The nightmare touch had not yet pounced in and gripped her; flashes of uneasiness now and again, yes, but no real nightmare touch — as yet.
“I’m now ‘Mrs. Gentleman,’” she said to herself, and it was natural enough. “I’m married. I’ve got a husband. Yet I’m — yes — I’m just the same.” It was rather dull. A husband was just a husband. He had not changed merely because they had got married.
But was she “Mrs. Gentleman” — or “Mrs. Sailor”?
Mind and memory reeled a bit. A long period stretched behind her. She was sure of that. A long period of life in which little events stuck up sharply like almonds in a tipsy cake. She looked back and saw the stretch of dreamlike surface that had passed. It was nothing but a drab stretch. It reached away into the distance. Almonds stuck out here and there that she had nibbled at, almonds with shiny tips that were definite events....
The stretch, the period, was nothing, just commonplace existence. It had no particular colour, no rough bright points that caught and startled. Only the almonds — events that marked off the uneventful stretch — stood out and stung her vividly.
She picked one out and bit it, nibbled and tasted it.
“Mrs. Gentleman...!” It had a dull taste, flat and insipid.
She cast her mind back a little.
The Fruit Stoners, she recalled, leaving their futile searching, had emerged from the hay and formed in a ring about her, as she stood there, holding the Gentleman’s hand. All that was clear enough; it rose sharply enough from the colourless grey stretch. She remembered having first watched the Fruit Stoners a long time at their searching. They just went muddling about ineffectively in the hay, picking up all manner of little objects and stuffing them in their pockets. Anything they found, they stuffed away, from a broken comb to a tennis racket that had hardly any strings left. Each new article excited them, making them squeak and cackle noisily. She watched them hopefully for a bit, but then realized that their search was quite worthless. They seemed merely playing among themselves. It was of no help to her. The Thief’s curious words had flashed back upon her, and she decided she must do something quickly, and the best thing to do, obviously, was to get married. She shouted at them. She called them impatiently.
“Fruit Stoners!” she had cried, and they instantly emerged and assembled round her. “The Gentleman and I are going to get married, please, so you needn’t go on searching for the moment. It can wait!”
All this came back to her with a certain sharpness.
The Gentleman, bowing and scraping, had advanced with a gallant air and taken her hand. It was natural enough, of course; they had been affianced for a long time; they were now getting married, and were going to have a lot of children. She remembered bits of the ceremony even, of some conversation, too, they had enjoyed together. It was after that the blur came... the queer, dim smudge of forgetfulness that made her question whether she was Mrs. Gentleman or Mrs. Sailor.... She distinctly remembered, at any rate, asking if he had the ring, for she could still see him drawing it off his own finger and slipping it on to her own. It was the big gold signet-ring.
“We shall be one now,” she had murmured, standing beside him on the end of the broken cart, the Fruit Stoners grouped before them in a semi-circle. “For ever and ever, or at least — till — till something do us part.” She had no notion where her words came from, but they came. “And our little ones will — rise up — and call us blessed.”
The Gentleman himself, it seemed, had said hardly anything, nor could she for the life of her recall who had performed the ceremony, though there was a faint picture of a fugitive figure in a beard, rather like the Apothecary. What she did see clearly enough was something that happened with such suddenness that, really, she was not quite positive that she and the Gentleman had ever got married at all. She saw herself distinctly standing beside him on that broken cart-tail, looking him up and down, and wondering uneasily if, after all, she was not making a mistake. The sharp crease in his trousers, the white top-hat, the eyeglass, the fob, the coloured waistcoat, the whiff of sweet scent, the terrible politeness and courtliness and grace, with the long-winded sentences and lovely smiles — could she live with all this for ever and ever? The aristocracy, the formality, the perfection of behaviour, could she stand it day in, day out?... “It is my proud privilege,” she heard in his suave musical tones above a sweeping top-hat, “to inform you that it is a boy, and that he weighs ten pounds!” And then came a noisy shout that escaped from her lips with great, even with violent abruptness.
“But haven’t you got a Best Man, Gent?” Whereupon, as he indicated with a beautiful bow a figure close beside her, she had turned and seen the Sailor, his telescope full upon her face.
It was a glorious and dramatic moment, for she knew instantly that this marriage with the Gentleman was what is called a “terrible mistake.”
“I’m afraid, Gent,” she said at once, with great courage, “I’m afraid — he is the best man, and I must ask you to forgive me, if you don’t mind. It’s not too late, because our first-born hasn’t really come yet, so my life isn’t ruined, and you — you will get over it.” All this stood out quite sharply in her memory, and how she had shown great knowledge of the world, and kept her dignity, and acted with a courageous decision that had prevented much future unhappiness.
This was clear enough.
What escaped her, what remained an uncertain blur, was whether or not she had first passed through a long dreary period of married life in the Big House with the perfect gentleman waiting for that ten-pound first-born. Details, at any rate, kept hidden behind this indefinite blur, and she was only positive that, when the Sailor took her in his arms and kissed her, the Gentleman behaved exactly as she always knew he would behave. His action, words and manner were absolute perfection. Both of them, indeed, for that matter, proved themselves exactly what she had expected. The whole scene was quite an unforgettable picture in her mind. She was dealing with “real hairy men.” The dreadful fight, each man stripped to the waist, his jaw set, his eyes charged with undaunted courage, did not exactly materialize. But their language and behaviour — these were marvellous. The Gentleman never forgot he was a Perfect Gentleman, and the Sailor made no single false note. He was a true salt, if ever there was one.
“Ah!” had exclaimed the Gentleman, very quietly, screwing his eyeglass in, “so this is the Best Man — gadzooks!
“Blew into port las’ night, yes,” replied the Sailor, spitting with perfect aim on to the polished boot in front of him.
“I honour you, sir,” remarked the Gentleman, “and I offer you my respects. Permit me,” he added, with a delicious bow, “to introduce you to Miss Marigold, my fiancée.”
“Good enough,” returned the Sailor, spitting upon the other boot.
“And you, my dear fellah, are my Best Man, I am delighted to inform you.” He withdrew both feet carefully a little farther off. “We were just getting married, you know.”
The Sailor glared at him, drawing his trusty cutlass.
“I am Best Man,” he shouted, “and our appointment was on this very quay. I’m sailing in an hour, and the Captain’s ready to splice us right away.”
He looked terrible, unconquerable, ready for any weather.
But the Gentleman looked precisely the same, in spite of his languid, lackadaisical air.
Two dauntless heroes — she was positive of that — were on the point of fighting for her, and that, at least, was clear. There would be blood, and broken teeth, and hard, exhausted breathing. Each man in turn, apparently finished, would pick himself up from the floor, and with amazing courage, incredible fierce energy, would fling himself headlong against his bloody foe.
Instead of that, however, the Gentleman called upon his inexhaustible resources of blue blood. With infinite tact and resource he remembered his dizzy line of ancestors.
“The Senior Service,” he murmured suavely, with a bow that lowered his head almost to the floor. “Englan
d’s bulwarks! God save the King!”
He was the gallant gentleman down to the tip of both his damaged boots.
“If the Admiral,” he added courteously, “will accept, I — I have no option.” And he bowed himself backwards as only a gallant fellow could.
Maria remembered that she had been delighted, and she had kissed the Sailor with tremendous zest, while the Gentleman, diving into his pockets, showered rice and old shoes all over them. It was a lovely kiss, tasting of salt and seaweed, and she knew in that same instant when the Sailor’s arms were tight about her that she was going to be happy with him in every port in the world... for ever and ever....
The ports, at any rate, were wonderful — there was golden Rio, and Punta Gazzo, with its rice and breadfruits; Marango, with its peaches and azaleas; Marzipani, with its yellow sand and its tarantulas; Tipsi Caki, with its hot blue seas, alive with man-eating sharks and cannibals on the shore, and a thousand coral islands where the dangerous surf thundered in snowy spray into lagoons that were bubbling with coco-nuts flung by blue-based monkeys from a thousand luscious palms. The Sailor, full of pluck and tireless resource, was equal to the demands of every shipwreck. He made a wind-proof house out of a single oar, a dress for her from a single palm-leaf. He repulsed an attack of blood-thirsty pirates by pretending — in the nick of time — that his telescope was a machine-gun, and the famished cannibals, swarming round their hut at night under that ghastly tropic moon, worshipped them as gods when he merely lit a match and showed them fire for the first time in their lives. They found treasure as well, more than they could carry, deciding then that they loved one another too much and too passionately to bother about gold or money.
Oh, it was a happy, rolling-down-to-Rio time, a time of unutterable romance, this married life with the sailor-man.... The romance, the flaming Amazon, the tigers, elephants and boa-constrictors, the gorgeous butterflies and orchids, the nights of tropic moon, the overpowering perfumes....
It was the multiplication of the ports that then began to trouble her. Her husband had so many Captains and old pals to see. They kept him out so late. It worried her a little. There was another thing that worried her as well.
“I think—” she began delicately one night, just before he left to see a pal or Captain. “I’m afraid—” And she burst into tears and shivered.
“It’s coming, I think,” she murmured, behind her palm-leaf fan. “It’s on the way.” And she flung herself helplessly into his muscular arms.
His deep emotion took him in a curious way, she thought. He called upon his god, the only one he knew.
“Oh, hell—” he said below his breath, squeezing her so tightly that she was afraid for a moment not only that she would lose her breath, but that he meant her to lose it.
It was after this “unsuspected disaster” that she guessed the truth. The Sailor was untrue to her. Her interest in elephants, tigers, tropic moons and orchids waned.
It was not a successful marriage, she decided, her eyes quite dry.
If you’re tired of me, Maria,” he whispered briefly, “why — just say so. Don’t be afraid.” He held her very tight, though he looked the other way.
Though this seemed odd somehow, she kept a stiff upper lip, and, while it hurt and pinched a bit, she knew it was the proper thing to do. Keeping it very stiff indeed, she gave a quiet gulp.
“I am — perhaps — a bad sailor — rather,” she murmured tactfully.
He understood. “You’re a good sport, anyway,” he praised her. “I will say that for ye, Miss.”
“Mrs.,” she reminded him. “Mrs., please...”
And, as she now looked round the Barn, these odd, broken memories came back to her, with the elusive sensation of long intervals having passed, a long, drab-coloured stretch of existence that really had very little meaning after all. These events, like almonds out of a tipsy cake, emerged. She nibbled at them, and while in one sense they had a slightly stale taste, in another they had so little flavour that they were almost tasteless, as though something was lacking in them, something important that would have made them more real, as it were. None of them were real. The half-sweet, half-bitter taste she felt ought to have been there was absent, the pungent, rather medicinal, even biting tang she had expected.
It was now, as she looked round the Barn, that she discovered the reason of this suddenly. She knew what had been missing, but also she knew why. The tang of actuality in the two marriages was missing because —
No words rose in her mind, for her thought blocked dead as she saw the pair of large, penetrating eyes hanging in the air just beyond the great heap of potatoes. The shadows in that corner were rather thick, so that no complete figure showed, and she only saw the dim patch of a face with these two familiar eyes that shone like veiled lamps. They looked straight into her own. To her deep vexation she felt the accusing blood pour up her neck and throat and cheeks again. And yet she welcomed it.
“The Thief,” she heard herself whispering, though too low to be overheard. “The Thief!” She was trembling a little. She bent her head, busily searching again in the hay about her, and when she glanced up a moment later the eyes were no longer visible. Her hand went to her hair and waist and neck with a gesture of impatience. Her ribbon and belt and necklace, of course, were still missing. She glanced down at her skirt and legs, but the hay smothered both. “I must look awful,” darted across her mind, thinking it a pity that the curve of her slim calves was hidden. “Why, I’m not properly dressed even....”
The telescoping of time was scarcely noticed; it certainly caused her no distress. It seemed quite natural, apparently, that intervals should come and go, even that two intervals should occur and pass at once. Voyages and marriages could take place simultaneously easily enough when there was neither past nor future. Being older and younger could run parallel and side by side without upsetting or destroying anything. Time here was a braver adventure than she realized. The sense that intervals passed and occurred swept over her, none the less. She had jumped ahead in a fashion as with a jerk. That, too, was natural enough, she felt. Growing older was not measured by the accumulation of minutes slowly passing, but by a sudden startling jerk that announced the fact “I’m older,” a jerk that brought with it a definite shock.
It came now, this startling jerk, dropping upon her with a shock there was no denying. A shadow fell from nowhere, an awful sense of foreboding with it. A cold touch as of an icicle was laid upon her heart, interrupting its rhythmic beat, making it first stop, then scamper rapidly. She caught her breath. She listened. A sinking horror came. Her fingers clutched the loose hay.
In between the irregular beating of her startled heart another, and a different, beat was distinctly audible.
Tick tock! Tick tock! It tapped its way towards her, growing steadily louder as it came.
All this time, ages and ages, she had completely neglected her great purpose. She had trifled away every opportunity while the minutes droned unsuspectingly away. The call of pleasure, adventure, amusement, the call of life, had been so urgent and delicious that she had persuaded herself everything else could wait. The search for her Pearl of Great Price, of course, could wait. There was no hurry. Let it wait. There was lots and lots of time....
And now came the reminder again that her time was short, that it was passing, that much of it, far too much, had passed already. Tick tock! Tick tock! Tick tock!
It had never really ceased, but she had smothered it away, decided she need not, would not, bother with it yet. And there it was again, louder, closer, more insistent than ever, in all its panic horror, in all its remorseless certainty, a hoarse, grinding sound somewhere at the back of it. And it was those fiery, hanging eyes that now made her hear it.
It was as though she suddenly woke up, this nightmare terror clutching at her heart. Those penetrating eyes, why did they always galvanize her in this way? Was he — the Thief — more real than the others? What was it about him that brought this odd, unpleas
ant, stimulating shock that seemed to make her more aware? More real? More awake? More conscious? What was she saying to herself... where did these queer notions come from?...
Tick tock! Tick tock!
It was louder, it was coming nearer, it was both inside her and in the air about her. The end of her Five Minutes, whether she had used them or not, was closer. The grinding noise persisted. All that had been happening now seemed suddenly to have been a sort of semi-consciousness, not wholly real, though certainly not a dream. This air of unreality shimmered over it. More awake? More real? Yes, the shock of those eyes brought the sense of breaking out of semi-consciousness into a state where she was becoming more aware....
Her eye ran rapidly over the Barn, taking it all in. The Fruit Stoners were only pretending to search, they were trifling, playing with her, doing it all on purpose, beguiling and amusing her deliberately, keeping her with calculated intention from her real object in coming here. Her Pearl of Great Price, it darted across her, was not in the Barn at all; she was only wasting precious minutes looking for it here: it was in the Pig Stye. Her search in the Barn had been nothing but idle pretence anyhow. The Pig Stye was the place. Naturally — of course — it would be in the least likely place of all. She must find the Pig Stye....
At which moment exactly in her frantic efforts to think clearly had the figure looking like a Guy Fawkes stepped up and interrupted. He came from behind her so that she had not noticed his approach. Head and shoulders were sprinkled with loose wisps of hay, dust covered him as though he had been burrowing underground, a string of dusty cobwebs trailed round his neck, and it was only when she caught sight of a beard among the dandelions and thistles that she recognized the Apothecary.
“This is not what you seek, Maria,” said his quiet, thoughtful voice, “but it may be useful to you!” He held something out to her that she took automatically without looking at it, for her mind choked with two questions she burned to ask him: “Do you hear it — that Tick tock?” and “Can you show me the way to the Pig Stye?” And she was on the point of asking them when something in his manner stopped her. She hesitated for a second, glancing down at the object he was holding out. Bright and shining it was, cold to the touch, as she took it automatically. His low voice continued mumbling.
Collected Works of Algernon Blackwood Page 313