you like." His face was
very pale. "I'll take a year off--from the firm and the City and the
three thousand families and everything else. Let someone else have his
turn...."

**

Back at his hotel that night he could hardly believe in the changed
future; it was almost as if he had been another person during the day
and was now perusing with amazement a report of what had happened to
someone else. He was not regretful--far from it--but a little bemused at
so many decisions made all at once, somewhat startled that they must all
have been his own, yet ready to accept them with a loyalty that might
well become more enthusiastic when he had had a chance to think them
over.

At breakfast he compared notes and found that her emotions had been
similar only as far as a doubt as to whether he could really have meant
what he said enough to go on meaning it; he assured her laughingly that
he had and did, and immediately happiness blazed across the rolls and
honey between them as they planned the trivial details of the day. The
future was still fantastic to talk about, even to think about, and they
agreed for the time being not to give themselves the even heavier task
of explaining it to others. No one expected him in London before the end
of the month (the Rainier board meeting was on the thirtieth), and no
one knew she was not still in Provence, except Roland and his crowd, who
did not count. Jill was in the Aegean, cruising among the antiquities
but taking (one suspected) very little notice of them. He and Kitty
could have at least two weeks in Switzerland before returning to
announce the astonishing news to the family and to the world. Of course
they could send the news by letter, but somehow to pull the lever that
would release all the commotion even at a distance required a certain
fortitude; they decided to enjoy those two weeks first of all.

And so began an interlude that might have been in another world, and
almost was. They stayed for the first week in Interlaken, making it a
center for mountain trips into the high Oberland. The weather improved
after the last big snowfall of the year; the sun dried the drenched
meadows, so that they were able to walk by the lakeside to Giessbach,
and up the Lauterbrunnen Valley as far as the lower slopes of the
Roththal. It was pleasant to see the industrious Swiss polishing up
their ballrooms and cocktail bars and funicular railways in readiness
for what was to come; but pleasanter still to tramp along the cleared
roadways in face of the sun and snow. During the second week they
discovered the hotel on the two-mile-high Jungfraujoch, where there was
nothing to do but talk and absorb the physical atmosphere of being above
and beyond the earth. They liked it enough to stay there till the last
day before the necessary return to England.

That last day came, and with it the descent to natural levels--a curious
deflation of mood that was easy to interpret as sadness at leaving a
place where they had been so happy. Throughout the long rail journey
through Berne and Basle to Boulogne the mood persisted--seemed
impossible to shake off, being perhaps a physical effect of the changed
altitude, they both agreed. They reached London amidst driving rain and
had dinner in a restaurant near Victoria Station, saying all the time
and over and over again how wonderful it had been in Switzerland and how
sorry they were to have returned. The Rainier board meeting was four
days away, and it was understood that no announcement of future plans
should be hinted at to anyone until then.

The board meeting came, and with it all the commotion. He had not
guessed how considerable it would be. He had suspected that the family
would not be altogether pleased, but he hadn't realized they would have
so many reasons for being displeased. He soon found that they regarded
his year's absence from Rainier's as a form of abdication amounting
almost to desertion--in spite of the fact that they had long been
jealous of what they called his "domineering" over the firm's affairs.
Then also, those who had hoped their children would inherit his personal
fortune strongly resented his marriage to anybody at all; he hadn't
anticipated that, even remotely. And finally, all except Jill (and in
one sense even including Jill) were manifestly and desperately jealous
of his choice. Only Chet seemed to have any genuine tolerance of the
idea--a tolerance not quite reaching the point of enthusiasm. He had so
long joked about the need for Charles to "hurry up" that now Charles
_was_ hurrying up he could not withhold somewhat rueful good wishes.

The party at Stourton to celebrate the engagement was not a successful
affair.

Then, in June, quite suddenly, Chet died after a heart attack, and plans
for the marriage in July were postponed till autumn; it would have been
impossible, in any event, to leave England during all the legal
complications that ensued.

The marriage was finally fixed for October. Charles took Kitty to dine
at Kettner's again one night in late September, and for some reason the
same mood came upon them as during the journey back from Switzerland
five months before. She suggested that, on his side, it was due to news
in the evening paper--a big stock market crash in New York, with
inevitable repercussions in London.

He was too honest with her to accept that as a reason. "I'm not a
speculator. Rainier's dropped five shillings today, I notice, but it
doesn't affect me or the firm--they can go down ten times as much before
it'll begin to worry me. Matter of fact, everything's been pushed too
high lately, especially in America. I could make a lot of money now if I
backed my opinion."

"What opinion?"

"That the fall will go much further."

"How would you make money by backing your opinion?"

"Selling short, as they call it. That means--"

"I know--I learnt all about it at Kirby when we used to gamble in
Rainier shares. Remember?"

"You must have lost everything."

"Nearly everything. About thirty-two pounds all together." She laughed.
"Well, why _don't_ you sell short?"

"I will, if it amuses you. But I'd have no other reason."

"Yes do it--to amuse me. Please, Charles."

"Then there's two things I have to do at the office tomorrow morning."
He took out his notebook and made a pretense of writing something down.
"Sell short to amuse Kitty. Also get Miss Hanslett to send out the
wedding invitations."

"Who's Miss Hanslett?"

"My new secretary. You saw her last time you called."

"Oh, that quiet girl?"

"I suppose she's quiet. I certainly wouldn't want her to be noisy."

"Darling, how soon can we leave--afterwards?"

"You mean for our world tour? Maybe next month. It'll be too late for
the Danube, though, this year. We'd better do the Amazon first. Or the
Nile."

"No, not the Nile--Jill's there."

"What's she doing?"

"Looking at the tombs, I suppose, and having a good time."

But the laugh they rallied themselves into failed to shift the mood that
made him, as soon as dinner was over, confess that he felt tired and
would prefer an early night in bed. He dropped her at Jill's new house
in St. John's Wood, where she was living with a cook-housekeeper, and
kept the taxi for his own journey to Smith Square. But his apartment
seemed so inexplicably cheerless that after a drink and an attempt to
feel sleepy, he called another cab and drove round the West End till he
found a film that looked tolerable enough for whiling away the rest of
the evening. He stayed in the cinema less than an hour, his restlessness
increasing all the time, so that at last he walked out and paced up and
down the thronged pavements till past midnight, longing suddenly for the
sun and snow of the Jungfraujoch, yet knowing that it was only a mirage
of what he would still long for if by some miracle he were to be
transplanted there.

Usually when he could not sleep he was quite satisfied to stay up
reading, often until dawn; but that night he felt he would be far too
restless to concentrate on any book, so he bought tablets and took
several on his return to Smith Square. They gave him a heavy
unrefreshing sleep, from which he woke about noon to find a penciled
letter from Kitty at his bedside. It had been delivered by hand early
that morning, and contained, in effect, the breaking of their engagement
and an announcement that she was leaving immediately to join her
stepmother in Luxor.




PART THREE


The first gray smudge was peering over the hills and it seemed that we
both saw it together.

"Well, we've talked all night--and for the second time. Aren't you
sleepy yet?"

"No.... You were telling me about that letter, the one Kitty left for
you. Didn't it give any reasons?"

"Plenty. But I really think we'd better go to bed if we're to be in any
decent condition tomorrow. The crowd will soon be on us, worse luck."

"Then why do you have them here?"

"That's part of another story. Well, I must have a nightcap, even if it
_is_ morning. Have one with me?"

We went down to the library, feeling our way in the dim dawn shadows
without switching on any of the house lights. Meanwhile he continued:
"I'd show you that letter if I had it here, but it's locked up in my
safe in the City. I admit I'm sentimental about it--a little puzzled
also. It's the last word I ever had from her, except picture postcards
from all kinds of places. What happened to her afterwards is what she
said would happen--except that it didn't last for long. She married a
man she met in Egypt--she was quite happy--and he was a man I liked when
I met him, but I didn't meet him till after she was dead. He had
plantations in the F.M.S. and she went out with him there and died of
malaria within six months."

He bent over the decanter, his shape and movements ghostly against the
gray pallor from the windows. The moon had gone down, and it was darker
than at midnight.

"And then?" I said.

He handed me a drink and raised his own.

"The rest," he declaimed half-mockingly, "is a simple saga of success. I
flung myself into business with renewed but disciplined abandon: I sold
short and made more money out of the slump than I'd ever done out of
ordinary trading; I accepted directorships in other companies and became
what they call 'a figure in the City'--I even assumed the burden of two
other family heritages, by taking over Stourton and by allowing myself
to stand for my father's old Parliamentary seat of West Lythamshire. And
a few years later, my affairs having more than survived the storms of
1931 and the doldrums of 1932, I married a lady who had become quite
indispensable to me in this struggle for fresh fame and fortune--Miss
Hanslett, the quiet girl. That again turned out to be an astonishing
success. You never know what these quiet girls can do. From being quiet,
she became one of the busiest and cleverest of London's hostesses--and
the miracle is, she's _still_ quiet--you'd hardly know the machine's
running at all."

"So different from Miss Hobbs--but that, I suppose, is because you chose
her yourself."

"Or else _she_ chose _her_self. She was just a girl in the general
office first of all, until one evening I was working late and she
invaded my private office to ask outright if she could work for me
personally. Said she knew the other girl was leaving and she was certain
she'd be better than anyone else. After that I simply had to give her
either the sack or the job."

"Anyhow, _you_ made the right choice there."

He laughed. "Oh yes, and I soon knew it. She was everything she
promised. I've nothing but praise for her. I'd never have made so much
money or acquired such style in after-dinner oratory but for her. She's
intensely loyal, tremendously ambitious for me, and personally charming.
I love her more than most men love their wives. She's guided my
career--in fact she's almost made a personally conducted tour of it. I
never do anything, in politics or business, without seeking her advice.
She runs Stourton and Kenmore like a pair of clocks--she doesn't care if
I'm in or out to lunch or dinner, or if I go to India or South America
for six months or merely to Brighton for a week-end. She's everything a
man like me could wish for in a wife--always provided--" He paused and
took a drink, then added: "Always provided he's completely satisfied to
be a man like me."

"And aren't you?"

He took my arm. "Let's save up something for another night. I'm going to
bed, and after all this, I really think I shall sleep. Tell Sheldon not
to wake me till the guests begin to arrive."

The guests began to arrive in groups during the following afternoon, but
I did not see Rainier till tea time, when he appeared on the terrace to
greet the assembly; and from then throughout the week-end I had no
chance to talk with him alone. Nor with Woburn either, for that young
man, after initial shyness, turned into a considerable social success.
Observing him from time to time I felt there was a certain scientific
detachment in his obvious effort to make good at his first fashionable
houseparty (he had told me it was his first, and that he had never mixed
in that class of society before); it was as if he were exploring
himself, discovering his own powers; experimenting with the careless
flatteries, the insincere attentions that make up the small change of
such occasions; finding that he could do it just as well as people born
to it, perhaps even a little better after practice. He was clearly a
very adaptable and cool-headed young man, and the whole party was a good
deal pleasanter for his being always at hand to pass interesting
conversational cues, to make up a bridge four, to play a not offensively
good game of tennis, and to dance with otherwise unpartnered matrons.
One could almost read in his face the question, too wondering to be
smug: Is this all there is to it?

Mrs. Rainier was the perfect hostess as usual, and I should have been
lost in admiration at everything she did had it not been a repetition on
a larger scale of what she habitually did at Kenmore. All, in fact, was
as gay and brilliant and smooth-running as usual, but something else was
not _quite_ as usual--and I don't know how to describe it except as a
faint suspicion that the world was already swollen with destiny and that
Stourton was no longer the world--a whiff of misgiving too delicate to
analyze, as when, in the ballroom of an ocean liner, some change of
tempo in the engines far below communicates itself to the revelers for a
phantom second and then is lost behind the rhythms of the orchestra.

The simile was Rainier's as we drove back to London on Monday evening,
leaving Woburn and Mrs. Rainier at Stourton. Within a few weeks the same
misgiving, many times magnified, had become a headline commonplace;
trenches were being dug in the London parks; the curve of the September
crisis rose to its monstrous peak. Rainier lived at his Club during
those fateful days and we were both kept busy at all hours transcribing
reports, telephoning officials, and listening to the latest radio
bulletins. Diplomatic machinery had swung into the feverish gear of
guesswork and divination: Was Hitler bluffing? What sort of country was
this new Germany? Would Russia support the Czechs? When would the
bombers come over? Every chatterer could claim an audience; journalists
back from Europe were heard more eagerly than ambassadors; the fact that
all seemed to depend on the workings of one abnormal human mind gave
every amateur psychologist an equal chance with politicians and crystal
gazers. And behind this mystery came fear, fear of a kind that had
brought earlier peoples to their knees before eclipses and comets--fear
of the unknown, based on an awareness that the known was no longer
impregnable. The utter destruction of civilization, which had seemed a
fantastic thing to our grandfathers, had become a commonplace of
schoolboys' essays, village debating societies, and after-dinner small
talk; for the first time in human history a sophisticated society faced
its own extinction not theoretically in the future, but by physical
death perhaps tomorrow. There was a dreadful acceptance of doom in all
our eyes as we sat around, in restaurants and at conference tables and
beside innumerable radios, listening and talking and drinking, the only
three things to do that one could go on doing--paralyzed as we were into
a belief that it was too late to act, and clinging to a last desperate
hope that somehow the negation of an act might serve as well.

That negation was performed, if performed is the word; talking,
listening, and drinking then merged into a sigh of exhausted relief, and
only a few Cassandra voices, among whom was Rainier's, murmured that no
miracle had really happened at all. But national hysteria urged that it
had, and that one must not say otherwise, even if it hadn't. Anyhow, the
crisis passed, the rains of autumn soaked into half-dug trenches, and as
the days shortened and darkened the Kenmore lamplight glowed again in
the faces of _diseuses_ and diplomats--Sir Somebody This and the
Maharanee of That, the successful novelist and the Wimbledon winner,
delegates from somewhere-or-other to the something-or-other conference,
as well as visiting Americans who thought they were experiencing a real
pea-souper fog because the sun of a November midday had turned red over
the roofs.

I went to a good many of those lunches, and somehow, I don't remember
exactly when, it became a recognized thing that I should have a place at
all of them unless my duties with Rainier called me elsewhere.

Often they did. Many days during that strange, almost somnambulist
winter of 1938-1939 I sat in the Gallery of the House of Commons,
listening to dull debates and hearing Big Ben chime the quarters till I
saw Rainier get up and push his way through the swing doors with that
casualness which is among the specialties of House procedure--a form of
self-removal that implies neither rudeness nor even indifference to the
speech in progress. Then he would dictate letters in a Committee Room,
or order tea, or we might stroll along the usually empty Terrace,
watching the last spears of sunset fade from the windows of St. Thomas's
Hospital, or staring over the parapet at a train of coal barges on their
way upstream. It was at such moments that I came to know him most
intimately, and to feel, more from his presence than from words, that
the years he no longer talked about were still haunting; that he was
still, as two women had said, vainly searching for something and never
at rest. Yet outwardly, and to others, there were few signs of it.
Indeed, the disfavor into which he fell as a result of his attitude
towards official policy seemed to come rather as a release than as a
suppression. It was not that he blamed the government for what had
happened at Munich; such blame, he said, when history assessed it, would
doubtless be spread over many years and many personages, of which the
men of 1938 were but last in a tragic line. He did, however, blame those
who had stepped out of panic only to sink back into hypnosis. "These are
the last days," he said to me once. "We are like people in a
trance--even those of us who can see the danger ahead can do nothing to
avert it--like the dream in which you drive a car towards a precipice
and your foot is over the brake but you have no physical power to press
down. We should be arming now, if we had sense,--arming day and night
and seven days of the week,--for if the Munich pact had any value at all
it was not as a promise of peace to come, but as a last-minute chance to
prepare for the final struggle. And we are doing _nothing_--caught in
the net of self-delusion and self-congratulation. We don't realize the
skill and magnitude of the conspiracy--the attempt to reverse, by
lightning strokes, the whole civilized verdict of two thousand years."

Such talk, during the winter of 1938-1939, was heresy in a country that
permitted heresy, but could not regard it as in good taste. People began
to remark, in advance of any argument about him, that they _liked_
Rainier--this also was a bad sign in a society where likings are rarely
expressed except by way of fair-minded prelude to disparagement. And one
reflected that there had always been something against his chances of
attaining high office--something expressed by his political enemies when
they praised him as "brilliant," and by his political friends when they
doubted if he were altogether "safe." Such doubts were now running high.

In the City, however, safety and brilliance were not held as
incompatibles by gatherings of grateful shareholders at annual meetings
in the Rainier Building. Here also it was my duty to accompany him,
handing out appropriate documents and keeping his memory jogged against
forgetfulness of such things as--"You will be glad to know that during
the past year we have opened a new factory at West Bromwich where we are
now manufacturing a model especially designed for the Colonies." He made
such announcements with a solemnity in which only I, perhaps, detected
any ironic note; similarly there seemed to me a touch of disdain in his
bent for handling complicated masses of figures, a touch that did not
detract from the enormous confidence reposed in him by enriched but
usually mystified investors. Nor was that confidence misplaced. Once I
said to him: "Leaving sentiment out of it, you haven't done so badly.
You saved the family inheritance, you rescued the money of hundreds of
outsiders, and you kept intact the jobs of a whole army of workpeople.
You did, in fact, everything you set out to do."

"There's only one thing more important," he answered, "and that is,
after you've done what you set out to do, to feel that it's been worth
doing."

That was the day when he took me down to the sub-basement of the Rainier
Building to show me the result of certain constructional work that had
been in progress there for several weeks. "I've allowed it to be
supposed that these are new storage vaults," he told me, as we entered
the first of a series of empty catacombs, "but actually I had another
thought in mind--and one that it would be too bad to thrust on a group
of happy dividend collectors. But the fact is--and entirely at my own
personal expense--I've made this place bombproof. So you see,
_something's_ been worth doing." He walked me round like an estate
agent. "Comfort, as well as safety,--there's an independent heating
plant,--because it's no good saving people from high explosive just to
have them die of influenza. And another reason--the greatest man of the
twentieth century may have to be born in a place like this, so let's
make it as decent as we can for him. A steel and concrete Manger--sixty
feet below ground... that's why I've had to keep it a big secret,
because you couldn't expect the investing public to swallow _that_."

**

But we liked the City--"the City of Meticulous Nonsense," he called it
once, after an annual meeting at which somebody had used the adjective
in praise of his own attention to the firm's affairs. "_Meticulous_," he
echoed, afterwards, "really meaning _timid_--and how right that it
should nowadays be used as a compliment, since so many of the most
complimented people nowadays deserve it! Meticulous little people
attending meticulous meetings, passing meticulous votes of thanks for
meticulous behavior!"

One rainy Saturday we waited several minutes while the homeward
rush-hour crowd swarmed in front of the car, taking no notice of the
horn until a man, just an ordinary mackintoshed fellow with (I remember)
a piece of garden trellis under his arm, called out: "'Ere, give the
bloke a chawnce!"--whereat the crowd, heeding just as casually as they
had been heedless before, made way for us to pass. There was no
resentment in their faces because we had an expensive car or because we
kept them waiting a few seconds longer in the rain, no social
significance in the appeal to give the bloke a chance, no indication of
who the bloke was--I or Rainier or the chauffeur. The very absence of
all these things was English, Rainier said--something offhand but
good-humored, free but obedient, careless but never heartless.

"But tell that," he added, "to the Indians in Amritsar, to the Chinese
who read the notice in a Shanghai park, 'No Dogs or Chinese Allowed,' to
the tribesmen in Irak, to the peasant in County Cork, to the..." But
then he laughed. "God, how we're hated! It isn't so much because we
really deserve it. Even at the bottom of the charge sheet I could quote
Santayana's remark that the world never had sweeter masters. _Sweet_--a
curious adjective--and yet there _is_ a sweetness in the English
character, something that's almost perfect when it's just ripe--like an
apple out of an English orchard. No, we're not hated altogether by
logic. It's more because the world is _tired_ of us--_bored_ with
us--sickened by a taste that to some already seems oversweet and
hypocritical, to others sour and stale. I suppose the world grew tired
of the Romans like that, till at last the barbarians were excused for
barbarism more readily than the Caesars were forgiven for being tough.
There come such moments in the lives of nations, as of persons, when
they just can't do anything right, and the world turns on them with the
awful ferocity of a first-night audience rejecting, not so much a play
it doesn't want, as a playwright it doesn't want any more.... But
wait till they've experienced the supplanters--if we are supplanted. A
time may come when a cowed and brutalized world may look back on the
period of English domination as one of the golden ages of
history...."

I remember that afternoon particularly because as we were waiting for
the traffic lights in Whitehall we saw Nixon at the curbside vainly
signaling a taxi and Rainier had the car stopped to offer him a lift.
Bound for Victoria to catch a train, he chattered all the time during
the short drive, finally and quite casually remarking: "Oh, you remember
that fellow Ransome who took us to tea at his house in Browdley that day
when his wife wasn't there?"

Rainier looked up sharply.

"Rather sad business," Nixon continued. "She'd gone out to buy a cake,
as Ransome thought--must have been hurrying back, because she was
carrying it as she ran into the bus... killed instantly... poor
chap was in a terrible state, so I heard. Only been married about a
year."

We drove on in silence after dropping Nixon in the station yard;
Rainier's face was strained, tense, as if he had suffered a personal
blow. Halfway to Kenmore he tapped on the window and ordered the
chauffeur to turn and drive back. "Let's hear somebody play the piano,"
he said. "That's the best cure for the mood I'm in."

We drove to the West End, while I searched the _Telegraph_ for recital
announcements. The only one I could find was of the first and only
appearance in London of Casimir Navoida, who would give a mixed program
of Beethoven, Chopin, Brahms, and Ravel at the Selsdon Hall. I had never
heard of Navoida, and the fact that Rainier hadn't either lent no
optimism to my expectations. We found a photograph on the rain-sodden
posters outside the Hall--the conventionally somber, heavy-lidded
profile brooding over the keys. That too was not encouraging, nor was
the obviously "paper" audience of only a few score. Nor, for that
matter, were the explanatory notes in the printed program--composed,
Rainier grimly suggested, by some schoolgirl in a mood of bibulous
_Schwrmerei_. With less distaste we read a paragraph about the
performer, though even that was vague enough--merely mentioning a
Continental reputation, tuition under Leschetizky (misspelt), a
prix-de-somewhere, and an ancient press-agent anecdote beginning--"One
morning, at the So-and-So Conservatoire..." Then the door at the rear
of the platform opened and this fellow Navoida walked to the piano, gave
a hinge-like bow to half-hearted applause, and began. He did not look
much like his photograph, though a description could not have omitted
the same points--the gloomy profile, wrinkled nape, and upflung hair. We
listened with tolerance, soon aware that his playing was not exactly
bad. When the interval came I noticed a woman in the seat beyond
Rainier's fumbling for a dropped program; presently he stooped and
retrieved it for her. She thanked him with a foreign accent and added:
"You think he plays well?"

Rainier answered: "He might be good if he weren't out of practice."

"You are a critic?"

"Only to myself."

"You are not on one of the newspapers?"

"Oh dear, no."

She seemed both relieved and disappointed. "I thought you might be. I
suppose they _are_ here."

Rainier looked round and included me in me conversation by saying:
"Notice anybody? _I_ don't... I'm afraid Saturday afternoon's a bad
time in London."

Then Navoida came on again and played the Chopin group. At the next
interval she said: "You are quite right. He is out of practice. He
played cards till four this morning."

Rainier laughed. "Stupid of him, surely?"

"Oh, he doesn't care. He lost much money, also. If only people would
realize that he _can_ play so much better than this--"

"Why _should_ they? If he chooses to drink and gamble the night before a
concert--"

"Oh no, not _drink_. He _never_ drinks."

"No?"

"But gambling is in his blood. It is in the blood of all the Navoidas.
If he travels by autobus he will bet on how many people get in at each
stop."

Rainier looked slightly interested. "How do you know all this about
him?"

She had just time to reply, as the piano began again: "I am his wife."

I could judge that throughout the Brahms Sonata Rainier was feeling
somewhat embarrassed at having discussed the pianist so frankly, but
when the next interval came she gave him no time to apologize. "Oh, I
could _kill_ him for being so bad! The foolish boy.... Maybe it was a
mistake to come to England at all."

Rainier answered: "Oh, no need to feel that. But your husband's concert
agent ought to have chosen a better day for a first appearance.
Londoners like to get away to the country at week ends."

"Even when it rains?"

"My goodness, we never bother about rain."

"Ach, yes, your London climate... when it is not rain, it is
fog.... I understand."

I winked at him, apropos of this foreign belief that English weather is
the worst in the world; it is not, Rainier had once said, but the
convention is useful in that it enables an Englishman to appear modest
by conceding something that, whether true or false, is of little
consequence. All the time that Madame Navoida was bemoaning London rain
and fog I was glancing at her sideways and judging her to be forty-five
or so--younger, at any rate in looks, than her husband. The light in the
concert hall was not particularly kind, and her make-up had either been
put on hurriedly or else had got blurred by raindrops; her eyes were
brown and rather small, but her forehead had a generous width that
somehow compensated; it was an interesting face.

During the Ravel I whispered this to Rainier and received his reply: "I
don't give a damn about her face. And I don't give a damn about this
Ravel either. I only know she amuses me and I'm more cheerful than I was
an hour ago...."

For the next few minutes I heard the two of them in whispered
conversation; then he turned to me. "They're Hungarians, but she lived
for a long time in Singapore--hence the English. She also speaks French
and German--besides, of course, Hungarian. Writes poetry in all four, so
she'd have you believe. Also worships Romance with a capital R. Reads
Dekobra and D'Annunzio, but prefers Dekobra--so do I, for that
matter.... Altogether rather like a female spy in a magazine
story--every minute I expect her to say '_Hein_' and produce a bundle of
stolen treaties out of her corsage. And she says such delicious
things--like--'Ach, your English climate--' and that bit about gambling
being in the blood of all the Navoidas.... I'm trying to think of
something half as good as what she'll say next--remember that game we
used to play?"

That was one of the fooleries we would sometimes indulge in during our
morning car journeys to the City. There was a certain newspaper shop at
a street-corner in Pimlico, and outside it, every Tuesday, appeared a
picture poster advertising that week's issue of a publication called
_Judy's Paper_; and this poster always showed an evening-clothed couple
in some highly dramatic situation, captioned by such a sentence as "He
refused her a ring" or "She lied to save him." Most Tuesdays, before we
reached the shop, Rainier and I would try to invent something even
triter than what we should presently discover, but we never succeeded,
so hard is it for the sophisticated mind to think in the natural idiom
of the ingenuous. But it made an amusing diversion, for all that.

After further whispering he turned to me excitedly. "She's _said_ it! I
_knew_ she would! She's just told me that we English are so _cold_!" At
that moment Navoida finished the Ravel and Rainier was able to answer
her amidst the applause. I heard him say: "Madame, we are _not_
cold--it's merely that we have to be warmed-up, especially on wet
Saturdays. So I beg you to make allowances for us during the rest of
your stay here."

"We are leaving tomorrow."

"So soon?"

"Casimir has a concert in Ostend on Wednesday."

"You'd better take care of him there. It's a great place for gambling."

"Oh, that will be all right. We shall go to the Casino and have
champagne and Casimir will be lucky--he always is at roulette. It is
cards he is no good at--especially poker." (She pronounced it "pokker.")
"When I saw him playing poker with some Americans at the hotel last
night, I knew he would be a bad boy today."

"I thought you said he didn't drink?"

"Only champagne. But of course it is so expensive in England. When we
were in Singapore we drank nothing but Heidsieck all the time. A bottle
every meal. It prevented him from being dysenteric."

"Probably it also prevented him from being Paderewski."

"You mean it is not good for him? But consider--if it pleases him, is he
not entitled to it? What is the life of a concert artist nowadays?
Nobody cares--there is no musical life as it used to be--in Berlin, in
Leipzig, in Wien. Only in America they pay an artist well, but I do not
want him to go there again."

"Why not?"

She whispered something in Rainier's ear and then added: "Of course I
forgave him afterwards. He was faithful according to his fashion."

Rainier let out a shout of sheer glee. "What's that? _What?_"

She repeated the sentence. "Do you not know the poem by one of your
English poets, Ernest Dowson?" And she began to recite the whole thing
from beginning to end, while Casimir, in whom I was beginning to feel a
deeper interest after these varied revelations, appeared on the platform
to play the Chopin "Black Key Study" as an encore, muffing the final
octaves and finishing on a triumphantly wrong note in the bass. "Perhaps
you would now like to meet him?" she concluded.

So we trooped round to the little room at the back of the platform where
a few mournfully mackintoshed women were loitering while the pianist
scrawled his signature across their programs in a mood of equal
mournfulness. The entrance of Madame Navoida brought a touch of life to
these proceedings, and I noticed then a certain vital quality that made
her still an attractive woman, despite sagging lines and the bizarre
make-up. As soon as the autograph seekers left she approached Casimir as
one making a stage entrance, kissed him resoundingly on both cheeks, and
cried: "_Casimir, mon cher, tu tais magnifique!_" Then, for a moment,
she gabbled something incomprehensible and turned to Rainier. "He speaks
Hungarian best. I have to tell him he is wonderful now, but soon I shall
tell him he was awful--_atrocious_! Poor boy, he is always tired after a
concert--please excuse him. He says he has a headache."

Rainier answered: "That's too bad! I was about to suggest that you both
had dinner with us somewhere--that is, if you had nothing else to do."

Her face lit up. "Oh, but we should be _enchanted_! It is so kind of
you. I am sure his headache will get better. But there is one thing I
must tell you beforehand--he will not dress. Not even a smoking. Only
for the casinos where they will not admit him otherwise--and then he
curses all the time. So if you do not mind--"

"Not at all. We probably wouldn't dress ourselves, anyway."

"Then he will be delighted." She turned to her husband.

"Casimir, this is--" And of course another turn. "But I do not know your
name?"

I had guessed it would come to that, and I remembered that moment on
Armistice Day when all Rainier's pleasure had disappeared at the
enforced disclosure of his identity. I wondered if it would be different
with foreigners to whom his name would almost certainly be unknown.

But he answered, with a sort of gleeful solemnity: "Lord Frederic
Verisopht--and this--" with a bow to me--"is Sir Mulberry Hawk...."

**

Having arranged to meet them at seven at Poldini's we spent the interval
at Rainier's club, where his spirits soared fantastically. When I
reminded him of an engagement to speak that evening at the Annual Dinner
of the Gladstone Society he told me to wire them a cancellation on
account of urgent political business. "That's all very well," I
answered, "but then somebody will see us dining at Poldini's with a
couple who look like a rather seedy croupier and a soubrette out of a
pre-war musical-comedy."

He laughed. "Not if we do what nobody else does nowadays--engage a
private room."

"And what was the idea of introducing me as Sir Somebody or other?"

"To find out whether she reads Dickens. _You_ evidently don't....
Well, that was _partly_ the reason. The other was to give her a thrill.
I'm sure titles do. Poldini's will too--it's got that air of having seen
better and more romantic days. I rarely go there, so the waiters don't
know me, and I've never been in one of their private rooms since my
uncle took me when I was twelve years old. That's a story in itself. I
don't think I ever told you about him--he was a charming and very
shortsighted archdeacon, and the only one out of my large collection of
uncles whom I really liked. He liked me too, I think--we often used to
spend a day together. One evening during the Christmas holidays, we felt
hungry after a matine of _Jack and the Beanstalk_, so as we were
walking to the nearest Underground station he said, 'Let's go in here
for a snack'--and it was Poldini's. I think he mistook it for some sort
of cheap but respectable teashop--anyhow, we walked in, all among the
pretty ladies and the young men-about-town; we were the cynosure of
every eye, as novelists in those days used to write--because it wasn't
at all the kind of place a Church of England dignitary would normally
take his schoolboy nephew to, and my uncle, with his white hair and
flashing eyes (the drops he had to put in them made them flash), must
have looked rather like Hall Caine's Christian about to create a
disturbance.... Anyhow, old Poldini,--he's dead now,--scenting
something funny about us, pretended all his tables were booked and asked
if we'd mind dining upstairs--so up we went, my uncle blinking his way
aloft without a word of protest, and presently Poldini showed us into a
cosy little room furnished in blue and gold, with a very thick carpet
and a convenient chaise longue against the wall and gilt cupids swarming
in a suggestive manner all over the ceiling--in fact, Poldini took
charge of us completely, recommending  la carte dishes and serving them
himself, and as the meal progressed my uncle grew more and more
surprised and delighted--still under the impression it was an A.B.C. or
some such place; and when the bill came I snatched it up and said I'd
stand treat, and he said, 'My boy, that's very generous of you'--and by
God, it was, for it took all the money he'd just given me as a Christmas
present. But I never let him know, and to the end of his life he always
used to tell people he'd never enjoyed a better meal than at that eating
house off the Strand... _eating house_, mind you!" He took a long
breath and added: "So that's where we'll dine tonight--among the ghosts
of the past--a couple of milords entertaining the toast of the town--and
rather battered toast, if you'll pardon two bad puns at once."

When I look back on that evening I remember chiefly, of course, the
incident that crowned it; but I can see now that the entire masquerade
was somehow Rainier's last and rather preposterous effort to tease a way
into self-knowledge, and that the climax, though completely accidental,
was yet a fitting end to the attempt. I realized also, even if never
before, how near he was to some catastrophic breakdown--partly from
overwork, but chiefly from the fret of things that could not be
forgotten because they had never been remembered. And all that day, ever
since meeting Nixon, the fret had strengthened behind an increasing
randomness of acts and words.

We drove to Poldini's through the rain, and were glad to find the place
reasonably unchanged--still with its private rooms upstairs, little used
by a generation that no longer needs such an apparatus of seduction, and
therefore slightly melancholy until gardenias and ice buckets revived a
more festive spirit. Then, with some commotion, the Navoidas arrived,
the pianist rather pale and glum in a long overcoat with an astrakhan
collar, and Madame very florid and voluble with heavy gold bangles and
ancient but good-quality furs, obviously bewitched (but by no means
ill-at-ease) at the prospect of dining intimately with English nobility.
We soon discovered that both of them were equally accomplished champagne
bibbers, but whereas Madame grew livelier and gayer with every glass,
her husband sank after the first half-dozen into a settled gloom from
which he could only stir himself at intervals to murmur to the waiter a
demand for "trouts"--for there had been some confusion over his order,
due perhaps to the waiter's reluctance to believe that anyone in 1939
would ask for _truites bleues_ in addition to Beluga caviare, steak
_tartare_, and English _rosbif_. But all that too, and to Rainier's
feverish delight, was in the halcyon tradition--the age of monstrous
dinners and fashionable appendicitis, the one most often the result of
the others.

Presently, after the popping of the fourth magnum, Madame grew
sentimental and talked of her romantic adventures in all parts of the
world--a recital garnished with copious quotations from the poets, of
whom she knew so many in various languages that I began to think it
really must be a passion with her quite as genuine as that for
Heidsieck; she liked amorous poetry best, and there was something
perhaps a little charming in the way she obviously did not know which
was too hackneyed to quote, so that from a worn-out tag of Shakespeare
she would swerve into a line from Emily Bront or Beddoes. A few words
she wrongly pronounced or did not understand; she would then ask us to
correct her, quite simply and with an absence of self-consciousness that
made almost piquant her theatrical gestures and overstudied rhythms.
Suddenly I realized, in the mood of half-maudlin pity that comes after a
few drinks yet is none the less percipient, that she was a sadly
disappointed woman, getting little out of later life that she really
craved for, without a home, a wanderer between hotels and casinos,
listening to the same old Brahms and Beethoven in half-empty concert
halls, tied for the rest of her days to a flabby maestro, yet alive in
her illusion that the world was still gay and chivalrous as a novelette.

After Rainier had called for more cognac he asked if she had any ideas
for spending the rest of the evening, because he'd be glad to go on to a
show if she fancied any particular play. She answered, with enthusiasm:
"Oh yes, it is so kind of you--there is one place I have always wanted
to go because I have heard so much about it--your famous old English
music hall!"

Rainier said how unfortunate that was, because the famous old English
music hall no longer existed; there were only assortments of vaudeville
turns and dance bands.

"Then perhaps we could go to see Berty Lowe."

"Berty Lowe?"

"A man at the hotel told me this morning he was acting in London
somewhere, and I should like to see him because I once knew an
Englishman in Budapest who used to do imitations of him. He always said
Berty Lowe was the greatest comedian of the famous old English music
hall."

Rainier had asked the waiter for an evening paper and was now glancing
down the list. "Yes, he used to be quite funny, but I haven't heard of
him in London for years--he's a bit pass, you know... well, he's not
at the Coliseum or the Holborn Empire... that rather limits the
possibilities... wait a minute, though--'Berty Lowe in _Salute the
Flag_ Twice Nightly at the Banford Hippodrome'--"

She clapped her hands ecstatically. "Oh, I should love to go there!"

"But it's miles away in the suburbs--" he was beginning, but suddenly
then I could see the mere caprice of the idea seize hold of him; to
drive out to Banford to see Berty Lowe at the local Hippodrome was in
the right key of fantasy for such an evening. He handed me the paper.
"They call it a riot of rip-roaring rib-tickling--doesn't that sound
awful? Wish you'd ring 'em up and book a box for four at the second
house."

"_Salute the Flag_," echoed Madame, with hands clasped. "Oh, I know I am
going to love it if it is about soldiers. The Englishman I knew in
Budapest was a soldier. It was during the war, but he wasn't interned at
first, because the Hungarians always liked the English, but when he
began to send me flowers every day with little notes hidden in
them--written in English, of course--the police arrested him for
espionage, but when they translated the notes--oh, _mon dieu_, you
should have seen their faces--and _his_--and _mine_--because, you see,
he was crazily in love with me--_crazily_--not a bit like an Englishman!
Oh, how I wish I had made them give me back those notes.... Casimir,
of course, was mad with jealousy."

Casimir, no longer capable of being mad with jealousy, looked up as a
dog will on hearing his name mentioned, then shook his head with a
bemused belch over his unfinished _crpes Suzettes_.

I went out to telephone.

An hour later we were sitting on four very uncomfortable cane chairs as
the curtain rose on _Salute the Flag_. It had been a mistake, I could
see, to have engaged a box; the orchestra seats would have been much
more comfortable, and further away from certain plush hangings which, on
being merely touched, shook out clouds of dubious-looking dust. I
gathered from the way we were escorted to our seats, and also from the
fact that the other boxes were empty, that our arrival had created a
little stir; it would be odd, I thought, but perhaps not absolutely
catastrophic, if some member of the audience were to recognize Rainier.
However, no one did, despite the fact that some of the actors played at
us outrageously--even, by the end of the show, making jokes about "the
gentleman in the box who's fast asleep." It was true; Casimir was fast
asleep. Madame awakened him several times, but he slumped forward again
almost immediately; soon she gave it up as a bad job.

As for the play, it had been (I guessed) an originally serious melodrama
on a wartime theme, dating probably from 1914 or 1915; its villains had
then been Germans of impossible villainy and its heroes English soldiers
of equally impossible saintliness. A quarter of a century of lucrative
adaptation, however, had merged both the villainy and the saintliness
into a common mood of broad comedy burlesque; such patriotic speeches as
remained were spoken now only to be laughed at, while the hero's first
appearance was in the always comic uniform of a scoutmaster.

But Madame was puzzled. During the intermission she said: "I cannot
understand why they laugh at some of the lines. When the recruiting
sergeant made that speech about the British Empire, what was funny about
it?"

"It's just our English sense of humor," Rainier explained. "We think
recruiting sergeants _are_ funny. We think long speeches are also funny.
The British Empire has its funny side too. So put them all together and
you can't help making an Englishman laugh."

"But it was a _patriotic_ speech!"

"Englishmen think them the funniest of all."

"But in Austria, if anyone laughed at a patriotic speech there would be
a riot and the man would be arrested."

"That just proves something I have long suspected--that Austria isn't
England."

"You know Austria?"

"I once spent a few days in Vienna on business."

"Ah, you should have stayed longer and gone to the Semmering and then to
Pressburg down the Danube in a steamboat."

"Curious you should mention it, but that was one of my boyhood
ambitions. But in a canoe, not a steamboat."

"Oh, but that would be more wonderful still! Why did you not do it?"

"Because when I first wanted to, I hadn't enough money--then later, when
I had enough money, I hadn't the time... and today, whatever I have,
there isn't any Austria."

"Ah yes, it is so sad. But let us not think about it--see, the curtain
rises!"

She said that so much like a musical-comedy cue that I almost expected
to see her jump down to the stage and begin a song. However, _Salute the
Flag_ was doubtless better entertainment. It continued to be equally
hilarious during its second half, though Berty Lowe, as the heavily
mustached German general, was actually less funny than some of the
smaller parts; there was one especially that had the audience holding
their sides--when an English subaltern entered his colonel's tent (the
colonel being a German spy in disguise) to exclaim, between chattering
teeth and amidst paroxysms of stammering--"The enemy advances--give the
order to attack, or, by heaven, sir, I will myself!" As a rule I do not
care for jokes based on any physical defect, but I must admit that this
particular player brought the house down by some of the most ludicrous
facial contortions I have ever seen--the whole episode being topped by
the final gag of a doorknob coming off and rolling across the stage when
he banged his exit.

It was difficult to keep up or down to such a level, but the play romped
on with a good deal of vulgar gusto until the last scene, evidently the
dramatic high-spot of the original play, when the heroine, threatened by
the villain with a revolver, cried: "You cannot fire on helpless
womankind!"--whereat another woman, of suggestive male appearance and
elephantine proportions, invaded the stage from the wings brandishing
weapons of all kinds from tomahawk to Mills bomb. Crude, undoubtedly;
but the Banford audience loved it, and were still laughing throughout
the perfunctory finale in which all the cast rushed on to the stage to
chase off the villain and line up for a closing chorus.

As we left the theater I saw that Rainier's mood had changed. He almost
bundled Madame and her husband into the car, and spoke very little
during the ride back to London; she chattered to me for a while, but
Rainier's moods had a queer way of enforcing their atmosphere upon
others, and she also was somewhat subdued by the time we reached their
hotel in Russell Square and set the two of them down on the pavement.

"Good-bye, my lord," she said to Rainier, evidently remembering her
manners but not the name. But she remembered mine. "Good-bye, Sir Hawk."

Casimir nodded grumpily as she took his arm to help him up the hotel
steps. The last we saw was her effort to get him through the revolving
door. It should have been funny, but perhaps we had had enough laughter
for one evening; it wasn't funny, therefore, it was somehow rather sad.

"Of course she's ruined him," Rainier commented, as we drove away
towards Chelsea.

"What makes you think that?"

"His playing. I could tell he was good once."

"Well, he's ruined her too. She can't get much fun out of life, watching
over him wherever they go. Incidentally, I think she was rather shocked
by our rough island humor."

"Probably it was too unsanitary and not sexy enough for her."

"And then that fellow's stammer. I suppose on the Vienna stage you
couldn't have an officer stammering--only a private."

"God, yes--that stammer... they kept it in--and the doorknob coming
off as well.... But the gag at the end was new."

"Sounds as if you've seen the show before."

He was thoughtful. "Yes, I think I have."

"Not surprising. It's been played up and down everywhere for years."

"But more than that--more than _seeing_ it before--I--I--" He turned to
me with a curious abrupt eagerness. "Do you mind if we drive around for
a while before going home?"

"Of course not.... But what's happened? You look--" I stopped, but he
cut in sharply: "Yes, _tell_ me--what's the matter with me--_how_ do I
look?"

I said, meeting his eyes and speaking with as little excitement as I
could: "You look as you did when I first saw you staring at a mountain
because you thought you recognized it--through the train windows that
Armistice Day."

"_Armistice Day_," he repeated. Then he added, quietly, almost casually:
"I was in hospital... I mean on that first Armistice Day--the first
one of all. The _real_ one." He suddenly clutched my sleeve. "Yes, I
remember--I was at Melbury!"

I said nothing, anxious not to break any thread of recollection he was
about to unravel, and afraid of the tension in my voice, were I to speak
at all.

"There were so many hospitals," he went on. "I was at Sennelager
first--then Hanover. Then they exchanged the shell-shock and t.b. cases
through Switzerland. So back home--Birmingham for a time--then
Hastings--and another place near Manchester... then Melbury. That was
the last of them.... I'd like to go to Melbury."

I still couldn't answer; I was afraid of breaking some kind of spell. He
seemed to read this into my silence, for he went on, in a kindly voice:
"Do you mind? Or are you very tired?"

"No, I'm not tired." My voice was all right, but I was still
apprehensive, and more so than ever when I realized he wanted to go to
Melbury that very night, immediately. I added something about Hanson
being probably tired, even if we weren't--after all he'd driven us to
Banford and back, and to ask him now to make another excursion into the
distant suburbs...

"Yes, of course--glad you thought of it." He was always considerate to
servants. "We'll drop him here and send him home by taxi. Then I'll
drive--or perhaps you'd better if you think I've had too much to drink."
He was already reaching for the speaking tube, and had given the new
instructions before I could think of anything else to say at all, much
less frame an objection. Hanson pulled up at the curb, showing no more
curiosity than a good servant should. But it was still pouring with
rain, and he must have thought it odd to choose such a night for a
pleasure drive.

Rainier moved next to me in the chauffeur's seat; as I drove off he said
he hoped I knew the way.

"Through Stepney and Stratford, isn't it?"

"Don't ask me--I've never been there since--since the morning I left."

"You remember it was a _morning_?"

He turned to me excitedly. "Did I say morning? Yes, it _was_... and
if I can only _see_ the place again--"

"You won't see much tonight, I'm afraid."

"I didn't see much last time, either--it was too foggy. God--that's
something else.... Just let me talk on anyhow. Don't feel you have to
answer--I know it's hard to drive these juggernauts on a wet night--why
does my wife always buy such monsters?--and we have four of them."

"Nothing to stop you buying a small car yourself if you wanted."

"But I'm not interested in buying cars."

I laughed and said: "Well, you can't have it both ways. If you're not
interested in cars, you can't blame Mrs. Rainier for buying the kind she
thinks is suitable for a rich man who isn't interested in cars."

"True, true...." The side issue had lowered the tension.

We drove through the almost deserted City, past Aldgate and along the
wide, brilliant, rococo Mile End Road. It was midnight as we crossed Bow
Bridge, five minutes past as we reached the fork of the road in
Stratford Broadway; I had to drive slowly because of the slippery tram
rails. Once I stopped to inquire from some men drinking at a coffee
stall; they waved us on into the deepening hinterland of the suburbs.
The slums here lost their sinister picturesqueness, became more and more
drably respectable: long vistas of lamplit roads, with here and there a
block of elementary schools rising like a fortress over the roof tops,
and at every shopping center the same names in a different
order--Woolworth, Maypole, Sainsbury, Home and Colonial, Lyons. We
passed an old-fashioned church with a new-fashioned sign outside it,
proclaiming the subject of next Sunday's sermon--"Why Does God Permit
War?"--and that set Rainier improvising on the kind of sermon it would
be--"very cheerful and chummy, proving that God isn't such a bad sort
when you get to know Him"; and then abruptly, in the tangental way so
characteristic when he was inwardly excited, he talked again of his
favorite uncle the archdeacon. "_He_ never preached a sermon on 'Why
Does God Permit War?' To begin with, I don't suppose he ever thought
about it, and if he had, he'd probably have answered 'Why shouldn't He?'
He took it for granted that the Deity minded His own business, and that
'God's in His Heaven' was just Browning's way of putting it. All this
craze for bringing Him down to earth and appealing to Him at every turn
would have struck my uncle as weak-kneed as well as in appallingly bad
taste. And yet, in his way, and on the outskirts of Cheltenham, he lived
an almost saintly life. He would never kill insects that strayed into
the house, but would trap them in match boxes and set them free in the
garden. He approved of hunting, though, and thought the smearing of a
girl's face with fox blood after her first ride to hounds was a rather
charming custom. All in all, I don't suppose he was any more
inconsistent than the modern parson who tries to combine Saint Francis,
Lenin, and Freud into one all-embracing muddle."

We drove on through Leytonstone; there the tramlines ended and we could
put on a little speed. It was just after one o'clock when we reached the
market square in the center of Melbury; I pulled up and looked to him
for further instructions. He was peering through the window and after a
moment I wound the window down on my side. The rain had increased to the
dimensions of a storm, and a solitary policeman sheltering under a shop
awning called out to us: "Looking for somewhere?"

Rainier turned at the sound of the stranger's voice.

"Yes, the hospital," he answered. "Where's the hospital?"

"You mean the new one or the old one, sir?"

"The old one, I think." Then in a sudden rush: "It's on a hill--has big
gates and a high wall all round it."

The policeman looked puzzled. "That don't sound much like either of
'em." Then, as I was about to thank him and drive off, he came towards
the car, leaned in, and said, with a glance across me to Rainier: "You
wouldn't be meanin' the _asylum_, would you, sir?"




PART FOUR


He was so tired of stammering out to a succession of doctors all he knew
about himself that eventually he jotted it down on a single sheet of
notepaper for them to refer to at will. He had recently been transferred
to Melbury from another military hospital, and the change had somewhat
upset him, because it meant beginning everything all over
again--contacts with new doctors, nurses, and patients, the effort to
find another corner of existence where people would presently leave him
alone. Besides, he didn't like the place--it was too big, too crowded,
and altogether too permanent-looking. Overworked psychiatrists gave him
treatments that were supposed to have done well in similar cases, but
perhaps it was part of his own case that he didn't feel any similar
cases existed, though he admitted there were many worse ones; he also
felt that the doctors--grand fellows all of them, he had no specific
complaints--aimed at raising a statistical average of success rather
than his own individual cure.

That particular morning in November he began the regulation mile along
the cinder paths, glad that the fog had kept most of his fellow victims
indoors. Only alone did his various symptoms ever approach vanishing
point, and amidst the fog this sense of aloneness was intensified so
reassuringly that as he continued to walk he began to feel a curious
vacuum of sensation that might almost be called contentment. Walking was
part of the encouraged regimen at Melbury; extensive grounds surrounded
by a fifteen-foot spiked wall permitted it, while an army greatcoat kept
the cold air from penetrating his thinnish hospital uniform.

Suddenly, as he neared the main entrance where the name had been painted
over (though it was still readable in burnt letters on brooms and garden
tools--"Property of the So-and-So County Asylum")--suddenly, as the
heavily scrolled ironwork of the gates loomed through the fog, a siren
screamed across the emptiness beyond--a factory siren, already familiar
at certain hours, but this was not one of them, nor did the sound stay
on the single level note, but began soaring up and down in wild
flurries. A few seconds later another siren chimed in, and then a third;
by that time he was near enough to the gates to see two uniformed
porters rush hatless out of the lodge, shouting excitedly as they raced
up the shrouded driveway. For the moment--and he realized it without any
answering excitement--there was no one left on guard, no one to stop him
as he passed through the lodge into the outer world, no one to notice
him as he walked down the lane towards the town. Behind his mute
acceptance of things done to him, there was a slow-burning inclination
to do things for himself, an inclination fanned now into the faint
beginnings of initiative; but they were only faint, he had no will for
any struggle, and if anyone ran after him to say "Come back" he would go
back.

Nobody ran after him. The lane turned into the main road at the tram
terminus; a small crowd was already gathering there in groups,
chattering, laughing, greeting each newcomer with eager questions. Nor
had the sirens stopped; they were louder now, and joined by tram bells,
train whistles, a strange awakening murmur out of the distance. He
walked on, still downhill, edging into the roadway to avoid people, glad
that the fog was thickening as he descended. Soon he was aware of some
approaching vortex of commotion, of crowds ahead that might cover all
the roadway and envelop him completely; he felt as well as heard them,
and a nagging pinpoint of uneasiness expanded until, to relieve it even
momentarily, he turned into a shop at the corner of a street.

The inside was dark, as he had hoped, revealing only vague shapes of
counter, shelves, and merchandise; it seemed to be a small neglected
general store, smelling of its own shabbiness. The opening door had
tinkled a bell, and presently, as his eyes grew used to the dimness, he
saw an old woman watching from behind the counter--thin-faced,
gray-haired, rather baleful. He tried to ask for cigarettes and began to
stammer. He always did when he talked to others, though he could chatter
to himself without much trouble--that was one of the points he had noted
for the doctors, though he suspected they didn't believe him, and of
course it was something he couldn't prove. Just now, with all the extra
excitement, his stammer was worse than ever--not a mere tongue-tie, but
a nervous tic that convulsed his entire head and face. He stood there,
trembling and straining for speech, at last managing to explode a word;
the woman said nothing in answer, but after a long scrutiny began
sidling away. He relaxed when she had gone, hoping she would just return
with the cigarettes and not oblige him to say more, wondering if she
would think it odd if he stayed to smoke one of them in the shop.
Anyhow, it was good to be alone again. Then suddenly he realized he was
not alone. A girl had entered, or else had been there all the time and
he hadn't noticed; she too was waiting at the counter, but now she
turned to him and began urgently whispering. "She's gone to fetch
somebody--she knows where you're from."

He stared hard, trying to isolate her face from the surrounding shadows.

"You _are_, aren't you?"

He nodded.

"She knows you're not supposed to be out."

He nodded again.

"Not that I'd blame anybody for anything today. The war's over--you know
that? Isn't it wonderful...? And you certainly don't _look_ as if
you'd do any harm." She smiled to soften the phrase.

He shook his head and smiled back.

"Well, if you _have_ given them the slip, I wouldn't stay here, old boy,
that's all."

He smiled again, a little bewildered; somebody was talking to him
normally, casually, yet personally too. It was a pleasant experience, he
wished it could go on longer, but then he heard the old woman's
footsteps returning from some inner room behind the shop; with a final
smile he summoned enough energy to walk away. A few seconds later he
stood on the pavement, blinking to the light, aware of the prevalent
atmosphere as something pungent, an air he could not breathe, a spice
too hot for his palate. Shouts were now merging into a steady sequence
of cheers, and through the pale fog he saw a tram approach, clanging
continuously as it discharged a load of yelling schoolchildren. He
turned away from the clamor into a side street where two rows of small
houses reached upwards like flying buttresses astride a hill; presently
he came to a house with a dingy brass plate outside--"H. T. Sheldrake,
Teacher of Music." He spoke the name, _Sheldrake_, to himself--he always
tested names like this, hoping that some day one of them would fit
snugly into an empty groove in his mind. No, not Sheldrake. There was
the sound of a piano playing scales; he listened, calming himself
somewhat, till the playing stopped and shrill voices began. That made
him move on up the hill, but he felt tired after a short distance and
held to a railing for support. Just then the same girl caught up with
him.

"What's the matter?"

He smiled.

"I followed you. Thought you looked a bit off-color."

He shook his head valiantly, observing her now for the first time. She
was dressed in a long mackintosh and a little fur hat, like a fez, under
which brown straight hair framed a face of such friendly eagerness that
he suddenly felt it did not matter if she saw and heard his struggles
for speech; rather that than have her think him worse than he was. He
wanted to say: You should see some of the other fellows up there--what's
wrong with me is _nothing_--just a stammer and not being able to
remember things.

While he was planning to say all this she took his arm. "Lean on me if
you like. And talk or not, whichever you want. Don't be nervous."

After that he decided to say merely that he was not really ill, but only
tired after walking further than usual; he began bracing himself to make
the effort, smiling beforehand to console her for the ordeal of watching
and listening. Then a curious thing happened; it was like taking a rush
at a door to break through when all the time the door was neither locked
nor even latched. He just opened his mouth and found that he could
speak. Not perfectly, of course, but almost as easily as if he were
talking to himself. It made him gasp with an astonishment so
overwhelming that for the moment he expected her to share it. "Did you
hear _that_? I wasn't so bad _then_, was I?"

"Of course you weren't. Didn't I tell you not to be nervous?"

"But you don't know what a job I have, as a rule."

"Oh yes I do. I heard you in the shop. But that old woman would scare
anybody. Where d'you want to go?"

"I don't know."

"Well, this street doesn't lead anywhere."

"I was just--walking."

"But weren't you trying to get away?"

"Not--not exactly. I hadn't any real plans. I just came out
because--well, because there was nobody at the gate."

"Do they look after you all right?"

"Oh yes."

"I've heard they're a bit rough with some."

"Not with me."

"All the same, you don't really _like_ the place?"

"Not--not very much."

"Then you oughtn't to be in it, surely?"

"There's nowhere else, until I get all right again."

"How can you get all right again when you're not happy in a place?"

He had often asked himself the same question, but he answered, parrying
the idea: "Perhaps I wouldn't be very happy anywhere--just now."

"But the war's over--doesn't that make any difference?" She came near to
abrupt tears, then dashed a hand to her eyes and began to laugh. "Silly,
that's what I am--everybody's gone silly today. Seems an awful morning
to end the war on, doesn't it?--I mean, you'd almost think the sun ought
to shine--blue skies--like a picture...." She almost cried again.
"Shall we stroll down?"

She gripped his arm as they slowly descended the hill. His walk was
pretty good, and he was suddenly proud of it--just the faintest shuffle,
nobody would notice. When they reached the piano teacher's house he
hesitated. "I'd rather not get mixed up with the crowd--if you don't
mind."

"Righto--we'll keep well away." She added: "So you don't like crowds?"

"Not very much."

"Or hospitals?"

He smiled and shook his head.

"Well, that's fine. If I keep on trying I'll really get to know you."

They both laughed; then she said: "There's a place where we could get
some hot coffee, if you like _that_."

The Coronation Caf was a cheap little place along the Bockley Road,
patronized mostly by tramway men on duty who stopped their vehicles
outside and dashed in with empty jugs, leaving them to be filled in
readiness for the return trip. All day long these swift visitations
continued, with barely time for an exchange of words across the counter.
But today, the eleventh of November, 1918, drivers and conductors
chatted boisterously as if they were in no hurry at all, and passed
cheery remarks to the couple who sat at the marble-topped table in the
window alcove. They could see the man was a soldier by his greatcoat,
and it was a good day for saying cheery things to soldiers. "Wonder 'ow
long it'll take to git the rest of you boys 'ome, mate?"... "Maybe
they'll march 'em to Berlin now and shoot the old Kaiser."... "Seems
queer to 'ave the war end up like this--right on the dot, as you might
say."... "Wouldn't surprise me if it's just a rumor, like them
Russians comin' through."... "But it's all in the papers, see--it sez
the Germans 'ave signed a what's-a-name--means _peace_, don't it?" All
this and much else in snatches of news and comment. The proprietor
always answered: "You're right there, mister"--"That's just what I
always said meself," or, if the remark had been especially emphatic:
"You 'it the nail straight on the 'ead that time, mister." Towards noon
the fog grew very thick indeed and drivers reported crowds still
increasing at the busy centers; workpeople had been sent home from
offices and factories, as well as children from all the schools. Then
the trams stopped running, impeded by fog and crowds equally, and as
there were no more customers at the Coronation Caf the proprietor set
to work behind his counter, polishing a large tea urn till it glowed in
the gloom like a copper sun. Presently he came over to the table. He was
a little man, pale-faced, bald, with watery eyes and a drooping
mustache.

"Wouldn't you two like a bite o' somethin'?"

The girl looked to her companion, saw him frame a word and then begin to
struggle with it; she intervened quickly: "Sounds a good idea. What have
you got?"

"Eggs, tha's about all. 'Ow d'yer like 'em--soft or 'ard?"

Again she looked across the table before answering. "Oh, middling'll
do."

"That's the ticket. That's 'ow I like 'em meself. And two more coffees?"

"Righto."

"Keep yer warmed-up a day like this. War's over, they say, but anybody
can die of pewmonia."

"That's a fact, so bring those coffees quick."

He went away chuckling; then the girl leaned across the table and said:
"Don't look so scared. He won't bite."

"I know. But I'm always like that with strangers--at first. And
besides--I don't think I've enough money."

"Well, who cares about that? I have."

"But--"

"Now don't start being the gentleman. You were telling me about yourself
when that fellow came up. Go on with the story." He stared at her rather
blankly till she added: "Unless you'd rather not. Your mind's on
something else, I can see."

"I'd just noticed that sign outside." He pointed through the window to a
board overhanging the pavement above the caf doorway--the words "Good
Pull-Up for Carmen" were dimly readable through the fog. "_Carmen_," he
muttered. "That gives me something--why, yes... _Melba_."

"_Melba?_ Oh, you mean the opera?" She began to laugh. "And Melba gives
me peaches. What _is_ this--a game?"

"Sort of. I have to keep on doing it, one of the doctors says--part of
his treatment. You see, I've lost my memory about certain things. It's
like being blind and having to feel around for shapes and sizes."

"I'm terribly sorry. I didn't realize, or I wouldn't have laughed."

"Oh, that's all right--I'd rather you laugh. I wish everybody would
laugh.... Now what was it you were asking me before?"

"Well, I was wondering why you had to be in a hospital at all, but now
of course I understand."

"Yes--till I get thoroughly better. I daresay I will--eventually."

"And then your memory'll come back?"

"That's what they think."

"But in the meantime what are you going to do?"

"Just wait around till it happens, I suppose."

"Isn't there some way of tracing any of your relatives and friends?
Advertising for them, or something like that?"

"They've tried. Some people did come to see me at the hospital once,
but--I wasn't their son."

"I'll bet they were disappointed. You'd make a nice son for somebody."

"Well, _I_ was disappointed too. I'd like to have belonged to them--to
have had a home somewhere."

He then gave her some of the facts he had written out for the
doctors--that he had been blown up by a shell during 1917, and that when
he recovered consciousness he was in a German hospital somewhere,
unidentified and unidentifiable. Later there had been an exchange of
wounded and shell-shocked prisoners through Switzerland, and by this
means the problem had been passed on to the English--but with no more
success. He had been a pretty bad case at first, with loss of speech and
muscular co-ordination, but those things had gradually returned--perhaps
the memory would follow later. Altogether he had spent over a year in
various hospitals, of which he liked the one at Melbury least of all.
"Mind you," he added, seizing the chance to say what he thought of
saying before, "I'm miles better than some of the others. You'd think so
too if you saw them."

"And that's why _you_ shouldn't see them at all. Doesn't exactly help
you, does it?"

"No, but I suppose all the hospitals are so crowded--there's no chance
to separate us properly."

The proprietor, coming up with the coffee and eggs, saw them break off
their conversation suddenly. "Gettin' a bit dark in 'ere--I'll give yer
a light," he murmured, to satisfy a dawning curiosity. Standing on a
bench he pulled the chain under a single incandescent burner in the
middle of the ceiling; it sent a pale greenish glow over their faces. He
stared at them both. "You don't look so chirpy, mite. Feelin' bad?"

"He's just tired, that's all." And then, to get the fellow out: "Bring a
packet of cigarettes, will you?"

When he had gone she leaned across. "That's what you were trying to ask
for in the shop, wasn't it?"

"Yes, but I didn't really need them."

"Oh, come, I know what you need more than you do yourself. Don't be
scared of that little chap--he means all right."

The proprietor returned to their table with the cigarettes. "Looks to me
as if 'e might 'ave the flu, miss. Lots o' flu abart 'ere. Dyin' like
flies, they was, up at the 'orspital a few weeks ago."

When he had gone again she comforted: "There now, don't worry. If you
don't like it here, let's eat and then we'll be off."

"It isn't that I don't like it, only--only I'd rather them not come
after me, that's all."

"Why should they?"

"He mentioned the hospital. He knows I'm from there, just as you did
when you first saw me. It's in my face--the way I look at people. I
haven't a chance--even if I knew where to go. They come round the wards
every night at six. If I get back by then there'll be no trouble."

"You really mean to go back?"

"There's nothing else to do." He smiled wanly. "You've been very kind to
bring me here."

"Oh, don't talk like that."

"But you have. I'm grateful. Maybe I'll be more satisfied now, because I
shall know I'm not really well enough to be on my own--_yet_."

They ate in silence for a few moments after that; then she went up to
the counter and paid the bill. "One and tenpence, miss. Can't make it
any more or I would. An' if I were you, I'd get your pal 'ome pretty
quick. 'E don't look as if 'e ought to be aht, an' that's a fact."

A moment later the fog was curling round them in swathes, fanning the
sound of cheers over distant invisible roofs. She took his arm again as
they walked to the next corner, men turned through quiet residential
roads away from the center of the town. But at one place jubilant
householders were dancing, round a bonfire, and to avoid passing through
the blaze of light they made a second detour, along alleys that twisted
more and more confusingly till, with a sudden rush of sound, they were
back in the main street, caught in a madder, wilder throng. Already the
war had been over for several hours, and the first shock of exultation
was yielding to a hysteria that disguised an anticlimax. The war was
over... but now what? The dead were still dead; no miracle of human
signature could restore limbs and sight and sanity; the grinding
hardships of those four years could not be wiped out by a headline.
Emotions were numb, were to remain half-numbed for a decade, and relief
that might have eased them could come no nearer than a fret to the
nerves. A few things were done, symbolically; men climbed street lamps
to tear away the shades that had darkened them since the first air raids
in human history; shop windows suddenly blazed out with new globes in
long-empty sockets. The traffic center at Melbury was like a hundred
others in and around London that day; the crowds, the noise, the light,
the fog. Beyond a certain limit of expression there was nothing to say,
nothing much even to do; yet the urge to say and to do was
self-torturing. So, as the day and the night wore on, throngs were
swayed by sharp caprices--hoisting shoulder-high some chance-passing
soldier on leave, smashing the windows of tradesmen rumored to have
profiteered, making a fire of hoardings that proclaimed slogans for
winning the now-extinct war, booing the harassed police who tried to
keep such fires in check. From cheers to jeers, from applause to anger,
were but a finger touch of difference in the play of events on taut
nerves.

Presently a girl summoning help for a soldier in hospital uniform who
had fainted provided a new thrill--compassion; within a few seconds the
crowd was entirely swept by it, pressing in on the two donors with cries
of pity, indignation, and advice to do this and that.

"Give 'im air! Keep back there! Pick 'im up and carry 'im inside--I got
some whiskey--give the poor chap a nip.... No, 'e shouldn't 'ave no
alco'ol, not without a doctor.... Phone the 'orspital, they'll send
an amberlance.... Christ, I wouldn't let 'im go there if 'e was my
boy--they kill 'em, that's what they do up there."

Presently a few men carried the soldier from the pavement into a
grocery, whose owner nervously unbarred his front door to repeated
knockings. Inside the shop the stream of advice would have continued
indefinitely, but for the girl, who kept saying she would take him home.

"Better 'ave a doctor first, miss."

"I'll get a doctor when he's home."

"Where's 'e live?"

"Not far away."

"Wounded badly, was 'e?"

"No, he's all right--just fainted, that's all. See, he's coming round
now--if I can get him home--"

"Your 'usband, lidy?"

"That make any difference?"

"Come to think of it, I seem to 'ave seen your face before."

"Maybe you have, old boy, but that doesn't mean I'll stand any of your
lip. Come on now, and give me a hand. If I could get a cab--"

"Not much chance o' that, miss, not on a night like this."

But the shopkeeper, anxious to get them all off his premises, whispered
to her, while the others were still arguing the point: "I've got a van
and my son'll drive you. Think your friend can walk to it?"

"Oh yes, I'm certain he can. Let's try."

It proved to be a large van, smelling of miscellaneous foods and soaps;
its driver was a thin youth who easily made room for them on the front
seat. After he had inched his way out of the yard he lit a cigarette and
began proudly: "You ain't supposed to drive these vans till you're
eighteen, but Dad don't tell nobody. Where to, miss?"

"D'you know the Owl--the other side of Bockley?"

"You bet I do. Biffer's place?"

"That's it. But stop in the lane just before you get there."

"Right you are. Won't arf be a journey though, in this fog. 'Ow's the
patient?"

"Fine. You keep your eye on the road."

"That's all right. I could drive round 'ere blindfold. Aren't you on at
the Empire this week?"

"If there's any show at all. They said there wouldn't be tonight."

"I saw the show in Bockley last week. Jolly good."

"Think so? I thought it was rotten. Look where you're driving."

"Sorry."

"Good of you to take us, anyhow, even if we do get killed on the way."

"Don't mention it. Be in the army meself next year."

"Not now the war's over, will you?"

"Won't they 'ave me because of that?" He looked puzzled and rather
disappointed.

"Maybe they will--if you live that long."

"Pretty quick, ain't you, miss? Reminds me of that scene you 'ad in the
play, when you kept tellin' orf that fat old gent with the mustaches. I
could 'ave larfed."

"Why the devil didn't you then? You were supposed to."

"My dad'll stare when I tell 'im it was Paula Ridgeway. 'E didn't
recognize you. Went to the show same as I did, only 'e don't see so well
lately."

They drove on, slowly, gropingly, chattering meanwhile, avoiding the
main streets as far as possible, and especially the road junctions and
shopping centers where crowds were likely. Melbury and Bockley were
adjacent suburbs, completely built over in a crisscross of residential
roads that afforded an infinity of routes; but once beyond Bockley the
rows of identical houses came to an end with the abruptness of an army
halted, and the wider highways narrowed and twisted into lanes. They
pulled up eventually at the side of a hedge.

"'Ere y'are, miss. The Owl's just rahnd the corner. Sure I can't tike
yer no further?"

"This'll do fine. We can walk now."

He helped them out. "Sure you know where y'are?"

"Yes--and thanks." She was fishing in her bag for a coin when he stopped
her. "No, miss--you send me a signed picture of yourself, that's what
I'd rather 'ave.... 'Is nibs feelin' better? That's good. Well, it's
bin a pleasure. Good luck to both of you. Good night, miss."

She waved to him and he drove off, leaving them alone.

"Where are we going?"

"Home--at least it'll do for one."

"But--I--I have to get back to the hospital!"

"We'll see about that tomorrow."

"But this place--I don't understand--"

"It's the Owl Hotel if you like the word. Call it a pub to be on the
safe side. I know the landlord."

"Will he mind?"

"The odds are he won't even know, old boy, not in the state he'll be in
tonight."

She guided him a little way along the lane, then through a side gate
into a garden where the shapes of trees loomed up at regular intervals.
"Lovely here when the summer comes--they serve teas and there's a view."

"What name was it he called you?"

"Paula Ridgeway. It's not my real name, though. What's yours?"

"Smith--but that's not real either."

"You don't remember your real name?"

He shook his head.

"Well, Smith's good enough. Come on, Smithy."

As they found their way along a path, the silent blanket of fog was
pierced by a murmur and then by a paleness ahead, the two presently
merging into a vague impression of the Owl on this night of November the
eleventh, 1918. A two-storied, ivy-clustered, steep-roofed building,
ablaze with light from every downstairs room, and already packed with
shouting celebrants of victory; a friendly pub, traditional without
being self-consciously old-world. Established in the forties, when
neighboring Bockley was a small country town, it had kept its character
throughout an age that had seen the vast obliterating spread of the
suburbs and the advent of motor traffic; it had kept, too, the sacred
partitions between "private" and "public" bars--divisions rooted in the
mythology of London life, and still acceptable because they no longer
signify any snobbish separation, but merely an etiquette of occasion,
dress, and a penny difference in the price of a pint of beer. Even the
end of a great war could not shatter this etiquette; but with the sacred
partitions still between, the patrons of both bars found community in
songs that were roared in unison above the shouting and laughter and
clatter of glasses. They were not especially patriotic songs; most were
from the music halls of the nineties, a few were catchy hits from the
recent West End revues. But by far the most popular of all was "Knees
Up, Mother Brown," a roaring chorus that set the whole crowd stamping
into the beer-soaked sawdust.

On the threshold of the Owl Smith felt a renewal of nervousness,
especially as the girl's entry was the signal for shouts of welcome from
within. She pushed him into a chair in an unlighted corner of the lobby.
"Stay there, Smithy--I won't be long." A group of men pressed out of the
bar towards her, dragging her back with them; he could hear their
greetings, and her own in answer. He sat there, waiting, trying to
collect his thoughts, to come to terms with the strange sequence of
events that had brought him to a noisy public house in company with a
girl who was something on the stage. A few people passed without
noticing him; that was reassuring, but he suspected it was only because
they were drunk. He decided that if anyone spoke to him he would pretend
to be drunk also, and with the safeguarding decision once made the
waiting became easier. He watched the door into the bar, expecting her
to emerge amidst a corresponding roar of farewells, but when she did
come, it was quietly, silently, and from another direction. "I managed
to get away, old boy, and believe me it wasn't easy. Come on--let's go
before they find us."

She led him through another door close by, and up a back staircase to
the first floor, turning along a corridor flanked by many rooms; she
opened one of them and put a match to a gas jet just inside. It showed
up a square simple apartment, containing an iron bed and heavy Victorian
furniture. He stared around, then began to protest: "But how can I stay
here? I can't afford--"

"Listen, Smithy--the war stopped this morning. If that's possible,
anything else ought to be. And you've got to stay somewhere." She began
to laugh. "You're safe here--nobody's going to bother you. I told you I
know the man who runs this place--Biffer Briggs--used to be a prize
fighter, but don't let that frighten you.... It's cold, though--wish
there was a fire."

She suddenly knelt at his feet and began to unlace his boots. Again he
protested.

"Well, you _must_ take your boots off--that's only civil, on a clean
bed. I'll come up again soon and bring you some tea."

He took off his boots as soon as she had gone, but the effort tired him
more than he could have imagined. The day's strains and stresses had
utterly exhausted him, in fact; he almost wished he were back at the
hospital, because that at least promised the likelihood of a known
routine, whereas here, in this strange place... but he fell asleep
amidst his uneasiness. When he woke he saw her standing in front of him,
carrying a cup of tea. She placed the cup on the side table, then fixed
the blankets here and there to cover him more warmly. She was about to
tiptoe away when he reached out his hand in a wordless gesture of
thanks.

"Awake, Smithy?"

"Have I been asleep?"

"I should think you have. Four solid hours, and this is the third cup of
tea I've made for you, just in case.... God, I'm tired--tell you
what, old boy, I've had just about enough of it downstairs."

"It's late, I suppose."

"One A.M. and they're still hard at it."

"Do you live here?"

"Not me--I just know the Biffer, that's all. I reckon _everybody's_
living here tonight, though. Hope the noise won't keep you awake--it'll
probably go on till morning."

"I shan't mind."

"You sleep well?"

"Sometimes."

"Lie awake thinking about things?"

"Sometimes."

"About who you are and all that?"

"Sometimes."

Her voice softened with curiosity as she looked down at him. "Drink it
up, Smithy. What does it feel like--to think of the time before--before
you can remember?"

"Like trying to remember before I was born."

She gave his hand an answering touch. "Well, you're born again now. So's
everybody. So's the whole world. That's the way to look at it. That's
why there's all this singing and shouting. That's why I'm drunk."

"Are you?"

"Well, not really with drinks, though I have had a few. It's just the
thought of it all being over--I've seen so many nice boys like yourself,
having a good time one week and then by the next... Oh well, mustn't
talk about _that_--better not talk any more about anything; you're too
sleepy, and so am I. How about making a bit of room?"

Without undressing, except to slip off her shoes, she lifted the
blankets and lay down beside him. He felt her nearness slowly,
luxuriously, a relaxation of every nerve. "Tell you what, old boy, I'm
just like a mother tonight, so cuddle up close as you like and keep
warm.... Good night, Smithy."

"Good night."

"And Paula's the name, in case you've forgotten that as well."

But he felt no need to answer, except by a deeper tranquillity he drew
from her, feeling that she was offering it. The crowd were still singing
"Knees Up, Mother Brown" in the bars below. It sounded new to him, both
words and tune, and he wondered if it were something else he had
forgotten. He did not know that no one anywhere had heard it
before--that in some curious telepathic way it sprang up all over London
on Armistice Night, in countless squares and streets and pubs; the
living improvisation of a race to whom victory had come, not with the
trumpet notes of a Siegfried, but as a common earth touch--a warm bawdy
link with the mobs of the past, the other victorious Englands of
Dickens, Shakespeare, Chaucer.

Presently, as he lay listening, he fell asleep in her arms.

**

In the morning he had a temperature of 103. He didn't know it; all he
felt was a warm, almost cosy ache of all his limbs, as well as a
trancelike vagueness of mind. She didn't know it either, but his flushed
face and incoherent speech made her telephone for a doctor. A majority
of the other occupants of the Owl on that first morning of Peace were
also flushed and incoherent, though from a different cause. The Biffer
himself, sprawling, disheveled, and half undressed, snored loudly on a
sofa in the little room behind the private bar; Frank, the bartender,
boastful of never having touched a drop, languished in sober but
melancholy stupor on the bench in the public bar, watching the maids
sweep sawdust and broken glasses into heaps. Other persons, including a
second bartender, a waiter, and several dilatory patrons who had either
declined or been unable to go home, were not only fast asleep in various
rooms and corridors, but likely to remain so till many more hours were
past. It had been a night in the history of the Owl, as of the world.

The only doctor who heeded the call proved, on arrival, to be extremely
bad-tempered. As she met him in the lobby he took a sharp look round,
eyeing distastefully the prostrate figures visible through doorways.
"Daresay you know how busy I am--three Bockley doctors down with the
flu--I'm trying to do the work of five men myself, so I hope you haven't
brought me here for nothing. I know Briggs--known him for years--he
drinks too much and I've told him he'll die of it--what more can I do? A
man has a right to die as well as live the way he chooses--anyhow, a
doctor can't stop him." By this time she had led him upstairs and into
the bedroom. He walked across to the bed, took one look, and swung round
angrily. "What's the idea? Who is he?"

"He's been a soldier. He's ill."

"But I thought it was Briggs.... You had no right to drag me out
here--who _are_ you?"

"A friend of the Biffer--like yourself."

"Well, I've no time for new cases."

"But he's _ill_. Can't you see that?"

"How much did he drink?"

"Nothing. It isn't that."

"How do you know?"

"I was with him."

"You're his wife?"

"No."

"Well, what _is_ he to you? And what's he doing here? You call me away
from my regular patients--you tell me it's urgent--I hurry here because
Briggs is an old friend--" But by this time he had drawn back the
blankets. "Why, God bless my soul, the man's in his uniform...."

"I told you--he's been a soldier."

"He's still a soldier--he belongs to a hospital."

"Aren't you going to help him at all?"

"Can't interfere in a military case--all I can do is notify the
authorities. What's the fellow's name?... Ah, here it is--"

"But he's _terribly_ ill."

"He'll be sent for."

"But you can't leave him like this!"

"You don't need to instruct me in my duty."

Smith half heard all this as he lay on the bed, his mind tremulous with
fever and his body drenched in perspiration; he heard the door close and
then saw her face coming towards him out of a mist.

"I bungled that, Smithy. I'm afraid the old boy's gone back to tell 'em
you're here."

He smiled. He didn't care. She seemed to read that in his face. She went
on: "Yes, you think it doesn't matter, you'd just as soon go back--but
_would_ you, when you once got there? You don't really _want_ to be in a
hospital again.... Or _do_ you?"

He smiled again, more faintly. He was too ill to speak.

"Well, if you die, it'll be pretty hard to explain you being here, but
if you weren't going to die I wouldn't be so pleased at having let you
go. So you'd just better stay here and not die, Smithy."

He kept smiling as if the whole thing increasingly amused him.

Thus it happened that when, towards twilight, the doctor revisited the
Owl, striding into the lobby in an even greater hurry and temper than
before, she met him there with answers rehearsed and ready.

"Well, young lady, I've made arrangements about that man. The Melbury
Hospital will send an ambulance this evening."

"But he's gone!"

"_What?_"

She repeated: "He's gone."

The doctor flushed and seemed on the verge of an outburst, then suddenly
began to cough. She thought he looked rather ill himself. When he could
regain breath he said more quietly: "You'd better do some explaining.
Where has he gone? How did he get away?"

She offered him a chair. "Maybe he wasn't so ill. Perhaps he was just
drunk, as you said."

"Nonsense! He's a shell-shock case, if you know what that is--has
delusions that people are against him. Men like that can be
dangerous--might have a crazy fit or something." He began to cough
again. "Now come on, don't waste any more of my time. Tell me where he
is."

She was facing him steadily when all at once his coughing became worse;
he struggled with it for a while and then gasped: "Where's Briggs? Let
me talk to _him_ about this."

"He's out."

"Well, I'll call again later when I've finished my round." He seemed to
have a renewal of both energy and anger as he stalked out of the room,
for he shouted from the doorway: "It's all a pack of lies you've been
telling--I know that much!"

But he did not call back later when he had finished his round. In fact
he never did finish his round. He collapsed over the wheel of his car
half an hour later, summoning just enough final strength to pull up by
the roadside. It was a lonely road and they did not find him till he was
dead. The flu of 1918 was like that.

Later in the evening a military ambulance drove up to the Owl and drove
away again after a few minutes. The Biffer was emphatic in his assurance
that there must have been some mistake--nobody on his premises was ill.
But he called the driver and the two attendants into the private bar and
hospitably stood them drinks.

The flu had other victims: Biffer Briggs himself, Frank the bartender,
Annie the maid; they recovered. But an old man named Tom who for decades
had odd-jobbed in the Owl garden died quietly, like ten millions more
throughout Europe; indeed the war during all its years had not taken so
many. But because the larger claims were made without horror they were
surrendered without concern, and the Owl was far less perturbed when
three fourths of its occupants were ill and near to death than on a
night some months before when a German air raider had dropped a solitary
bomb in a meadow miles away.

Meanwhile Lloyd George was organizing his khaki election; the world grew
loud with promises; the ex-Kaiser was to be hanged; the losers must pay
the whole cost of the war; the armies of the victors were all to come
home and find work waiting for them; the new world was to be one of
peace and plenty for Englishmen. Among all the promises a few things
were real and immediate: a vote for the women, and gratuities to the men
as they put off their uniforms--sums in cash that ranged from the field
marshal's fortune to the private soldier's pittance. The morning these
were announced Paula took the newspaper upstairs along with the
breakfast tray, but said nothing till she was holding a thermometer to
the light. "Well, Smithy, you're down to nearly normal, so I reckon I
can tell you the other good news--the government owes you some money."
She read him the details and added: "So stop worrying--you'll be able to
pay for everything soon."

"But in the meantime?"

"_Now_ what's bothering you?"

"I hate to seem inquisitive, but--I mean--you--you probably aren't so
well off as--as to be able to afford--to help me--"

"Darling, I'm not well off at all, but helping you isn't bankrupting me,
either. And why should you hate to seem inquisitive?"

She sat on the bed waving the thermometer happily. "I'm afraid you're
too much of a gentleman, old boy. After all, you don't know _what_ you
are, do you? Maybe you're a lord or an earl or something. Can't you
remember going to Eton? You talked a good bit lately while you were in a
delirium, but it was all war stuff--not very helpful. You've been pretty
bad, incidentally--know that? This morning's the first time you've
dropped below a hundred." She poured out a cup of tea. "All the others
caught it too--good job _I_ didn't."

"You've been living here?"

"Living and lifesaving. The flu closed the theater so I'd have had
nothing else to do, anyway."

"I still don't see how you can afford to help me like this."

"Darling, I'll let you into a secret--I'm not paying for your room, but
if it makes you feel better, you can turn over anything you like as soon
as the government gives you the money."

"That's another trouble. I can't be demobilized till I'm officially
discharged from hospital."

"Well, hurry up and get better, then they'll discharge you quick
enough."

"But--in the meantime--don't you see?--I can't _hide_--like this--in
somebody else's house!"

"But you don't have to hide. I've talked to the Biffer about you
already."

"You mean he knows I'm here--and where I come from?"

"Yes, and he doesn't mind. Doesn't give a damn, in fact. I knew I could
fix it."

"But--why does he think you're doing all this for me?"

"Well, why do _you_ think I am?" She laughed. "It's just a hobby of
mine. Now listen to this--it's the Biffer's idea, not mine. He says for
the time being--when you've got over this flu and are strong enough--why
don't you do a bit in the garden same as old Tom used to? If you _like_,
that is. Might be good for you to have a quiet job in the fresh air--you
wouldn't have to talk to people much. And it's lovely here when the
summer comes."

Something flicked against his memory. "You said that once before."

"Did I?"

"The night we came here--as we walked through the garden in the fog. You
said--'It's lovely here when the summer comes.'"

"Well, it certainly is, but I don't remember saying it. And you're the
one who's supposed to forget things!"

"That's why I'm always trying to remember them--things that have
happened before."

The Biffer's not minding was a mild way of expressing his willingness to
co-operate. He was, in truth, delighted to join in any outwitting of
authority, which he visualized as the same malign power that had placed
so many restrictions on his wartime management of the Owl. Jovial,
obese, and somewhat thick-witted after the hundreds of collisions his
skull had withstood in years gone by, he remained the product of an
early education that had taught him to read printed words with
difficulty and to believe them with ease; so that he did indeed believe
the things he could read with least difficulty--which included the
sporting pages of the daily papers, Old Moore's predictions, and
"powerful articles" by the more down-writing journalists of the day. He
had a few fierce hatreds (for such things as red tape, government
interference, and Mrs. Grundy) and a few equally fierce affections, such
as for Horatio Bottomley, "good old Teddy" (meaning the late King Edward
the Seventh), and Oxford in the Boat Race. He took pride in the
oft-repeated claim that "there ain't a more gentlemanly House than the
Owl in all London," and that it should shelter a victim of the things he
most hated added zest to a naturally generous impulse. "Pack of
Burercratic busybodies," he exclaimed, during his first meeting with the
victim. "Just let 'em come 'ere, that's all. I've still got strength to
give 'em what I gave the Gunner!" What he had given the Gunner (at
Shoreditch on May 17, 1902) was a straight left hook in the fourteenth
round--this being the peak of his career, and one which, in money and
fame, he had never afterwards approached. But he had bought the Owl with
the money, and the fame, carefully husbanded too, had survived pretty
well within a ten-mile radius of his own brass-bound beer engines.

So Smith began to work in the garden of the Owl; and in the meantime
President Wilson crossed the Atlantic to be cheered as a new Messiah in
the streets of London, Rome, and Paris; English, French, and American
troops held the Rhine bridgeheads; the first trains crept again through
the defiles of the Brenner; and in the great cities of central and
eastern Europe revolution and famine stalked together.

It was the Biffer's second-favorite boast that from the garden of the
Owl you could see "the Palace" on a clear day--the Alexandra Palace,
that was, seven miles west across the Lea Valley; in the other direction
the trees of Epping Forest made a darkly etched panorama that grew
brown, and then suddenly green, as spring advanced. There was only
preparatory gardening to be done until that time, but then the grass
grew long in a single week and a line of daffodils flowered in every
window box. Hardly anyone visited the garden during the daytime, and by
evening, when a few already preferred to take their drinks out of doors,
Smith was in bed and asleep, except on Sundays, when Paula would
generally pay a visit if her show were playing in or near London.

Of course he knew she didn't come to see him only, but chiefly the
Biffer and the crowd in the bar, who all seemed to be her friends and
greeted her with vociferous cordiality; naturally she spent a good deal
of the time with them, and it wasn't easy to get away for a solitary
chat with a semi-invalid. She managed it, though, as a rule, meeting him
in the garden and walking with him along the Forest paths as far as the
big beech trees. He enjoyed such walks, because it was dark and he still
shrank from meeting people; but he also shrank from the thought that he
might be dragging her away from much livelier company in the bar. He
tried to tell her this.

"Don't you worry, Smithy. I won't let you bore me."

"But you have such a good time with the crowd."

"I know--that's because I like people. Can't help it. But don't think so
little of yourself--you're included. Gives me plenty of fun to see you
getting better like this, week by week."

"Yes, I think I _am_ getting better."

"You only _think_ you are?"

"I still don't like to talk to people, though." He tried to explain. "It
isn't so much fear of them as a sort of uneasiness--as if I really
oughtn't to be alive, and everybody knows it and wonders why I still am.
I know that's foolish, but it isn't enough to know--I've got to _feel_,
before I can free myself."

"You will, Smithy. You'll suddenly feel you're free as air one of these
days."

"If I do, I'll have you to thank--chiefly. You've given me so much of
your time."

"Oh God, don't start being grateful. Listen, I'll tell you something. If
you oughtn't to be here, neither should I, and I wouldn't be, but for
luck. A house I was living in was hit by a bomb--I was asleep in one
room and two people were killed in the next. I wasn't going to tell you
that--thought it might upset you to be reminded of the war, but now
maybe it'll cheer you up to think we're both like that. They did their
best to finish us off, Smithy, but we managed to trick 'em somehow or
other. That's the way to feel, and it's easier now the war's over and
there's a future."

"I'd like to feel that, if I could."

"You will. You'll go on getting better, and then one night I'll see you
in the front row of the stalls, watching the show."

"Yes, I'd like to see you act."

"Oh, don't come for that reason. I don't act--I'm just a comic."

"I _will_ come, when I'm better."

"That's a promise, now!"

There wasn't only the question of his reluctance to meet strangers. Any
prospective employer, no matter how sympathetic, would ask for details
of his history, his army discharge papers and so on, and if it came out
that he'd escaped from a mental hospital, the authorities would
certainly send him back there, at least for tests and observation, and
if he _were_ sent back, even for a short time, he felt terribly certain
he would get worse again. There was nothing for it but to stay where he
was and be thankful for such a sanctuary; it was really an astounding
piece of good fortune ever to have found it. So he stayed, pottering
about the Owl garden and gradually returning to the world of ordinary
awareness. There came a day when he could open a newspaper and face
whatever catastrophe the turn of a page might reveal; another day when
he could pick up an exciting novel without perilously identifying
himself with one or other of the characters. He was recovering.

Sometimes while he was busy in the garden the landlord, puffing and
sweating in his shirtsleeves, would bring out a couple of pints of beer.
He took a nave, childlike interest in his protg. "Easy does it,
mate--don't work your head off. Seen the paper? They 'aven't 'anged the
old Kaiser yet, but it looks like they'll do for this chap
Landru--supposed to have murdered twenty women--what d'you think of
that?"

Smith didn't have to answer much, because the Biffer was always glad to
talk, especially about his favorite diversion, which was a word
competition in a well-known weekly paper. He usually sent in several
entries; they consisted of some supposedly apt comment on a selected
phrase. The prize-winning comment generally had wit, or at least a
double meaning; but the Biffer could never grasp that, and his
hard-wrought efforts were invariably trite, and just as invariably
failed to score. But every night in the private bar he would discuss
them with his regular customers, and in the daytime he was glad enough
to add the new gardener to his list of consultants. The latter,
encouraged to take a rest from work and study the weekly contest, soon
developed an inkling of what might stand a chance, and from time to time
made suggestions that the Biffer dutifully incorporated into his own
efforts. Suddenly one of them won a prize of a hundred pounds, and never
since his epic fight with the Gunner had anything happened to give the
Biffer a greater feeling of elation. His first response was to insist on
an equal split, paid over there and then in five-pound notes, for he
believed (more truly than he realized) that the gardener's emendation
might have helped. But that was not all. In the Owl bar that same
evening, under stress of many drinks and congratulations, he could not
withhold credit as well as cash from his collaborator. "Quiet
well-spoken sort of chap--stammers a bit--been shell-shocked in the war.
Matter of fact, they 'ad 'im locked up in that big guv'ment hospital at
Melbury till the poor chap got away. I reckon that's a fine joke on them
guv'ment busybodies--a feller they make out is off 'is chump goes and
thinks up something that wins a hundred quid!" And the more the Biffer
contemplated this extremely ironic circumstance, the more he repeated
and elaborated it over a period of several hours and before changing
audiences.

A few evenings later Smith was tidying up in the greenhouse; but it was
a Sunday and there had not been much to do. It was hardly time for Paula
to come yet, even if she did come; he knew she was at Selchester that
week--perhaps it was too far away. The uncertainty as to whether she
would come or not made a curious little fret inside him; it didn't
matter so much if she wasn't coming provided he hadn't looked forward to
it in advance. That brought him to a realization of how much he did look
forward to her visits. Of course, now that he was getting better he
didn't expect to see her so much; she had been kind while he was ill, he
mustn't trade on that. And another thing was curious--his memory of the
night she had brought him to the Owl, every word she had said, little
intimacies of physical presence, details that swung like lamps amidst
the background of fever and delirium. He could hardly believe that
certain things had happened at all, that she had so comforted him
throughout that long night of Armistice. There had been no other nights
like that, there never would be, neither in his life nor in the world's.
He could not expect it; and it was natural that their relationship,
begun in such a wild vacuum of despair and ecstasy, should by now have
become a more normal one.

Suddenly the greenhouse door opened and she stood there in the sunlight,
breathless. "Oh Smithy, you've got to go--immediately! Drop those things
and don't stay here a moment longer. I'll pack your bag--I'll find where
everything is--meet me in the Forest by the beech trees in half an hour!
But go _now_--don't waste any time--"

"But what's the matter? What on earth's happened?"

"Two men from Melbury Hospital talking to Biffer in the bar. They've
come for you."

"For _me_?" He stared at her, bewildered at first, then enraged and
indignant. "They want to take me _back_? They _still_ want to get me?"

She ran to him, holding him, trying to stop his cries. "Don't shout--and
don't argue--just go as I tell you!" She pulled him out of the
greenhouse and across the garden to the side gate. "Wait for me--you
know where--I shan't be long."

They met again, under the trees. He was calmer; he had waited, smoking
cigarettes and thinking things out. The day had been hot and pockets of
warm air lingered amidst the fast-cooling shades. The Forest was very
beautiful, and something in him was beginning to respond to beauty, as
to anger and indignation also. He sprang to eagerness as he saw her
approach, carrying bags and parcels. They stood still for a moment,
while she regained her breath. "It's all right--nobody saw you--we're
safe so far. The men have gone--the Biffer got mad and said he'd give
'em what he gave the Gunner." She laughed. "But of course that wouldn't
help--they've got the law on their side--the law and the doctors....
I didn't say much to Biffer. He means well, but as soon as he's had a
few drinks he tells all he knows, which isn't much as a rule, but it's
too much just now. So he'd better not know about us till he finds out."

"_Us?_"

"Well, of course. We're going together, aren't we?"

"But how can--I mean--"

"Are you being the little gentleman again?"

"It's not that, but isn't it time--"

"Listen, Smithy, I'm only trying to help you--"

"I know that, but it's time I began helping myself."

"What a moment to think of it!"

"It isn't that I'm not grateful, but--"

"I know, you feel independent. Well, go on your own then, but where will
it take you? You haven't an idea. One place is as good as another,
what's wrong with Selchester then? I'm there for the week and after I've
gone you can do as you like.... You've got those ten fivers in your
pocket, haven't you?"

"Yes."

"Then hand over half to me."

He did so, willingly and seriously; she took them with a laugh. "Thanks,
Smithy--you'll feel better now."

**

They reached Selchester late at night, after a confused journey by
various trains and buses; but all the way he had been aware of a barrier
rising between them, so that at Selchester Station she summoned a cab
and did not suggest that he accompany her. "You'll be all right,
Smithy--the town's full of pubs and lodgings--I reckon you'd rather
choose one yourself. I lodge with the company, of course. Well,
good-night--you're safe here if you look after yourself, and you will,
won't you?" She leaned up and gave him a sudden kiss--the first she had
ever given him, but he knew it meant less than her hand touch the first
time they had met. "Good night, old boy," she repeated.

"Good night, Paula."

When her cab turned the corner and he was left alone with the crowd of
strangers in the station yard, he felt suddenly, hopelessly lost. It was
a sensation of sheer panic for the moment, but he conquered it--as if he
had seen a loathed insect and shudderingly ground it with his heel. He
walked into a near-by hotel and engaged a cheap room under the name of
Smith. They gave him a very small attic with dormer windows and a view
over the railway goods yard; throughout the night he kept waking up with
a start whenever express trains screamed by, but somehow he did not mind
that kind of panic; it was the inner kind that paralyzed him--or rather,
could not quite paralyze him any more, since he had fought it, alone and
so terribly, after she had gone. How comforting, as well as fearful,
that word _alone_ was; he wanted aloneness, because it was the hardest
training ground for the kind of strength he also wanted; and yet, once
he had that strength, he knew he would not wish to be alone. And he
knew, too, that his feeling for Paula was no longer an eagerness to
submit, like a child; but something positive, strong enough to demand
equality, if there were ever to be any further relationship between them
at all. He knew there probably could not be. That warm outpouring pity
had saved his life, but he could only keep his life from now on by
refusing it. Lying awake that night in the Station Hotel, he made up his
mind that he would not try to see her in Selchester that week; she would
be busy, no doubt, with rehearsals and performances; and he, too, ought
to be busy--looking for a job if the town offered any, and if not,
deciding where else to go.

For five days he walked about Selchester alone. He visited the
Cathedral, sat for hours in the Close under the trees, spent an
afternoon in a very dull municipal museum, watched the trains in and out
of the railway station, read the papers in the free library. None of
these pursuits involved conversation, and--except to waitresses and the
maid at the hotel--he did not utter a word for anyone to hear.
Sometimes, however, during walks in the surrounding country, he talked
to himself a little--not from eccentricity, but to reassure himself of
the power of speech. There were a few factories also that he scouted
around, wondering if he should ask for a job, but sooner or later he
always found a door with a notice "No Hands Wanted." He knew that
sub-consciously he was glad, because he still feared the ordeal of
cross-examination by strangers.

One rainy afternoon he sat in the refreshment room at the railway
station, drinking a third cup of tea that he did not want and staring at
an old magazine that he was not reading. Curious how one had to simulate
some normal activity or purpose in life, even if one hadn't one, or
especially if one had a secret one; in a town caf he could not have
stayed so long without attracting attention, but at the station it was
merely supposed he was waiting for a train. Trains were things people
waited hours for; one did not, unless one were peculiar, wait hours for
a desire to clarify itself. But that was what _he_ was waiting for. It
was Saturday; he had been in Selchester almost a week. He had a definite
desire to go to the theater and see the show, but he could not decide
until he felt certain what his desire signified. If it were weakness, an
urge to go back on his pledge to himself, he would not give way; he
could endure plenty more of the aloneness, it would not break him. But,
on the other hand, supposing it were not weakness but
strength--supposing it meant that he could now walk into a theater as
normally as into a library or museum, could face the crowd and the
lights and the excitement without a qualm?

He had walked past the theater several times and had judged the kind of
show it was from bills and photographs; nothing very uplifting, but
probably good entertainment, and it would be interesting to see what she
was capable of. Thus, he made his desire seem casual, normal, almost
unimportant, until suddenly he decided he was strong and not weak enough
to go. He got up and walked briskly to the counter to pay for the tea.
"Gettin' tired of waitin'?" remarked the girl, with mild interest. "The
Winton train's late today."

"Yes," he said, smiling. "I think I'll get a breath of fresh air."

He left the station and walked through the rain to the center of the
city, feeling more and more confident.

It was an odd thing, this loss of memory; he could not remember personal
things about himself, yet he had a background of experience that gave
him a certain maturity of judgment. He had probably been to many
theaters before, just as he had probably been to schools and received a
decent education. There were things he knew that he could only have
picked up from schoolbooks, other things that he could only have learned
from some forgotten event. It was as if his memory existed, but was
submerged; as if he could lower a net and drag something up, but only
blindfold, haphazardly, without the power of selection. He could not
stare into the past; he could only grope. But by some kind of queer
compensation, his eyes for the present were preternaturally bright; like
a child's eyes, nave, ingenuous, questioning.

In such a mood he sat in the third row at the first house of the
Selchester Hippodrome that night and looked upon a show called _Salute
the Flag_, described on the program as "a stirring heart-gripping drama,
pulsating with patriotism and lit by flashes of sparkling comedy."
Actually it was a hangover from wartime, having begun in 1914 as a
straight melodrama with no comedy at all, but with many rousing speeches
that audiences in those days had liked to cheer. Then, as the war
progressed and the popular mood changed from that of Rupert Brooke to
that of Horatio Bottomley, the patriotic harangues were shortened to
make room for the writing in of a comic part, which speedily became such
a success that by 1918 the show had developed into a series of clowning
episodes behind which the dramatic structure of what had once been a
very bad play appeared only intermittently. Nobody knew the authorship
of the original, or of any of the later accretions; successive actors
had added a gag here and a gag there; every now and then the show became
too long, and the parts left out were naturally those that elicited
neither laughs nor cheers, no matter how essential they were to the
original plot. But nobody minded that--least of all the audiences who
paid their ninepences and shillings in the few remaining small-town
English theaters that had so far escaped conversion into cinema houses.
_Salute the Flag_ had certainly helped to preserve the very existence of
such a minority; it had also made a great deal of money for a great many
people. Probably, in the aggregate, it had been more profitable than
many a better-known and well-advertised West End success.

Smith found it endurable, even before the moment when Paula appeared.
Her part in the play was trivial, that of an impudent girl at a hotel
desk who got people's bedrooms mixed up, but in one of the other scenes
she stepped out of the part for a few impersonations in front of the
drop curtain; he thought them pretty good, not from any definite
competence to judge, but because of the warm vitality that came over the
footlights with them, her own rich personality, full of giving--even to
a twice-nightly audience. Evidently the audience too were aware of this,
for they cheered uproariously, despite the likelihood that few had seen
the originals, which included Gerald du Maurier, Gladys Cooper, Mrs. Pat
Campbell, and the ex-Kaiser. They cheered so much that she came on again
to give an impression of a society woman telephoning her lover, all
smiles and simperings, in the midst of grumbling at her maid, all scowls
and snarls--a bit of broad unsubtle farce that demanded, however, a sure
technique of changed accents and facial expressions. She did not appear
again till the final scene in the last act, when the heroine, a nurse,
unfolded a huge and rather dirty flag in front of her, and with the
words "You kennot fahr on helpless womankind" defied the villain, who
wore the uniform of a German army officer, until such time as the entire
rest of the company rushed on to the stage to hustle him off under
arrest and to bring down the curtain with the singing of a patriotic
chorus.

Smith was halfway down the aisle on his way out of the theater when an
usher touched him on the arm. "Excuse me, sir, one of the artists would
like you to go behind, if you'd care to. She says you'd know who it
was."

He hesitated a moment, then answered: "Why, of course."

"This way, sir."

He was led back towards the stage, stooping under the brass rail into
the orchestra, stepping warily amidst music stands and instruments, then
stooping again to descend a narrow staircase leading under the stage
into an arena of ropes and canvas. The usher piloted him beyond all this
into a corridor lined by doors; on one of them he tapped. "The
gentleman's here, miss." A moment's pause. "I expect she's dressing,
sir--you'll excuse me, I've got to get back."

Again, after the usher had left him, he felt the beginnings of panic,
but it was different now--an excitement that he fought only as much as
he wanted to fight it. And the door opened before he could either yield
or conquer to any extent.

"Oh, Smithy--Smithy--you kept your promise!"

She dragged him into the room with both hands and closed the door. It
was a shabby little dressing room, with one fierce light over a mirrored
table littered with paints and cosmetics; playbills and an old calendar
on the wall; clothes thrown across a chair; a mixture of smells--grease
paint, burnt hair, cigarettes, cheap perfume, lysol. She wore a dressing
gown over the skimpy costume in which she was soon to appear again.

"I didn't see you till the end--glad I didn't--I'd have been so excited
I'd have ruined the show."

He said, smiling: "I enjoyed it very much--especially your part."

"Oh no, Smithy, you don't have to say things like that.... Tell me
how you are! Better, I can see--or you wouldn't be here. But what have
you been doing with yourself all week?"

"Oh, just looking around. Have to find some sort of a job, you know."

"Any luck?"

"Not so far. I somehow don't feel Selchester's a very good place to
try."

"We're going on to Rochby next week. More chance in a place like that,
maybe."

"I daresay I'll get something somewhere."

"And you _feel_ better?"

"Oh yes--fine."

The call boy shouted through the door, "Five minutes, miss."

"That means I've only got five minutes." She paused, then laughed. "I do
say intelligent things, don't I?"

He laughed also. "They keep you pretty busy--two shows a night."

"Yes, but this is Saturday, thank heaven. You'd be surprised what a rest
Sunday is, even if you spend most of it in trains."

"You leave in the morning?"

"Ten o'clock."

"But it isn't far."

"About three hours. We have a long wait at Bletchley. Somehow that
always happens. I seem to have spent days of my life waiting at
Bletchley."

"I don't think I know Bletchley."

"Well, you haven't missed much. There's nothing outside the station
except a pub that never seems to be open. Oh God, what are we talking
about Bletchley for?... I've got some money of yours, you know that?
Or did you forget?"

"No, but--"

"Well, I'd better give it back since I'm off in the morning." She began
to fumble in her dress. "I carry it about with me--doesn't do to leave
fivers lying loose."

"Oh, but you mustn't--"

"Well, you don't think I'm going to _keep_ it, do you?"

"I--I--never thought about it, but--"

"_Did_ you think I was going to keep it?"

"Well--I don't know--it would have been quite fair--after all, you'd
done so much--"

"Listen, you little gentleman--I kept it because I thought I'd have to
help you again, and I thought you'd feel better if I was spending your
own money! But now you _are_ better, thank God, and you don't need my
help, so here you are!" She pushed the notes into his pocket. "I've got
to go on again in two minutes, so don't make me angry! You'll need that
cash if you're looking for a job.... What sort are you looking for?"

"Any kind, really--"

"Outdoor or indoor?"

"I'm not particular about that, provided--well, you know some of the
difficulties--"

"You're scared they'll ask you too many questions? What you'd really
like is for someone to stop you in the street and say--'I don't know who
you are, or what you've been, and I don't care either, but if you want a
job, come with me.' Isn't that the idea?"

He laughed. "Yes, that's exactly the idea, if anyone would."

"You wouldn't mind what the job turned out to be, though?"

"I think I could do anything that I'd have even the faintest chance of
getting."

"Figures? Keeping books?"

"Oh yes."

"A bit of talk now and again--even to strangers--in that charming way
you have?"

"I wouldn't _choose_ that sort of job, but of course--"

"You mean you're still bothered about meeting people?"

He hesitated. She went on: "Well, leave that out. What about a bit of
carpentry mixed up with the bookkeeping?"

"Why carpentry?"

"Why not?... Back at the intelligent conversation, aren't we?" The
call boy knocked again. "Well... I suppose it's got to be good-bye
till we meet again--unless you want to see the show through twice--you'd
be a fool if you did."

"Perhaps I could meet you somewhere afterwards?"

"We always have supper together on Saturday nights--all the company, I
mean--it's a sort of regular custom, wherever we are. Of course I could
take you as my guest, but there'd be a crowd of strangers." Abruptly her
manner changed. "Smithy, would you really come?"

"Do you _want_ me to come?"

"_I_ wouldn't mind a bit, it's what _you_ want that matters. You're free
as air now--that's how you always hoped to be. And they can be a rowdy
gang sometimes. So please yourself, I'm not inviting you anywhere any
more... but if you _are_ coming, say so now, then I can tell them."

He felt suddenly bold, challenging, almost truculent. "I'll come, and I
don't care how rowdy they are."

She flashed him a smile as she slipped off the dressing gown and put
final touches to her make-up. "Number 19, Enderby Road--that's near the
cattle market--about eleven-thirty. You don't need to hang around here
for me--just go straight to the house at the time. I'll come
sharp--ahead of the others. See you then."

The rain had stopped; he took a long walk in the washed evening air,
then sat on a seat in the Cathedral Close and smoked cigarettes till the
chime of eleven. He could not quell his nervousness at the thought of
meeting so many strange people for the sort of evening party that was a
weekly custom of theirs--that in itself made him an outsider. He half
wished he hadn't said he would go, and it occurred to him that of course
he didn't have to--if he failed to turn up, that would be the end of it.
But the reflection, though tantalizing up to a point, had the stinging
afterthought that he would then not see her again.

Enderby Road was a quiet cul-de-sac of Edwardian houses, most of them
let to boarders; Number 19 looked no different from the others, but had
a gas lamp outside the front gate. He waited there, watching for her
after the Cathedral clock chimed the half-hour; it was comforting to
reflect that nobody knew him yet--he was just an anonymous man standing
under a lamp-post. Presently she turned the corner, her walk breaking
into a scamper as she saw him. "On time, Smithy--I mean _you_ are, _I'm_
not. But I hurried to be ahead of the others--I didn't even stop to
clean off the make-up."

She led him into the house. "Wait in the hall while I go up and finish."

He waited about ten minutes; the hall was dark and smelt of floor polish
with an added flavor--which he took practically the entire time to
detect--of pickled walnuts. Near him stood a bamboo hall stand
overloaded with hats and coats; the staircase disappeared upwards into
the gloom with thin strips of brass outlining the ascent. Voices came
from a downstairs room. He wondered what he should say if anyone came
out of one of the rooms and accosted him, but when the thing happened it
turned out to be no problem at all; the voices stopped, a thin old man
with a high domed forehead suddenly emerged through one of the doors,
collided with him, murmured "Pardon," and disappeared along the passage.
After a moment, he returned, collided again, murmured "Pardon" again,
and re-entered the room. Then the voices were resumed.

Soon after that she came down the stairs two at a time, to whisper
excitedly: "Now I'm ready."

They entered the room, in which--despite the voices--there was only one
person, the thin old dome-headed man; he was sitting at the dining table
with a large book open before him propped against the cruet. The domed
head rose over the book as from behind a rampart.

"Mr. Lanvin--this is Mr. Smith."

"A pleasure to meet you, my dear sir." He smiled, but did not offer to
shake hands. Then he closed the book slowly, and Smith could see it was
a Braille edition. Somehow that gave him peculiar confidence; Lanvin
could not _see_ him, could only judge him by his voice; so for the time
being he had only one thing to concentrate on.

Lanvin was placing the book exactly in its place on a shelf; it was
clear he knew by touch and feeling every inch of the geography of the
room. "So you are to join the weekly celebration, Mr. Smith?"

"That seems to be the idea. I hope you don't mind."

"Mind? I'm a guest like yourself, though I've been one before. I warn
you--they're a noisy lot--though no noisier than I used to be in my
young days. If they weary you later on, come over and talk to me."

Smith said he certainly would, and Mr. Lanvin began to talk about
Shakespeare. It seemed he had been reading _The Merchant of Venice_,
taking the various parts in various voices. "I used to be quite a good
Shylock, though I say it myself--and of course it's a fine acting part,
and the trial scene has wonderful moments. But taking it all in all, you
know, it's a bad play--a bad play. Why do they always choose it for
school use? The pound of flesh--gruesome. The Jewish
villain--disgustingly anti-Semitic. And a woman lawyer--stark
feminism.... Oh, a bad play, my dear sir. You're not a schoolmaster,
by any chance?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Because if you were, I should like to... but never mind that. Since
my eyes compelled me to retire from the stage I've spent a great deal of
my time reading, and do you know, the Braille system gives one a really
new insight into literature. You see, you can't skip--you have to read
every word, and that gives you time to think for yourself, to criticize,
to revalue--"

Meanwhile the door had reopened and a heavily built, red-faced,
pouchy-eyed man stood in the entrance, waiting till he was quite sure he
had been seen before stepping further into the room. Eventually he did
so, exclaiming: "Paula, my angel, so _this_ is the friend you spoke of?"

She completed the introduction; the red-faced man's name was Borley. He
lost no time in dominating the scene. "Fine to have you with us, old
chap." And then, dropping his voice to an almost secret parenthesis and
leaning over the table with the gesture of one about to unveil
something: "I don't know if you've ever noticed, but the food in English
boardinghouses is always in inverse proportion to the size of the cruet.
The larger the cruet, that is, the worse the food. Now this is a
perfectly _enormous_ cruet." He gave it a highly dramatic long-range
scrutiny. "You'd think it ought to light up or play music or
something--it's really more like a municipal bandstand than a receptacle
for Mrs. Gregory's stale condiments."

Just late enough to miss these remarks the landlady entered with a
trayful of small meat pies. Smith had to be introduced to her also, and
it was Mr. Borley who made haste to do this. "Mrs. Gregory, I was just
remarking on the quality of your food, and I perceive from yonder
succulent morsels that all I have said will soon be amply demonstrated!"
Whereupon Mr. Borley delivered a portentous wink all round the room
while Mrs. Gregory bounced the tray on the table without much response.
She looked so completely indifferent to the bogus compliment that Mr.
Borley's joke was somewhat dulled. "Glad to serve you all," she
muttered. "I do my best, as the saying goes--consequently is, I keep my
reg'lars."

"You not only keep us, Mrs. Gregory, but _we_ keep _you_--and proud to
do it!"

She shuffled out of the room, leaving Mr. Borley to proffer the dish of
pies with an air of controlled distaste. "Well, the risk's yours,
Smithy. Don't mind if I call you Smithy, do you? That's what _she_ calls
you."

Rather to his surprise, after all this, Smith found the pies excellent.
He said so to Mr. Borley, adding that he was even hungry enough to have
another.

"Right you are, then--and fortified by your example I'll even try one
myself." Mr. Borley then began eating and hardly stopped throughout the
entire rest of the evening. He added, with his mouth full: "But if
you're a hungry man, God help you at Mrs. Beagle's!"

Smith did not see how the food at Mrs. Beagle's, whoever and wherever
she was, could be any concern of his, but he had no time to explore the
point because another member of the party had just arrived--a young man
in tweeds, puffing at a pipe, almost like a magazine advertisement of
either the tweeds or the pipe; he had a pink, over-handsome, rather weak
face to which only premature dissipation had begun to lend some
interest. Once again Mr. Borley officiated at the introduction, and
while he was still performing two other persons entered, one a pale thin
girl with a large nose and spotty complexion, the other an elderly
silver-haired man of such profoundly sorrowful appearance that the
beholder could not keep back a first response of sympathy. Mr. Borley
had to summon all his technical powers to hold attention against such
competition, but he did his best by shouting the further introductions.

The silver-haired man smiled and bowed, while the girl marched on Smith,
delivered a crunching handshake, strode to the window, stared out for a
moment as if deeply meditating, then swung round with husky intensity.
"Oh, Mr. Smith, hasn't it been a wonderful day? I'm _sure_ you're a rain
lover like me!"

Smith felt somewhat cheered by a feeling that in this encounter all
the others were standing round to see fair play, especially when the
tweedy youth nudged him in the ribs. "Don't worry about her--she's
always like that. Why Tommy married her nobody can imagine--not even
Tommy any more... can you, Tommy?"

Here a sharp-nosed, jockey-sized man with bloodshot blue eyes and
straw-colored hair came across the room to be introduced, shook hands
wordlessly and continued to do so while he glanced around with
concentrated expressionlessness. Presently, turning his eyes on Smith,
he whispered: "What made you first take an interest in slumming?" He
went on, before Smith could think of any reply: "We're just a low vulgar
crowd. Rogues and vagabonds, they called us in Shakespeare's time--am I
right, Lanvin? We have no homes, we live in dingy lodginghouses in every
middle-sized town in England, we know which landlady counts the
potatoes, which theater's full of fleas, and which has a roof that leaks
on the stage when it rains. None of your high-class West End stuff for
us--we lure the coppers, the orange peel, and the monkey nuts, and we
spend our one-day-a-week holiday chewing stale sandwiches in Sunday
trains."

Mrs. Gregory then came in with what was evidently the main
dish--quantities of fried fish, chip potatoes, and hot peas; meanwhile
Mr. Borley had been out and now reappeared carrying a crate of bottled
beer. The party began to find places at the table while the
sorrowful-looking man, whose name was Margesson and whom one would have
expected to speak like an archbishop, boomed across the table, quite
unsorrowfully and with the zest and accent of an auctioneer: "Ladies and
gentlemen, may I remind you that we shall soon be at the mercy of Mrs.
Beagle." Here followed a chorus of groans and catcalls. "So I'm not
going to keep you from the really serious business of the evening, which
is to eat the last decent meal we shall have for a week. Before we
begin, though, and speaking as the senior member of this company,--bar
Lanvin, who's a permanent resident,--may I offer you a welcome, Mr.
Smith, and beg you to take no further notice of that truncated nitwit
Tommy Belden, nor of that moon-faced stewpan, Richard Borley, nor of..."
He had an insult for each of them, culminating in the arrival of a fat
overpowdered woman with a large smile she bestowed upon everyone from
the doorway, whereupon Margesson turned on her and exclaimed: "Now,
Miss Donovan, you old bag of bones, don't stand there ogling the
men--come and meet our guest, Mr. Smith, commonly called Smithy--"

And so it went on. Not till weeks later, when he had got to know them as
human beings, did he realize that they had behaved with extra
extravagance that evening in order to put him at his ease, and that the
insults were a convention in which they took particular pride--the more
horrific and ingenious, the warmer the note of friendliness indicated. A
climax came when Margesson, at the end of dinner, rose to make an appeal
on behalf of an actor whom they had formerly known and who had fallen on
bad times. Margesson's speech began: "Ladies and gentlemen, if such
there still are among this depraved and drink-sodden gathering--some of
you, even in your cups, may remember Dickie Mason, one of the dirtiest
dogs who ever trod the boards of a provincial hippodrome--"

The party lasted till after three in the morning, and was only then
dissolved at the energetic request of Mrs. Gregory, who said the
neighbors were being disturbed. Towards the end of it, Margesson took
Smith aside and said: "Well? Can you stand us?"

Smith answered with a laugh: "I think so. I'm having quite a good time,
anyhow."

"The train's at ten tomorrow morning."

"Yes, Paula told me."

"Some people sleep late, that's all."

That seemed another odd remark, but he didn't begin to grasp its
significance till later on when several people shook hands or clapped
him on the back with the remark: "See you tomorrow, Smithy."

Paula walked with him to the corner of the road. He said: "I'm really
glad I came--they're a warmhearted lot, and it's nice of them to expect
me to see them off in the morning."

"I'd better tell you what else they expect. They think you're coming
with us--to Rochby and all the other places."

"But--"

"Now don't begin to argue. Maybe I've bungled again--you've only got to
say so, and the whole idea's dropped. But there's a job for you if you
want it. In fact it's just about a hundred jobs rolled into one--you'll
find that out, if you take it on, and if you don't like it or something
better turns up, then you're free to go like a shot."

He said quietly: "What did you tell them about me?"

"Just part of the truth. I said you'd been ill, that you were better
now, that you were a friend of mine, and that you wanted a job....
But all that didn't get it for you--don't worry."

"What did, then?"

She laughed in his face. "I may as well go on telling the truth, even if
you hate me for it. I think it was probably because they could all see
you were such a gentleman."

**

Afterwards he realized the meaning behind the remark. The other members
of the company were _not_ gentlemen, nor ladies either, in the
restricted sense of the word. They could act the part,
successfully--even terrifically; no duke or baronet ever wore an opera
cloak or swung a gold-knobbed cane with such superb nonchalance as Mr.
Borley--indeed, it is extremely probable that many a duke and baronet
never possessed an opera cloak, or swung a gold-knobbed cane at all. And
that, of course, was the point. The gentlemen in _Salute the Flag_ lived
up to the ninepenny-seat idea of gentlemen; they were much realer than
the real thing. So also in speech and accent nobody could approach Paula
for aristocratic hauteur: when, in her impersonation of a duchess, she
exclaimed to a footman, "Do my bidding, idiot!" the blue blood became
almost as translucent in her veins as in those of Mr. Borley when the
latter addressed the German officer--"You contemptible hound--you
unmitigated cur--you spawn of a degenerate autocracy!"

In private life, so far as members of a second-rate touring company
could enjoy any, they tended to keep up the manners and moods of their
professional parts, combining them with a loud geniality expressed by a
profusion of "old boys" and hearty back-slappings; yet behind all that
they well knew the difference between the real and the too real, and how
the same difference was apt to be recognized by others. Hence the
usefulness of Smith. He had a way with him, despite--or perhaps
_because_ of--his shyness, diffidence, embarrassments, hesitations.
Where Mr. Borley's loud and overconfident "Trust me till the end of the
week, old chap" failed to impress a country tradesman, Smith could enter
a shop where he wasn't known and ask for what he wanted to be sent to
his hotel without even mentioning payment. And where even Mr. Margesson
could not, with all his sorrowful glances, persuade a small-town editor
to print as news a column of disguised and badly composed puffery, Smith
could rewrite the stuff and have the newspapers eager for it.

No doubt it was for somewhat similar reasons that Nicholas Nickleby
became a success with the company of Vincent Crummles--except, of
course, that Nicholas graduated as an actor. Smith did not aspire to
that, but he speedily became almost everything else--advance
press-agent, scene painter, bookkeeper, copy writer, toucher-up of
scenes that were either too long or too short or not wholly successful,
general handy man, odd-jobber, negotiator, public representative, and
private adviser. He was always busy, yet never hurried; always pleasant,
yet never effusive; always reserved, yet never disdainful. In short, a
perfect gentleman.

There certainly could not have been devised a more likely cure for all
that remained of his mental and temperamental difficulties. The constant
meetings with strangers, the continual handling of new problems and
thinking out of extempore solutions, the traveling from one town to
another, the settlement in new lodgings--all combined to break down the
pathological part of his shyness; yet shyness still remained, and with
it there developed an almost ascetic enjoyment of certain things--of
rainy hours on railway platforms with nothing to do but watch the
maneuvers of shunting in a goods yard, of reading the numbers on houses
in a strange town late at night, knowing that one of them hid a passing
and unimportant destiny. His work also brought him into contact with
average citizens of these many provincial towns--the barber, the
tobacconist, the stationmaster, the shopkeepers who were given a couple
of free seats in exchange for a playbill exhibited in their windows, the
parson who sometimes preached a sermon attacking the show as indecent
(good publicity if you could get it), sometimes the parson who came
himself with his wife and children, but most often the parson who
neither attacked nor patronized, but just passed by in the street with a
preoccupied air, recognizing the smartly dressed strangers as
"theatricals" and therefore in some vaguely opposite but no longer
warring camp. One of these clerics, with whom Smith got into
conversation, commented that the Church and the theater were now
potential allies, being both sufferers from the same public
indifference--"Your leaky roof and my leaky roof are the price paid for
the new cathedrals of Mammon." Whereupon he pointed across the street to
a new cinema advertising a film which, so it turned out after further
conversation, they had both of them recently enjoyed.

Smith saw a good deal of Paula during these busy days and even busier
evenings, but somehow their relationship did not seem to progress to
anything warmer or more intimate. Outwardly he became just as friendly
with a few of the others, especially with young Ponderby, the tweedy
youth, whom he grew to like. Ponderby was not much of an actor; his job
depended entirely on the possession of astoundingly conventional good
looks. In _Salute the Flag_ all he had was a couple of lines; he rushed
into the general's headquarters with the cry, "The enemy are attacking!
Give the order to advance!"--whereupon the general, who was a spy in
disguise, was supposed to look sinister while Ponderby backed towards
the door, delivering his second line as an exit: "Or if you don't, sir,
then, by heaven, I will myself!" This was designed to bring a round of
applause, and by careful attention to timing and movement Ponderby
usually got one. Margesson, who managed the company, was very strict
about everyone getting his "round." There was a technique about such
things: you stood in the doorway, hand on the doorknob, staring hard and
throwing your voice up to the farthest corner of the gallery--if the
"round" didn't come, or came too sluggishly, you rattled the doorknob
and repeated the final line with greater emphasis.

One Saturday, in the town of Fulverton, Ponderby spent the morning
drinking in an attempt to destroy the effect of too much drinking the
night before; by midafternoon, when he and Smith happened to be alone
together in the lodginghouse, it was clear that he could perform in the
evening only with extreme hazard, if at all. He had done this sort of
thing several times before, so Smith neither believed nor disbelieved a
story of bad news from home; but he felt some sympathy for the youth,
especially as he knew this latest offense would probably cost him his
job. Ponderby knew this too, and as the hour approached for the first
show he took quantities of aspirin and pick-me-ups, all of which only
added to his symptoms of physical illness. By six o'clock he was begging
Smith to take over his part, as the only way by which Margesson might be
placated; after all, provided the show wasn't interfered with, Margesson
might not care--the part was so small, and the clothes would fit too.
Smith was reluctant to agree; he didn't feel he would be any good as an
actor, even in the least possible part; but then Ponderby wasn't good
either, so that argument didn't carry far. And it was undoubtedly true
that the part, though small, was structurally important, so that a
last-minute cut would be extremely awkward; and Saturday, also, was the
best night for Fulverton audiences. Everything forced him to an eventual
consent, subject to Margesson's approval; but he still did not like the
idea.

He went to the theater earlier than usual and found Margesson in the
midst of some trouble with scene shifters; when he said that Ponderby
was ill and he himself could take his part, Margesson merely answered in
a hurry: "Had too much to drink again, I suppose.... All right
then--mind you get your round."

He did not have any chance to tell Paula about it, but the news that he
was taking Ponderby's part caused little surprise; he was such a handy
man, and the part was only two lines--there seemed nothing very
remarkable about the arrangement.

He was a trifle nervous as he changed into the uniform of a British
second lieutenant, but not more so than he often was at times when
people would never guess it. Quite a natural nervousness too; he knew
that many actors and public speakers were always like that, it was
really abnormal not to be. Something in the look of himself in the
mirror struck a half-heard chord in his submerged memory; he did not
come on till the middle of the last act, so he had time to smoke
cigarettes and try to catch the chord again, but that was stupid; the
more he stared at himself in the mirror, the less he could remember
anything at all. Then suddenly, with a frightening stab of panic, he
asked himself what Ponderby's lines were--he had never thought of
memorizing them, because he assumed he knew them so well; he practically
knew the whole show by heart, for that matter--they all did. But now,
when he sought to speak them to himself, what the devil were they? He
tried to visualize that part of the play: the general at his desk,
twirling his mustaches and muttering "_Hein_" under his breath--that was
to show he was a spy in disguise; then Ponderby rushing in--"The enemy
are attacking! Give the order to advance!" Now why should a second
lieutenant tell a general what to do? Never mind--that was part of the
play. Anyhow, Ponderby backed across the stage--not too quick,
though--give the general time to give some more twirls and look
suspicious; then on the exit--"Or if you don't, sir, then, by heaven, I
will myself!" That was it; and wait for the round.... He said it all
over again to himself: "The enemy are attacking--give the order to
advance--or, if you don't, sir, then, by heaven, I will myself!" Twenty
words--the smallest part in the show. Saying them over a third time, he
heard the call boy's "Ready, sir."

He went out into the wings, standing where he could see the general at
his desk. The general (little Tommy made up with comic mustaches) was
rifling drawers with a terrific amount of noise (exactly as a spy
wouldn't do), glancing through piles of paper in search of a stolen
treaty--even if it were there, he was going through them so fast that he
couldn't possibly find it; but that again had to be done or nobody would
get the point--anything else was what Margesson called "this damsilly
West End pansy-stuff where you come on the stage and light a cigarette
with your back to the audience and call it acting." Smith stood there,
waiting for the cue, which was the word "_Hein_." He felt a little
queer; he was going to do something he had never done before; it would
be awful if he did it badly, or didn't get his round; the only comfort
was that Ponderby did it pretty badly himself.

Suddenly he heard the general say "_Hein_." It electrified him, like a
word spoken inside his own head; he felt his feet as items of luggage
that didn't belong to him as he marshaled them for the forward rush.
His first impression was of a dazzling brilliance and of the curious
fact that there was no audience at all; then, as he stared to verify
this, faces swam out of the darkness towards him: row upon row, stalls,
boxes, circle, balcony, all were returning his stare from tens of
thousands of eyes--quizzically, he thought at first, as if they were
aware that this was the supreme moment of all drama and were anxious
to compare his performance with previous ones by Irving, Coquelin,
and Forbes-Robertson... but then, with a flash of uneasiness, he saw
malevolence too, as if they hated him for not being Irving, even for
not being Ponderby. He knew he had to conquer this uneasiness or it
would conquer him, just as he knew he had to rush up to the general's
desk and say "The enemy are attacking--give the order to advance!"
He saw Tommy eyeing him watchfully--that was part of the play, but
Tommy's eye held an extra watchfulness, as if he were hating him
too--for not being somebody else.

And then a very dreadful thing happened; he began to stammer. It was the
old, the tragic stammer--the one that made his face twist and twitch as
if he were in a dentist's chair; he stood there, facing the general,
facing the audience, facing God, it almost seemed, and all he could do
was wrestle with the words until they came, one after the other, each
one fighting to the last.

The audience began to titter, and when he crossed the stage to struggle
with the rest of the words they were already yelling with laughter. "Or
if y-y-you d-d-don't, sir, then, b-b-by G-g-god, I w-w-will m-m-myself!"
The laughter rose to a shriek as he still stood there, waiting,
trembling, with lips curving grotesquely and hand fumbling at the door;
and when he finally rattled at the knob till it broke off and rolled
across the stage into the footlights, the whole house burst into
hilarious shouting while the lads in the gallery stamped their feet and
whistled through two fingers for over a minute.

He got his "round" all right.

He left the stage in a daze, somehow finding himself in the wings,
passing faces he knew without a word, yet noting for agonized
recollection later that some looked anxious, others puzzled, a few were
actually convulsed with laughter. Alone at last in the dressing room he
closed the door, locked it, and for several minutes fought down an
ancient resurrected hell of fear, mental darkness, and humiliation.
Several knocks came at the door, but he did not answer them. Later, when
the wave had passed over and he knew he was not drowned but merely
swimming exhausted in an angry sea, he summoned enough energy to change
his clothes. By that time the play had reached the final scene in which
all the company would later be on the stage--he waited for the cue, "You
cannot fire on helpless womankind," followed by the cheers and
rough-and-tumble of the rescue party. Backstage would be deserted now;
he unlocked his way into the corridor and escaped through the stage door
into an alley by the side of the fire staircase. As he turned the corner
he could see a long queue already forming for the second performance,
which reminded him that Ponderby's part must be played by someone else
in that; Margesson would have to arrange it; anyhow, that was a trifle
to worry about, a mere pinhole of trouble compared with the abyss of
despair that he himself was facing.

Of course he must leave; they would not wish him to stay; he could offer
no explanation, because there was none that would not repeat his
humiliation a hundredfold.

Hurrying across Fulverton that night, across the brightly lit Market
Street full of shoppers, through the side roads where happy people
lived, it seemed to him that someone was always following, footsteps
that hastened under dark trees and dodged to avoid street lamps; an
illusion, perhaps, but one that stirred the nag and throb of countless
remembered symptoms, till it was not so much the ignominy of what had
happened that weighed him down as the awareness of how thinly the skin
had grown across the scar, of how near his mind still was to the chaos
from which it had barely emerged. He hurried on--eager to pack his bag
and be off, away from Fulverton and the troubled self he hoped to leave
by the same act of movement; for surely place and self had some deep
association, so that he could not now think of Melbury without... and
then the renascent fear in his soul took shape; they were _still_ trying
to get him back to Melbury--they had been trying all the time, while he,
falsely confident during those few weeks of respite, had gone about with
an increasing boldness until that very night of self-betrayal. And such
stupid, unnecessary self-betrayal before a thousand onlookers, among
whom was one, perhaps, who did not laugh, but rose from his seat and
quietly left the theater, taking his stand on the pavement where he
could watch every exit.... Suddenly Smith began to run. They should
not get him--never again. He stopped abruptly in the next patch of
darkness, and surely enough the footsteps that had been following at a
scamper then also stopped abruptly. He ran on again, dodging traffic at
a corner and almost colliding with several passers-by. It was man to
man, as yet--the enemy were attacking, give the order to advance! He
turned into the short cut that led directly to his lodgings--a paved
passageway under a railway viaduct. Then he saw there was a rope
stretched across the entrance and a man standing in front of it.

"Sorry, sir--can't get by this way tonight."

"But--I--what's the idea? Why not?"

"Can't be helped, sir--it's the law--one day a year we have to keep it
closed, otherwise the railway company loses title."

"But I must go--I'm in a hurry!"

"Now come on, sir, I'm only doing my duty--don't give me no trouble--"

Suddenly he realized that there was more than one enemy; this man was
another; there were thousands of them, everywhere; they probably had the
district surrounded already....

"Come along, sir, act peaceable--"

"_Peaceable?_ Then why are you carrying that gun?"

"_Gun?_ Why, you're off your chump--I've got no gun! D'you mean this
pipe?"

But he wasn't taken in by that, any more than by the nonsense about the
railway company and its title; he jumped the rope, hurling the fellow
aside, and ran along the passageway; in a couple of minutes he had
reached the lodginghouse, whereas it would have taken ten by the road.

He had hoped to have the place to himself, knowing that on Saturday
nights most landladies did their week-end shopping. But he had forgotten
Ponderby, who shouted a slurred greeting from the sitting room as he
passed by to climb the stairs. "Hello, Smithy--get along all right? Knew
you would--nothing to it--damn nice of you, though, to help me
out...."

He heard Ponderby staggering into the lobby and beginning to follow him
upstairs, but the youth was very drunk and made long pauses at each
step, continuing to shout meanwhile: "Was Margie wild? I'll bet he would
have been but for you. Why don't you come down and have a drink with
me--you deserve it.... Friend indeed and a friend in need--that's
what you are--no, _I'm_ the friend in need and _you're_ the... oh
well, never could understand the thing properly. What're you doing up
there? Not going to bed yet surely? What time is it? Maybe _I'd_ better
go to bed, then they'll all know I've been ill.... What's that? Can't
hear what you say...."

Smith repeated: "No, don't come up, I'm coming down."

"All right, Smithy--I'll go down too and get you a little drink. Must
have a little drink--you deserve it."

By this time Smith had packed; he was naturally a tidy person, and
having to do so regularly had made him expert and the job almost
automatic. As he descended the stairs he felt calmer, readier to do
battle with the forces arrayed against him; and that made him feel a
little warm towards the weak healthy boy who never did battle at all,
but just drank and debauched himself in a bored, zestless way. He turned
into the sitting room, where Ponderby lay sprawled again on the sofa,
head buried in the cushions.

"Hello, old boy--was just mixing you a drink when this awful headache
came on again. Don't mind me--sit down and give me all the news."

Smith did not sit down, but he took the tumbler, which was almost half
full of neat whiskey, poured most of it back into the bottle, and sipped
the remainder. He did not usually drink, but he hoped now it might help
to steady his nerves, might give him greater calmness for the journey,
wherever that was to be.

"Tell me all the news, Smithy. Don't mind me--I've got an awful head,
but I'm listening."

Smith said there was no particular news to tell.

"Oh, I don't mean the theater--damn the theater--I mean _news_. Heard
the paper boy in the street an hour ago--shouting something--went out
and bought one--there it is--couldn't read it, though--my eyes gave out
on me. What's been happening in the world?"

Smith stooped to pick up the paper with momentary excitement; was it
possible that already... no, of course not--an hour ago was actually
before the thing happened, apart from the time it would take to make a
report and get it printed. He glanced at the headlines. "Seems those two
fellows have flown across the Atlantic--Alcock and Brown."

"Flown across the Atlantic? That's a damn silly thing to do--but I'll
tell you what, it's better than being an actor. Well, drink a toast to
'em, old boy--what d'you say their names are?"

"Alcock and Brown."

"Alcock, Brown, Smith, and Ponderby--drink to the lot of us. Sounds like
a lawyer's office--that's the job I used to have--in a lawyer's office.
Damn good lawyers, too--wouldn't touch anything dirty. That's why they
got so they wouldn't touch me. Rude health like mine in a lawyer's
office--out of place, old boy--sheer bad taste--frightens the clients.
So one fine day I did a skedaddle from all that messuage. Know what a
messuage is? Lawyer's word...."

Smith said he must go, if Ponderby would excuse him.

"_Go?_ Not yet, surely--wait till the others come--don't like to be left
alone, Smithy."

"I'm sorry, but I really must go now."

Then Ponderby raised his head and stared.

"Right you are, then... but good God, what's the matter? Been in a
fight or something?"

"I've got to go. Good night, Ponderby."

"Nighty night, Smithy. And don't think I'll ever forget what you've
done."

You won't and neither will anyone else, Smith reflected, picking up his
bag and hat in the lobby and walking out of the house. Nobody saw him.
The night was warm and dark. He wondered why Ponderby had asked if he
had been in a fight, and at the first shop window he stopped and tried
to catch his reflection in the glass. He smiled--he had forgotten to
comb his hair; it showed even under his hat, rumpled as if--well, yes,
as if he had been in a fight. That was easy to repair, since he carried
a pocket comb, and at the same time he took out his handkerchief to wipe
the perspiration from his forehead. Then he did more than smile, he
actually laughed, because of the color of the handkerchief afterwards.
He had forgotten to clean off the make-up. All the way across Fulverton,
then, he must have been looking like that--if anyone had seen him, but
nobody had--until Ponderby. Oh yes, there was the man with the gun--but
it had been very dark just there, under the viaduct. He wiped off the
make-up and threw the handkerchief over a fence.

He knew they would go to Fulverton Station first of all, especially for
the night train to London; but he was not such a fool as to do anything
so obvious. There was a station about twelve miles away, on a different
line--Crosby Magna it was called; if he walked throughout the night he
would be near the place by dawn and could take the first train wherever
it went. He did not feel particularly tired; the whiskey had fortified
him, and a certain rising exultation as he left the outskirts of
Fulverton kept him tramping at a steady three miles an hour. It must be
just about the close of the second performance by now; they would be
taking curtain calls, then chattering in the dressing rooms, looking
forward to the usual Saturday supper at the lodginghouse. A decent
crowd; he had been happy with them. He began to look back upon that life
with a certain historic detachment; it was all over, and it would have
had to be over soon, anyway, for a reason that now, for the first time,
he admitted to himself. He had been growing too fond of that girl;
gradually but insidiously the feeling had been growing in him, so that
soon the only freedom he could have found would have been either away
from her or with her altogether; it would soon have become impossible to
keep on seeing her continually and meaninglessly in trains, dining
rooms, theater backstages: impossible much longer to have suppressed the
anxieties he had already begun to feel about all the chance contacts of
their daily lives--whether she would be in or out at a certain hour, or
would happen to sit next to him here or there, or who the man was who
met and talked with her so long after the show. Such things had not
mattered to him at first, partly because he had been so humble about
himself--why should she bother about him at all, what had he to offer?
She loved life, she loved people--be honest about it, she loved men. He
had even, at first, experienced a sardonic pleasure in seeing her warm
to the chance encounters that fill the spare moments of stage life--his
look, as he said good-night to her when he was going home to bed and she
to a party somewhere, had often contained the message--Have a good time,
you've done all you can for me, the rest I must do myself; so thank you
again and good luck.

That was his message to her now, as he walked from Fulverton to Crosby
Magna and heard the chime of midnight from a distant clock. But he knew
that it could not have been so had he stayed with the company, so that
actually his leaving was well-timed, an escape from bondage that would
soon have become intolerable.

He reached Crosby Magna towards dawn--a small deserted country station
on a single line. There was a time-table pasted up from which he
discovered that the first train was a local to Fellingham at ten minutes
past five. He had over an hour to wait, and spent it leaning against his
bag on the station platform. He felt rather drowsy; it was pleasant to
rest there, with the sunrise on his face. Presently he realized that a
man was staring down at him.

"Waiting for the train, sir?"

"Yes."

"It's due in now. I'll get you a ticket. Where to, sir?"

"Er... Fellingham... single..."

He dragged himself to his feet and followed the man into the small
booking hall.

"Fellingham, there you are, sir. Not traveling with the company this
time?"

"_What?_"

"Couldn't help recognizing you, sir--I was at the theater in Fulverton
last night. Very funny indeed you was, sir--funniest bit in the whole
show. Well, here's your train, sir."

He insisted on carrying Smith's bag and choosing a compartment for him,
though the train was practically empty. It was, indeed, one of those
trains that seem to exist for no reason at all except to wander through
the English countryside at hours when no one wants to travel, stopping
here and there at places where no one could possibly have any business,
especially on a Sunday morning, and all with an air of utter vagrancy,
like that of cattle browsing or a woman polishing her nails--a halt here
for several minutes, then an interval of movement, even a burst of
speed, then a slow-down to hardly a stop at all, and so on. Fellingham
was only forty-odd miles from Crosby Magna, but the journey, according
to the time-table, would take over two hours. But it was pleasant enough
to look out of the window on field and farmstead in the early morning,
the lonely roads disappearing into a hazy distance, a stop for the guard
to throw out a parcel to a man who stood by a crossing gate waiting for
it, long maneuvers of shunting in and out of sidings to detach various
empty wagons. No sound when the train stopped save that of the brakes
creaking off the wheels and the breeze rippling the grasses in near-by
fields. Whenever he put his head out of the window at a station, another
head, red-haired and a boy's, was leaning out three coaches in front,
and this somehow began to suggest that he and the boy were alone on the
train--final survivors of something or else first pioneers of something
else.

Presently the horizon began to show a long, low-lying cloud, but a few
further miles revealed it as a line of hills--rather high hills, they
looked, but he knew they could not be, because there were no high hills
in that part of England.

Of course he would not go all the way to Fellingham; that would make the
trail too easy, especially after the porter at Crosby Magna had
recognized him--unfortunate, that had been. He would get out at some
intermediate station and make his way elsewhere across country.

The train had stopped again by the time the hills became clear--a
station called Worling. He thought this would do as well as any other,
and was just about to jump down to the platform when his bag flew open,
spilling some of the contents on to the compartment floor; by the time
he had them repacked the train was off again. But it did not really
matter; one place was as good as another.

The train cantered on, like horses now more than cattle, steadily, at a
good pace, as if anxious to reach some friendly stable; the track wound
more closely into the uplands and soon entered a long shallow valley
under a ridge that rose rather steeply at one point into two rounded
summits; you could not tell which was the higher, but neither was very
high--maybe seven or eight hundred feet, with a saucer-shaped hollow
between. Just under the hill the roofs of a village showed amongst the
trees, but the train turned capriciously away from it, choosing to stop
at a station called Rolyott that was nothing but a shed in the middle of
fields. He got out there, handing his ticket to the solitary porter, who
stared at it for a moment and then said something about Fellingham being
three stations further on; Smith smiled and said that was all right, and
as the train moved off again the redheaded boy who was always looking
out of the window saw him smiling and smiled back. That made him feel
suddenly cheerful. And besides, the air was warm, blended with scents of
hay and flowers, and the tree-hidden village looked tempting even at the
end of a long road; he set out, walking briskly. A few hundred yards
from the station, withdrawn into a hedge so that no one could see it
save by search or chance, a broken signpost pointed to the ground, and
he had to climb through nettles to decipher its stained and weather-worn
letters: "To Beachings Over, 1 Mile."

He walked on, murmuring the name to himself, as he always did with
names--Beachings Over, Beachings Over; and then Beachings Over came into
view--a group of gray old cottages fronting a stream over which slabs of
stone made bridges. There was a square-towered church as well, a public
house called for some undiscoverable reason the "Reindeer"--a ledge in
the stream where the water sparkled as it curled over green reeds. And
beyond the village rose the sunlit ridge--one hill now quite clearly
higher than the other, but only a little higher, and between them that
gentle turfy hollow.

He crossed one of the stone bridges. A man coming out of a house stared
with friendly curiosity and said "Good morning." A fluff of wind blew a
line of hollyhocks towards him. An old man was clipping a yew hedge
along the vicarage wall. A sheep dog stirred in the shade and opened a
cautious eye as he passed. He felt: This is home; if they will let me
stay here, I shall be at peace. He turned off the road by a path towards
an open field that climbed steeply. Near at hand was a cottage, with a
buxom elderly woman tending the garden. "There'll be a nice view from
the top this morning," she said knowingly as he came near. "Five
counties they say you can see, on a clear day." He smiled and then she
said: "Leave your bag here if you like--it'll be quite safe."

"Good idea.... Thanks very much. And could I--perhaps--trouble you
for a glass of water?"

"Water if you like, sir, but cider if you prefer."

"Well, yes indeed, if it's no trouble."

"No trouble at all, sir--I'll just have to go round to the stillage."

"_Stillage?_"

"That's where we keep it, sir, being that cool off the stone, you'll be
surprised."

She came back with a pint-sized mug, which he drained gratefully.

"Glad you're enjoying it, sir--it's good cider, that I do say, though I
brewed it myself."

He wondered if he should offer to pay her, but she saw his look of
hesitation and added with swift tact: "Don't you worry, sir--you're very
welcome. Maybe when you've climbed up and down again you'll feel like
some cold beef and pickles and a nice raspberry tart--we serve meals,
you know, all day on Sundays."

"You get many visitors?"

"Hardly a one, but we're ready for 'em if they come. Gentleman once told
me this was the prettiest village in all England."

"Certainly it might be.... Well, thank you again--perhaps I will want
that meal."

He resumed the climb, feeling glowingly free after the drink and without
his bag. The sky was dappled with clouds like sails, the smell of earth
and grass rose in a hot sweetness. He walked steadily, stopping only to
look back when a chime floated upwards from the church tower; Beachings
Over, its gardens and roofs, lay in the fold of the valley as if planted
there. He climbed on till the ridge was close at hand, beyond the next
field and the next stone wall, the two hills curving against the sky.
After a little time he reached the saddle between, and there, hidden
till the last moment, lay a pool of blue water, blown into ripples under
passing cloud shadows. It looked so cool he took his clothes off and
bathed--there in sight of all the five counties, so it amused him to
think. Then he lay in the sun till he was dry, feeling the warmth of sun
and cider soaking into every nerve. Presently he dressed, found a shady
spot under a tree, and closed his eyes.

The sun on his face woke him; it had moved round the sky but was near
the horizon and no longer hot. His glance followed the curve of the hill
and came to rest on the already graying pool; he was surprised to see a
girl there, perched on a jutting rock and paddling her feet. He watched
her for a moment, quietly fitting the picture into his mind before
recognition came, and with it a curious mounting anger because he
suddenly knew why it was he had grown so desperately in love with her;
it was because she had made him so, because she followed him about
everywhere, because, from the moment of their first meeting, she had
never let him go--despite all acting and casual behavior and false
appearances. And she had followed him even to Beachings Over.

Aware that he was watching her, she turned and then came towards him,
high-stepping barefoot over the grass.

"Smithy--you're really awake? Why did you run off like that? Were you
ill? What's been the matter?... The woman at the cottage said you
were here--said you'd left your bag, so you'd have to come down, but I
didn't want to wait, and yet I have waited--hours--while you've been
asleep...."

"I'm--I'm--sorry."

"For keeping me waiting? It's _my_ fault--I could have wakened you any
time, but you looked so tired and you hadn't shaved--I guessed you'd
been out all night somewhere."

"But I'm so terribly sorry--no, not for that--for what happened before
then--at the theater--"

"Oh, _that?_ Darling, you shouldn't ever have taken it on, but it didn't
matter--got the biggest laugh in the whole show--Margie even said he'd
change the part if Ponderby could do it that way, but he was afraid he
couldn't. Anyhow, he's going to keep in the bit where the doorknob comes
off--that's good for a laugh any time."

"But do they think I did it _deliberately?_"

"I told them you did--I swore you fixed the whole thing with Ponderby
just for a gag; Ponderby said you had too, I made him--they all thought
it was marvelous, but then they think you _are_ marvelous, anyhow."

"_Marvelous?_"

"Well, you know--unpredictable. One of those shy ones who suddenly blaze
out and startle everybody and then go shy again. What'll you do next?
Maybe fly the Atlantic like those two fellows. Maybe murder somebody or
elope with a duchess. It's all part of being a gentleman. You're
privileged--like the boys on Boat Race Night."

"Paula--why do you talk like that?"

"Well, it's true, isn't it?" She bent over him. "There's such an
indefinable _je ne sais quoi_ about you, darling."

"What did you follow me here for?"

"To bring you back, of course."

"But I'm not coming back."

"Oh, it's only Sunday evening--there's no show till six tomorrow night
in Polesby--you don't have to make up your mind till tomorrow
afternoon."

"I'm not coming back. I _can't_ go back. Don't you realize how I felt--"

"I know--don't try to tell me--I saw you on the stage and I was the only
person who knew for certain you weren't acting--because I'd seen you
like that before, in the shop at Melbury. Remember?"

He said grimly: "It wouldn't be very easy to forget--any more than last
night."

"Except that you're not _bound_ to go on the stage, ever again, so what
does it matter? Whereas at Melbury you were like that all the
time--except with me."

"Yes, except with you."

"Maybe there's something about me too--so far as you're concerned."

He moved restlessly. "There was something then, but there's a barrier
between us now, compared with how we were in those days."

"There's only this between us, Smithy--I remember when you needed me,
and I'm sure I'm not going to hang around when you don't need me any
more. But I thought you might need me today--that's why I'm here."

"_I_ feel just the opposite--you were so generous when I _did_ need you
I've hated to feel you could still do things out of pity as you're doing
now."

"That's not just the opposite--it's the same."

"It's why I've kept away from you, anyhow, because I can do without you,
I know I can, I _must_."

"Oh God, don't boast. I can do without you too, for that matter. Let's
be independent as hell. Let's each fly in different directions and
wonder why for the rest of our lives." She began to pull on her
stockings. "Aren't you hungry?"

"Now you mention it."

"Let's go down. The woman at the cottage said she could give us--"

He interrupted, laughing: "I know. Cold beef and pickles and raspberry
tart."

"I said we'd have it."

"You're right about that."

He helped her to her feet and they stared about them for a moment.

"Smithy, how _did_ you manage to find such a heavenly place?"

"As so many things happen--pure chance. My bag flew open as I was going
to get out of the train somewhere else. How did you find I was here?"

"Darling, it was so _easy_. I asked at Fulverton Station, and they said
you hadn't been there, so of course I thought of Crosby Magna--"

"_Of course?_ Why of course?"

"Well, it was pretty obvious you'd think it _wasn't_ so obvious--and
then the porter there remembered you, and the guard remembered you'd
walked towards the village, and the woman at the cottage said you were
up here staring at the five counties,--it _is_ five, isn't
it?--everybody remembered you, old boy. You aren't terribly good at
making people forget you."

"They certainly won't forget my performance last night."

"Back again on the same old subject? I told you they all thought it was
marvelous."

"Then why did they think I didn't stay for the second show?"

"I told them it was because you suddenly got scared of how Margie would
take it--I said it was just like you, to put on a gag like that and then
get scared about it."

"Seems to me you thought of _everything_."

They began the descent amidst the gathering twilight, striding down upon
Beachings Over as from the sky. A curl of blue smoke rose from the
huddle of roofs, the church bell was ringing for evening service.
Something in the calm of that darkening panorama kept them silent till
they were within sight of the cottage; then she said: "Oh, by the way--I
told the woman you were my husband."

"Why?"

"Because she'd have thought it queer for me to be chasing up a hill
after any man who wasn't."

"Is there anything _else_ you've told anybody about me?"

"There isn't yet, Smithy, but there might have to be. I'm always ready."

She took his arm as he unlatched the gate that led through an avenue of
hollyhocks to the cottage. It was small and four-square, with windows on
either side of the front door; at one side of the porch a board
announced "Good Accommodation for Cyclists." The woman who had given him
the cider led them smilingly into a room that opened off the flagged
lobby; it was evidently the parlor, crowded with old-fashioned
furniture, pictures, and photographs. A yellow piano with a fretwork
front lined with faded silk occupied most of one wall; an oval mahogany
table stood in the center. The single window was tightly closed, yet the
room smelt fresh and pleasant. He opened the piano and struck a few of
the yellow keys; the strings twanged almost inaudibly. Inside the closed
space of the room they felt embarrassed to begin a conversation,
especially while the woman kept chattering in and out as she prepared
the table. She told them her name was Mrs. Deventer and that her husband
had been a sailor, so badly injured at Jutland, poor man, it was a mercy
he died. "But there, there, that's all over now and never no more, as
the saying is.... You'll take some nice ripe tomatoes with your beef,
perhaps, sir? And how about a drop of something to drink--there's my own
cider, but if you'd prefer anything else my girl can run over to the
Reindeer and fetch it.... 'Tain't far, you know--nothing's very far
in the village--that's what I always feel when I go into
Chelt'nam--that's our nearest town, you know--I go there oncet a year,
or maybe twice--it's a wonderful place, but my, it does so make you
tired walking through all them streets--we ain't got only the one street
here, and that's plenty when you're gettin' old...."

She talked and talked, bringing in everything she could think of till
the table was crowded with tomatoes, lettuce, cheese, a huge loaf of
bread, a pot of tea in case they wanted it, and a jar of chutney, her
own special make. At length there could not possibly be anything else to
bring in, and she left them reluctantly, with a slow smile from the
doorway.

He said: "Well?"

"Well, Smithy?"

"You look thoughtful, that's all."

"Darling, I was just wondering what you had against me."

But the door opened again--Mrs. Deventer bringing in a lighted lamp. "I
thought you'd maybe want it. Longest day of the year, round about, but
it still gets dark.... Maybe you'll be stayin' the night? You've
missed the last train either way by now, I suppose you know that. Of
course there's rooms at the Reindeer, but mine's as good, I always say,
and cheaper too."

The yellow lamplight glowed between their faces after she had gone.

"Possessive woman," he remarked. "_My_ cider, _my_ girl, _my_ chutney,
_my_ rooms."

"Room, she _said_. Didn't you see the notice outside--'Good
Accommodation for Cyclists'? But I don't suppose one has to be a
cyclist."

He said, after a pause: "I don't know why you should wonder about me
like that. How could I have anything against you? Except for the same
reason that I couldn't."

"Too subtle, darling, unless you tell me what the reason is."

"I love you."

Her voice leapt to the reply: "Smithy, you _do?_ You do _really?_ I've
loved you ever since I first set eyes on you--as soon as I saw you in
that shop I thought--there's my man. Because I'm possessive too--_my_
man, _my_ chutney, _my_ room--all mine." And suddenly she took his hand
and leaned down with her cheek close to it. "I could have killed you,
though, while you lay on top of that hill, fast asleep. _Killed_
you.... Oh, God, I'm so happy.... What's the name of this place?"

"Beachings Over."

"Beachings Over.... I'll get _us_ from _that_--forever. Remember the
game you used to play with names?"

Later, in a room so consecrated to cyclism that even the pictures were
of groups of pioneer freewheelers, he asked her if--when he had fully
recovered--if he did fully recover, of course--and if he found a job
that could support them both--if and when all those things
happened--would she marry him?

She said she would, of course, but without the delay. "I think it's only
two weeks they make you wait."

"But--" He seemed bewildered by her having stolen, as usual, the
initiative. Then he said, slowly and with difficulty: "I'm not _right_
yet. I'm not even as near to it as I thought I was. For half an hour
last night I felt the return of everything bad again--black--terrifying.
I'm better now, but less confident."

She said she didn't mind, she would look after him, because she had just
as much confidence as ever.

"And there's another thing--"

"_Another_, Smithy?" She was trying to mock him out of his mood.

"Wouldn't they ask me a lot of questions at the registry office?"

"You mean questions about yourself that you couldn't answer?"

"Yes."

"They might ask you one question _I_ never have--and that is if you've
been married before."

"Of course I haven't."

"How can you be certain, old boy, with that awful memory of yours?"

He pondered to himself--yes, how _could_ he be certain? He hadn't any
logical answer, and yet he felt fairly certain. When people had visited
him in those hospitals, relatives of missing men who hoped he might turn
out to be someone belonging to them, _he_ had similar hopes, but only of
finding a home, parents--never a wife. Did that prove anything?

She watched the look on his face, then added with a laugh: "Don't
worry--I'll take a chance on it if you will."

**

Eventually it was agreed that they should go to Polesby the next day,
announce their plans to the company, and ask for a few weeks' holiday.
She was sure Margesson would agree, if they approached him fairly and
squarely; he liked both of them, and the slack season was on. They rose
early and took a walk to the end of the village, discussing a future of
which Beachings Over seemed already to have become a part. "Oh, Smithy,
isn't it beautiful? I didn't see it like this yesterday--I was so
worried about finding you--but it's just the sort of place I've always
dreamed of. I know that's sentimental--but stage people are--they love
the sweet little cottage idea, though most of them would be bored to
death if they ever got one--mercifully they don't, as a rule--they
either die in the poorhouse or save enough to buy a pub on the Brighton
Road...."

She chattered on, and soon it was time to walk back to the cottage for
Mrs. Deventer's excellent breakfast, pay their bill, and assure her they
would return soon for a longer stay. The old lady was delighted, keeping
up the farewell greetings all the way down the avenue of hollyhocks to
the front gate. By the time they passed the post office the morning
papers were just being unloaded; Smith bought one and scanned the front
page during the mile-long tramp to the railway station. Mostly about
Brown and Alcock, he told her, summarizing the newly announced details
of the first Atlantic flight in history. Not till they were settled in
the train did she glance at the paper herself. Then, after a few
moments' desultory reading, she looked up with a suddenly changed
expression. "_Smithy!_"

"What's the matter?"

"I don't want it to come as a shock to you, but there's something here
that looks as if--" she hesitated and then gave a short laugh--"as if
they can't come up to you... for being crazy."

"Who can't?"

"Brown and Alcock."

"But I don't know what you mean."

"Better read this--and don't let it upset you--probably it's not
anything serious."

She handed him the paper, pointing to a small paragraph on an inside
page. It was headed "Assault under Viaduct--Fulverton Man Injured," and
ran:--

    That he was assaulted by an unknown man was the story told to
    the Fulverton police last night by Thomas Atwill, railway
    policeman, who was found unconscious under the Marshall Street
    viaduct at a late hour. Taken to the Cottage Hospital, Atwill
    stated that he had been on plain-clothes duty to prevent
    pedestrians from using the footpath under the viaduct, it being
    necessary to do this for one day each year in order to preserve
    the company's legal title to the right of way. Shortly after
    nine o'clock a man endeavored to break through the temporary
    barrier erected for this purpose, and when Atwill sought to
    remonstrate with him, he received a severe blow on the head.
    Describing his assailant as young, rather tall, and
    clean-shaven, Atwill said he was a gentleman, not a "rough." The
    police are investigating the unexplained disappearance of a
    member of a local theatrical touring company.

He put aside the paper, stared at her for a moment, then let his head
fall slowly into his hands. When he looked up he was very pale. The
train was stopping at Worling, where a crowd of farm workers waited on
the platform. She had only time to say: "Darling, if anyone gets in,
don't look like that."

Nobody got in, and his controlled features relaxed.

"Oh, Smithy... you don't remember?"

"I remember jumping over--it wasn't a barrier--just a rope. And if I hit
the fellow, it was accidental--a push that made him fall, maybe with his
head on the pavement--I didn't look back, I was running." He added,
leaning forward with both hands on her knees: "I do want you to know
that I'm not a homicidal maniac rushing about committing crimes and then
forgetting about them. When I said that last night for half an hour I
felt the return of all the bad things, I meant things in my own
mind--fears that I had to fight down... but they were in my own mind,
and I _did_ fight them down, I _never_ lost control. I want you to
believe that--no matter who else disbelieves it."

"I believe it, Smithy. But there are--as you say--people who wouldn't."

"I know that."

"We mustn't go to Polesby."

"_I_ mustn't. _You_ can. You're in no danger--on your own." He cried
out, with sharp bitterness: "Perhaps you'll stay clear of me after
this."

Ignoring that, she said: "Probably the man isn't seriously injured if he
recovered consciousness so soon--"

"You don't need to comfort me."

"But it's true--the whole thing'll blow over if he's not badly hurt--and
also if we don't go to Polesby. London's a better idea. If we change at
Saxham we can get a London train from there. We'll find somewhere to
stay--where no one will know who we are. London's the best place for
that. We both have enough money to last for a time."

"But what about you--your job? They'll expect you at Polesby tonight.
They'll know we're together."

"They'd be fools not to know that, anyway. I swore I'd never come back
unless I brought you with me.... Darling, don't look so anxious. _I_
believe you. This is just bad luck--it somehow doesn't count...." She
took his troubled head in her arms and rocked it gently against her. "I
can't help laughing, though, at one thing." She picked up the paper and
reread, crooningly, as to a child: "'Atwill said he was a gentleman, not
a rough.' That's you all over, Smithy--I always said so."

They left the train at Saxham, but had just missed the best London train
of the day; four hours to wait for the next. The interval was pleasantly
spent in strolling about the ancient town. The second London train came
in late, and they were told to change again at Santley Junction--"but it
all helps," she said, "if anyone were trying to follow us." They reached
Santley towards dusk and had to cross a platform crowded with waiting
passengers. When the next train came in, also late, it was already so
full that only tussling and scrimmaging could make further room; but
eventually this was accomplished and they found themselves in a
compartment occupied by an uncountable number of shouting children, all
in nominal charge of an elderly, shabby, but bright-eyed clergyman who
gestured apologies for his own inability to subdue the din. "It's been
their great day," he explained, forcing a way for the newcomers. Then he
helped them, quite unnecessarily, to put up their bags and parcels on
the rack, adding with a smile: "Not hostile--only heedless." As soon as
the train restarted the children shouted with renewed abandon, leaning
out of the windows, jumping on the seats, breaking into song choruses
that were taken up by other children in adjacent compartments until the
whole train, nearing London, became one long pandemonium streaking
through suburb after suburb, over bridges across blazing highways,
through smoke-filled tunnels, past rows of back gardens from which
shirt-sleeved householders watering their flowers looked up to wave
good-humoredly, alongside commons where lovers did not stir as the
sudden crescendo engulfed them. At short range, however, it was harder
to ignore, a sheer wall of sound behind which three adults, lips to ear
and then ear to lips, could only contrive an intermittent mouthing of
words.

"It's their annual outing," said the parson, still feeling some need to
apologize. "We aim at discipline but--" He gave a little wrinkled smile.

Smith nodded, and Paula, from the other side, whispered loudly in his
ear: "If this bothers you, let's get out at the next station and find
another compartment."

"No, no, it's all right."

And later, from the parson: "I hope you don't find their high spirits
too exhausting."

"_They_ don't, evidently," she answered.

"I know--amazing, isn't it? Don't believe I ever shouted like that when
I was a boy. _Terrific!_"

"Good thing you keep a sense of humor about it."

"Oh yes. I don't mind the row so much, but I'm scared when they lean out
like that--I've warned them over and over again but I can't make them
listen."

Smith suddenly intervened: "Do you think _I_ could? Perhaps coming from
someone else--a stranger?... Now boys, supposing you stand away from
those windows!"

The different voice, pitched over the wall of sound, somehow reached its
goal; the swarming clusters turned, sharply disconcerted, nonplused,
ready for rebellion but sensing control; then the different voice
continued, releasing them a little: "That's right, sit down--plenty of
room for all of us. What about another song?"

From further along the train came the chorus of "Keep the Home Fires
Burning"; they joined in it, one by one, a gradual deafening surrender,
while the stations flashed by more frequently and the suburbs merged
into the slums. She whispered in his ear exultantly: "Smithy, how
marvelous! And to think I was afraid they were bothering you!"

The parson was also pleased. "I really am extremely obliged to you,
sir."

"Not at all."

"_Astonishing!_"

"Just as much to me, I assure you. I didn't know I could deal with 'em."

"You must have a knack.... I haven't any--with children. You're going
to London?"

"Yes."

"In a great hurry when you arrive?"

"Not particularly."

"I wonder whether you could spare, then--say five minutes? I always have
trouble with them at railway stations, and the Mission's only across the
street. If you would..."

"Certainly--if I can. The magic may not work the second time."

"Let's have faith that it will."

At the terminus it was as if the whole train burst open, a human
explosion on to the platform, yells and bangings of doors while the
parson watched Smith bring gradual order out of the chaos. Then began
the slow marshaling of two hundred youngsters into line, their
realization that a new personality was in command, and their acceptance
of the inevitable--truculent at first, then indifferent, finally quite
cheerful. But the operation took considerably more than five minutes; it
was over a quarter of an hour before the children had all been escorted
through the busy station precincts to a side street whence they could be
safely dismissed to their homes.

The parson stood beaming on the pavement. "I really cannot express my
gratitude. I hope you haven't been too much delayed."

"Oh no."

"You mean you had no plans for--the evening?"

"Well--er--nothing special."

"Then I wonder--if you _really_ have nothing else to do--it would give
me great pleasure if you'd both dine with me--"

It was Paula who answered, in the instant way in which she decided
everything: "Why, yes, we'd be glad."

The parson wrinkled another smile and began fumbling his way through a
passage running by the side of the Mission building into an unkempt
garden; beyond it stood a large ugly soot-black three-story house. He
unlocked the front door, admitting them into a lofty hallway totally
unfurnished down to the bare boards of the floor. "I don't think names
are at all important," he said, ushering them further into a room, "but
mine is Blampied."

"Smith," said Paula.

He offered them chairs, following their glances round the room with a
perverse pride. "Isn't this a terrible house? It was built in 1846, when
parsons were supposed to live in style. Twenty rooms--I only use five.
Kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, this, and my housekeeper's. This is the
best. We live in squalor punctuated by small simple meals of excellent
quality--onion soup tonight, if you happen to like it."

Meanwhile an elderly gaunt-faced woman was preparing the table, showing
neither surprise nor any other emotion at the presence of guests, and
needing no instructions from the parson. Presently the three were
sitting down before big bowls of the soup; there was nothing else but
cheese, he warned them, but they could have more soup if they wanted. It
was so good that they did, and asked for it with enthusiasm. Meanwhile
the parson chattered on, a cordial, increasingly inquisitive host.

"You two people have much further to go?"

Smith said: "No, not very far."

"You live here in London?"

"Er... yes."

"Don't let me keep you, but don't go till you want to."

She said: "Oh, there's plenty of time." It was as if she were reluctant
to leave.

"Yes, the buses and trams run late. I expect you can get to your home
that way."

"I--I think so."

"You only _think_ so?"

"Matter of fact, we haven't got a home--yet. We've got to look for one."

Smith flashed her a warning glance, but she went on: "I don't suppose
it'll be very hard."

The parson's curiosity seemed to become less rather than more as he
responded: "If it's the slightest help to you, please stay here for the
night. My housekeeper can find you bedding, and there are fifteen rooms
to choose from."

"That's awfully kind of you, but--"

"Just as you please, of course. Only I thought your husband looked
tired."

"He's not my husband--yet."

The parson smiled. "To be sure... but after all--fifteen rooms?
Enough--one would think."

Then suddenly she said: "Maybe, as you've got a sense of humor, you can
help us.... We want to get married, but it has to be quiet--we don't
want anyone to know--"

"Runaway?"

"Yes, that's it... maybe you know of a registry office somewhere
near?"

"There's an office nearly across the street, but for sheer quietness,
why don't you allow me to marry you in my own church? Hardly anyone ever
comes to any of the services--it would be the most unnoticed marriage I
could possibly imagine...."

**

So they were married at St. Clement's, Vale Street, London, N.W., and as
they left the church after the ceremony newsboys were racing down the
street offering extra editions--"Peace Treaty Signed at Versailles." It
was June 28, 1919. The bridegroom bought one of the papers on his way
with his bride to their home further along Vale Street--a tall Victorian
house that possessed the initial advantage of being owned by a deaf old
woman who lived in the basement and offered the higher floors for rent.
She had agreed to let them have two big furnished rooms, plus bath and
kitchenette, for a pound a week; there was also an oblong walled garden
they could share with other tenants, but of course they never did. After
several weeks of living in the house they still hadn't said more than
"Good morning" and "Good evening" to the people who occupied the floors
above and below; and an especially odd thing was that the man who lived
above was a policeman.

But they were happy. It was strange, in a way; they had hardly any money
and so far no jobs, and they were half scared of every knock on the
door, because a daily visit to the newsroom of the free library revealed
that the police were still probing what had already attained some small
renown as "the Fulverton case." The victim was said to be "still
improving," but that began to seem almost ominous, since anything short
of recovery showed how seriously he had been hurt; and one morning there
was an even worse sound in the news item: "Hospital authorities at
Fulverton report no change in the condition of Thomas Atwill, who is
still suffering from head injuries as a result of an assault by an
unknown man under a railway viaduct three weeks ago."

The unknown man felt sincere remorse over the fate of the innocent
Atwill, but even that could not dim the joys of a partnership that was
half fun, half fear, so that every falling asleep was like an unspoken
prayer for safety and every waking up a miracle of survival. Sometimes
they would hear the policeman clumping down the stairs and back again in
his heavy boots, and she would run to the window to look out and come
back saying--"It's all right, Smithy--it's there--go to sleep." That was
a joke between them, because they had once agreed that nothing in the
world could be more reassuring than a London policeman, half-dressed,
going downstairs at midnight to put out an empty milk bottle on a front
doorstep--a symbol that no harm would come, that God was somewhere over
the policeman's roof and theirs.

They felt their chief danger might come from a chance recognition in the
streets, and for this reason they avoided the better-known parts of
London where country visitors might be expected to sight-see; they also
kept indoors most of the day, discovering almost with surprise how
quickly the time passed and how little the restrictions bothered them,
provided they were together. They would do most of their shopping late
at night, economy combining then with prudence, for just before closing
time in those unfashionable districts the butcher and greengrocer and
fishmonger would sell off cheap what was left of their day's supplies.
While she was bargaining Smith would often stop to listen to some
street-corner orator haranguing the multitude--the multitude consisting,
as a rule, of a few apathetic onlookers, workingmen with one hand round
the bowl of a pipe and the other in a trouser pocket. "The typical
English attitude," Blampied commented afterwards, "good-humored,
tolerant, vaguely skeptical--skeptical just as much of the truth as of
lies. What a lot it will take to move men like that, but when they _do_
move--_if_ they ever move--what a cataclysm!"

They were beginning to feel a friendly intimacy with the parson, all the
friendlier because his attitude was such a quaint mixture of particular
inquisitiveness and general incuriosity. He could put the most intimate
questions--once he asked: "Are you and your wife so united that you
could use the same toothbrush?" Yet he never mentioned or fished for
information about Smith's background or parentage, until one day, when
they were having dinner with him as they had come to do rather often, he
suddenly asked: "What shall I say if somebody traces you here and
questions me about you?"

They stared at him with such disconcerted blankness that he added:
"Didn't you say it was a runaway marriage?"

They knew him so well by then that they did not particularly mind having
betrayed themselves by the startled stare; and the fact that his later
remark gave them an easy cue for evasion tempted them all the more to
tell him nothing but the truth. Paula looked across the table to Smith,
caught and exchanged a glance, then began: "Yes, it was certainly
runaway, but probably not the kind you're imagining. We aren't likely to
be troubled by objecting parents. Mine are both dead, and his are..."
She looked again at Smith.

Blampied nodded, as if satisfied, but Smith addressed him with a smile:
"There wouldn't be much point in deceiving you, would there?"

"Depends what you want me to do. If you want me to lie about you to
others, at least you must tell me the truth about yourself."

"That sounds a rather unusual standpoint--for a clergyman."

"Perhaps I'm a rather unusual clergyman."

"Well, here's an unusual story."

"Good... go ahead."

Smith then spoke briefly of his war injury and resultant lack of memory.
He called it a _lack_ now, not _loss_--"because I don't _feel_ any loss.
It doesn't really bother me any more--there are days and nights when I
never even think about it... but there it is, all the same. Perhaps I
ought to have told you when you married us."

"Why?"

"Well, signing my name in the register. Smith may not be the true one."

The parson, sitting at the head of the table, half rose and extended his
arms over their shoulders. "But it was _you_ I married," he said, "not
your names."

"So it doesn't matter?"

"Not a bit. And it's perfectly legal and binding. Is that all you have
on your conscience?"

"Not quite all." Encouraged by a further look from Paula, Smith went on
to relate the incongruous mishap to Thomas Atwill under the railway
viaduct. Blampied listened with increasing interest; once or twice his
face twisted into a smile; they were so accustomed to his taking the
oddest possible view of things that it did not surprise, although it
considerably relieved them when at the end of the recital he began to
laugh. "It's the idea of a _railway company_ having a right of way that
tickles me! Know anything about rights of way?"

This seemed a side issue, but most of Blampied's conversations avoided
anything in the direct line of argument. Smith said no, not very much.

"They're trying to close them all over England. You must come with me
sometime on one of my crusades. I make a nuisance of myself on village
greens every now and again--just by way of a holiday from London. I
inform the villagers of their ancient heritage--the commons and the
pastures and the paths across the fields that the landlords have stolen
and will go on stealing, whenever they get the chance. A clerical
predecessor of mine, John Ball by name, made a similar nuisance of
himself six hundred years ago or thereabouts--but I think he must have
been much more of an oratorical spellbinder." He added, coming back to
the point, "So _that's_ why you two children are in hiding? You're
afraid that if anything should happen to Thomas Atwill--"

"Oh, he'll get better all right," Paula intervened hastily, "but even
when he does it could be troublesome if we were traced
because--because--" She looked across the table, adding: "We've told you
so much we may as well finish--don't you think so, Smithy?"

Smith said: "I mentioned that the war injury affected my memory. It
also--at one time--had other effects. They sent me to Melbury--the big
hospital for shell-shock cases. I was on their dangerous list."

"You mean liable to die?"

"Well no--liable to live--but dangerously."

Again Blampied laughed. "I see. I really begin to see."

They both joined him in laughing, glad to ease their embarrassment by so
doing. Then the parson came behind Smith, putting his arm affectionately
round the young man's shoulders. "You needn't worry. The reputation of
crank and misfit gives me a certain freedom of reply. If, for instance,
I'm asked if I know anyone named Smith, and I say I never heard the name
before, it'll merely give rise to an extra legend...."

**

The more they came to know Blampied the more they realized his
remarkableness and the less they felt they completely understood him. At
their first meeting in the train he had seemed just the timid, unworldly
parson of fiction, almost of caricature, bearing his cross in the form
of Mission boys he could not control and summer outings he must have
loathed. Later he showed himself more perplexingly as a mixture of
ascetic and gourmet--only onion soup for dinner, but how good it had to
be. Later still, when he described "crusades" that had sometimes led to
rough-and-tumble fights on village greens and once at least to his own
imprisonment, he almost became the conventionally unconventional
"fighting parson." And beyond that, but by no means finally, there was
the visionary, the mystic. It was not easy to analyze or estimate the
sum total, and many persons with whom he came into contact had long
since given up the task as either hopeless or unprofitable. But one
could not meet and talk to him for ten minutes, in any one of his moods,
without an impression of stature--mental, moral, psychic, or perhaps
some blending of all three. And he had also (as Smith found out when he
came to work for him) an astoundingly various collection of intimate
friends.

Most of these friends lived abroad, so that occasions for personal
meetings were rare; but he corresponded, regularly and voluminously, and
it was this task that had lately made him aware of failing eyesight, and
so of the need for someone to help him with it. Smith gladly
volunteered, and it became a habit that two or three mornings a week
Blampied would dictate slowly while the other took down in a longhand
that soon developed into a private shorthand, marked by curious
abbreviations and a general meaninglessness to the outsider. Afterwards,
at his leisure, Smith would rewrite or type the letters in full. They
went to most of the corners of the world--a hotelkeeper in Yokohama, a
university professor in Idaho, a train conductor on the Orient Express,
an Austrian soldier lying wounded in a hospital in Salzburg, an editor
in Liverpool, a rubber planter in Johore, a woman head of an advertising
agency in Brisbane... these were a few out of the twenty-odd. All, it
appeared, were people whom Blampied had met at one time or another. "I
used to travel a good deal, before the war put an end to it, and now, I
fear, I have neither the zest nor the money to resume. But for a few
shillings' worth of stamps each week, I can almost achieve the same
object.... This morning, for instance, I shall write to M'sieur
Gaston Auriac, Rue Henri Quatre, Antananarivo, Madagascar. We met only
once--on a steamer between Capetown and Durban, but we talked for long
enough to make the discovery of each other. Maybe you were surprised
when I asked you whether you and Paula could use the same toothbrush?
You see I have never married, so I don't know whether physical oneness
goes as far as that--but I do know that in the realm of mental and
spiritual things there can be a similar oneness--the knowledge that
yours and mine are no longer yours and mine, but _ours_ for every
possible use. And this awareness, once acknowledged by both parties,
lasts forever. Gaston and I may disagree about this and that, but
because our thought processes are in the same world, there's a sense in
which we can use each other's minds. We're both impervious to
sentimentality and mob optimism, and both of us also, if I may so
express it, are accustomed to think proudly.... We found that out
during our three-hour talk seven years ago, and though we have never met
since, we both know that it must still be true, despite all the changes
that have taken place in the world about us.... Just now, we're in
the midst of an argument as to the right way to treat Germany now the
war's over. Gaston thinks the Allied armies should have pushed on to
Berlin, even at the cost of an extra year of fighting, and then have
broken Germany into fragments, acting with ruthless severity on the
lines of _delenda est Carthago_.... I, on the other hand, would have
offered terms of simply astounding generosity--lifting the blockade the
day after the Armistice, forbearing to ask for meaningless and
uncollectable reparations, and inviting all the defeated countries into
an immediate conference on equal terms to discuss the disarmament and
rehabilitation of Europe. As you can imagine, we're enjoying as violent
a discussion as the somewhat intermittent mails to Madagascar will
permit. But the point is: both of us are still thinking proudly. Gaston
is no frenzied sadist wishing to destroy for the sake of destroying; I
am no milk-and-water humanitarian yearning over a defeated enemy merely
because he is defeated and has been an enemy. Both of us have the same
aim in view--the cure of the thousand-year-old European disease; both
methods have succeeded at various times throughout history--his, I
admit, more often than mine. Either might succeed today. But what will
_not_ succeed, and what we both know will not succeed, is the unhappy
mean between the two--the halfway compromise between sentiment and
vengeance--the policy of _safe_ men playing for _safety_." He added,
smiling: "So you see, Mr. Smith, why it did not shock me the other day
to hear that you had been classed at one time as a dangerous man. All my
friends are dangerous men."

Smith came to enjoy the work of transcribing these letters, and
sometimes also he helped with Church and Mission activities, especially
those for which Blampied had little ability, such as children's
organizations. He found that his experience on the train had been no
fluke, but the result of an apparently inborn aptitude for handling
youngsters. Even the most stubborn, and from the worst slum homes,
responded to his instinctive offering of ease and discipline; in fact it
was the most stubborn who liked him and whom he liked the most. He began
holding classes in the Mission building, classes that did not invade the
religious field (which he did not feel either the inclination or the
authority to enter), but touched it variously and from neglected
angles--classes on civics, on local history, on London and English
traditions. He was so happy over all this that it came to him with a
sense of retrospective discovery that he must like children--not
sentimentally, but with a simple, almost casual affection. "You'd have
made a good schoolmaster," Blampied once said, and then, when Smith
replied he wasn't sure he'd care to spend all his time with children,
the other added: "Exactly. Good schoolmasters don't. Anyhow, you can
help to make up for the fact that I'm a bad parson."

"Do you really think you are?"

"Oh yes. Ask anybody round here. People don't take to me. I haven't an
ounce of crowd magnetism. And then I'm lazy. Only physically, I think,
but then that's the only kind of laziness most people recognize."

"I think you're old enough, if you don't mind my saying so, to be
forgiven a certain amount of physical laziness."

"Yes, but I'm not lazy in the forgivable ways. If I went to Lord's to
watch the cricket they'd think I was a sweet old clergyman who deserved
his afternoon off, but as I'm only lazy enough sometimes to go without a
shave--"

Smith laughed, knowing what he meant, for while it could not be said
that the parson neglected his professional duties, it was certainly true
that he made no effort to make himself either a worldly success or a
beloved failure--the two classifications that claim a roughly equal
number of adherents among the clergy. Nor, despite the fact that he
inclined to High Church fashions, did he join the fanatical brotherhood
of those who systematically disobey their bishops; his own disobediences
were personal, casual, almost careless--wherefore his bishop disliked
him all the more. So did various influential parishioners to whom he
refused to toady; while the poor, to whom he also refused to toady,
rewarded him with a vast but genial indifference. A few devoted lay
workers ran the adjacent Mission, but they were not devoted to _him_,
and when they pushed on him such tasks as the supervision of the annual
outing it was with the knowledge and hope that he would have a bad time.
Nor did they care for his church services, which they thought cold and
formal; they realized, correctly, that he was not the kind of cleric to
"drag the people in," and from time to time they plotted, more or less
openly, to have him supplanted by some energetic slum parson who would
unite both Church and Mission into a single buzzing hive. But it is by
no means easy to dislodge a parson of the Church of England, and
Blampied had suffered no more than a gradual reduction of dues and
stipend during his twelve years of office.

He was, in fact, though he hardly realized it because his wants were so
few, very close to the poverty line. He wore the shabbiest clothes; he
lived on the simplest and cheapest of foods, though always well-cooked;
he paid cash to tradespeople, but owed large sums to local authorities
for taxes and bills of various kinds. About a month after his first
meeting with Smith, his housekeeper fell suddenly ill and died within a
few days; he was a good deal upset by that, but admitted that it had
saved him from having to get rid of her, since he could no longer afford
the few weekly shillings for her part-time services. It was then he
suggested to Smith and Paula that they should move into the house and
live rent-free in return for similar help; they were glad to consent,
since their own money was rapidly dwindling.

Out of the unused fifteen they chose two large attic rooms with a view
over roof tops northward as far as Hampstead and Highgate, and it was
fun to begin buying the bare necessities of furniture and utensils,
searching the Caledonian Market for broken-down chairs that could be
repaired and reupholstered, discarded shop fittings usable as
bookshelves, an old school desk that showed mahogany under its coating
of ink and dirt. Gradually the rooms became a home, and the entirely
vacant floor beneath encouraged a kinship with roofs and sky rather than
with the walls and pavements of the streets.

Towards the end of September Blampied received a quarterly payment which
he chose to devote to a crusading holiday rather than to paying arrears
of his borough council rates; having invited Smith and Paula to join the
expedition, he took them for a week into rural Oxfordshire "making
trouble wherever we go," as the parson put it, though that was an
exaggeration. The question of country footpaths was, he admitted, his
King Charles's Head--every man, he added, should have some small matter
to which he attaches undue importance, always provided that he realizes
the undueness. Realizing it all the time, Blampied would puzzle over
ancient maps in bar parlors, inquiring from villagers whether it was
still possible to take the diagonal way across the fields from Planter's
End to Marsh Hollow, and generally receiving the answer that no one ever
did--it was much quicker to go round by the road, and so on. "I reckon
you could if you tried, mister, but you'd 'ave a rare time gettin'
through them nettles." A few more pints of beer would perhaps elicit the
information that "I remember when I was a kid I used to go to school
that way, but 'twouldn't be no help now, not with the new school where
it is." Yet those, as the parson emphasized, drinking his beer as
copiously as the rest, were the paths their forefathers had trod, the
secret short cuts across hill and valley, the ways by which the local
man could escape or intercept while the armed stranger tramped along the
highroads. All of which failed to carry much weight with the Oxfordshire
men of 1919, many of whom, as armed strangers, had tramped the highroads
of other countries. They obviously regarded the parson as an oddity, but
being country people they knew that men, like trees and unlike suburban
houses, were never exactly the same, and this idea of unsameness as the
pattern of life meant that (as Blampied put it) they didn't think there
was anything _very_ odd in anyone being a _little_ odd.

Several times the parson spoke on village greens to small, curious,
unenthusiastic audiences, most of whom melted away when he suggested
that there and then they should march over the ancient ground, breaking
down any barriers that might have been erected during the past century
or so; but in one village there was a more active response, due to the
fact that the closing of a certain path had been recent and resented. It
was then that Blampied showed a certain childlike pugnacity; he clearly
derived enormous enjoyment from leading a crowd of perhaps fifty
persons, many of them youngsters out for a lark, through Hilltop Farm
and up Long Meadow to the gap in the hedge that was now laced with fresh
barbed wire. Smith found he could best be useful in preventing the
children from destroying crops or tearing their clothes; he thought the
whole expedition a trifle silly but pleasingly novel. Actually this
particular onslaught had quite an exciting finish; the owner of the
property, a certain General Sir Richard Hawkesley Wych-Furlough,
suddenly appeared on the scene, backed by a menacing array of servants
and gamekeepers. Everything pointed to a battle, but all that finally
developed was a long and wordy argument between the General and the
parson, culminating in retirement by both sides and a final shout from
the General: "What the hell's it got to do with _you_, anyway? You don't
live here!"

"And that," as Blampied said afterwards, "from a man who used to be
Governor of so many islands he could only visit a few of them once a
year--so that any islander might have met his administrative decisions
with the same retort--'What's it got to do with _you?_ You don't live
here!'"

The notion continued to please him as he added: "I was a missionary on
one of those islands--till I quarreled with the bosses. I always quarrel
with bosses...."

**

Gradually Smith and Paula began to piece together Blampied's history.
Born of a wealthy family whom he had long ago given up no less
emphatically than they had him, he had originally entered the Church as
a respectable and sanctioned form of eccentricity for younger sons.
Later, even more eccentrically and with a good deal more sincerity, he
had served as a missionary in the South Seas until his employers
discovered him to be not only heretical, but a bad compiler of reports.
After that he had come home to edit a religious magazine, resigning only
when plunging circulation led to its bankruptcy. For a time after that
he had dabbled in politics, joining the early Fabians, with whom he
never quarreled at all, but from whom he became estranged by a widening
gulf of mutual exasperation. "The truth is, Smith," he confessed, "I
never could get along with all the Risers-to-Second-That and the
On-a-Point-of-Orderers. If I were God, I'd say--Let there be Light. But
as I'm not God, I'd rather spend my time plotting for Him in the dark
than in holding committee meetings in a man-made blaze of publicity!"

He formed the habit of talking with the two of them for an hour or so
most evenings, especially as summer lagged behind and coal began to burn
in a million London grates. To roof dwellers it was a rather dirty but
strangely comforting transition--the touch of smoke-laden fog drifting
up from the river, the smell of smoldering heaps in parks and gardens,
the chill that seemed the perfect answer to a fire, as the fire was to
the chill. For London, Blampied claimed, was of all cities in the world
the most autumnal--its mellow brickwork harmonizing with fallen leaves
and October sunsets, just as the etched grays of November composed
themselves with the light and shade of Portland stone. There was a
charm, a deathless charm, about a city whose inhabitants went about
muttering, "The nights are drawing in," as if it were a spell to invoke
the vast, sprawling creature-comfort of winter. Indeed no phrase, he
once said, better expressed the feeling of curtained enclosure, of
almost stupefying cosiness, that blankets London throughout the dark
months--a sort of spiritual central heating, warm and sometimes weepy,
but not depressing--a Dickensian, never a Proustian fug.

Those were the happy days when Smith began to write. As most real
writers do, he wrote because he had something to say, not because of any
specific ambition to be a writer. He turned out countless articles and
sketches that gave him pleasure only because they contained a germ of
what was in his mind; but he was never fully satisfied with them himself
and consequently never more than slightly disappointed when editors
promptly returned them. He did not grasp that, because he was a person
of no importance, nobody wanted to read his opinions at all. Presently,
by sheer accident, he wrote something that fitted a formula; it was
promptly accepted and--even more important for him at the time--paid
for.

After he had worked all morning he would often set out in the afternoon
with Paula on a planless excursion decided by some chance-met bus; or
sometimes they would tramp haphazardly first to the left, then to the
right, mile after mile, searching for books or furniture in old, gas-lit
shops, and returning late at night through the narrow defiles of the
City. They liked the City, the city with a capital _C_, and especially
at dusk, when all the teashops filled with men, a curious democracy
within a plutocracy--silk-hatted stockbrokers buying twopenny cups while
at the same table two-pounds-a-week clerks drank similar cups and talked
of wireless or motor bicycles or their suburban back gardens. And
afterwards, as Paula took his arm on the pavement outside, they would be
caught in the human current sweeping along Old Broad Street in a single
eastward stream, then crossing Liverpool Street like a flood tide into
the vast station delta. He loved to see those people, so purposeful and
yet so gentle, so free and yet so disciplined, hurrying towards the
little moving boxes that would carry them home to secret suburbs--secret
because they were so unknown to one another, so that a bus shuttling all
day between Putney and Homerton gave one a mystical curiosity about all
the people in Homerton who had never seen Putney, and all the people in
Putney for whom Homerton was as strange as--perhaps stranger than--Paris
or New York. There was something fantastic, too, in that morning and
evening migration, huger in man miles than any movement of the hordes of
Tamerlane, something that might well be incomprehensible to the urban
masses of the future, schooled to garden cities and decentralization.
But there could never be such romance as in the pull of steam through
the Bishopsgate tunnels, or faces that stared in friendly indifference
as trains raced parallel out of Waterloo.

He wrote of such things, and he wrote as he saw--a little navely, as if
things had never been seen before--like the line drawings of a child,
with something of the same piercing simplicity. It probably helped him,
as Blampied said, to have forgotten so much about himself, because into
that absence came an awareness far beyond the personal reach--the idea
of the past as something to be apprehended in vision rather than
explored in memory. He wrote, too, of the countryside as he had seen it:
of the men in the pubs with their red faces shy over mugs of beer--old
couples outside their cottages on summer evenings, silent and close, yet
in that silence and closeness telling all there is in the world--a
peddler unlatching a gate with slow steps towards a lonely house--farm
workers at midday, asleep under trees--a little road over the hill,
curving here and there for no reason at all... scene after scene, as
a child turns pages in a loved picture book, yet behind the apocalyptic
wonderment of it all there was something to which talks with Blampied
had added shape and quality--the vision of a new England rooted far back
in the old, drawing its strength from a thousand years instead of its
weaknesses from a hundred.

"Follow that vision," Blampied once said. "Follow it wherever it leads.
Think it out. Write it down. I'd say _preach_ it if the word hadn't been
debased by so many of my own profession."

"I couldn't preach, anyhow. No more public appearances for me after the
last one."

"But preaching doesn't need a pulpit. All it needs is what you have--a
faith."

"Is yours the same faith?"

"You have your vision of England, I have mine of the world--but your
England will fit into my world." He added, after a pause: "Does that
sound arrogant? Maybe. We mustn't be afraid of a secret arrogance. After
all, we are spies of God, mapping out territory lost to the enemy when
faith was lost." His eyes twinkled as he touched his collar. "It isn't
_this_, you know, that makes me say so. Religion's only one of the
things that can die without faith. Take another, for the sake of
something you may feel I'm more impartial about--take the League of
Nations. It's sickening now of that deadliest of modern
diseases--popular approval without private faith; it will die because it
demanded a crusade and we gave it a press campaign, because it's worth
our passion and we deluge it with votes of confidence and acts of
indifference. It might have sprung alive out of the soul of a saint; it
could only be stillborn out of a clause in a treaty. It should have been
preached until we were all aflame with it; instead of which it's been
flattered and fawned upon till most of us are already bored with it.
Sometimes I've even thought we should have given it ritual--a gesture to
be made whenever the name's mentioned, like the sign of the Cross for
the faithful, or--for the faithless--blowing out the match after the
second man's cigarette." As if reminded by that he pulled out his pipe
and began to fill it as he continued: "This is a good moment to say how
much I hope you'll stay with me here--both of you. That is, if you're
happy."

"We're very happy. But I have to think of how to make a living."

"Life's more important than a living. So many people who make a living
are making death, not life. Don't ever join them. They're the
gravediggers of our civilization--the safe men, the compromisers, the
money-makers, the muddlers-through. Politics is full of them, so is
business, so is the Church. They're popular, successful--some of them
work hard, others are slack, but all of them can tell a good story.
Never were such charming gravediggers in the world's history--and part
of their charm is that they don't know what they are, just as they don't
know what _we_ are, either. They set us down as cranks, oddities, social
outsiders, harmless cranks who can't be lured by riches or placated by
compliments. But a time may come when we, the dangerous men, shall
either be killed or made kings--because a time may also come when it
won't be enough to love England as a tired businessman loves a nap after
lunch. We may be called upon to love her as the Irish love
Ireland--darkly, bitterly, and with a hatred for some who have loved her
less and themselves more."

After another of their talks he told Smith of a friend of his in
Liverpool, editor of a provincial paper with a small but influential
circulation. Apparently Blampied, unknown to Smith, had sent some of his
literary work for this man to see; and now had come a request to see not
only more of the work, but the writer of it. "So I hope you'll pay him a
visit, because whatever project he has in mind, or even if he hasn't one
at all, I know you'll like him personally."

"Another dangerous man?" Smith queried.

Blampied nodded with an answering smile.

Smith was eager to go as soon as possible; after further communication
an appointment was made for just after Christmas. Paula and he spent the
intervening week in a glow of anticipation, culminating in a Christmas
dinner in their own attic room, with Blampied as a guest. They decorated
the place like children and found him like a third child in his own
enjoyment of the meal and the occasion. Later in the evening he gave
them, to their complete astonishment, an almost professional display of
conjuring tricks; after which Paula offered some of her stage
impersonations, including one of a very prim Victorian wife trying to
convey to her equally prim Victorian husband the fact that she rather
thought she was going to have a child. Towards midnight, when Blampied
had drunk a last toast with them and gone down to his rooms below, they
sat on the hearthrug in the firelight happily reviewing the events of
the evening, and presently Smith remarked that her impersonation of the
Victorian wife was new to him--he didn't remember her ever doing it on
the stage, but he thought it would have gone very well if she had.

"But it wasn't written then," she answered. "I write all my own
sketches--I always did--and I wrote this one last night when you were
downstairs talking to Blampied. I suppose it was on my mind--the
subject, I mean--because I'm in the same position, except that I'm not
going to be prim about it."

He took her into his arms quietly, sexlessly, as they sat before the
fire. Those were the happy hours.

The next day, as if their happiness were not enough, Blampied brought
them news of another kind. It was now many weeks since they had last
seen any mention of the Fulverton case, and though they felt easier
about it they still opened newspapers with a qualm. But that morning
Blampied had been searching old papers for something he wished to trace
and by sheer accident had come across something else. "It seems that
your Thomas Atwill left hospital more than a month ago, and though of
course that doesn't mean the case is closed, I daresay the news will be
a load off your mind."

It so definitely was that the idea occurred to them to celebrate by
doing things they had been nervous of for so long--a regular evening
out. They asked Blampied to join them, but he excused himself on the
score of work; before they left the house, however, he shook hands with
Smith and wished him a pleasant trip, for it had been arranged that he
should leave that night for Liverpool. Even though it would only be for
a few days, the impending separation added spice to the evening. They
went first to the Holborn Empire to see Little Tich, then for supper to
an Italian restaurant in Soho. When they emerged, still with a couple of
hours until train time, he saw a hansom cab swinging along Coventry
Street, temptingly out of place on a cold December night, but for that
very reason he waved to it, telling the man to take them anywhere, just
for the ride. Under the windy sky the blaze of Christmas still sparkled
in the shops as they drove away, jingling north and west along Regent
Street, through Hanover Square and past Selfridge's to Baker Street,
with ghosts of Londoners stepping out of their tall houses ("And if I
mistake not, my dear Watson, here is our client just arriving"), bidding
them Godspeed into the future; and because they both had faith in that
future they were drenched in a sort of wild ecstasy, and had the cabby
drive them round and round Regent's Park while they talked and laughed
and whistled to the parrots every time they passed the Zoo.

Those were the happy moments.

Later, on the platform at Euston, walking up and down beside the train,
she said she wished she were going with him, though she knew they
couldn't afford it, the little money he was beginning to make by writing
wasn't nearly enough for such unnecessary jaunts. "I know that, darling,
but I still wish I were going with you, and if you were just to say the
word, like the crazy man you are, I'd rush to the booking office and buy
a ticket--which would be stupid, I don't really mean it--Smithy, I'm
only joking, of course. But I'm part of you--I'll only be half alive
while you're away--we belong to the same world, as Blampied says about
his friends--"

"I know that too. There's something _right_ about us--about our being
together here. And Blampied wants us to stay."

"I'd like to stay too. I love that old ugly house."

"So do I. And d'you know, I don't _want_ to remember anything
now--anything I've ever forgotten. It would be so--so unimportant. My
life began with you, and my future goes on with you--there's nothing
else, Paula."

"Oh, what a lovely thing to tell me! And by the way, _he_ said he hoped
you wouldn't remember."

"Blampied?"

"Yes. He's devoted to you."

"I should be proud to think so, because I'm equally devoted to him." He
kissed her laughingly. "Must we spend these last few seconds talking of
someone else?"

"But he isn't altogether someone else. He's part of us--part of our
happiness--don't you feel that?"

"Darling, I do--and I also love you!"

"I love you too. _Always._"

"The whistle's going--I'd better get inside. Good-bye, Paula."

"Good-bye, old boy."

"That's the first time you've said 'old boy' for weeks!"

"I know, I'm dropping it. Now I'm not a touring company actress I don't
have to talk like one. I can impersonate anybody, you know--even the
wife of a writer on a secret errand to an editor in Liverpool...."
The train began to move. "Oh, _darling_--come back soon!"

"I will! Good-bye!"

He reached Liverpool in the early morning. It was raining, and in
hurrying across a slippery street he stumbled and fell.




PART FIVE


Rainier began to tell me most of this during the drive back from Melbury
that night; a few minor details, obtained afterwards from other sources,
I have since fitted in. We drove to his Club, because Mrs. Rainier was
at Stourton; after perfunctory greetings to a few members in the lobby
he ordered drinks to be sent up to the suite he usually lived in when
Kenmore was not in use.

He had talked rapidly during the car journey, but now, in quieter
surroundings, he seemed to accept more calmly the fact that there was
much to tell that he could at last quite easily recall. Once, when I
thought he was growing tired and might remember more if he rested for a
while, he brushed the suggestion aside. "You see I want to tell you all
I can in case I ever forget it again, and if I do, you must remind
me--you _must_--understand?" I promised, and he continued: "Not that I
think I shall--it's too clear in my mind ever to be lost again. I could
find Blampied's old house in Vale Street now if I tried--Number 73, I
think it was--or maybe 75--that much I _have_ forgotten, but I suppose I
can't expect memory to come back without the normal wear-and-tear of
years. Or can I? Has it been in a sort of cold storage, with every
detail kept fresh?"

We laughed, glad of an excuse to do so, and I said it raised an
interesting point which I wasn't expert enough to decide. He then
resumed: "Because I actually _feel_ as if it all happened only the other
day, instead of twenty years ago. That house of Blampied's, for
instance--it had four dreadful bay windows, one on each side of the
front door and two others immediately above in the room that wasn't
occupied--the attics hadn't got any bay windows. There was a pretty grim
sort of basement, too, where the housekeeper lived--she didn't have to,
she chose it because she was crazy enough to like it. She was a queer
woman altogether--God knows where Blampied picked her up or how long
she'd been with him, but he cried when she died, and looked after her
cat--which was also a queer animal, an enormous tabby--spent most of its
life sleeping, probably because of its weight--it had won a prize as the
biggest cat north of the Thames." He added, smiling: "I daresay you
think I'm inventing this--that there aren't prizes for big cats. But
some newspaper ran a competition as a stunt--two first prizes, for North
and South London--and Blampied's housekeeper's cat won one of them."

No, I thought--you're not inventing; you're just enjoying yourself
rather indiscriminately, as a child frolics in the sand when he first
reaches the seashore; I could see how, in the first flush of
recollection, the mere placement of the past, the assembling of details
one after the other, was giving him an intense pleasure, and one by no
means discountenanced by his use of words like "grim" and "dreadful."

He went on like that for some time, going back over his story, picking
out details here and there for random intricate examination; and
carefully avoiding the issue that was foremost in my thoughts. Then,
once again, I saw that we had talked till dawn and well past it, for
there was already a pale edge to the window. I switched off his bedroom
light and pulled the curtains; far below us the early morning trams were
curving along the Embankment. We watched the scene for a moment; then he
touched my arm affectionately. "Time for an adjournment, I think. I know
what's in your mind, it's in mine, too, but it's too big to grasp--I'm
collecting the small things first. You've been good to listen to me.
What have we on Monday?"

My thoughts were so far away I could not give an immediate answer,
though of course I knew. He laughed at my hesitation, saying he hoped I
should not lose my memory just because he had regained his. By then I
had remembered and could tell him: "Anglo-American Cement--ten-thirty at
the Cannon Street Hotel." To which he replied, almost gayly: "The
perfect closure to all our conversation...."

"Don't you want me for anything tomorrow?"

"No, I'll sleep most of the day... at least I hope so.... Good
night."

**

If this is a difficult story to tell, it may be pleaded in partial
defense that the human mind is a difficult territory to explore, and
that the world it inhabits does not always fit snugly into any other
world. I must admit that I found the fitting a hard one as, some
thirty-six hours later, I watched the sunlight stream through
stained-glass windows to dazzle the faces of Anglo-American Cement
shareholders. From the report afterwards sent out with the dividend I
find that Rainier spoke as follows:--

"You will be glad to know that our sales have continued to increase
throughout the year, after a somewhat slow beginning, and that prospects
of continued improvement are encouraging. The government's national
defense preparations during the September crisis of last year led to
additional consumption of cement throughout the country, and this, at
prices we were able to obtain, resulted in generally satisfactory
business. During the year we opened a new plant at Nottingham which we
expect to enhance production very considerably during the coming year.
Your directors are constantly watchful for any opportunities of further
economies, either by technical developments or by the absorption of
competing companies, and with these aims in view, it is proposed, in
addition to the usual dividend of 10 per cent, to issue new shares at
forty-two shillings and sixpence in the proportion of one to five held
by existing shareholders." (Loud applause.)

We had had no chance for private conversation on our way to the meeting,
for the secretary of the company had driven with us; and afterwards
there was a directors' hotel lunch that did not disperse until almost
three o'clock. As I went to retrieve our hats at the cloak room I
overheard comments on how Rainier had been in grand form, looking so
much better; wonderful year it had been; wonderful the way he'd pulled
the Anglo-American out of its earlier doldrums--remember when the shares
were down to five bob?--nice packet anyone could have made who'd helped
himself in those days--well, maybe Rainier did, why not?--after all,
he'd had faith in himself, faith in the business, faith in the
country--that's what was wanted, pity more people didn't have it.

Later, as we were driving away, I repeated the compliments to Rainier,
thinking they might please him. He shook his head somberly. "Don't call
it faith. I haven't had _faith_ in anything for years. That artist
fellow, Kitty's young man, told me that when he was drunk--and he was
right. Faith is something deeper, more passionate, less derisive, more
tranquil than anything I've ever felt in board rooms and offices--that's
why peace won't come to me now.... God, I'm tired."

"Why don't you go home and rest?"

He stared at me ironically. "So simple, isn't it? Just go home and rest.
Like a child.... Or like an old man. The trouble is, I'm neither. Or
else both." He suddenly patted my arm. "Sorry--don't take any notice of
my bad temper."

"I don't think you're bad-tempered."

"By the way," he said smiling, "I've just thought of something--it's a
queer coincidence, don't you think?--two of my best friends I first met
quite accidentally on trains... Blampied and yourself...."

"I'm pleased you should class me with him."

"Why not? He talked to me--you listen to me--even when I want to talk
all night. That's another thing I ought to apologize for--"

"Not at all--in fact if it helps you now to go on talking--to continue
the recollections--"

"I don't think I've much more to say, unless there's anything you'd
particularly like to know?"

There were many things I wanted to know, but for the present I felt I
could only mention one of them. "Those articles you wrote, some of which
were published--"

"Yes?"

"What papers did they appear in?"

"The _Northern Evening Post_ took two or three--the worst. The
others--don't know what happened to them. Maybe they fell in the gutter
when the car hit me."

"You were carrying them--_then_?"

"Yes, I was on my way to see the editor."

"A pity you hadn't taken copies."

"It was before the days I bothered about carbon paper. You see, I never
behaved like a full-dress author. I used Blampied's typewriter because
he had one, but I didn't card-index anything or call the room where I
worked a study or self-consciously burn any midnight oil. Matter of
fact, I was in bed by ten on most nights, and I wrote if and when I felt
like it. I never thought of the word 'inspiration' as having anything to
do with me--it was a continual vision of life that mattered more than
words in print, but if I did get into print I had more ambition to be
alive for half a day in a local paper than to be embalmed forever
between covers on a library shelf."

"All the same, though, those articles might have been collected in book
form."

"Blampied thought of that, and Paula and I once made a choice of what we
thought were the best--but I wasn't very keen on the idea, and it
certainly wasn't likely any publisher would have been either. I remember
it chiefly because the evening we were choosing them Blampied came in
and found us huddled together on the floor with the typed pages
surrounding us. He asked, 'What are you two planning--the book or your
future?'--and Paula laughed and answered 'Both.'"

We had entered Palace Yard, passing the saluting policeman and a swarm
of newsboys carrying posters about Hitler. As we left the car a few
seconds later Rainier added: "It's odd to reflect, isn't it, that at
that very moment a few hundred miles away a man whom we had never heard
of was also planning a book--and our future."

We crossed the pavement and entered the Gothic doorway; the House, as
always, seemed restful, almost soporific, on a summer afternoon.

"And you've never written anything like those articles since?" I
queried, after a pause.

"I've been too busy, Sir Hawk, as the lady called you, and possibly also
my prose style isn't what it used to be. I did write one book,
though--or perhaps Sherlock would have called it a monograph--the title
was _Constructive Monetary Policy and an International Cartel_--I hope
you've never heard of it."

I said I had not only heard of it but read it.

"Then I hope you didn't buy it when it first came out, because I came
across it the other day on a barrow in the Farringdon Road, marked
'Choice' and going for fourpence."

I smiled, recognizing the familiar self-ridicule by which he worked
himself out of his moods. We walked on through cool corridors to the
Terrace and found a table. As nearly always, a breeze blew over the
parapet, bringing tangs of the sea and of wharves, a London mixture that
added the right flavor to tea and buttered toast and the special edition
of the _Evening Standard_. More bother about Danzig; Hitler had made
another speech. Some Members came along, stopped at our table to
exchange a few words of greeting; one of them, seeing the headlines,
exclaimed: "Why don't they let him have it, then maybe we'll all get
some peace?"--but another retorted indignantly: "My dear fellow, we
_can't_ let him have any more, that's just the point, we've _got_ to
make a stand--eh, Rainier?" Rainier said: "We've got to have peace and
we've got to make a stand--that's exactly the policy of the government."
They passed on, uncertain whether he had been serious or cynical (and
that uncertainty, now I come to think of it, was part of the reason why
he hadn't climbed the higher rungs of the Parliamentary ladder).

He looked so suddenly exhausted after they had gone that I asked if he
had been able to sleep at all during the previous day and night.

"Not much. A few hours yesterday morning after you left. The rest of the
day I devoted to an investigation."

"Oh?"

"I went to Vale Street to look for Blampied's old house. It's
disappeared--been pulled down to make room for one of those huge
municipal housing schemes. All that part of London seems to be
changed--and it's certainly no loss, except in memories. I couldn't even
find anybody who _remembered_ Blampied."

"That's not very surprising."

"Why not?" He stared at me sharply, then added: "D'you mean you don't
believe he ever existed?"

"Oh, he existed all right. But he died such a long time ago."

"When?"

"In 1920."

"Good God! Within a year--of--of my--leaving--like that."

"Not only within a year. Within a month. _January_ 1920."

"How do you know all this?"

"I also spent part of yesterday investigating. I searched the obituaries
in newspaper files and found this." I handed him a sheet of paper on
which I had copied out the following from the _Daily Gazette_ of January
17, 1920:--

    We regret to announce the death at the age of seventy-four of
    the Reverend John Sylvester Blampied, for many years Rector of
    St. Clement's Church, Vale Street, North London. Pneumonia
    following a chill ended a career that had often attracted public
    attention--particularly in connection with the preservation of
    ancient footpaths, a cause of which Mr. Blampied had been a
    valiant if sometimes tempestuous champion. His death took place
    in Liverpool, and funeral services will be held at St. Clement's
    on Friday.

Rainier stared at the paragraph long enough to read it several times,
then handed it back. His face was very pale. "_Liverpool?_ What was he
doing there?"

"It doesn't say."

"I--I think I can guess. He'd gone to look for me."

"We don't _know_ that."

"But isn't it probable?"

"It's--it's possible. But you couldn't help it. You couldn't help
finding out who you were."

"I can't help comparing what I found with what I lost!"

"You didn't lose permanently. You've got it all back now."

"But too late." He waved his arm with sudden comprehensive emphasis.
"_Isn't_ it too late? I'm down to ask a question in the House shortly,
but not _that_ question, yet it's the only one worth asking or
answering... isn't _everything_ too late? I should have stayed in that
London attic. There were things to do in those days if one had vision
to do them, but now there's neither time nor vision, but only this whiff
of putrefying too-lateness. It was almost too late even then, except
that by a sort of miracle there came a gap in long-gathering clouds--an
incredibly last chance--a golden shaft along which England might have
climbed back to glory."

"Less lyrically, you mean you'd like to set the clock back?"

"Yes, set it back, and set it right, and then wind it up, because it's
been running down ever since Englishmen were more interested in the
price of things on the market than what they could grow in their own
gardens."

"I see. A back-to-the-land movement?"

"Back anywhere away from the unrealness of counting able-bodied men as a
national burden just because they're listed as unemployed, and figures
in bank ledgers as assets just because they're supposed to represent
riches. Back anywhere from the mood in which poor men beg me for jobs in
Rainier factories and rich men for tips about Rainier shares."

"All the same, though--and you've often said it yourself--the Rainier
firm gives steady employment to thousands--"

"I know, I know. But I know too that the way that made Rainiers rich was
the opposite of the way to make England strong."

"Yet if war comes, won't the riches of Rainier have been of some
benefit? After all, the new steelworks you were able to build two years
ago, and the mass-production motor plant--"

"True--and what a desolate irony! But only _half_ true, because strength
is only half in tanks and steel. The other half is faith, wisdom--"

A House servant approached and said something in his ear; he answered,
consulting his watch: "Oh yes. I'll come at once." Then he added to me:
"It's time for that question."

We left the table and walked through the Smoke Room to the Lobby; then
we separated, he to enter the Chamber, I to watch and listen from the
Strangers' Gallery.

Again, as earlier at the Cement meeting, I was in no mood for correct
secretarial concentration; from where I sat the main thing that
impressed me was his strained pallor on rising to speak; in the
green-yellow glow that came on as dusk fell his face took on a curious
transparency, as if some secret hidden self were flooding outwards and
upwards. But that, I knew, was a mere trick of artificial light; the
House of Commons illumination flatters in such a way, often gilding with
spirituality a scene which is not, in itself, very remarkable--a few
Members going through the formality which would later entitle them to
boast of having "raised the matter in the House," than which, except for
writing letters to _The Times_, fortunate generations of Englishmen were
never called upon to do more. That afternoon the benches were thinly
populated, nothing important was expected, and I find from newspaper
reports that the following took place:--

    Mr. Charles Rainier (Conservative: West Lythamshire) asked
    whether a consignment of trade catalogues dispatched by a
    business firm in his constituency had been confiscated by the
    port authorities at Balos Blanca, and whether this was not
    contrary to Section 19 of the recent Trade Convention signed at
    Amazillo.

    The Right Honorable Sir George Smith-Jordan (Conservative:
    Houghley), replying for the Government, said he had been
    informed by His Majesty's Consul at Balos Blanca that the
    reported confiscation had been only partial and temporary,
    affecting a certain section of the catalogues about which there
    appeared to have been some linguistic misunderstanding, and that
    the greater part of the consignment had since been delivered to
    the addressees. As to whether the action of the port authorities
    had or had not been an infringement of any clause of the
    Amazillo Trade Convention, he was not in a position to say until
    further information had been received.

    Mr. Jack Wells (Labour: Mawlington) asked whether, having regard
    to the general unsatisfactoriness of the incident, His Majesty's
    Government would consider the omission of Balos Blanca from the
    scheduled list of ports of call during the proposed Good-Will
    Tour of the British Trade Delegation in 1940.

    The Right Honorable Sir George Smith-Jordan: No, sir.

Immediately after that, Rainier picked up his papers and walked out,
leaving the Mother of Parliaments to struggle along with barely more
than a quorum till after the dinner hour. Meanwhile I left the Gallery,
in which a small crowd of provincial and foreign visitors had been
defiantly concealing their disappointment at the proceedings below, and
met him in the Lobby; he was gossiping with strangers, but behind the
faade of casualness I saw how haggard he looked, his face restlessly
twitching in and out of smiles. Seeing me approach he made a sign for me
to wait while he detached himself from the crowd--they were
constituents, he explained later, and constituents had to be humored,
especially when one's majority had been only twelve last time. "They're
so proud because they heard me ask about that catalogue business--they
have a touching belief that a question in Parliament pulls invisible
wires, sets invisible forces in motion, works invisible miracles all
over the world."

Passing through the Smoke Room again on the way to the Terrace we saw
the name "McAlister" on the notice board that announced current
speakers; Rainier smiled and said that was fine--McAlister always gave
one a chance to stroll for half an hour with the certainty of not
missing anything. "By the way, I'm dining at the Historians' Club, so I
don't think I'll need you for the rest of the evening."

"Are you down to speak?"

"I'm not on the program, but I daresay I'll be asked."

"You don't have to go if you'd rather not. I can make up some excuse."

"What's the idea--encouraging me to shirk?"

"I thought--perhaps--you might be feeling rather exhausted."

"Not a bit of it _now_. I'm game for more than a speech at a Club
dinner. You'd be surprised if you knew what's in my mind."

We stepped into the cool evening air and began walking towards
Westminster Bridge. He had given me a cue to say what I had been
planning most of the day.

"My advice would be to put the whole thing _out_ of your mind, now that
it's happened at last, and there isn't a gap any longer. You ought to be
satisfied."

"_Satisfied?_" He swung round on me. "When you say that I wonder if--if
you quite realize--what it all amounts to?"

"Oh yes, I do. It means that so far as there was ever anything abnormal
in your life, you're now completely cured."

We came near the Bridge, a blaze of illumination from lines of trams,
and in that light I saw such anguish in his eyes that I could only
repeat, with an emphasis that somehow drained away as the words were
spoken: "Utterly and completely cured."

"You don't _really_ think that's all it amounts to? You must know
there's only one thing that matters--only one thing left for me to do."

"And that is?"

"I must find her."

So there it was squarely before us, the issue that had of course been in
my mind, that I had done a pathetic best to make him shirk by
conscientiously shirking it myself. We walked a little way in silence.

"After all these years," I said at length, "it doesn't seem very
likely."

"I must try."

"It was up to her, surely, to look for you--yet apparently she never
did."

"Maybe. Maybe not. I don't care. And besides--there's my son. She was
going to have a child."

"But even a return of memory can't prove it was a boy."

He smiled. "No, but I hope so. I've always wanted a boy. He'd be
eighteen now. I must find him... both of them."

"And if by chance--not that I think there _is_ much chance--but just for
the sake of argument--if you _should_ happen to succeed, what then?"

He answered with a certain impregnable simplicity: "Then I should be
happy again."

"Possibly, but apart from your own personal happiness... Look here,
why not think it over--not now--but later--calmly--when you're alone?"

"I'm calm now, and it doesn't particularly help me to be alone when I
think. I was thinking it over very clearly all the time I was asking
that question in the House."

"Yes, I could see you were--but that doesn't meet my point, which is
that you haven't--you can't have--reckoned with all the complications--"

"_Complications?_ You'll be telling me next I ought to consult old
Truslove!"

"Actually I wasn't thinking of legal complications at all, though they
doubtless exist. It's other kinds you'd find most
disagreeable--newspaper publicity, gossip and scandal that wouldn't do
you any good politically."

"I think I've had enough good done to me politically."

"And then of course there's your wife. Whatever your private feelings
are, and of course it's none of my business, you ought at least to
consider _her_ position."

"Anything I ought to do now is nothing compared with what I ought to
have done before."

"But that's in the past--_irrevocable_."

"No, not if she and I can find each other again."

"It seems to me we're talking about different persons."

"Oh, I see."

We walked on for another spell of silence. Then I said: "But you don't
even know that the... the other woman's _alive_?"

He was silent for a while. "_Do_ you?" I pressed.

"No, that's true." Then suddenly: "But if she is, and I can find her,
then nothing on earth will stop me--neither publicity, nor politics,
nor..." He turned to me abruptly. "I don't want to be dramatic. Let's
leave that to the journalists who'll have the job of making a nine days'
wonder of it."

"Maybe they won't. Maybe they'll have more important news, the way
events are going."

As we turned into the Smoke Room the board showed that McAlister was
still speaking. A group of Members at one of the tables greeted Rainier
chaffingly and asked him to join them; as if relieved to be rid of the
argument he gave me a nod of friendly farewell and sat down with them,
completely master of himself so far as voice and manner were concerned.
But I heard one of them say, just as I was entering the corridor: "You
look pretty washed-out, Rainier--what's the matter? Hitler getting on
your nerves?"

I went back to my rooms in Bedford Square and spent the evening with the
latest editions of the papers. But I could not keep my mind on the
fast-developing European crisis; my thoughts were full of Rainier and
his story; I mused upon his whole life as I now knew it: childhood at
Stourton, with the despotic father and adored mother; schooldays; then
the war, the hospitals, the brief unmemoried idyl; then the return to
the routine struggle that had brought him wealth, power, and a measure
of fame. I could not but feel his personal drama near to me as I turned
on the radio for the larger drama of our times, for that too had reached
a moment of desperate retrospect.

About midnight I strolled into Tottenham Court Road and watched the
crowd pouring out of theaters and restaurants; when I returned there was
a letter pushed under the door. It was from Rainier, enclosing another
letter. He wrote:--

    I said I would let you see that last note Kitty wrote me; here
    it is, and whatever it means to you, to me, rereading it just
    now, it meant as much more as you can possibly imagine. Yrs. C.
    R.

The letter from Kitty, dated September 30, 1929, was as follows:--

    MY DEAR CHARLES,

    I'm writing this in a hurry, but after thinking things out as
    slowly and carefully as even you could--in fact I've been
    gathering together many thoughts I began to have the moment we
    left the Jungfraujoch last April, in the train and on the boat,
    and then again off and on ever since, and especially in the
    restaurant tonight--Dearest, it wasn't the weather or the
    altitude or the stock market--it was our own hearts sinking a
    little, and I'm going to face that frankly, because I doubt if
    you ever would or could. I can't marry you, Charles dear--that's
    what it amounts to. We've had marvelous times, we'd still go on
    having them, we have so much in common, the same way of seeing
    things, the same kind of craziness (though you keep yours in
    check more than I do)--you could make me perfectly happy if only
    I were selfish enough not to care or stupid enough not to notice
    that at some point in the final argument you waver and turn
    away. So here's my decision--No, darling, while it's still not
    quite too late; and here are my plans--I'm leaving London
    immediately, I'll have gone before you read this--I shall
    probably join Jill (wherever she is, Luxor, I think)--not
    tragically, but in a mood to see what fun I can find--and I
    usually can. I'm sending this by special messenger because I
    want it to reach you before you go to the office, so that you
    won't send out those invitations and then have to cancel
    them--as for selling short to amuse me, it wouldn't amuse me,
    I'm afraid, but if you think it would amuse you, why don't you
    do it? Dear Charles, I want you to be happy, to be amused, to do
    things because you desire them, not because you're urged or
    tempted; I wish we could be and do all we talked of on the
    mountain, but the fact is, I'm not the one for you, though God
    knows the mistake was excusable for both of us, because I'm
    _nearly_ the one--I claim that much and it's something to go on
    being proud of. But "nearly" isn't enough for a lifetime--it
    would be too hard to strain after the hidden difference. And
    there's something else that may sound utterly absurd, but let me
    say it--sometimes, especially when we've been closest, I've had
    a curious feeling that _I remind you of someone else_--someone
    you may have met or may yet meet--because with that strange
    memory of yours, the tenses get mixed up--or don't they? But
    Charles, because I _am_ so nearly the one, and because I love
    you more than anyone I shall ever marry, will you forgive me for
    this upset and stay friends?--K.

I went to his City office the following morning and waited till after
ten o'clock (he usually arrived at nine); then I rang up his Club and
was told he had left very early, giving no forwarding address. It was a
day of such important engagements that I went over to the Club
immediately, hoping to find out more than they would tell me over the
telephone.

The porter, who knew me, said he had left about six, by car.

"Hanson was with him then?"

"No, sir, he drove alone. It wasn't his usual car--quite a small one, a
brown two-seater."

"But he hasn't got a two-seater."

"Well, he went away in one--that's all I can tell you, sir. I think it
was an Austin, but I'm not sure."

"And he left no message for me?"

"No, sir--no message for anybody, except that he'd be away till he got
back. That was his phrase. He seemed in a very cheerful mood. I thought
maybe he had some good news, but it don't look like it from today's
papers."

"Well, I expect I'll hear from him--it's all right."

I went away as if I thought it really was, because I was anxious not to
start gossip at the Club. Then I went back to the City office and
pretended the mystery was cleared up--he'd had to go away for a few days
on an important political errand; I telephoned to cancel all his
appointments for the day, giving the same story, except that to those in
the political world I made out it was a business errand. There were
certain advantages in belonging to two worlds. I wondered if I should
hear from him, by either wire or telephone as the day proceeded, but no
message came, and in the late afternoon I drove to Stourton. There were
several cars outside the main entrance, but none was a brown two-seater;
I hadn't really expected it. Woburn met me on the threshold. "What are
_you_ doing here?" he greeted me, as if he owned the place.

"What are _you_ doing here, for that matter? Still on the catalogue?"

"No, I've finished that and several more since. I'm just a guest."

"Well, that's very nice."

"There's going to be a big party this week-end."

There was, and that was what I had come about. "Where's Mrs. Rainier?"

"On the terrace--dispensing cocktails and small talk with her usual
glassy proficiency. Just a local crowd--they'll go soon."

"Let's join them."

I realized then, as soon as I saw her in the distance, how keenly my
sympathies had been enlisted for a woman whose glassiest proficiency
could hardly help her much in the situation that was now so rapidly
developing. As we shook hands she seemed to me rather like a pathetic
tightrope walker doing her tricks in confident unawareness that the rope
was about to be cut.

The crowd were mostly neighbors whom I had met before, but there was one
fresh face--Sir William Somebody, whom I knew to be a retired diplomat
who lived on his pension in a farmhouse rented from the Rainiers. Mrs.
Rainier introduced me with the remark that perhaps, having just driven
from London, I could give him the latest news. "Sir William thinks the
situation's far worse than people realize."

I passed on what news there was; then a girl called Cynthia exclaimed:
"We mustn't miss the wireless bulletin. Hasn't he been making another
speech today?" (It had come to the point where an unrelated "he" could
only refer to Hitler.)

"Just words, nothing but words," someone else muttered.

"Better than actions, anyhow."

Mrs. Rainier intervened lazily: "Oh, I'm not so sure of that as I used
to be. I mean, when you're waiting for something to happen, and rather
dreading it..." She went on: "Have you ever been going somewhere with
a crowd and you're certain it's the wrong road and you tell them, but
they won't listen, so you just have to plod along in what you know is
the wrong direction till somebody more important gets the same idea?"

"A parable, darling. Please interpret."

She seemed embarrassed by being the focus of attention--which was
unusual of her. "No, thanks, Cynthia. That's been enough words from
_me_." She laughed and came round with the cocktail shaker, refilling
the glasses, including her own.

Sir William resumed: "Well, if he _does_ march into Poland, we shall
fight." Then suddenly he pointed to the great avenue of elms for which
Stourton was famous. "Look at those trees--planted two centuries ago,
deliberately, by someone who thought of a time when someone else would
see them like this. Who could do such a thing today?" Nobody informed
him, and after a pause to deposit an olive stone in an ashtray he went
on: "The most we do is to bury things under foundation stones so that
future civilizations can dig into our ruins and wonder."

We all laughed, because after a few drinks what can one do but laugh;
then in ones and twos the party dispersed and drove away in its cars. I
went to the library and turned on the radio for the news bulletin;
Hitler's speech had been just another threat to march. Somehow one
didn't believe he would; there had been crises before, ending up in a
deal; so that one had the half-cynical suspicion that both sides were
secretly arranging another deal and that the wordy warfare was just
shadowboxing, face saving, anything but a prelude to the guns. While I
was listening Sheldon entered to announce that dinner would be almost
immediately, and that Mrs. Rainier had said "not dress."

"Good--since I haven't brought anything."

"I think Mrs. Rainier anticipated that."

"Very thoughtful of her."

"You left Mr. Rainier in the City?"

"Er... yes."

"Then you'll be going back in the morning?"

"I expect so."

He nodded and went to the door, then turned and asked: "What's going to
happen, do you think?"

"Can't tell yet, but it looks pretty serious."

He said, still standing in the doorway: "I mean what's going to happen
to Mr. Rainier?"

He went on, facing my stare: "You said he's in the City."

"I didn't say that. I said I left him there."

"Don't you know where he is now?"

"No."

"Isn't that rather peculiar?"

"Many things are peculiar, Sheldon."

"Are you worried about him?... You must excuse me, I have a special
reason for asking."

"I'm sure you have. It might even be the same reason I have for not
answering."

He came back into the room. "Mr. Harrison... has he gone away to look
for somebody?"

"I really don't think I can discuss--" Then something in his glance made
me add: "But supposing he had--then what?"

He smiled his slow slanting smile. "Then you don't need to worry."

"I didn't say I was worrying at all. But why don't I need to?"

"Because he won't succeed in finding the person he's looking for."

"How do you know?"

"Because he never has succeeded."

He left me then, and a few minutes later the dinner gong sounded.
When I joined Mrs. Rainier in the dining room, with Sheldon standing
at the sideboard, I had a feeling they had been exchanging glances
if not words about me, but I could not say much during dinner, on
account of Woburn's presence. As if by tacit agreement we left him
most of the talking, which he kept up very agreeably throughout the
meal--he was really a very adaptable young man, you would have thought
him born and bred at Stourton, except that most of those who had been
were so much less smoothly articulate. I was wondering how I could
shake him off afterwards, but Mrs. Rainier did it for me, saying
outright that she expected I had some business to talk over, so if
Woburn would excuse us...

"Do you mind if we have a fire?" she asked, as soon as we were alone in
the dining room. I helped her to remove the heavy screen, saying
something about the night being cold for the eve of September.

"It isn't that," she answered, kneeling on the hearthrug. "But it makes
a more cheerful background when so many uncheerful things are
happening."

Looking at her then, I realized for the first time how much more she was
than merely vivacious and attractive; her face had a beauty that poured
into it from within--a secret, serene radiance. She went on, stooping to
the fire: "You've saved me the trouble of calling at the office
tomorrow--I wanted to ask about something."

"Good job you didn't, because I'm not sure Mr. Rainier will be there."

"Oh? He's gone away somewhere?"

"Yes." I remembered him saying she was never surprised at any of his
movements. "And as I don't know when exactly he'll be coming back, I was
wondering about the week-end plans."

"The political situation's so serious I doubt if we'd have had the party
anyway. Yes, let's cancel it."

"That's what I was going to suggest."

"Nice of you, but why didn't you telephone?" She added hastily: "Not
that I'm not pleased to see you--I always am--but it gave you the
journey."

"Oh, I didn't mind. I'm equally pleased to see _you_."

She laughed. "Now we've had the exchange of compliments--"

She didn't know what else to say, I could see that; and after a pause I
resumed: "What was it you wanted to ask about if you had called at the
office?"

"Oh yes, maybe you can tell me just as well. Why did you and Charles
drive out to Melbury the other night?"

The sheer unexpectedness of the question nonplused me for a moment. In
the meantime she went on: "And don't blame Hanson--he wasn't to know
he'd overheard such a tremendous secret!" She was laughing.

"Oh, not--er--exactly a secret."

"Well, a mystery."

I said to gain time: "And you were going to pay a special visit just to
ask that?"

"Yes, indeed--I've been terribly curious ever since I heard about it."

"Then it's my turn to say why didn't you telephone?"

"Perhaps because I wanted to see your faces when I asked you--it's so
much harder to hide something that way!" She laughed again. "Won't you
let me in on the puzzle? Melbury's such an odd place for anyone to make
a trip to."

It suddenly occurred to me that she had to know, and now was the chance
to tell her. I said: "Mr. Rainier was once in a hospital at Melbury."

In the blaze of fresh firelight I could see the laughter drain away from
her face and a sudden pallor enter it; but in another second she was
smiling again.

"Well, it seems a queer reason for driving somewhere in pouring rain in
the middle of the night. For that matter Charles was at other hospitals
too--he was pretty badly hurt in the war, you know. It even affected his
memory for a time. I never knew quite how much you had gathered about
all that--" She was striving to seem very casual.

"Just the main facts, that's all."

"He told you them himself?"

"Yes."

The smile remained as if fixed to her face. "Oh, I'm so glad, because it
shows how close you must have been to him as a friend. He doesn't often
talk about it to anybody. And to me he _never_ talks about it."

"Never?"

"No, never. Isn't that strange? But then he's so little with me--and
mostly we have business or politics to talk about. Our marriage is a
very happy one, but it's never been--well, _close_ is perhaps the word.
We've never even had a close quarrel."

"But you love him?"

"Well, what do you think? I adore him--most women do. Haven't you
noticed that? All his life he could always have had any pretty woman he
wanted."

"So it isn't surprising that he _got_ the pretty woman he wanted."

"More compliments?... Oh, but you should have seen the girl he was
engaged to when I first became his secretary. I _was_ his secretary--you
knew that too, I suppose? She was much prettier than me, _and_ younger.
Kitty, her name was. She married somebody else and died--I can't think
why--I mean why she married somebody else, not why she died--she died of
malaria--I suppose there's no reason at all for that, except mosquitoes.
I think they'd have been very happy--she and Charles, I mean, not the
mosquitoes--but she'd have tried to make him give up the business. I
know that, because she told me."

I could catch a note of hysteria subdued behind her forced
facetiousness; I said, as calmly as I could: "You knew her well, then?"

"Only by talking to her while she used to wait in the office for
Charles."

"Tell me--if it isn't impertinent to ask--were you also in love with him
then?"

She laughed. "Of course. Right from the first moment I set eyes on
him.... But that didn't make me jealous of Kitty--only a bit envious,
perhaps. I wonder how it would have worked out--Charles without all the
business and politics. Of course he found out later I was the one to
help him in that, and so I have--I've done my best to give him
everything he wants--success--his ambitions... and yet sometimes
lately I've thought... well, like my parable."

"Parable?"

"Cynthia called it that during cocktails, don't you remember? About
going somewhere with someone and having doubts about it being the right
road, but there's nothing you can do but plod along until the other
person begins to doubt. And then, of course, if you admit that you had
doubts all the time, as likely as not he turns on you and says--well,
why didn't you warn me?"

"Well, why didn't you?"

"Because he wouldn't have taken any notice if I had. In fact he might
not even have married me--and I _wanted_ him to marry me. After Kitty
died he threw himself into business more than ever--which gave me my
chance--oh, I admit I was quite designing about it. So was he. He found
how good I was--what a valuable merger it would be. He was always clever
about mergers...."

"Did that entirely satisfy you?"

"No, but I thought it might lead to something that would--to the _real_
closeness. But it's hard to get close when so many things are in the
way.... May I have a light?" She was reaching for a cigarette on the
side table and I could see that her hand was trembling. She added, as I
held the match: "Do you want a drink in exchange?"

"I think I'd rather wait till later."

"Later? Well, how long do you expect to sit up and talk parables?"

I said then: "Mrs. Rainier, I think I'd better tell you more about the
visit to Melbury."

"Oh yes, the mystery--do _please_ tell me everything! What did you find
there?"

She was smiling as I began to tell her, and the smile grew faint as I
proceeded, then appeared again in time for the end. I told her all that
was important for her to know--the fact of his earlier marriage, his
life during those brief months immediately afterwards, and how that life
had come to an abrupt finish. I did not try to make it easier for her by
a gingerly approach to the problem, or by minimizing its complexities.
And I told her how he had reacted to the recent return of memory--his
first excitement, then his calmer determination and bitter regret for
the years between. Finally I told her that though it seemed to me highly
unlikely that after two decades he would succeed in tracing someone who
hadn't apparently succeeded in the much easier task of tracing him
during the same interval, and though the gap of years gave legal as well
as every other kind of sanction to what had happened since, she must be
prepared for the faint possibility; and that if it happened the
publicity would be neither pleasant for her nor helpful to his position.

"He must know that too."

"Yes, but in his present mood he doesn't care."

"Oh, _he doesn't care_?" She said that so softly, so gently, still
smiling. I tried to think of something to express the wave of sympathy
that overcame me; in the end I could only give her my silence. Presently
she touched my hand and said: "Thank you for telling me all this."

"I must say you take it very well."

"Did you expect me to make a scene?"

"No, but... when I try to imagine your feelings..."

"I don't feel anything yet, at least not much, but I keep on thinking of
what you said--that _he doesn't care_!"

"I know it's terrible but--"

"Oh, no, it's _wonderful_! He'd throw over everything--his future--his
ambitions--_everything_--if he could find her!"

"In his present mood he thinks so."

"Don't keep saying 'in his present mood.' Maybe his present mood is
himself, and all the other moods were false.... How do we know?"

"There's one thing we do know--that people are remembered as they were
last seen--and twenty years is a long time."

She turned to me with brightly shining eyes.

"How sad that is, and how true."

"And from your point of view--how fortunate."

"Oh no, no--I wish she were still as he remembers her. I wish there
_were_ such a miracle. If all of us could go back twenty years--how
different the world would be! I want him to be happy, I always
have.... Now will you have your drink?"

"If you will too."

She went over to the table and mixed them; I could see she was glad of
something to do. Stooping over the glasses she continued: "I suppose he
told you a great deal more than you've told me?"

"Only details."

"Ah, but the details--those are what I want to hear. Did he remember
things very clearly?"

"Yes."

"Places and people?"

"Yes."

"Tell me some of them."

I hesitated, again catching the note of hysteria in her voice; she
added: "It doesn't hurt me--as much as you think. Tell me some of
them.... You say he met her first at Melbury?"

"Yes--on that first Armistice Day."

"And they were married in London?"

"Yes."

"Where did he propose to her? Did he tell you that?"

"A village in the country somewhere--I think it was called Beachings
Over."

"Beachings Over... an odd name."

"England is full of them."

"I know--like Nether Wallop and Shallow Bowells...." She turned round
with my drink. "And war coming to them all again. Do you think there's
still a chance of avoiding it?"

"There's always a chance of postponing it."

"No--we've had enough of that."

"I think so too."

"But we're not ready yet, are we?"

"We're terribly unready. We missed our ways years ago and found a wide,
comfortable road, fine for sleepwalkers, but it had the major drawback
of wandering just anywhere, at random."

"Charles always thought that, but as a rich man it wasn't easy for him
to say so. Being rich tied his hands and stopped his mouth and took up
his time--so that the wasted years wasted him too...."

"I think he's begun to realize that."

"Yes, he's sure of something at last.... Another drink?"

"No, thanks."

A long pause. "There's nothing we can do about it now, is there?"

"Are you talking about--er--the country--or--er--"

"Both, in a way."

"I think one can make up for lost time, but one can't salvage it. That's
why _his_ quest is so hopeless."

Her voice softened. "So you think that's where he's gone--to look for
her?"

"It's possible.... But to look for her as she _was_, and that's
impossible."

The hysteria touched her voice again. "Tell me another detail--no matter
how small or trivial--please tell me--"

"I think you're needlessly upsetting yourself."

"No, it isn't upsetting--it's--it's almost helping me in a way--tell me
something--"

"I'd rather not, and besides, it's hard to think--"

"Oh, but you said he talked all night and you've only talked for an hour
so far. There must be hundreds of things--names of places or incidents
that happened here or there--or how she looked...."

"Well... let me see..."

"How _did_ she look? Did he remember her well?"

"He seemed to, though he never described her exactly--but he did say--I
believe he said when they first met she was wearing a little fur hat
like a fez.... Or no, I may have mixed things up--that was Kitty when
she stepped out of the train at Interlaken."

"Interlaken?"

"They had a holiday there--he and Kitty."

"I know. And _she_ was wearing a little fur hat like a fez? Or the other
one? Or both, maybe--but wouldn't that be rather improbable?"

"Yes, of course. I'm sorry--it was like me to choose a detail I'd get
confused over."

She put her hand in mine. "It doesn't matter. You've been very kind. I
wish I'd known you better--and earlier. Thank you again."

"You understand that I'm anxious to help _both_ of you?"

"Yes, I understand. But I don't know how you can."

"Anyhow, there's a sort of chilly comfort in thinking how unimportant
all one's personal affairs are these days."

She got up and began walking to the door. "Yes, but when that sort of
comfort has chilled one quite thoroughly, the warmth comes--the
feeling that nothing matters except personal feelings... the
what-if-the-world-should-end-tonight mood."

We shook hands at the doorway, and there she added, smiling: "Perhaps
our world _is_ ending tonight...."

                          *        *        *

I stayed in the drawing room a little while after she had gone; then I
thought it would be only civil to find Woburn. He was in the library,
listening to the radio. "Still nothing definite. You know, if there's a
war, I want to get in the Air Force." We had another drink and talked
for about an hour before going upstairs. I had asked Sheldon to call me
at seven; he did so, bringing in a cup of tea. "I thought you'd wish to
know the news--it just came over the wireless." Then he told me.

I got up hurriedly. It was a perfect late-summer morning, cool and
fresh, with a haze of mist over the hills. Woburn had brought a small
radio into the breakfast room; we hardly exchanged a greeting, but sat
in front of the instrument, listening as the first reports came through.
Presently Mrs. Rainier entered, stood in the doorway to hear a few
sentences, then joined us with the same kind of whispered perfunctory
good morning. The bulletin ended with a promise of more news soon, then
merged into music.

That was how we had breakfast on that first morning of the second
war--to the beat of a dance band and with the sunlight streaming through
the windows of Stourton.

After breakfast we heard the news repeated, and found the strain almost
intolerable. We strayed about the gardens, the three of us, then came
back to the radio again; this time there were a few extra items, reports
of half the world's grim awakening.

The newspapers came, but they were already old--printed hours before.

I telephoned the City office, and had to wait twenty minutes before the
line was clear.

Then Woburn, after wandering restlessly in and out of rooms, said he
would take a long walk. I think he would have liked either Mrs. Rainier
or myself or both of us to suggest accompanying him, but we stayed each
other with a glance. "He's a nice boy," she said, when he had gone.

"Yes, very."

"Does Charles like him?"

"Yes, I think so."

"I always hoped he would. I feel we've almost adopted him, in one
sense."

"I sometimes think he feels that too."

"I'd like him to feel that... I once had a child, a boy, but he
died...."

"I never knew that."

"Charles would have made a good father, don't you think?"

"Yes... he must have been terribly disappointed."

"What will Woburn do now?"

"He said he'd join the Air Force."

She moved restlessly to the radio, where the music had suddenly stopped.
Another news item: the Germans had crossed the Polish frontiers at many
places; the war machine was already clanking into gear.

"I can't stand this--I half wish now we'd gone with him for the walk.
Don't leave me alone here--you don't have to return to the City, do
you?"

"No, not yet, anyhow. I just rang up the office. They haven't had any
news or message."

"Oh... let's go somewhere then. I'll drive you. There's nothing else
to do--we'll go mad if we sit over the radio all day."

We took her car, which was an open sports Bentley, and set out. The
Stourton parkland had never looked more wonderful; it was as if it had
the mood to spread its beauty as a last temptation to remain at peace,
or, failing that, as a last spendthrift offering to a thankless world.
We passed quickly, then threaded the winding gravel roads over the
estate to an exit I had not known of before--it opened on to the road to
Faringdon. Through the still misty morning we raced westward and
northward; but at Lechlade the sun was bright and the clock showed ten
minutes past ten. A few miles beyond Burford the country rolled into
uplands, and presently we left the main road altogether, slowing for
tree-hidden corners and streams that crossed the lanes in wide sandy
shallows, till at last in the distance we saw a rim of green against the
blue.

"Perhaps it will be a simpler England after the war," was one of the
things she said.

"You're already thinking of _after_ the war?"

"Of course. The _next_ Armistice Day, whenever it comes."

"It'll be a different England, that's very certain. Not so rich, and not
so snobbish--but maybe we can do without some of the riches and all the
snobbery."

She nodded: "Maybe we can do without Stourton--and Bentleys."

"And two-for-one bonus issues."

"And guinea biographies like the one somebody once wrote about Charles's
father."

"And parties for His Excellency to meet the winners of the Ladies'
Doubles."

She laughed. "And champagne when you've already had enough champagne."

"How _can_ we be so absurd--on a day like this?"

"Maybe it isn't so absurd."

"Where are you taking me?"

"Oh, just somewhere in England, as the war bulletins may say one of
these days."

We drove on, mile after mile, till at a turn of the road the hills ahead
of us sharpened into a ridge and at the same turn also there was a
signpost which made me cry out, with a sudden catch of breath: "Did you
see _that_?"

"I know. I wanted to come here."

"But--you shouldn't--it's only torturing yourself--"

"No, no. I promise I won't be upset--see, I'm quite calm."

"But all this probing of the past--"

"That's where the future will take us, maybe--back to the past. A
simpler England. Old England."

And then we came upon the gray cottages fronting the stream, the
square-towered church, the ledge in the stream where the water sparkled.
We parked our car by the church and walked along the street. A postman
late on his morning rounds stared with friendly curiosity at us and the
car, then said "Good morning." A fluff of wind blew tall hollyhocks
towards us. Somebody was clipping a hedge; an old dog loitered into a
fresh patch of shade. Little things--but I shall remember them long
after much else has been forgotten.

There seemed no special significance anywhere, no sign that a war had
begun.

But as we neared the post office I caught sight of something that to me
was most significant of all--a small brown two-seater car. I walked over
to it; a man saw me examining the license. "If you're looking for the
tall gentleman," he came over to say, "I think he took a walk up the
hill."

I turned to Mrs. Rainier. "_Charles?_" was all she whispered.

"Might be. It meets the Club porter's description and it was hired from
a London firm."

We turned off the main road by a path crossing an open field towards the
hill; as we were climbing the chime of three quarters came up to us,
blown faint by the breeze. The slope was too steep for much talk, but
when we came within a few yards of the ridge she halted to gain breath,
gazing down over the village.

"Looks as if it has never changed."

"I don't suppose it has, much, in a thousand years."

"That makes twenty seem only yesterday."

"If we meet him, what are you going to say?"

"I don't know. I can't know--before I see him."

"He'll wonder why on earth we've come _here_, of all places."

"Then we'll ask him why on earth _he's_ here. Perhaps we'll both have to
pretend we came to look at the five counties."

She resumed the climb, and in another moment we could see that the
summit dipped again to a further summit, perhaps higher, and that in the
hollow between lay a little pond. There was a man lying beside it with
arms outstretched, as if he had flung himself there after the climb. He
did not move as we approached, but presently we saw smoke curling from a
cigarette between his fingers.

"He's not asleep," I said. "He's just resting."

I saw her eyes and the way her lips trembled; something suddenly
occurred to me. "By the way, how did you know there were _five_
counties?"

But she didn't answer; already she was rushing down the slope. He saw
her in time to rise to his feet; she stopped then, several yards away,
and for a few seconds both were staring at each other, hard and still
and silent. Then he whispered something I couldn't hear; but I knew in a
flash that the gap was closed, that the random years were at an end,
that the past and the future would join. She knew this too, for she ran
into his arms calling out: "Oh, Smithy--Smithy--it may not be too late!"


THE END






[End of Random Harvest, by James Hilton]
