by John Buchan
VI
Some time in May I began to have my doubts about the success of the partnership.
May is the pleasantest of months for a London dweller. Wafts of spring are blown in from its green cincture, the parks are at their gayest, there is freshness in the air, and the colours, the delicate half-shades of the most beautiful city on earth, take on a new purity. Along with late October, May had always been Reggie’s favourite season. First there would be the early canter in the Park. Then a leisurely breakfast, the newspaper, and his first pipe, with the morning sun making delectable patterns on the bookshelves. He would write a few letters and walk eastward, dwelling lovingly on the sights and the sounds — the flower-girls, the shoppers, the bustle of the main streets, the sudden peace of the little squares with their white stucco and green turf and purple lilacs and pink hawthorns. Luncheon at one of his clubs would follow, or perhaps an agreeable meal at a friend’s house. In the afternoon he had many little tasks — visits to the Museum, the sales or the picture galleries, researches in bookshops, excursions into queer corners of the City. He liked to have tea at home, and would spend the hours before dinner over books, for he was a discriminating but voracious reader. Then would come dinner; with a group of young men at a club or restaurant; or at some ceremonial feast, where he enjoyed the experience of meeting new people and making friendly explorations; or best of all at home, where he read till bedtime.
He had his exercise, too. He played a little polo at Roehampton and a good deal of tennis. He was an ardent fisherman, and usually spent the weekends on a Berkshire trout stream, where he had a rod. He would have a delightful Friday evening looking out tackle, and would be off at cockrow on Saturday in his little car, returning late on the Sunday night with a sunburnt face and an added zest for life . . . I always felt that, for an idle man, Reggie made a very successful business of his days, and sometimes I found it in my heart to envy him.
But now all this had changed. I had a feverish time myself that May with the General Election, which did not, of course, concern Reggie. When I got back to Town and the turmoil was over, I ran across him one afternoon in the Strand, and observed a change in him. His usual wholesome complexion had gone; he looked tired and white and harassed — notably harassed. But he appeared to be in good spirits. “Busy!” he cried. “I should think I was. I never get a moment to myself. I haven’t had a rod in my hand this year — haven’t been out of London except on duty. You see, we’re at the most critical stage — laying down our lines — got to get them right, for everything depends on them. Oh yes, thanks. We’re doing famously for beginners. If only the American slump would mend . . .”
I enquired about Miss Cortal, as I was bound to do. No engagement had been announced, but such a relationship could only end in marriage. People had long ago made that assumption.
“Oh, Verona’s very well. A bit overworked like me.” There was an odd look in his eyes, and something new in his voice — not the frank admiration and friendliness of the pre-Easter period — something which was almost embarrassment. I set it down to the shyness of a man in first love.
I asked him to dine, but he couldn’t — was full up for weeks ahead. He consulted a little book, and announced his engagements. They all seemed to be with members of the Cortal family. Luncheon was the same. On my only free days he was booked to Shenstone, the maiden aunt, and cousins from Norfolk who had taken a house in Town. He left me with the same hustled, preoccupied face . . . Next day I saw him on the Embankment walking home with the Cortal brothers. They were smiling and talking, but somehow he had the air of a man taking exercise between two genial warders.
I spoke to my cynical nephew about it. “The Shinies!” Charles exclaimed. “Not the Sheenies — there’s nothing Jewish about Cortal Frères. When will the world realise that we produce in England something much tougher than any Hebrew? We call them the Shinies, because of their high varnish . . . Old Reggie is corralled all right, shoes off, feet fired and the paddock gates bolted! . . . Will he marry the girl? I should jolly well think so. He’s probably up to his ears in love with her, but even if he loathed her name he would have to go through with it . . . And he’ll espouse a dashed lot more than the buxom Miss Verona — all her uncles and her nephews and her cousins and her aunts for ever and ever. They say that when a man marries a Jewess he finds himself half-smothered under a great feather-bed of steamy consanguinity. Well, it will be the same with the Cortals, only the clan will be less sticky. Reggie will never again call his soul his own. I’m not sure that he’ll want to, but anyhow he won’t. They’ll never let him alone. He used to be rather a solitary bird, but now he’ll have his fill of relations, all as active as fleas. What does the Bible say? ‘He shall receive an hundredfold houses, and brethren, and sisters, and mothers — with persecutions . . .’ With persecutions, mark you. Reggie is for it all right.”
As it happened I was so busy with arrears of cases that my life was cloistered during the last week of May and the first of June, and I thought no more of Reggie’s fortunes. But on the seventh day of June I had a letter from him, enclosing the proof of a kind of prospectus and asking me what I thought of it.
I thought many things about it. It was a statement of the aims of the “Interpreter’s House,” which was to be circulated to a carefully selected list in England and America. In every sentence it bore the mark of Verona’s fine Roman hand. No man could have written it. There was an indecency about its candour and its flat-footed clarity from which the most pachydermatous male would have recoiled.
In its way it was horribly well done. It was a kind of Stores List of the varieties of English charm and the easiest way to get hold of them. Merlin’s Isle of Gramarye had at last got its auctioneer’s catalogue. Not that it was written in the style of an estate-agent. It was uncommonly well written, full of good phrases and apposite quotations, and it carried a fine bookish flavour. But ye gods! it was terrible. Relentlessly it set down in black and white all the delicate, half-formed sentiments we cherish in our innermost hearts, and dare not talk about. It was so cursedly explicit that it brushed the bloom off whatever it touched. A June twilight became the glare of an arc lamp, the greenery of April the arsenical green of a chemist’s shop. Evasive dreams were transformed into mercantile dogmas. It was a kind of simony, a trafficking in sacred things. The magic of England was “rationalised” with a vengeance . . . There could be no doubt about its effectiveness. I could see the shoddy culture of two continents seizing upon it joyously as a final statement of the “English proposition.” It was a magnificent commercial prospectus for the “Interpreter’s House.” But I wondered how Reggie felt about it — Reggie who had always had a maidenly shyness about his inner world.
It seemed to me that the time had come for a heart-to-heart talk with him. I resolved to be very careful, for I was dealing with perilous stuff. If he was in love with Verona I dared not speak my mind, and even if there was no love, there were deep obligations of gratitude.
He dined with me at the House on the evening of June eighth, and afterwards we talked in a corner of the terrace. His looks made me uneasy, for he seemed both listless and restless. He kept looking nervously about him, as if at any moment something hostile might attack him. He had the air of a smallish rabbit caught in a largish trap.
But it was a stoical rabbit, for to me he made no complaint. In a leaden voice he announced that he was the most fortunate of men. His business was flourishing, and in the autumn it was proposed to form a company . . . At last he had found a vocation in life. Yet there was as much conviction in his voice as in the babbling of a sleep-walker.
I asked him baldly when he was going to be married. In even tones he replied that nothing had as yet been settled. But the form of his answer implied that something would soon be settled. I forbore to enquire further, for his gaze was fixed glassily on the tower of Lambeth Palace.
Then of his own accord he asked me what I had thought of the prospectus. I hastily resolved that no good
could come of candour. Reggie had made his bed and meant to lie on it, and it was not for me to put in extra thorns.
“Very well done,” I said; “what the Germans call appetitlich. It should give you an excellent send-off.”
“You didn’t think it vulgar?”
“Not a bit,” I lied. “Half-tones and broken lights won’t do in business. You must be emphatic.”
He nodded. “I agree with you. She wrote it, you know. Michael revised it, but in substance it was her work.”
I said something silly about having detected the finer female touch. Then he rose to go — he had an appointment with an American at the Savoy. It had been the most hopeless evening, for I had never come near him. He seemed to be separated from me by a vast thicket, and I felt that if I laid an axe to the bushes they would scream like mandrakes.
When we said good-bye, I felt a sudden wave of liking and pity. I patted him on the shoulder. “I hope you’re going to be very happy, old man,” I said, but he made no answer.
As I went back to my rooms I suddenly thought with grim amusement of what had happened at Flambard a year before. That story, so far as Reggie was concerned, was over. Youth’s infinite choice of roads had given place to a rigid groove, presided over by a relentless marmoreal blonde.
VII
But I was wrong. It may have been merely the sight of me as part of his old life, or it may have been my last words, but something that night brought Reggie to breaking-point. When he got home he rang up Tallis at Libanus, found that he was in London, ran him to ground at the Travellers’, and arranged to meet him the following morning. I do not know why he turned to Tallis, except that it was at his house that he had first met Verona, and that he seemed to stand for him on the dividing-line between a world which he had loved and a world which he had come to hate and fear.
Tallis told me this part of the story. They lunched together, and talked afterwards beside the fireplace in the hall. He had not seen Reggie for nearly six months, and was shocked at the change in him. As he expressed it, Reggie’s coat was all sulky and his body like a cab-horse.
According to Tallis, Reggie plunged at once into his tale, telling it with a kind of angry vehemence, rather dim about details, but desperately clear on the main points. He had lost everything he cared for in life, he said; he was involved in a juggernaut of a business, ground under a juggernaut of a family, and about to be tied up for life to a juggernaut of a girl. This last he only implied, for he spoke no disrespectful word of Verona.
“You haven’t proposed to her?” Tallis asked.
Reggie said he hadn’t, but that everybody expected him to, including, he feared, the lady herself. There was to be a Cortal family dinner the following night, and it had been gently but firmly hinted to him that that would be a fitting moment to announce the engagement.
“I gather that you’re not in love with her?” said Tallis.
Reggie looked wooden. He was trying to live up to his code. “I admire her immensely,” he stammered. “And I’m grateful to her — far more grateful than I can ever express — I owe her a tremendous lot . . . She has worked like a slave for me — given up most of her time — oh, she’s a marvel! Unselfish, too . . . Nobody has ever taken such an interest in me . . .”
“I know, I know. But do you love her?”
Then, just as an ice jam cracks on a river, Reggie’s decorum went with a rush.
“No, by God,” he cried wildly. “I don’t love her! And she doesn’t love me. She has taken me up, and she’ll stick to me till I’m in my grave, but she doesn’t love me. She couldn’t love anybody — not made that way. I’m only her business partner, the thing she needed to round off her life . . . Love her! O Lord, I’m nearer hating her. I’m in terror of her. She mesmerises me, like a stoat with a rabbit. She has twenty times my brains, and I’ve simply got to do as I’m told . . . And then there’s her awful family. I’m lapped in them, suffocated by them. I loathe her infernal apes of brothers — they’re so cursed gentlemanlike and efficient and patronising. Dash it all, man, there are times when I can scarcely keep from hitting their blinking faces.”
He dragged a paper from his pocket, and flung it at Tallis.
“There’s worse still. Look at that. Read it carefully and smack your lips over its succulent beastliness. That’s the Cortal idea of what I’m going to give my life to. That’s the prospectus of my business. The ‘Interpreter’s House,’ by God! It has interpreted them to me all right. Do you grasp the perfect hell of it? I’m to spend my days with the things I thought I cared about, but the gloss is rubbed off every one of them. I’m to be a sort of Cook’s guide to culture on a sound commercial basis. Damn it, I’d rather clean out drains in Chicago, for then I should know that there was a jolly world to which I might some day return. But it’s just that jolly world that’s been blasted for me.”
He dropped his head on his hands and groaned.
“There’s no way out except to cut my throat, and that wouldn’t be playing the game. I suppose I must go through with it. I mustn’t behave like a cad . . . Besides, I daren’t. I simply haven’t the nerve.”
Tallis was smiling cryptically.
“Funny you should tell me this. For the same thing happened to me about a quarter of a century ago.”
Reggie looked up quickly. “Gospel truth?” he asked.
“Gospel truth. She was an American — from Philadelphia — very pretty, and sweet, and sticky as barley sugar. She had a family, too, just like the Cortals, and she had a business mind. She took me up, and meant to run me, and at first I was fascinated. Then I saw that it would mean Gehenna — Gehenna for both of us.”
“What did you do?” The question came like a pistol crack.
“I did the only thing. Ran away and hid myself. Very far away — to western Tibet. I thought at the time that I was behaving like a cad, but now I know that it would have been far more caddish to have gone on. Marriage by capture doesn’t suit people like you and me.”
Reggie stared.
“I am not going to Tibet,” he said. He had forgotten all about Moe and Flambard, but something remained by way of an inhibition against the Orient.
“No need to. The world is wide. There’s plenty of other places.”
Tallis rose and rang a bell.
“I’m an abstemious man,” he said; “but I always drink brandy in moments of crisis. This is a crisis for you, my lad, and I’m going to take charge of it. You must run away and hide, like a little boy. It’s the only thing to do, and it’s also the wisest and the most courageous thing. Cut the painter, burn the ship, hew down the bridge behind you.”
There was light in Reggie’s dull eyes.
“Where shall I run to?” he asked, and his voice had lost its flatness.
“Come with me,” said Tallis. “I’m off tomorrow morning, and shall be away for the better part of a year. I have a bit of work to do before I can finish my book. I have shut up Libanus and sent my valuables to the bank. We go up to Liverpool tonight, so you will just have time to make your arrangements.”
“I’m not going east,” said Reggie, as the vague recollection rose again in him.
“No more am I. I am going west.”
Tallis fetched a sheet of club notepaper on which he wrote with a fat gold pencil.
“We must proceed according to Cocker,” he said. “No secret shuffling out of the country. This is an announcement of my departure which will appear in the press tomorrow, and I have added your name. It is your Declaration of Independence to all whom it may concern. Also you are going straight from here to see Verona and tell her. That will correspond to the tea chests in Boston Harbour. The train for Liverpool leaves at ten minutes past seven. We can dine on it.”
“What shall I say to her?” Reggie faltered, but not as one without hope.
“That’s your concern. You will find words if you really mean business. You are improving on my conduct, for I never made my adieux to the lady, but then Verona has done a go
od deal for you, and she is old Jim Jack’s niece. After all, it’s a kindness to her, for a girl with her brains can do better for herself than a chap like you. When you get home, you’ll find that she has espoused some appalling magnate.”
Reggie was on his feet, his lassitude gone, his shoulders squared. He spruced himself up with the help of an adjacent mirror, and his movements were brisk.
“Right,” he said. “The seven-ten at Euston. I needn’t take much luggage, for I can buy what I want in . . .” He stopped short. “New York is no good. I can’t hide myself there. The Cortals know half the place, and those blighted brothers are always hopping over.”
Tallis was paying for the brandy.
“You needn’t worry about that,” he said. “New York is only our jumping-off point. We are bound for farther south . . . Central America . . . a place called Yucatan.”
CHAPTER V. SIR ROBERT GOODEVE
“A covert place
Where you might think to find a din
Of doubtful talk, and a live flame
Wandering, and many a shape whose name
Not itself knoweth, and old dew,
And your own footsteps meeting you,
And all things going as they came.”
D G ROSSETTI, The Portrait.
I
For five months after that Whitsuntide at Flambard I saw and heard nothing of Goodeve. But I could not get him out of my mind, for of all the party he had struck me as the one to whom the experience meant the most, the one who had been the most tense and expectant. Whatever he had seen on the phantasmal Times page of a year ahead he would take with the utmost seriousness. I liked him so much that I was a little anxious about him. He was finer clay than the others.
My own attitude towards Moe’s experiment varied during these months. Sometimes I was inclined to consider the whole thing the vagary of a genius gone mad. But there were moments when I remembered his brooding pits of eyes and the strange compulsion of his talk, and came again under his spell. I made an opportunity to see Landor — the man I had telephoned from Flambard before my first conversation with Moe — and tried to discover what substance a trained scientist might find in Moe’s general theory. But Landor was not very helpful. The usual reaction had begun, and I gathered that at the moment the dead man had more critics than followers. Landor declared that he did not profess to understand him, but that the common view was that the speculations of his last years had been a sad declension from his earlier achievements in physics and mathematics. “It is the old story,” he said. “Age means a breaking down of partition walls, and the imagination muddies the reason. Moe should have ended as a poet or a preacher. He had got a little beyond science.” I tried to put limpingly Moe’s theory of Time, and Landor wrinkled his brows. “I know that there are people working on that line,” he said, “but I don’t think they have made much of it. It’s rather outside my beat. More psychology than physics.”