“Nothin’. So I asked him if he’d have us on his conscience just for a bit of brass?”
“And what did he say to that?”
“Nothin’.”
“And what did ye say to him then?”
“Why, I told him he was made of stone and that if ever I was to meet with him on a dark night, I’d punch him into the middle of next week or further. Let’s go, O’Rourke, before I damn meself forever by goin’ back and committin’ murder on a child!”
They put the ladder on the cart.
“A child!” repeated Cassidy, still unable to take it in. “Now had it been an old man, all crabbed and horny, I could have understood it better. A man like that wouldn’t have cared any more for lovers and their sighs. But a child—”
“An old man would have been better, Cassidy,” said O’Rourke, jerking the pony into life. “Though he’d have been past love, he’d have remembered it, for it’s not somethin’ ye’re likely to forget. But a child, not yet come to it, can’t remember where he’s never been!”
“Ye’re a charitable man, O’Rourke. Will ye be charitable enough to let me say good-bye to Mary Flatley?”
“That would be foolishness, Cassidy, not charity. It would be cruel to the pair of ye. Let her wed her Englishman in peace, while you and me go lookin’ for work.”
And he reminded Cassidy that they’d scarcely a shilling left to bless themselves with, being out of pocket to the tune of two pieces of window glass and a third that had been put in at the magistrate’s house and not claimed for, on account of O’Rourke’s having left in a fright.
They turned the corner at the top of the street. Cassidy gazed up at the villa where Mary Flatley worked and saw her best green dress hanging out of her window to dry.
“God bless you,” he said, “and send you a good life.”
He turned to stare back at the house they’d left, and muttered, “And may God forgive ye, if He’s a mind to, by keepin’ ye out of me way!”
The cart rolled on and took the road to Patcham, and Harris put down the telescope with a deep sigh of relief.
Chapter Seventeen
HARRIS breathed heavily. He was not made of stone. He rejected the Irishman’s accusation indignantly. He was human. He was composed of flesh and blood, disposed in vessels and layers about his bones in accordance with the strictest principles of Anatomy. And he was proud of it.
Harris had a liver, a spleen, a sweetbread, and lights, just like anybody else. He also had a heart that drove his blood from place to place and nourished his brain.
It was Harris’s brain that was unusual. It was very powerful and helped him to see things more clearly than most people.
He saw, for instance, that the Irishman was a very dangerous and unpleasant fellow and it was a good thing that he’d gone. He saw that he’d been talking through his hat, and that if anybody was going to be hanged for Captain Bostock’s telescope it would probably be Bosty, which was unlikely in the extreme.
He wondered if Bostock had put the Irishman up to it in order to exert pressure on Harris. If so, it would have been blackmail and very wrong. Harris wouldn’t countenance anything like that. He was surprised at Bosty.
In short, he was not going to give the telescope back. What would become of Pigott’s comet if he did?
Suddenly Pigott’s comet became very important and Harris felt that, if he didn’t observe it at the proper time, somehow it would be disappointed—as if it were a visitor who’d come a long way to see Harris and found him to be out.
It was quite impossible to give the telescope back. He looked through it again—not at the sky, but at the villa at the top of the street where the green dress was hanging out of the top window. It jumped toward him, almost close enough to touch.
He thought, inexplicably, of Cassidy going up his ladder, and the look on Mary Flatley’s face as she’d come in answer to the song. He thought of the night in the churchyard, and O’Rourke’s gentle words, and he felt a curious aching sensation in the lower part of his chest.
He shut up the telescope with a snap. It was out of the question to give it back.
He really couldn’t. It would be as good—or, rather, as bad—as admitting failure to Bosty. He’d never failed before, and he wasn’t going to be pushed into it now, not for a hundred Irishmen and their girls!
He gazed down at the shortened brass cylinder in his hands.
“Keep me!” it seemed to say. “I bring things nearer, almost close enough to touch!”
Harris extended it.
“Almos-ss-st!” hissed the polished joints.
He shut it, and the aching sensation in his chest seemed to spread upward till he felt it in his very teeth. With shaking hands he put the leather caps back on the two glass eyes and blinded them. He left his room, taking the telescope with him. He was very angry.
He went out of the house, slammed the door, and set off down the street. He met Bostock at the corner.
“Harris!” said Bostock with a desperately frightened look. “Have you got the telescope?”
Silently Harris gave it to him. As the instrument left his hands, he had the queerest feeling that he was still looking through it, only through the wrong end. Everything was unutterably remote.
“Oh, Harris! You’re a brick!”
“No,” said Harris bitterly. “Stone.”
He walked away, trembling with a sense of outrage and injustice. He had intended to surprise Bostock with his magnanimity. He’d thought of bursting in upon him when Bosty had given up hope. He’d pictured it all very clearly and had been actually looking forward to it. But now, to have been met on the way, as if Bostock had expected it all the time, was intolerable!
He returned to his house in a state of profound agitation. He’d been treated monstrously. He’d worked hard for Bosty, and now, just when the fruits of victory were within his grasp, they’d been cruelly snatched away.
But Bosty wasn’t going to have it both ways! He, Harris, would see to that! It had always been the telescope or Mary. Well, he’d gotten the telescope back, so that was the end of Mary. Once and for all Bostock would see that it was madness to cross Harris. Harris could undo just as well as he could do. Nothing was beyond him.
He went straight to Mary’s room. She was sitting on her bed, frizzling up the hair of that little cow Caroline.
“Go away!” said Caroline. “This is a ladies’ room. No boys allowed!”
Harris ignored her and addressed himself to Mary. “Bosty’s found somebody else,” he said. “Another girl. So he won’t be going with you tomorrow night. It’s all over.”
He made a gesture of wiping his hands of the whole affair and withdrew before he could be questioned further.
That had fixed Bosty! A period had been put to his romantic aspirations, a very full stop indeed. Harris nodded grimly. What he, Harris, put asunder, no man on earth could join together again.
He went to his sister Dorothy’s room. She was trimming a hat and, for once, wasn’t crying.
“Don’t you ever knock?” she said.
Harris, feeling no answer was called for, gazed around the room for a subject for conversation. He felt like it.
“I see you found your cello,” he said.
Dorothy’s face darkened, and her eyes filled up with their familiar burden. “Get out!” she said.
Although music might have soothed the savage breast, any reminder of the musician served only to inflame it. And almost everything reminded her.
Harris went away and drifted into the nursery, where Morgan was cleaning up his last sister, Adelaide. She began to cry.
“Why do you always come in like a ghost?” said Morgan. “Go away!”
Harris departed and vanished from the house with the mysteriousness that characterized all his movements. He walked down to the beach, reflecting that his whole life seemed to consist of unseen comings and goings. He wondered, if he vanished altogether from the face of the earth, if anybody would notice that he
’d gone.
He sat down on the stones and noted, with melancholy interest, that they were a good deal harder than he was. There was no doubt that the Irishman’s hurtful accusation still rankled.
Ordinarily, insults did not affect Harris, but the Irishman had offered to supplement his with injury. He had meant it, and Harris had been impressed.
So had he only yielded to the threat of being punched into the middle of next week? Had he just been frightened? He looked around, half hoping to see the Irishman, as the middle of next week, however he reached it, offered more attractions than here and now.
It was half past six. He wondered how long he’d need to stay out before somebody came to look for him and tell him that supper was ready.
No one came. The sky grew dark and the huge sea frittered itself in a fringe of silver and sighed over the expense. The stars came out and winked at Harris, as if to mock him with their remoteness.
He frowned and tried to make out which of the tiny pricks of light was Pigott’s comet. He stared from one to another, trying to detect a scrap of movement, till his eyes watered with the effort. But the stars played blindman’s buff with him, so he got up and went home.
He had lost everything, even the comet. It was as if the telescope, in its death agony, had turned and struck down even its most devoted admirer. Harris had lost Bostock, too.
“Bosty!” sighed Harris, expiring in sleep. “Dear old friend!”
Chapter Eighteen
THE DAY that Harris had schemed for, that Bostock had yearned for, that Dorothy had sobbed for, and that Maggie Hemp had had such agonizing suspicions about dawned in heedless splendor.
It was rather like a guest who, not having been told that the party’s off, arrives in foolish magnificence, at a house in tears.
First Dorothy awoke, from a dream of dancing on the top of Devil’s Dyke with Philip Top-Morlion—to the unspeakable envy of Maggie Hemp—and wished herself back asleep again.
Next, Maggie Hemp awoke, from a dream of a world without slyness, in which she danced on the top of Devil’s Dyke with a youth of spotless honesty—to the unspeakable envy of Dolly Harris—and she wished herself asleep again.
Bostock awoke from dancing on top of Devil’s Dyke with Mary Harris, and he wished himself back asleep again. And Cassidy, in a small room at the Black Lion in Patcham, awoke from a dream of dancing all the way back to Dublin with Mary Flatley on his arm, and he wished himself asleep again.
Even Harris, who’d had the most horrible nightmare of being shut up inside the telescope with the Irishman, Captain Bostock, Pigott’s comet, and various invisible slimy things—all of which had hostile intentions toward him—awoke and wished he hadn’t. Anything was better than the emptiness of the coming day.
He tried to think, to scheme, to devise some means of renewing his hopes and saving his friendship without loss of face, but it was in vain. His thoughts rose, only to fall back exhausted, like a bird with a broken wing. He had the feeling that he was fluttering against a huge black wall, as if he had reached the end of the universe.
He went to the window and looked out, hoping that Bostock would be there. He wasn’t. Harris put on his crumpled clothes, which gave him the odd appearance of having been discarded, and went downstairs.
His sister Dorothy passed him on the first landing. She was on her way to her mother’s room to borrow scent and whatever else she could find that would suit her rather more than a lady of Mrs. Harris’s advanced years.
She vanished quietly and Mary Harris darted across the landing on an identical errand to Dorothy’s room. At such times every woman’s most urgent needs turn out to be in the possession of another.
Harris went down to the kitchen where his mother was supervising the filling of hampers and baskets for the evening’s outing.
His mood darkened at the festive sight. He breakfasted frugally on a veal pie and wondered about going out. Then he remembered the Irishman, and his blood ran cold. The fellow was probably lying in wait for him with a pistol or a cudgel.
Although Harris had returned the telescope, Cassidy couldn’t have known and would probably hit him without waiting for an explanation. Harris, in addition to his other misfortunes, was virtually a prisoner in his own home.
He went back upstairs, noting, without interest, that Caroline was crying. He looked out of his window. No Bostock.
He heard the front door open and bang shut. A moment later he saw Mary, in a white dress with green ribbons, scamper up the street, like a stick of celery.
He looked toward the villa on the corner. The green dress was gone. He could just make out vague movements in the window. He missed the telescope more than ever.
Mary came back, flushed and windy. She saw her brother looking down and put out her tongue. Still no sign of Bostock.
The morning continued with idle comings and goings, but Harris stayed where he was, his mood fluctuating between anger, bitterness, sadness, and despair.
Soon after midday he went down to the kitchen and removed another pie. Caroline was still crying.
At about two o’clock he saw Andrews, the fishmonger’s son, call at the villa and wait at the side door till Mary Flatley appeared. She was wearing the green dress and was carrying a basket. Andrews put a small bag into it. It was his contribution to the feast. They walked off in the general direction of Devil’s Dyke.
Harris tried to make a phantom of his mind and send it into Bostock’s house to tap him on the shoulder and bid him come.
“Bosty! Bosty, old friend!”
No Bostock. Instead, he saw the Top-Morlion family, all in their pony cart, proceeding along the road at the top of the street.
Mrs. Top-Morlion, who was excessively tall and thin, held the reins. She sat bolt upright and, with her long neck and small round head, looked uncannily like a treble clef, driving. Monsieur Top-Morlion, who had recovered from his illness, cuddled his cello, and Philip, in addition to his fiddle, flute, and music case, was clutching a bouquet of music stands. They too were moving in the general direction of Devil’s Dyke.
At half past three Maggie Hemp arrived, in a state of black and silver satin and tearful indignation. She wondered if there would be room for her in Dr. Harris’s carriage?
She was not going with her ma and pa even if it meant walking all the way. Her pa was taking a whole hamper of cooked mutton chops and was going to sell them, like a common tradesman.
Maggie had never been so ashamed in all her life. It was just as if Dr. Harris were to take pills and things. As it was, all the town seemed comet mad. Even Mr. Collier was selling marzipan comets at threepence each, and that little shop next to Saunders’ was selling special smoked spectacles for viewing the comet in comfort, while the greengrocer’s and the fishmonger’s were all selling rides on their carts, at two shillings there and back.
It turned out that there was room in the Harrises’ carriage as Mary and Caroline had quarreled and Caroline wasn’t going. Maggie Hemp subsided and told Dorothy it was a pity she wasn’t wearing her gray dress as the blue one she’d put on rather clashed with Maggie’s hat, but there was still time to change, and didn’t Dolly think she’d overdone the scent?
At five o’clock the Harris family, with the exception of Adelaide, Caroline, and Harris himself, piled into the little carriage, along with baskets, hampers, and warm blankets.
Mournfully Harris watched them. He thought of running downstairs and confessing to Mary that Bosty had not found somebody else. He felt, in some strange way, that he’d interfered with Providence, and that, if he undid what he’d done, then Providence would relent and set everything to rights.
But this was all nonsense, and Harris, the scientist, knew it. Fate, Providence, and Hostages to Fortune were all in the realm of magic. Harris was above such things, and with a shrug and a frown he conquered his impulse to confess.
The carriage departed, leaving Harris behind, with a victory as joyful as ashes. Caroline was still crying.
&nb
sp; Chapter Nineteen
HARRIS thought about the Irishman. He reasoned that Cassidy, being of Celtic blood and of a violent temper, was unlikely to be possessed of much patience. Therefore, if the fellow had really been lying in wait for him, he’d have shown his hand by now.
He looked up and down the street. No hand. Cautiously he left the house and proceeded to the corner. His reasoning proved correct. Cassidy was nowhere to be seen.
Happily Harris bolted around to Bostock’s and knocked loudly on the door. How much better it was, he thought, to show such generosity to Bostock by making the first move, instead of remaining at home in a somber resentment that nobody could see.
Bostock would be so overcome by the loftiness of Harris’s spirit that he could hardly refuse him admission to the Crow’s Nest and the use of his pa’s telescope to behold the glory of Pigott’s comet. Everything was for the best, after all!
The housekeeper came. Harris smiled.
“No need to ring the bell,” he said. “I’ll go straight up.”
“Oh, no, you won’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’s gone out.”
“OUT?”
“Out.”
“Where?”
“Up to Devil’s Dyke. Didn’t you know?”
Harris made a stupendous effort to control himself.
“Oh, yes—yes. Of course. I—I forgot,” he said.
In no circumstances could he expose the fact that Bostock had actually done something without his, Harris’s, knowledge, and that he hadn’t arranged.
“I—I expect he’s waiting for me,” said Harris, and tottered away with a despairing jauntiness. “He’ll be wondering what’s happened to me. Ha—ha!”
He went back to his house. He looked into the stone coffin, not for Bostock, but in the hope of finding some scrap of graveyard philosophy to sustain him . . . such as, we are all food for worms, and what does anything matter anyway? In a hundred years who would care whether Bostock had betrayed Harris or not?
The Complete Bostock and Harris Page 25