“A lass for a true man,” continued Andrew, bestowing an admiring and amused smile upon John. “How’d you like to be alone with her, Johnnie?”
John, whose face had again become swollen and suffused, his pulses throbbing, stared at the other man. There was a rough sound in his throat, like the voice of a bull.
“Now, in my City quarters,” insinuated Andrew, softly, “a man can be alone with a baggage.”
He poured fresh whiskey into John’s tankard, and again the young man drank feverishly.
Later, when he attempted to remember what happened, he could not, giving up in despair. He recalled that lights began to wheel in long brilliantly coloured circles before his swimming eyes. He recalled voices that roared in his ears, retreated, like the sound of surf on a shingle. There were thundering sounds, mingled with wild maniacal laughter, murmurs, hoarse rumbles. He thought that shining walls, opalescent and radiantly gleaming, were about him, shot through with threads of gold and scarlet. He was dimly aware of movement, that he was walking, leaning heavily on the shoulders of others he could not see. Hands touched him from everywhere in that blazing space; faces appeared and disappeared before him, disembodied faces with white dazzling teeth, forever present, forever vanishing. Once there was a blast of cold damp air upon his burning cheeks, sounds of horses’ hoofs starting like low drumbeats then swelling to universal crashing in his intoxicated ears. Some one was nestling against him, warm, soft, murmurous. An immense nausea seized him. Voices shrieked and roared with laughter. He was caught up in flames that stretched to an endless black zenith. He saw their long radiant streamers ascending, himself with them, floating, soaring. Yet another part of him, suddenly, was in a dank dark room, lit with flickering pale candles which glimmered on white intent faces. It was very strange: he was in that room, yet also streaming heavenward in thin banners of fire and light. All at once it seemed very necessary to him that he reconcile this phenomenon.
In the midst of his concentration, he fell into a pit of blackness.
CHAPTER 5
Mr. James Turnbull sat before the low fire in his sitting room which adjoined his bedchamber.
The gray rain was hurling itself in cataracts against the windows, against which his valet had drawn the dark brown curtains. Mr. Turnbull heard the roaring sound of it; his house might have been under a waterfall. Occasionally there was a long loud rumble of thunder. But no lightning penetrated that silent dim room with the flickering fire. The curtains stirred in gusts that reached through the panes; there was an uneasy movement in them, as though enemies lurked behind their heavy and voluminous folds. Far in the depths of the great house there were echoing and booming sounds, discreet and disembodied. They enhanced the atmosphere of gloomy quiet and stillness in the sitting-room.
Mr. Turnbull sat in his great chair before the fire, his slippered feet on a hassock. At his right elbow stood a small table covered with a crimson velvet cloth, fringed with little gold balls. His lamp was lit. His pipe lay on the table, his deck of smooth old cards, and his little notebook, covered with black leather, in which he made his private and serene notes. The fire flickered. In Mr. Turnbull’s quiet veined hands lay a copy of famous words uttered by famous dead men. He read this book many times. He never tired of it. Always, he found something new in it, some freshness, some poignant pertinence which struck his heart as though it was a cymbal and the word a muffled hammer. For Mr. Turnbull was of that species of rare and contemplative creature who live solely in the mind, and find there all solace, all irony, all joy, and all peace and adventure.
As only a true cynic can enjoy life utterly, (and Mr. Turnbull was a true cynic) he had no regrets, no anticipations, no disappointments. His was tranquillity, devoid of futile expectations. He lived easily, for nothing disturbed him overmuch. The fiercest hate, the mightiest love, the coldest wind and the hottest sun, which disturb more ardent men, never assaulted him. He knew these to be passing, and had long known that nothing is worth desire, regret or sorrow. Nevertheless, like all true cynics, he was all gentleness and all tolerance.
Mr. Turnbull was thin and slight, bowed and fragile of body. The thick fringed shawls over his shoulders seemed the habiliments of a mummy, for he seemed hardly to breathe. On his bald head he wore a knitted cap with a tassel. His dressing gown covered two narrow ridges that were his legs, stretched out towards the hassock. The hands that held the book were worn and delicate, and trembled slightly. He seemed to be sunken in profound contemplative thoughts.
His face had in it a strange resemblance to the young face of Eugenia MacNeill, for it was pale and closed and still, and immeasurably withdrawn. His forehead, gleaming and polished, was the most prominent feature of his countenance, and appeared to overshadow the long narrow nose below it, and the pale folded lips. When he sat like this, his gaze on his book, his whole face had an aspect of aloof dignity and remoteness, like the majestic expression of the dead. But when he lifted his eyes, one saw that they were full and gray and mysteriously lighted, and full of profound serenity. And then his thin withered lips betrayed their inherent but unmalicious irony, their wise tolerance and gentleness, as he half smiled at some thought of his own, or some inner comment on the words on the page.
His sitting room was almost bare in its simplicity. The walls, panelled with brown wood, were lined with books. There was a thick brown rug upon the polished floor. Between the bookcases, and over the mantelpiece, were exquisite small paintings of quiet landscapes, umber brown, dim green and golden yellow. Sometimes, as the fire leapt uneasily, light flashed on the landscapes, or shone brightly on the polished fenders.
“‘Le matin je fais des projets, et la soir je fais des sottices!’” murmured Mr. Turnbull, aloud, reading from his books. He smiled slightly, and glanced at the fire. What an old story that was! But it was also a story for the old. Such sadness should not touch the young, lest they grow cold, numb and impotent. But always, at the end, they knew this. However, when that knowledge came, it could no longer hurt them. An endless resignation came to them with cooling blood. And, at the last, the words brought no sadness, but only relief.
Mr. Turnbull had no longing for his youth, as he had no longing for anything at all. What a turbulent time was youth, indeed! He was done with it. He was done with its absurdity and its splendour. The old, finally, eat at every man’s table, but reside in no man’s house. But youth invaded all houses, blustering and noisy, contemptuous and boisterous. What guests in a serene house! He was glad that his curtains were drawn and his low fire was warm yet not too warm.
He continued to read through the quotations:
“Bid faith and hope alike adieu,
Could I but add Remembrance, too!”
But a wise man discarded remembrance at will, thought Mr. Turnbull. To remember was endless pain. The man of strength refused, at last to suffer. He recalled Voltaire’s: “Details that lead to nothing are to history what baggage is to an army—impedimenta.” Memory was a detail. On the onward movement of a man to his grave, heavy with his years, he could not afford the impedimenta of memory.
But memory, thought Mr. Turnbull, though its outlines were forgotten, was still like the Old Man of the Sea, unseen but felt. It was a sore burden. Youth was strong because it had no memories. He had the sudden whimsical thought that if a man could forget completely, he would always be young. It was memory that slowed the blood, wasted the muscles, made the step falter and the eye grow dim. It was the remembrance of dead happiness, of dead hopes, of futility, of dreams that came to nothing but wry sad laughter, that killed a man at the last.
It was the old Voltaire, not the young, who had said:
“This world, this theatre of pride and wrong,
Swarms with sick fools who talk of happiness!”
But Voltaire had never ceased to long for happiness, with a desperate and bitter despair. He, James Turnbull, had long ceased to desire it. Voltaire, in his eighties, had gone to his grave, still protesting, still vital—still young. H
ow very sad! He, James Turnbull, would go to it with humorous resignation. He would go to it an old man.
Turning another page, his eye fell on a poem by Lucretlus:
“No single thing abides, but all things flow.
Fragment to. fragment clings; the things that grow,
Until we know and name them. By degrees
They melt, and are no more the things we know.
Thou, too, O Earth, thine empires lands and seas—
Least, with thy stars, of all the galaxies,
Globed from the drift, like these, like these thou too
Shalt go. Thou art going hour by hour, like these.
Globed from the atoms, falling slow or swift,
I see the suns, I see the systems lift
Their forms, and even the systems and their suns
Shall go back slowly to the eternal drift.
Nothing abides. Thy seas in delicate haze
Go off; those mooned sands forsake their place.
And where they are shall other seas in turn
Mow with their scythes of whiteness other bays.”
Another old and terrible story, thought Mr. Turnbull, with calm serenity. All that was true was old. He contemplated the majestic words of the poem, removed and undisturbed.
And then, all at once, he was beset by a most frightful weariness and sadness, as if his soul, aroused from peaceful slumber, awoke with a loud and bitter cry of protest. So powerful was the assault upon the calm fortress of his mind that the book slipped from his hands to the floor with a dull thud, and his heart began to labour distressingly. He tried to calm the sudden onslaught upon his senses. But he had nothing but words and irony to meet that onslaught, which swept over him like a desperate army.
He became aware that his ancient valet was standing beside him. He looked up through dim and tormented eyes. The man was extending a white square towards him, an expression of distress on his nutlike face.
“Mr. Turnbull, sir, a letter for Mr. John.”
Mr. Turnbull stared at the letter as if he could not recall what it was. Then he lifted his hand feebly and pushed it aside.
“Well, then, take it to Mr. John, Thomas.”
Thomas hesitated, sucking in his lips and wrinkling his gray brows. He mumbled anxiously. “It’s just that Mr. John did not come home last night, sir.”
Mr. Turnbull struggled to recover himself. He repeated: “Did not come home last night.” He smiled a little, undisturbed, and quizzical. “Is it possible that the young ass—? There was a letter from Dr. Carruthers, Thomas. Most probably Mr. John imagined I would be annoyed—What a young fool it is. Rest assured, Thomas, he will be at home at any moment, with his tail between his legs, sheepishly expecting some sort of a thrashing.” He paused. “That boy has known me for nineteen years. He must be very stupid, I regret to say, if he believes I will be overly annoyed. I should never have sent him to Dr. Carruthers. That is the doing of Mrs. MacNeill, Thomas. As for myself, I am glad it is ended. All nonsense. He will settle down properly, now.”
Thomas was relieved. He loved his master. He had withheld the news until it could be withheld no longer, for fear of disturbing Mr. Turnbull. He retreated.
Mr. Turnbull lay back in his chair. The ghastly emotion which had assaulted him had subsided. But it had left in its place a dull and numbing throb. So deep were its effects that he fell suddenly into a heavy slumber.
It was some time before he could be aroused from that slumber. It seemed to him that for ages someone had been gently shaking his shoulder. He opened his weary eyes to discover that Thomas was beside him again, his features knotting and wrinkling themselves in a most surprising manner. The man spoke incoherently.
“Mr. Turnbull, sir! Mr. John has returned. He begs to speak with you. There—there is a young person with him—”
Now real annoyance appeared in Mr. Turnbull’s full gray eyes. “I was sleeping, Thomas. Tell Mr. John I will see him at tea.”
Thomas wrung his hands, and so great was his agitation that it finally impinged on the awareness of his master, who sat up in his chair.
“Mr. John particularly begged, sir—It is extremely important.”
“Well, then, send him in. The impetuous young brute.”
Thomas retreated again. But Mr. Turnbull, for some reason, did not subside into his chair. He leaned his elbow on its arm and stared intently at the door through which John would enter. It was some time before the young man appeared.
Mr. Turnbull was greatly surprised at the aspect of his son. The young man’s dress, always dandified and flamboyant, was crushed, bedraggled and dirty. His beloved new greatcoat hung on his shoulders and big body as if it were too large for him. It sagged, it swayed, in wrinkled folds. He had not bothered to remove it. He must have forgotten it entirely; his hat was in his hand. He cringed, stopping some feet from his father. His thick black curls were disordered. Beneath, there was his full face, now pasty and livid. His mouth was open and slack. But it was his eyes that attracted Mr. Turnbull’s suddenly concerned attention. They were stricken, sunken and hollow. His whole appearance was stricken, terrified and undone, and very desperate. When Mr. Turnbull’s eye met his, his own fell, and he cringed again, uttering a faint hoarse sound.
“Johnnie!” exclaimed Mr. Turnbull. “What is wrong with you?”
He held out his hand to his son. John approached with a feeble, swaying step, as if terrified. But he paused some distance from his father. The look of despair was vivid on his face, now. It was a child’s face, most dreadfully frightened.
John’s whole short life had been turbulent. He had always been in some trouble or other. He had always returned to his father, penitent, defiant, tempestuous, full of good intentions for the future. But never had he looked undone, as he did now. Mr. Turnbull conjectured that this was something extremely serious.
“Johnnie!” said Mr. Turnbull, not too disturbed. Yes, this must be extremely serious. But there was a protective and gentle sound in Mr. Turnbull’s voice, as if he spoke to a wounded and desperate child. That voice urged his son not to be too wretched, that his father was at hand. He was fond of John, that absurd and violent young ass. He was frequently tired by him, bored by him. But he was always very fond, though they had never been able to approach a common meeting ground. Now he saw that John was in some sort of truly immense trouble, and his first instinct was to console, to soothe.
“Nothing is so bad as you might imagine,” he urged, gently. “Tell me about it.”
John, to his father’s rising concern, trembled visibly. He moistened his cracked and swollen lips. His voice came in a hoarse croak, even as his eyes pleaded with Mr. Turnbull like the agonized eyes of a child:
“It is very bad, sir. You will never forgive me.”
Mr. Turnbull smiled. He extended his hand again. “Is it the police? Well, no matter. We can adjust it. Come here, Johnnie.”
John took one step, then halted again. He shook his head slightly.
“I—I am not fit to be in this room with you, sir,” he whimpered.
Mr. Turnbull raised his brows. He had never heard John whimper before. His tired heart began to beat faster. Nevertheless, he smiled again.
“Let me be the judge, Johnnie. Rest assured, though, that you can tell me withour my exhibiting excessive annoyance. And, how do you know that you are not fit to be in this room with me, after all? I’ve lived a long time, Johnnie. Come here.”
Now, with feeble steps, as though he was blind, John approached his father, not looking away from him, the wild pleading and despair increasing on his livid and congested face. Now he stood before his father. His trembling had increased.
“Is it a woman, Johnnie? No matter. We can deal with women. Just tell me.”
John tried to speak. But only a strangled and drowning sound came from his throat. His cravat hung loose about his neck, untied. He extended his hands to his father. Then they dropped limply to his side.
“It began with Andrew Bollister
, sir,” he whispered at last.
Mr. Turnbull inclined his head, and pursed his lips. “A reprobate, Johnnie. A young silver snake. Ah, yes, I can see whatever happened began with Bollister.” He hesitated. “Then, it must be quite serious.”
John suddenly wrung his hands. “I was wrong, sir. It really began with Eugenia. She would not go away with me. To America. It began then, sir. After Dr. Carruthers.”
Mr. Turnbull was silent a moment. Then he said contemplatively: “To America. You wished to go to America, Johnnie? Why?”
But John could not speak for some time. Mr. Turnbull indicated a chair near him. “Sit down, Johnnie. You look thoroughly washed out. This appears to be a long story. We can talk better when we are at ease.”
Automatically, still not looking away from his father, John fumbled for the chair, collapsed in it. He put his elbows on his knees, buried his face in his hands. Through his big trembling fingers his father saw his crisp black curls, so disordered and uncombed. Now heavy sounds, dull dry sounds, issued from John’s hidden lips. They were the sounds of grief and despair that men make, not children. Mr. Turnbull heard them, and for the first time in John’s life, his father felt for him a sudden and terrible anxiety, and alarm.
The firelight glimmered on John’s heaving shoulders. His whole attitude was broken. Mr. Turnbull waited for some time. Then he said, very softly:
“Yes, Johnnie? You were speaking of America?”
John slowly dropped his hands. It was the face of a ruined man, not the face of a youth, which confronted Mr. Turnbull. Now there was a grim calmness in it.
“America, father. I—I had decided I couldn’t stand England any longer. I wanted to leave. All at once, it was necessary for me to go.” His voice was cracked and feeble, but no longer incoherent.
“Yes, Johnnie? I can understand. You are quite alive, and strong. Yes, I can understand. You see, we have been dead in England for a long time.”
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