by John Collier
He turned at last into the mean street where he lived. He stumbled into the smelly passage. His landlady, who had spied him from the basement window, now called to him up the kitchen stairs. «Is that you, Mr. Baker?» cried she.
Albert stopped dead. His room was two floors above, but he could already see it as if he were in the doorway: its dimness, its frowsiness, its promise of a few hours' safety with Eva. He had thought of nothing beyond that. All he wanted was just a few hours in that room. He had gone through the hellish streets for that, and now, from the tone of his landlady's voice, he knew he would never see his room again. He began to cry.
«Yes, it's me, Mrs. Budgen,» he said haltingly, using the breaths between his sobs.
«Mr. Baker, there's been inquiries,» shouted the landlady. «Looked like the plain-clothes to me. I'd like a word, now. I —»
«All right, Mrs. Budgen,» said Albert. «I'll be down in half a tick. Just got to go to the W.C.»
He allowed himself a few seconds to breathe, then took up Eva again, and crept out of the front door and into the hideous street. He reached the corner, and saw Praed Street with its taxi-cabs. «Got to take a cab,» he said aloud, as if he were still addressing the man in the goods yard. «I dunno where I'm going.»
«Hi!» called Albert to a passing taxi. It went on unheeding. «Hi!» he called. «Stop, won't you? Are you mad?» He actually galvanized his bending knees into a pitiable stagger, and overtook the taxi a few yards on, where it had stopped at a crossing. The driver looked at him as he panted alongside.
«Here you are,» said Albert, staring at the delivery slip he had held all this time in his hand. «Pinckney, 14 Mulberry Grove, Hampstead.»
«O.K.» said the driver. Albert fell into the cab, and they were off.
Albert held Eva propped against him, and closed his eyes. A jerk, such as the dead will feel on the last day, recalled him to his sense. There was sunlight, altogether unlike the menacing glare in the loud streets: it was filtered through the leaves of lime trees. There was a heavenly quiet, a green iron gate, a gravel drive, a smiling house-front, peaceful, prosperous, and not unfriendly.
Albert stood in a wide porch, with his arm round Eva. A soft-faced man, in blue serge trousers and waistcoat stood in the doorway. «Never 'eard of a tradesman's entrance?» said he mildly.
«This 'ere's special,» said Albert, holding out his slip.
«Well, you've come wrong,» said the man. «Mr. Pinckney's down at the Hall. Two Rivers Hall, Baddingly, Suffolk. They ought to have known at the shop. You take it back quick.»
«Wanted very special,» murmured Albert in despair, proffering his slip.
The man weighed up the situation for a moment. «Hand it over,» said he. «The chauffeur's going down. He'll take it.»
«He'll take me, too,» said Albert. «This is special.»
«All right,» said the man. «You'll have to get back by yourself though.»
«Don't you worry about me,» said Albert.
There followed another dream, with Albert sitting in the back of a large touring car, Eva beside him, and the wrapping dislodged a little so that she could get the fresh air and see the fields go by. Not a word was said. Albert ceased trying to fit things together in his brain. He wished the drive would go on for ever, but, since it had to end, he was glad that it ended at a quiet house, standing on a gentle Suffolk knoll, surrounded by red walls and green gardens, full of the shade of senior trees.
«The master's in the studio,» said an old woman to the chauffeur.
«You come along with me,» said the chauffeur to Albert.
Albert followed with his precious burden into a cobbled stable yard. The chauffeur knocked at a door. «Young man from Rudd & Agnew's. Special delivery,» said he.
«What's that?» said a voice. «Send him in.»
Albert found himself in a giant room. It was a loft and stable knocked into one, with a vast cool window all down one side. A large canvas stood on an easel; there were hundreds of brushes, several palettes, boxes of colours. On a cane sofa was a young man reclining in great comfort, reading a thriller.
This young man looked up at Albert. He was a true monkeyface, hideously ugly, with a quick brown eye, hair fallen over his forehead; cotton jersey, beach trousers, straw shoes, and a pipe. «Well, what is it?» said he.
«I've brought —» said Albert. «I've brought — I've brought this.» He pulled aside a little more of the wrapping.
«I didn't order anything of this sort,» said the young man. «You've brought her to the wrong place.»
«Here it is,» said Albert, offering his slip. «Written down.»
«I don't use that sort of model,» said the young man. «Might be an idea, though. However, you ask them to give you some beer in the kitchen, and then take her back.»
«No,» said Albert. He began to shake and tremble. He stared at Mr. Pinckney with a rabbit desperation. Mr. Pinckney stared back at him. «What is all this?» said he.
«Mister,» said Albert, «have you ever been in love?»
«We won't discuss that,» said the ugly young man.
«If you don't know, it's no good me talking, »said Albert. «All right, I'll get out. Come on, Eva. I can't help it. We got to get out.»
«Wait a little,» said Mr. Pinckney. «Take it easy. Tell me all about it. I shall understand.»
«It's like this,» said Albert, and told, very strangely, his strange story.
«You are quite mad,» said Pinckney at the end of it.
«So they say,» said Albert. «I'm a human being, ain't I? I could be happy.»
«I like your philosophy,» said Pinckney. «Mad but happy.»
«Have I ever been happy?» said Albert.
«Go on,» said Pinckney.
«And what about her?» said Albert. «But you are laughing. You're ribbing me.» His voice rose dangerously.
«What would you do with her?» said Pinckney.
«I'd look after her,» said Albert. «But not to be ribbed. No. I'll get out.»
«Listen you,» said Pinckney. «If you want to look after her, don't leave her propped against the table there. Set her in the armchair comfortably.»
«Yes, sir, I will,» said Albert. «I didn't like to ask.»
«Take off those stuffy wrappings,» said Mr. Pinckney harshly. Albert smiled at Mr. Pinckney.
«So, you're in love with her,» said Mr. Pinckney, «and you want to be happy. What's your name, by the way?»
«Albert Baker. Hers is Eva.»
«Well, Baker,» said Pinckney, in a tone of command. «I'm not making you any promises; you're just here in peace and quiet for the present. How long, depends on a lot of things. Most of all, on how you behave. You're mad. Don't forget it. It doesn't matter a bit, but you've got to be sensible about it. Listen to this. If ever you feel an overpowering impulse — if ever you feel you simply must do something — whatever it is, you're to tell me first. Do you hear?»
«Yes, sir,» cried Albert. «If you please, I must — I must go to the lavatory. I'm so happy.»
«Excellent!» said Pinckney. «Then go and sit under the tree over there. Eva will be perfectly all right. She's resting.»
«She's all right,» said Albert. «She trusts you.»
When he had gone, Pinckney went to the telephone, and he called his lawyer.
«I'm going to keep him here,» said he, in conclusion. «Well, I'm going to, that's all — Yes, but you tell them their damned model's going to be paid for. That's all they care about — Yes. I'm responsible for him — That's it, our respected client — As long as you fix it — Oh, hideous, absolutely hideous — Might do to paint for a lark — Well, you'll let me know? Good man! That's fine.»
Pinckney hung up. «He'll fix it,» said he to himself. «But I'll keep that bit of news, in case he needs calling to order. If he seems depressed, I'll tell him.»
Albert, however, did not seem depressed. The journey through the London streets had left him with some comfortable blanks in his mind. He wore a slightly dazed look; his m
outh hung open, and his eyes filled with tears now and then, when a thought came to a happy end, transforming itself into a feeling, like a flower opening inside his mind. To the outward view there was nothing very odd about him. «He's a bit queer, isn't he?» said Mabel the housemaid.
«Nervous breakdown,» said the housekeeper. «That's what Mr. Pinckney says. My sister's boy had one. They put him in a home.»
«He's no trouble,» said Mabel. «Does his own room, anyway. Funny, he locks that door as if he had the Crown Jewels to look after.»
«He's very willing and obliging,» said the housekeeper. «And he's got to be let alone.»
Albert had an old chauffeur's room, away over the end of the stables. He shone the shoes, he fetched and carried for the housekeeper, who was told never to send him down to the village. Most of the time he helped the gardeners in the green gardens that were almost all lawn and trees. From the dusty window Eva watched him working for her in the yellow shade of the limes, in the black shade of the mulberries, and in the green shade of the mighty beech.
In the evening Albert had his supper in the housekeeper's room. At the end of it, «Thank you, ma'am,» said he, and, «Thank you, miss,» to Mabel. He was very polite; to him they were lesser angels, instruments of the great power that kept the world at bay. Then he hurried away to his room, to tell Eva all about it.
«He came up to me today,» he would say, «Oh he's so nice, Eva. I can't tell you how nice he is. Always speaks rough, only it's in a joking way. But when he mentions you — it's most respectful. He knows what you are. I ought to have told you: it was his idea about bringing up the roses. Only I thought you'd like it to be me.»
This was only the beginning of their evening, which stretched far into the light summer night, for Albert slept very little, and when he did Eva came to life in his dreams. «Are you miserable?» he asked her. «Are you still longing for the Riveera?»
«Not me,» she replied softly.
«It's better than the shop, isn't it?» said he, anxiously.
«It's nice being with you,» said Eva.
«Do you mean it ?» cried Albert eagerly. «With me?»
These tender passages passed between them in dreams so mingled with his summer wakefulness that he passed from one to another as easily and unnoticingly as he passed from one shade of beech to shade of lime on the lawn. Sometimes Albert and Eva never lay down at all, but passed the night at the window, watching the glow fade from the red roofs of the village at the foot of the slope, and not moving till the dawn brought them into sight again.
One evening, under one of these friendly red roofs, a meeting was in progress. The proceedings were concerned with the organization of the village flower-show and fête. Officials were appointed to the charge of the show-tent, the gate, the sideshows, and the collection of subscriptions. «I propose Mr. Ely be asked to go round for subscriptions,» said the vicar's gardener. «I beg to second that,» said the blacksmith. «If Mr. Ely will be so kind,» said the secretary, cocking an inquiring eye at the village constable, whose official position marked him out for this responsible office. Mr. Ely nodded formidable assent, the proposal was unanimously accepted, entered in the minutes, and the meeting was adjourned.
Next morning Mr. Ely mounted his bicycle, and pedaled slowly in the direction of the Hall.
«Oh, God!» cried Albert, peering from behind a hedge. «They've tracked us down.»
Bending double, he ran to his little stable-room. «Come on, Eva,» he said. «It's no good. It couldn't last. He can't save us this time. It's the police.»
He took Eva in his arms and ran down under the field hedges to a wood in the bottom, and there across country, along the edges of dusty summer fallows, crawling through standing corn, taking to the woods whenever possible, scuttling across the roads when he came to them, shouted at by one or two men in the fields, flown at by a dog when he blundered on a keeper's hut in a clearing, stared at by an awful eye from above. All around he could sense a network of cars and men, policemen, shopwalkers, the Secretary himself, searching for him and Eva.
Night came. He could now creep only a hundred yards at a time, and then must lie still a long time, feeling the earth turn over and over, and the network of pursuit close in. «Eva,» said he, «we've got to go on all night. Can you stand it?»
Eva made no response. «You're weak,» said he. «Your head's going round. You can feel your heart giving way. But we've got to go on. I've let you down again, Eva. We've got to go on.»
The last part of that night journey was a blank to Albert. They must have come to a common. He found himself sprawled in a deep bay in a clump of furze. Eva lay tumbled beside him, in a horrible attitude, as she had lain that fatal morning in the shop. «Stretch yourself out,» he said. «I'll come to in a minute. I'll look after you.»
But the sun was already high when he sat up, and Eva was still sprawled as she had been before. A yellow fly crawled on her cheek: before he could move, it had crawled right over her unwinking blue eye. «Eva!» he cried. «What's up? Wake up. Has it been too much for you? Say something, do.»
«She's dead!» he cried to the world at large. «Carrying her about like that — I've killed her.»
He flung himself upon the sprawling figure. He opened her dress, he listened for her heart. He lay like that for a long time. The sun poured down, glimmering on the worn blue suit, parching the flossy hair, devouring the waxen cheeks, fading the staring blue eyes.
Albert's face was as dead as Eva's, till suddenly it was galvanized by an expression too distracted and too fleeting to be called hope. Thump, thump, thump, he heard: he thought it was her heart beating again. Then he realized it was footsteps coming near.
He raised his head. Someone was on the other side of the bushes. «They shan't disturb you, my darling,» he said to Eva, and got up and stumbled round to face the intruders.
It was not policemen: it was two ordinary men, filthy, unshaven, looking at Albert out of wicked eyes.
«Nice goings on,» said one of them.
«We seen you,» said the other.
«There's a law against that sort of thing,» said the first. He gazed up at the sky. «Might be worth a couple of quid, not to be run in for that sort of thing.»
«For a decent girl it would,» said the other.
«Not to be dragged along to the copper-station with her thin-gummys hanging round her ankles,» said the first.
«You keep off,» said Albert. «I haven't got no money. Straight. You can search me if you like.»
«Perhaps the young lady 'as,» said the first man, having verified this point.
«If she is a young lady, she 'as,» said the second.
«And if not,» said the first. «If not, Alf — What do you say? Looked O.K. to me. Nice bit of goods!»
«I'm game,» said Alf, glancing round.
The men made a move. Albert got in front of them, his arms spread wide. «Keep back,» he said again, feeling how light and flat and useless the words were.
«Sit on him, Alf,» said the first man. «Then I will.»
There was a scuffle. Albert, heaven knows how, tore himself away from Alf, and rushed after the first man, seizing him by the collar and raining blows on his hard head. «Strewth!» cried the man. «'Ere, take him off, Alf, 'e's stinging me.»
Albert felt a hand seize him. He turned; there was Alf's grinning face. «Come on, dearie,» said Alf. Albert, yielding for a moment, suddenly kicked as hard and viciously as he could. There was a terrifying howl. Alf was rolling on the ground.
«What'll they do to me?» thought Albert. «Eva! I did it for you.»
«He's done it to me!» cried Alf. «He's done it to me. Kill the — Kill 'im!»
Something hit Albert on the side of the jaw, and a bombshell burst in his brain. «The knock-out,» said the first man, turning again to go round to where Eva lay.
«Let me get my boots on him,» said Alf, scrambling to his feet.
«Gawd's trewth! Look here, Alf,» cried the first man from the o
ther side of the bushes. «It's a bloody dummy.»
«You come back here,» said Alf. «You 'it 'im. I didn't!»
«What's up?» cried the other, hurrying round.
«He's a goner,» said Alf. «I'm off.»
«Wait a minute, pal,» cried the first man. «Have some sense. You're in it as much as me. Look here, you kicked him. Do you think I can't see? Never mind. Let's get him hid; that's the main thing.»
«Chuck 'em down in the chalk pit, both of 'em,» said the other. «Come on! It'll look as if he fell in of his own accord. We've never seen him, have we?»
A few minutes later the men were gone. The sun poured down on the glinting common, scorching everywhere except in the cool bottom of the chalk pit, where Eva and Albert lay unsought and undisturbed. His head lay limp on her neck; her stiff arm was arched over him. In the autumn, when the over-hang crumbled down on them, it pressed him close to her for ever.
ROPE ENOUGH
Henry Fraser, well assured that almost everything is done by mirrors, was given a job in India. No sooner had he set foot on shore than he burst into a horse-laugh. Those who were meeting him asked in some alarm the cause of this merriment. He replied he was laughing at the mere idea of the Indian Rope Trick.
He emitted similar startling sounds, and gave the same explanation, at a tiffin where he was officially made welcome; likewise on the Maidan, over chota peg, in rickshaws, in bazaars, in the Club, and on the polo ground. Soon he was known from Bombay to Calcutta as the man who laughed at the Indian Rope Trick, and he gloried in the well-deserved publicity.
There came a day, however, when he was sitting in his bungalow, bored to death. His boy entered, and, with suitable salaams, announced that a mountebank was outside, who craved the honour of entertaining the sahib with a performance of the Indian Rope Trick. Laughing heartily, Henry consented, and moved out to his chair upon the veranda.
Below, in the dusty compound, stood a native who was emaciated to a degree, and who had with him a spry youngster, a huge mat basket, and a monstrous great sword. Out of the basket he dragged some thirty feet of stout rope, made a pass or two, and slung it up into the air. It stayed there. Henry chuckled.