The mystery, like so many mysteries, was explained. Next
day, just as they were dressed to go out to dinner, a Mr.
Bast called. He was a clerk in the employment of the
Porphyrion Fire Insurance Company. Thus much from his
card. He had come "about the lady yesterday." Thus much
from Annie, who had shown him into the dining-room.
"Cheers, children!" cried Helen. "It's Mrs. Lanoline."
Tibby was interested. The three hurried downstairs, to
find, not the gay dog they expected, but a young man,
colourless, toneless, who had already the mournful eyes
above a drooping moustache that are so common in London, and
that haunt some streets of the city like accusing
presences. One guessed him as the third generation,
grandson to the shepherd or ploughboy whom civilization had
sucked into the town; as one of the thousands who have lost
the life of the body and failed to reach the life of the
spirit. Hints of robustness survived in him, more than a
hint of primitive good looks, and Margaret, noting the spine
that might have been straight, and the chest that might have
broadened, wondered whether it paid to give up the glory of
the animal for a tail coat and a couple of ideas. Culture
had worked in her own case, but during the last few weeks
she had doubted whether it humanized the majority, so wide
and so widening is the gulf that stretches between the
natural and the philosophic man, so many the good chaps who
are wrecked in trying to cross it. She knew this type very
well--the vague aspirations, the mental dishonesty, the
familiarity with the outsides of books. She knew the very
tones in which he would address her. She was only
unprepared for an example of her own visiting-card.
"You wouldn't remember giving me this, Miss Schlegel?"
said he, uneasily familiar.
"No; I can't say I do."
"Well, that was how it happened, you see."
"Where did we meet, Mr. Bast? For the minute I don't remember."
"It was a concert at the Queen's Hall. I think you will
recollect," he added pretentiously, "when I tell you that it
included a performance of the Fifth Symphony of Beethoven."
"We hear the Fifth practically every time it's done, so
I'm not sure--do you remember, Helen?"
"Was it the time the sandy cat walked round the balustrade?"
He thought not.
"Then I don't remember. That's the only Beethoven I
ever remember specially."
"And you, if I may say so, took away my umbrella,
inadvertently of course."
"Likely enough," Helen laughed, "for I steal umbrellas
even oftener than I hear Beethoven. Did you get it back?"
"Yes, thank you, Miss Schlegel."
"The mistake arose out of my card, did it?" interposed Margaret.
"Yes, the mistake arose--it was a mistake."
"The lady who called here yesterday thought that you
were calling too, and that she could find you?" she
continued, pushing him forward, for, though he had promised
an explanation, he seemed unable to give one.
"That's so, calling too--a mistake."
"Then why--?" began Helen, but Margaret laid a hand on
her arm.
"I said to my wife," he continued more rapidly--"I said
to Mrs. Bast, 'I have to pay a call on some friends,' and
Mrs. Bast said to me, 'Do go.' While I was gone, however,
she wanted me on important business, and thought I had come
here, owing to the card, and so came after me, and I beg to
tender my apologies, and hers as well, for any inconvenience
we may have inadvertently caused you."
"No inconvenience," said Helen; "but I still don't understand."
An air of evasion characterized Mr. Bast. He explained
again, but was obviously lying, and Helen didn't see why he
should get off. She had the cruelty of youth. Neglecting
her sister's pressure, she said, "I still don't understand.
When did you say you paid this call?"
"Call? What call?" said he, staring as if her question
had been a foolish one, a favourite device of those in mid-stream.
"This afternoon call."
"In the afternoon, of course!" he replied, and looked at
Tibby to see how the repartee went. But Tibby, himself a
repartee, was unsympathetic, and said, "Saturday afternoon
or Sunday afternoon?"
"S-Saturday."
"Really!" said Helen; "and you were still calling on
Sunday, when your wife came here. A long visit."
"I don't call that fair," said Mr. Bast, going scarlet
and handsome. There was fight in his eyes." I know what
you mean, and it isn't so."
"Oh, don't let us mind," said Margaret, distressed again
by odours from the abyss.
"It was something else," he asserted, his elaborate
manner breaking down. "I was somewhere else to what you
think, so there!"
"It was good of you to come and explain," she said.
"The rest is naturally no concern of ours."
"Yes, but I want--I wanted--have you ever read THE
ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL?"
Margaret nodded.
"It's a beautiful book. I wanted to get back to the
Earth, don't you see, like Richard does in the end. Or have
you ever read Stevenson's PRINCE OTTO?"
Helen and Tibby groaned gently.
"That's another beautiful book. You get back to the
Earth in that. I wanted--" He mouthed affectedly. Then
through the mists of his culture came a hard fact, hard as a
pebble. "I walked all the Saturday night," said Leonard.
"I walked." A thrill of approval ran through the sisters.
But culture closed in again. He asked whether they had ever
read E. V. Lucas's OPEN ROAD.
Said Helen, "No doubt it's another beautiful book, but
I'd rather hear about your road."
"Oh, I walked."
"How far?"
"I don't know, nor for how long. It got too dark to see
my watch."
"Were you walking alone, may I ask?"
"Yes," he said, straightening himself; "but we'd been
talking it over at the office. There's been a lot of talk
at the office lately about these things. The fellows there
said one steers by the Pole Star, and I looked it up in the
celestial atlas, but once out of doors everything gets so mixed--"
"Don't talk to me about the Pole Star," interrupted
Helen, who was becoming interested. "I know its little
ways. It goes round and round, and you go round after it."
"Well, I lost it entirely. First of all the street
lamps, then the trees, and towards morning it got cloudy."
Tibby, who preferred his comedy undiluted, slipped from
the room. He knew that this fellow would never attain to
poetry, and did not want to hear him trying. Margaret and
Helen remained. Their brother influenced them more than
they knew: in his absence they were stirred to enthusiasm
more easily.
"Where did you start from?" cried Margaret. "Do tell us
more."
"I took the Underground to Wimbledon. As I came out of
the office I said to myself, 'I must have a walk once in a
way. If I don't take this walk now, I shall never take it.'
I had a bit of dinner at Wimbledon, and then--"
"But not good country there, is it?"
"It was gas-lamps for hours. Still, I had all the
night, and being out was the great thing. I did get into
woods, too, presently."
"Yes, go on," said Helen.
"You've no idea how difficult uneven ground is when it's
dark."
"Did you actually go off the roads?"
"Oh yes. I always meant to go off the roads, but the
worst of it is that it's more difficult to find one's way."
"Mr. Bast, you're a born adventurer," laughed Margaret.
"No professional athlete would have attempted what you've
done. It's a wonder your walk didn't end in a broken neck.
Whatever did your wife say?"
"Professional athletes never move without lanterns and
compasses," said Helen. "Besides, they can't walk. It
tires them. Go on."
"I felt like R. L. S. You probably remember how in
VIRGINIBUS--"
"Yes, but the wood. This 'ere wood. How did you get
out of it?"
"I managed one wood, and found a road the other side
which went a good bit uphill. I rather fancy it was those
North Downs, for the road went off into grass, and I got
into another wood. That was awful, with gorse bushes. I
did wish I'd never come, but suddenly it got light--just
while I seemed going under one tree. Then I found a road
down to a station, and took the first train I could back to London."
"But was the dawn wonderful?" asked Helen.
With unforgettable sincerity he replied, "No." The word
flew again like a pebble from the sling. Down toppled all
that had seemed ignoble or literary in his talk, down
toppled tiresome R. L. S. and the "love of the earth" and
his silk top-hat. In the presence of these women Leonard
had arrived, and he spoke with a flow, an exultation, that
he had seldom known.
"The dawn was only grey, it was nothing to mention--"
"Just a grey evening turned upside down. I know."
"--and I was too tired to lift up my head to look at it,
and so cold too. I'm glad I did it, and yet at the time it
bored me more than I can say. And besides--you can believe
me or not as you choose--I was very hungry. That dinner at
Wimbledon--I meant it to last me all night like other
dinners. I never thought that walking would make such a
difference. Why, when you're walking you want, as it were,
a breakfast and luncheon and tea during the night as well,
and I'd nothing but a packet of Woodbines. Lord, I did feel
bad! Looking back, it wasn't what you may call enjoyment.
It was more a case of sticking to it. I did stick. I--I
was determined. Oh, hang it all! what's the good--I mean,
the good of living in a room for ever? There one goes on
day after day, same old game, same up and down to town,
until you forget there is any other game. You ought to see
once in a way what's going on outside, if it's only nothing
particular after all."
"I should just think you ought," said Helen, sitting on
the edge of the table.
The sound of a lady's voice recalled him from sincerity,
and he said: "Curious it should all come about from reading
something of Richard Jefferies."
"Excuse me, Mr. Bast, but you're wrong there. It
didn't. It came from something far greater."
But she could not stop him. Borrow was imminent after
Jefferies--Borrow, Thoreau, and sorrow. R. L. S. brought up
the rear, and the outburst ended in a swamp of books. No
disrespect to these great names. The fault is ours, not
theirs. They mean us to use them for sign-posts, and are
not to blame if, in our weakness, we mistake the sign-post
for the destination. And Leonard had reached the
destination. He had visited the county of Surrey when
darkness covered its amenities, and its cosy villas had
re-entered ancient night. Every twelve hours this miracle
happens, but he had troubled to go and see for himself.
Within his cramped little mind dwelt something that was
greater than Jefferies' books--the spirit that led Jefferies
to write them; and his dawn, though revealing nothing but
monotones, was part of the eternal sunrise that shows George
Borrow Stonehenge.
"Then you don't think I was foolish?" he asked, becoming
again the naive and sweet-tempered boy for whom Nature had
intended him.
"Heavens, no!" replied Margaret.
"Heaven help us if we do!" replied Helen.
"I'm very glad you say that. Now, my wife would never
understand--not if I explained for days."
"No, it wasn't foolish!" cried Helen, her eyes aflame.
"You've pushed back the boundaries; I think it splendid of you."
"You've not been content to dream as we have--"
"Though we have walked, too--"
"I must show you a picture upstairs--"
Here the door-bell rang. The hansom had come to take
them to their evening party.
"Oh, bother, not to say dash--I had forgotten we were
dining out; but do, do, come round again and have a talk."
"Yes, you must--do," echoed Margaret.
Leonard, with extreme sentiment, replied: "No, I shall
not. It's better like this."
"Why better?" asked Margaret.
"No, it is better not to risk a second interview. I
shall always look back on this talk with you as one of the
finest things in my life. Really. I mean this. We can
never repeat. It has done me real good, and there we had
better leave it."
"That's rather a sad view of life, surely."
"Things so often get spoiled."
"I know," flashed Helen, "but people don't."
He could not understand this. He continued in a vein
which mingled true imagination and false. What he said
wasn't wrong, but it wasn't right, and a false note jarred.
One little twist, they felt, and the instrument might be in
tune. One little strain, and it might be silent for ever.
He thanked the ladies very much, but he would not call
again. There was a moment's awkwardness, and then Helen
said: "Go, then; perhaps you know best; but never forget
you're better than Jefferies." And he went. Their hansom
caught him up at the corner, passed with a waving of hands,
and vanished with its accomplished load into the evening.
London was beginning to illuminate herself against the
night. Electric lights sizzled and jagged in the main
thoroughfares, gas-lamps in the side streets glimmered a
canary gold or green. The sky was a crimson battlefield of
spring, but London was not afraid. Her smoke mitigated the
splendour, and the clouds down Oxford Street were a
delicately painted ceiling, which adorned while it did not
distract. She has never known the clear-cut armies of the
purer air. Leonard hurried through her tinted wonders, very
much part of the picture. His was a grey life, and to
brighten it he had ruled off a few corners for romance. The
Miss Schlegels--or, to speak more accurately, his interview
with them--were to fill such a corner, nor was it by any
means the first time that he had talked intimately to
strangers. The habit was analogous to a debauch, an outlet,
though the worst of outlets, for instincts that would not be
denied. Terrifying him, it would beat down his suspicions
and prudence until he was confiding secrets to people whom
he had scarcely seen. It brought him many fears and some
pleasant memories. Perhaps the keenest happiness he had
ever known was during a railway journey to Cambridge, where
a decent-mannered undergraduate had spoken to him. They had
got into conversation, and gradually Leonard flung reticence
aside, told some of his domestic troubles, and hinted at the
rest. The undergraduate, supposing they could start a
friendship, asked him to "coffee after hall," which he
accepted, but afterwards grew shy, and took care not to stir
from the commercial hotel where he lodged. He did not want
Romance to collide with the Porphyrion, still less with
Jacky, and people with fuller, happier lives are slow to
understand this. To the Schlegels, as to the undergraduate,
he was an interesting creature, of whom they wanted to see
more. But they to him were denizens of Romance, who must
keep to the corner he had assigned them, pictures that must
not walk out of their frames.
His behaviour over Margaret's visiting-card had been
typical. His had scarcely been a tragic marriage. Where
there is no money and no inclination to violence tragedy
cannot be generated. He could not leave his wife, and he
did not want to hit her. Petulance and squalor were
enough. Here "that card" had come in. Leonard, though
furtive, was untidy, and left it lying about. Jacky found
it, and then began, "What's that card, eh?" "Yes, don't you
wish you knew what that card was?" "Len, who's Miss
Schlegel?" etc. Months passed, and the card, now as a joke,
now as a grievance, was handed about, getting dirtier and
dirtier. It followed them when they moved from Cornelia
Road to Tulse Hill. It was submitted to third parties. A
few inches of pasteboard, it became the battlefield on which
the souls of Leonard and his wife contended. Why did he not
say, "A lady took my umbrella, another gave me this that I
might call for my umbrella"? Because Jacky would have
disbelieved him? Partly, but chiefly because he was
sentimental. No affection gathered round the card, but it
symbolized the life of culture, that Jacky should never
spoil. At night he would say to himself, "Well, at all
events, she doesn't know about that card. Yah! done her there!"
Poor Jacky! she was not a bad sort, and had a great
deal to bear. She drew her own conclusion--she was only
capable of drawing one conclusion--and in the fulness of
time she acted upon it. All the Friday Leonard had refused
to speak to her, and had spent the evening observing the
stars. On the Saturday he went up, as usual, to town, but
he came not back Saturday night nor Sunday morning, nor
Sunday afternoon. The inconvenience grew intolerable, and
though she was now of a retiring habit, and shy of women,
she went up to Wickham Place. Leonard returned in her
absence. The card, the fatal card, was gone from the pages
of Ruskin, and he guessed what had happened.
"Well?" he had exclaimed, greeting her with peals of
laughter. "I know where you've been, but you don't know
where I've been. "
Jacky sighed, said, "Len, I do think you might explain,"
and resumed domesticity.
Explanations were difficult at this stage, and Leonard
was too silly--or it is tempting to write, too sound a chap
to attempt them. His reticence was not entirely the shoddy
article that a business life promotes, the reticence that
pretends that nothing is something, and hides behind the
DAILY TELEGRAPH. The adventurer, also, is reticent, and it
is an adventure for a clerk to walk for a few hours in
darkness. You may laugh at him, you who have slept nights
on the veldt, with your rifle beside you and all the
atmosphere of adventure past. And you also may laugh who
think adventures silly. But do not be surprised if Leonard
is shy whenever he meets you, and if the Schlegels rather
than Jacky hear about the dawn.
That the Schlegels had not thought him foolish became a
permanent joy. He was at his best when he thought of them.
It buoyed him as he journeyed home beneath fading heavens.
Somehow the barriers of wealth had fallen, and there had
been--he could not phrase it--a general assertion of the
wonder of the world. "My conviction," says the mystic,
"gains infinitely the moment another soul will believe in
it," and they had agreed that there was something beyond
life's daily grey. He took off his top-hat and smoothed it
thoughtfully. He had hitherto supposed the unknown to be
books, literature, clever conversation, culture. One raised
oneself by study, and got upsides with the world. But in
that quick interchange a new light dawned. Was that
something" walking in the dark among the surburban hills?
He discovered that he was going bareheaded down Regent
Street. London came back with a rush. Few were about at
this hour, but all whom he passed looked at him with a
hostility that was the more impressive because it was
unconscious. He put his hat on. It was too big; his head
disappeared like a pudding into a basin, the ears bending
outwards at the touch of the curly brim. He wore it a
little backwards, and its effect was greatly to elongate the
face and to bring out the distance between the eyes and the
moustache. Thus equipped, he escaped criticism. No one
felt uneasy as he titupped along the pavements, the heart of
a man ticking fast in his chest.
