Collected Works of Algernon Blackwood

by Algernon Blackwood

  The Gentleman was a young man now, slimmer than ever, but still wearing an eyeglass and a beautiful top-hat, a white one with a very curly brim, while a red carnation gleamed in the buttonhole of his perfect cut-away coat. She felt her heart beat faster as she saw him, but it beat faster still as her eye then picked out the Sailor’s deeply tanned face and caught the sheen of his dangling gold earrings. Swinging his telescope about, he was gazing through it smartly at anything he could see, whether it was near or far. He was resting it now on the shoulder of the Ploughboy next him, examining apparently the Soldier’s gleaming gold braid, then switching it to gaze at the Tinker in whose ragged pocket, she saw, the Thief was cleverly inserting his long, slender fingers. One and all were there, the Tailor snapping his big scissors in the air to the danger of his neighbours, and every one of them making a characteristic movement of one kind or another, with the exception of the Apothecary, who stood quietly combing his long, dirty beard in an attitude of deep thought. The general movement gave the circle an appearance of turning round and round, though she could not be sure of this. It was perhaps her own mind that whirled.

  “Here I am, my dear Fruit Stoners!” she called out loudly with her head over the railing, and the same instant the Sailor’s telescope turned up and pointed at her face.

  “Three sheets in the wind and breakers ahead!” he shouted, his feet starting a quick, merry dance, while she noticed for the first time that he now wore a close-cropped brown beard that, she decided instantly, was most attractive.

  A general roar of voices at once drowned his words, as every face turned up to look at her. It was a roar of welcome that made the rafters ring and seemed to shake the great glass chandelier till it tinkled in a wind. While all eyes looked up, she noticed, the Thief, profiting by the fact, neatly abstracted a knife from the Ploughboy’s pocket, while joining in the general shout.

  “Maria! Maria! Come down to us for tea!”

  As she took the stairs, three steps at a time, she realized that she, too, was ready for tea, hunger and thirst both ardent in her. Tea, of course, was their great meal, occurred to her, though why this was so she could not think. Tea, yes, was their important meal, their only meal; it was at tea she had first made their acquaintance. Where? Oh, where? The thought burned her before it vanished — somewhere — This flashed through her as she tore down the great curved staircase, only to be forgotten again the same instant. “I hope there won’t be any prunes,” flashed through her too. Somebody — oh, who was it? — liked prunes with his tea. Tea! Prunes! Fruit stones! The rim of a plate! Her mind was in a jumble with it all, but there was no clear memory. What did it matter, anyhow? She was going to enjoy herself. This was life!

  She had reached the floor now and was among them all; the ceaseless ticking was forgotten, there was no hurry, everything was wonderful, happy and exciting. She was leaning on the arm of the Gentleman, who, slim and debonair, was leading her to the table. She had rejuvenated him in her thoughts, and he was now fascinatingly young, and his lovely white hat made her certain that, of course, he knew the Queen personally. He carried it gracefully in his hand as they stepped along. “I do believe he sleeps in it,” she decided, stealing a glance at his face bending above her and noticing that the dark crinkles were all wiped away. His eyeglass swung against his coloured waistcoat, his fob and watch-chain shone. He was the perfect gentleman, she knew, as he intercepted her glance with an entrancing smile and a most courtly little bow. Thrills coursed through her blood and body at his touch.

  “Pray—” she whispered, “pray, cover yourself,” wondering if the words were quite what she searched so hard to find, as well as where they came from. “I beg of you.” Her whisper died away against his shoulder — on a sigh.

  “Your slightest wish is a command,” he replied, bending from the waist so that his buttons tickled her ear, while he slapped the hat on at a rakish angle, and made her chair ready. She sat down, and the rest of the group who were all standing by their chairs till she was seated, did likewise. All were talking, gesticulating, smiling. All watched, too, her every movement.

  “And what,” inquired the Gentleman, screwing his eyeglass in and surveying the table, “may I serve you with?” He tossed a slender hand with jewelled fingers above a score of imaginary dishes. “Scrambled eggs, or œufs à la coque, kidneys on toast with devilled mushrooms, a delicious young quail perhaps, a rasher of crisp bacon, or — or” — he hesitated a moment, looking vague—” or — a plate of porridge,” he ended abruptly, “with a poached egg to follow.”

  The long list of exquisite dishes, whose names sounded familiar to her though she had tasted few of them, seemed to vanish in the air. It was the way he spoke the words that made her feel she almost tasted them, but it was her good common sense that told her such fancy cooking was hardly suitable at tea-time.

  “A cup of tea, please, sir — weak tea,” she replied, smiling up into his face, “with a finger of buttered toast, is what I usually have — if there is any,” she added politely as an afterthought.

  He bowed, removing his hat and sweeping it across his heart.

  “The entire cuisine,” he assured her in a melting tone, “is at your service. Allow me to procure it for you.”

  Replacing his hat with a graceful flourish, he bowed himself away, his eyes lingering on her face so beautifully as he went half backwards towards the sideboard, that it was all Maria could do to prevent herself running after him and giving him a kiss and a hug. “He loves me, he loves me,” her heart told her between its rapid beats, “and I do believe I’m in love with him. It’s glorious, glorious! I couldn’t swallow a mouthful. I hope I shan’t choke over my tea!” And the odd mingling of the child and the young woman in her somehow caused her no surprise. She only knew, and knew it quite naturally, that the feeling of a long interval having passed over her while she was upstairs, was true, and that she was now really older. So naturally, indeed, this came to her that she stole a quick look at her knees and legs beneath the table, and saw with relief and delight that her longer skirt was becomingly modest, and that georgette was exactly the material that suited her.

  Across the table in the same instant she caught the Tailor’s eye, a question in it, yet a discreet veiled question, as though only he and she knew what it referred to.

  “It’s quite all right,” she heard herself telling him. “The fit is splendid. I’m very satisfied, thank you,” and while she spoke, even while the words left her lips, she remembered going to try it on in his room, and even suggesting certain alterations. That had slipped her memory in some queer way, but she now recalled it all; it had taken place in the interval, of course, the strange, long interval that had passed over her....

  “The other gowns are ready when you are,” the Tailor was saying, while busy with his meal, and she was not surprised somehow to see that he was using his big scissors to slice his bread and butter, then measuring each piece with his tape before putting it into his mouth.

  “This is a nick, of course; I’m in a nick,” she told herself, and the same instant felt something touch her shoulder. Turning sharply, she looked straight into the face of the Sailor, who had slipped into the chair next to her, and was so close that his blue sleeve lay against her arm. He was staring at her even at this absurdly close range through his telescope; it was, in fact, the end of the long tube that had touched her shoulder.

  “Oh, Sailor, my Sailor!” she cried, “wherever have you been? I thought — I wondered — —” She broke off, aware that unaccountably she was blushing. “If you’re looking at me,” she went on hastily, “you’d see better without the telescope, I think.”

  “Ah, Missie,” he laughed, without lowering it however, “but you’re closer this way. You can never see too much of a good thing,” as he took it from his eye, his tanned face smiling all over, his gold ear-rings tinkling, “and I’ve been ‘arf-way round the globe since I looked into that rose-bud face.”

  While he eyed her with open and
unabashed admiration, his feet, she saw, were doing some little twinkling step beneath the table. It was the beard, however, that interested her as much as anything. Was it genuine? It was incredible that he could have grown it in so short a time. Was it a “short time” though? Was it a question of that interval again? She stared hard a moment, wondering if she dared ask about it. That stupid flush in her cheeks crept down towards her neck.

  “Is it a real one — really?” The words then shot out before she could prevent their bluntness. “The beard, I mean — ?”

  The Sailor gave a jolly laugh, no whit offended.

  “Lor’ bless you, yes,” he cried, “while the stormy winds do blow. Real as you are! I let it grow after we rounded the ‘Orn. It’s neater that way — don’t you think?” He stroked it. He looked, she thought, exactly like a handsome sailor she had seen somewhere on a poster. “Like it, Missie?” he inquired with a sly, merry grin. “‘Cos if you don’t off she comes in less than ‘arf a jiffy—”

  “No, no,” Maria interrupted, “you mustn’t take it off. I like it — awfully.”

  “Splendid!” he cried, his feet jigging away, while he whipped the telescope back to his eye and fell to examining her again.

  Maria, though she felt embarrassed, loved the examination, and wondered how her hair looked. She must get her ribbon back as soon as ever she could. She must find a mirror, too.

  “But your — voyage, your long voyage,” she stammered, feeling she ought really to change the subject, though not really wanting to. “You were going on a long voyage when I saw you last, and I — I was to go with you, I thought—”

  She broke off again, for her voice seemed a little unsteady. An immense longing rose surging over her. The romance of the sea, the tang of the salt spray, a flying picture of coral islands, golden sands, of treasure, pirates, rose before her with a sound of wind whistling in the rigging.

  But the Sailor’s face, she saw, had lost its smile suddenly.

  “Ah, Missie, that’s just the trouble,” he murmured, stopping his dancing feet and lowering his telescope. He leaned nearer, turning his blue eyes down to her with almost a beseeching expression. “That, you see, was ‘sometime,’” he told her. “You made me ‘sometime.’ Now, if you could change me to ‘this year,’ or even ‘next year,’ why — then — we could get a-going together, maybe.”

  “Oh, I’m going to change all that for you,” Maria whispered hurriedly. She was trembling a little. “Of course I will.”

  His face shone again as though the sun had come out from behind a cloud. The laughter danced back, the feet began to jig.

  “But I brought you back something,” he went on in his cheerful voice once more, producing a curly, beautifully coloured shell, “so that when you get to your counting again, maybe, you’ll remember the pore sailors on the ‘igh seas, with their lasses crying their eyes out — and give me ‘arf a chance.” Maria was amazed at the words she heard herself saying next.

  “Sailor,” she whispered, “I’d like to be your lass.”

  “Name your port, Missie, and it’s a go,” he laughed back, handing her the shell. “Cross my ‘eart on it,” making a gesture to suit the words and shouting, “Yo ho!” as he saw her cross her own.

  “Upon my word,” thought Maria to herself, taking the lovely shell and stuffing it in her pocket, “I shall kiss him in a minute if I’m not careful, and I don’t want to be careful either. This is real life with a vengeance,” and she was already leaning a little closer to her breezy Sailor, when a voice behind her interrupted.

  “I am delighted to bring you this at last,” murmured the suave and musical voice, “and I apologize for the long delay. I noticed, however — ahem — that you were engaged — delightfully engaged — and consequently I did not hurry.”

  There was a faint perfume of lavender about the sleeve that brushed her cheek, and she saw the gold signet ring on the shapely hand that set down a cup of tea before her, followed by two fingers of buttered toast on a plate.

  “Engaged!” she exclaimed, turning quickly to thank the courtly Gentleman. “Oh, no, sir,” she stammered, “we were only—” and broke off, unable to find the exact word that suited.

  “Occupied, I should have said,” the Gentleman corrected himself with an entrancing smile, adding as he bent lower above her chair, “but is not ‘sir’ a trifle formal between us two? Though you have given me no Christian name, may we not find something a little more happily intimate than ‘sir’?”

  This took her with such surprise that for a moment she hardly knew how best to answer, and that silly flush went careering over her cheeks and neck again. With a quick sideways glance she noticed that the Sailor was not listening, but was indeed examining dishes across the table with his telescope. Her interest in him dwindled a little too. It was rather absurd and a little childish, that telescope. That beard seemed suddenly less attractive somehow. It would be nice, she decided, awfully nice, in fact, if she could think of some better name than “Gentleman” or “sir,” a little more friendly and intimate, a shade more affectionate even. She searched for one, she racked her brains, but nothing occurred to her.

  “May I venture a suggestion perhaps?” the soft voice whispered in her ear, his cheek close to hers. “‘Gentleman’ is so long, and ‘sir’ so formal! Might we not find a happy compromise in ‘Gent’?”

  The idea delighted her the instant she heard it. Gent was so short and intimate; it was such a jolly name.

  “Yes — Gent — my Gent,” she agreed instantly, smiling into his face, and the same moment the two cheeks touched and she gave him a happy kiss.

  “Wind’s changing a bit — shifted a point to the south’ard — seems to me,” she heard the Sailor saying to himself with a chuckle. “But I’ll let you know when we start. A good blow won’t ‘urt anybody!” He was not looking at her as he spoke, but was busy pouring his tea into his saucer, then blowing over it to cool it. Whether “blow” referred to the sea or his tea she did not know.

  The Gentleman, meanwhile, his eyes sparkling from the kiss, had taken the chair on her other side, and was softly murmuring in her ear.

  “Let us sip our tea while it is still hot,” he said, lifting his cup daintily, with his little finger exquisitely curved in the air. “These fellows in calico,” and he shot an aristocratic glance across her at the blowing Sailor, “are a little uncertain in their table manners.”

  The Sailor merely went on chuckling. “Fingers was made before forks,” he remarked, looking across his saucer as he puffed. “A bit of a blow seems kind o’ natural to me.”

  “Oh, please, please don’t quarrel,” Maria put in hastily between them. “I love you both, you know—”

  “Your good ‘ealth — Gent!” chuckled the Sailor, cutting her off, drinking noisily from the saucer.

  “The same to you — Captain,” replied the Gentleman, rising to his feet and sweeping his white hat about. “And to you, my Lovely” — bowing to Maria—” my profound and unalterable devotion.” He drank delicately and noiselessly from the burning cup of tea. “Quarrels,” he whispered to her, “are impossible with us here. Such a thing is unknown. The Sailor and I, besides, are the oldest friends. We have shared the Barn together again and again, doubling up if somewhat unpleasantly, myself in silk, and that Sailor fellow in calico, exactly as you, my Beautiful, arranged us—”

  “Oh, my Gent—” began Maria, ashamed and uncomfortable, “how awful of me — did I really? — I’ll never again—”

  “There, there,” he purred consolingly, his hat now at the back of his head, giving him the fascinating air of a really dangerous rake, “we know that you will do everything possible for us. Your having come among us is itself a guarantee of that. You must graciously forgive any little — er — excesses” — he threw another pitying glance through his eyeglass at the Sailor, who was now soaking his buttered toast in his tea. “The wonder of it has affected our equilibrium here and there—”

  She wished he would
use shorter words, but of course a Gentleman could not use the speech of ordinary people.

  “Tide’s jest on the turn,” the Sailor was halfshouting. “‘Eave the anchor, lads, and let’s get a move on,” and a whole finger of sopping toast went into his mouth at a single gulp.

  But when she turned her head again, after watching the performance for a moment, to say something to the Gentleman, she saw that he was looking down his lovely aquiline nose with great intensity, staring under the table where a white hand with long fingers came creeping up stealthily towards his coloured waistcoat. And behind it, peering up, a bright, sharp face with penetrating eyes was just visible. The fingers reached the dangling fob, then with the utmost skill abstracted the gold watch, and dipped out of sight the same second.

  “Look out, Gent!” whispered Maria. “You’re being pickpocketed!”

  But her whisper trembled, nor could she bring herself to use the pickpocket’s name, for the Thief had looked for a moment straight into her own eyes, and she had realized that for nothing in the whole world, no matter what he did, would she betray him. Her warning, besides being too late against such lightning cleverness, produced no effect whatever.

  “That bauble!” mentioned the Gentleman contemptuously with a careless glance, his ringed finger stroking the empty pocket. “It has no meaning, anyhow, for it serves no purpose, does it? He is, moreover, as you made him, dear, the Perfect Thief, and has taken it at least ten thousand times already. It’s merely that our equilibrium is in jeopardy.” She felt for a moment as though the whole table was spinning round, as though she and all of the Fruit Stoners were balancing a little on its edge. “ The Perfect Thief,” she repeated to herself, and saw him looking at her across the cloth as he stirred his tea, and managed his cake with deft, neat, tidy hands. It was queer how his face both attracted and repelled her. Making a great effort, she looked away, but a slight shock, as of electricity, had again run through her whole being. She turned hurriedly to the Gentleman, only to find that he had left her side and was now sitting in a big arm-chair at what seemed to her the head of the table, though a round table, of course, had no real head. The Tinker now occupied his former seat.