by James Hilton
Just as he climbed the steps to enter the Office Jevons ran down almost into his arms. “Hullo, sir, I ’phoned the club and they told me you were walking over. I was coming to meet you. There’s just been a message from Walton….”
“Tell me,” said Elliott, leading him towards the silver emptiness of the Parade.
“It’s good news, sir. Tribourov’s only slightly hurt.”
“Oh…. Oh…. Thank God….”
“And apparently he’s using his influence to calm things down. Walton’s seen him. Walton thinks the situation will be smoothed over.”
And so on… Elliott was suddenly, in the midst of his relief, aware that the day had been strenuous, and that he was rather tired. Jevons continued to talk, but Elliott was only half-listening; he would have to get him to go over everything again later on—perhaps in the morning. But he felt, beyond his relief and his tiredness, something more fugitive—a certain communion of spirit with a man hundreds of miles away whom he had never seen, and whose language he could not speak—something that made him exclaim, as he took Devon’s arm: “Tribourov sounds a good fellow.”
“He’s certainly not monkeying, anyway, sir.”
“Perhaps I shall meet him some day. I hope so. I can’t tell how you relieved I feel.”
“I know. I could see you were bothered. But you always take things pretty calmly—more than I often can. I had a terrific wind-up this afternoon, for instance, when that plane began to come down.”
“Really?”
“I was picturing both our obituaries in the papers—two columns for you and an inch paragraph for me…. I say, that’s love’s young dream, if you like, isn’t it—just over there?”
“Very much so. I noticed them as I came along just now. Charming, Jevons—quite charming. Laugh if you want, but you’ll feel more like crying when you’re my age.”
He had been young with Petrie, but Jevons made him feel grandfatherly. They passed into Birdcage Walk and across Victoria Street to Elliott’s house. All the way Jevons talked, and Elliott was nearly silent; he felt too tired to know anything but that his birthday had been, on the whole, a success. In his arm-chair over a final cigar, after Jevons had said good-night, he reviewed the hours and how variedly they had progressed—breakfast at Chilver, the meeting at Sibleys, sandwiches in mid-air, that winding lane to Upeasy, tea with the P. M., the club dinner, and now this last good news… so much could happen in a day, and so little in a lifetime. Sixty years of doing and being, of threading blindly into the pattern, yet with eyes that never lost their hope of sight. And sometimes, as just now, one felt a touch in the darkness beyond the everlasting criss-cross of chance—a touch that, in an earlier and more faithful age, would have sent one to one’s knees.
Elliott did not kneel. But when he went to bed a little later, he fell asleep as quickly and as peacefully as a child.
* * *
THE END