Llewellyn returned their greetings and strode on.
He had no particular purpose in his wandering. He observed the scenery, but it had for him no special significance. Significance was within him, not yet clear and recognised, but gradually gaining form and shape.
A path led him through a grove of bananas. Once within its green spaces, he was struck by how immediately all sense of purpose or direction had to be abandoned. There was no knowing how far the bananas extended, and where or when he would emerge. It might be a tiny path, or it might extend for miles. One could only continue on one's way. Eventually one would emerge at the point where the path had led one. That point.was already in existence, fixed. He himself could not determine it. What he could determine was his own progression-his feet trod the path as a result of his own will and purpose. He could turn back or he could continue. He had the freedom of his own integrity. To travel hopefully…
Presently with almost disconcerting suddenness, he came out from the green stillness of the bananas on to a bare hill-side. A little below him, to one side of a path that zig-zagged down the side of a hill, a man sat painting at an easel.
His back was to Llewellyn, who saw only the powerful line of shoulders outlined beneath the thin yellow shirt and a broad-brimmed battered felt hat stuck on the back of the painter's head.
Llewellyn descended the path. As he drew abreast, he slackened speed, looking with frank interest at the work proceeding on the canvas. After all, if a painter settled himself by what was evidently a well-trodden path, it was clear that he had no objection to being overlooked.
It was a vigorous bit of work, painted in strong bands of colour, laid on with an eye to broad effect, rather than detail. It was a pleasing piece of craftsmanship, though without deep significance.
The painter turned his head sideways and smiled.
"Not my life work," he said cheerfully. "Just a hobby."
He was a man of perhaps between forty and fifty, with dark hair just tinged with grey. He was handsome, but Llewellyn was conscious not so much of his good looks as of the charm and magnetism of his personality. There was a warmth to him, a kindly radiating vitality that made him a person who, if met only once, would not easily be forgotten.
"It s extraordinary," said the painter meditatively, "the pleasure it gives one to squeeze out rich, luscious colours on to a palette and splash 'em all over a canvas! Sometimes one knows what one's trying to do, and sometimes one doesn't, but the pleasure is always there." He gave a quick upward glance. "You're not a painter?"
"No. I just happen to be staying here."
"I see." The other laid a streak of rose colour unexpectedly on the blue of his sea. "Funny," he said. "That looks good. I thought it might. Inexplicable!"
He dropped his brush on to the palette, sighed, pushed his dilapidated hat farther back on his head, and turned slightly sideways to get a better view of his companion. His eyes narrowed in sudden interest.
"Excuse me," he said, "but aren't you Dr. Llewellyn Knox?"
2
There was a moment's swift recoil, not translated into physical motion, before Llewellyn said tonelessly:
"That's so."
He was aware a moment later of how quick the other man's perceptions were.
"Stupid of me," he said. "You had a breakdown in health, didn't you? And I suppose you came here to get away from people. Well, you needn't worry. Americans seldom come to the island, the local inhabitants aren't interested in anybody but their own cousins and their cousins' cousins, and the births, deaths and marriages of same, and I don't count. I live here."
He shot a quick glance at the other.
"That surprise you?"
"Yes, it does."
"Why?"
"Just to live-I should not have thought you would be contented with that."
"You're right, of course. I didn't come here originally to live. I was left a big estate here by a great-uncle of mine. It was in rather a bad way when I took it on. Gradually it's beginning to prosper. Interesting." He added: "My name's Richard Wilding."
Llewellyn knew the name; traveller, writer-a man of varied interests and widely diffused knowledge in many spheres, archaeology, anthropology, entomology. He had heard it said of Sir Richard Wilding that there was no subject of which he had not some knowledge, yet withal he never pretended to be a professional. The charm of modesty was added to his other gifts.
"I have heard of you, of course," said Llewellyn. "Indeed, I have enjoyed several of your books very much indeed."
"And I, Dr. Knox, have attended your meetings-one of them; that is to say, at Olympia a year and a half ago."
Llewellyn looked at him in some surprise.
"That seems to surprise you," said Wilding, with a quizzical smile.
"Frankly, it does. Why did you come, I wonder?"
"To be frank, I came to scoff, I think."
"That does not surprise me."
"It doesn't seem to annoy you, either."
"Why should it?"
"Well, you're human, and you believe in your mission-or so I assume."
Llewellyn smiled a little.
"Oh yes, you can assume that."
Wilding was silent for a moment. Then he said, speaking with a disarming eagerness:
"You know, it's extraordinarily interesting to me to meet you like this. After attending the meeting, the thing I desired most was actually to meet you."
"Surely there would have been no difficulty about doing that?"
"In a certain sense, no. It would have been obligatory on you! But I wanted to meet you on very different terms-on such terms that you could, if you wanted to, tell me to go to the devil."
Llewellyn smiled again.
"Well, those conditions are fulfilled now. I have no longer any obligations."
Wilding eyed him keenly.
"I wonder now, are you referring to health or to viewpoint?"
"It's a question, I should say, of function."
"Hm-that's not very clear."
The other did not answer.
Wilding began to pack up his painting things.
"I'd like to explain to you just how I came to hear you at Olympia. I'll be frank, because I don't think you're the type of man to be offended by the truth when it's not offensively meant. I disliked very much-still do-all that that meeting at Olympia stood for. I dislike more than I can tell you the idea of mass religion relayed, as it were, by loud-speaker. It offends every instinct in me."
He noted the amusement that showed for a moment on Llewellyn's face.
"Does that seem to you very British-and ridiculous?"
"Oh, I accept it as a point of view."
"I came therefore, as I have told you, to scoff. I expected to have my finer susceptibilities outraged."
"And you remained to bless?"
The question was more mocking than serious.
"No. My views in the main are unchanged. I dislike seeing God put on a commercial basis."
"Even by a commercial people in a commercial age? Do we not always bring to God the fruits in season?"
"That is a point, yes. No, what struck me very forcibly was something that I had not expected-your own very patent sincerity."
Llewellyn looked at him in genuine surprise.
"I should have thought that might be taken for granted."
"Now that I have met you, yes. But it might have been a racket-a comfortable and well-paid racket. There are political rackets, so why not religious rackets? Granted you've got the gift of the gab, which you certainly have, I imagine it's a thing you could do very well out of, if you put yourself over in a big way or could get someone to do that for you. The latter, I should imagine?"
It was half a question.
Llewellyn said soberly: "Yes, I was put over in a big way."
"No expense spared?"
"No expense spared."
"That, you know, is what intrigues me. How you could stand it? That is, after I had seen and heard you."
He slung his painting things' over his shoulder.
"Will you come and dine with me one night? It would interest me enormously to talk to you. That's my house down there on the point. The white villa with the green shutters. But just say so, if you don't want to. Don't bother to find an excuse."
Llewellyn considered for a moment before he replied:
"I should like to come very much."
"Good. To-night?"
"Thank you."
"Nine o'clock. Don't change."
He strode away down the hill-side. Llewellyn stood for a moment looking after him, then he resumed his own walk.
3
"So you go to the villa of the Se?or Sir Wilding?"
The driver of the ramshackle victoria was frankly interested. His dilapidated vehicle was gaily adorned with painted flowers, and his horse was decked with a necklace of blue beads. The horse, the carriage and the driver seemed equally cheerful and serene.
"He is very sympathetic, the Sen~or Sir Wilding," he said. "He is not a stranger here. He is one of us. Don Estobal, who owned the villa and the land, he was old, very old. He let himself be cheated, all day long he read books, and more books came for him all the time. There are rooms in the villa lined with books to the ceiling. It is incredible that a man should want so many books. And then he dies, and we all wonder, will the villa be sold? But then Sir Wilding comes. He has been here as a boy, often, for Don Estobal's sister married an Englishman, and her children and her children's children would come here in the holidays from their schools. But after Don Estobal's death the estate belongs to Sir Wilding, and he comes here to inherit, and he starts at once to put all in order, and he spends much money to do so. But then there comes the war, and he goes away for many years, but he says always that if he is not killed, he will return here-and so at last he has done so. Two years ago it is now since he returned here with his new wife, and has settled here to live."
"He has married twice then?"
"Yes." The driver lowered his voice confidentially. "His first wife was a bad woman. She was beautiful, yes, but she deceived him much with other men-yes, even here in the island. He should not have married her. But where women are concerned, he is not clever-he believes too much."
He added, almost apologetically:
"A man should know whom to trust, but Sir Wilding does not. He does not know about women. I do not think he will ever learn."
Chapter Four
His host received Llewellyn in a long, low room, lined to the ceiling with books. The windows were thrown open, and from some distance below there came the gentle murmur of the sea. Drinks were set on a low table near the window.
Wilding greeted him with obvious pleasure, and apologised for his wife's absence.
"She suffers badly from migraine," he said. "I hoped that with the peace and quiet of her life out here it might improve, but it hasn't done so noticeably. And doctors don't really seem to have the answer for it."
Llewellyn expressed his sorrow politely.
"She's been through a lot of trouble," said Wilding. "More than any girl should be asked to bear. And she was so young-still is."
Reading his face, Llewellyn said gently:
"You love her very much."
Wilding sighed:
"Too much, perhaps, for my own happiness."
"And for hers?"
"No love in the world could be too much to make up to her for all she has suffered."
He spoke vehemently.
Between the two men there was already a curious sense of intimacy which had, indeed, existed from the first moment of their meeting. It was as though the fact that neither of them had anything in common with the other-nationality, upbringing, way of life, beliefs-made them therefore ready to accept each other without the usual barriers of reticence or conventionality. They were like men marooned together on a desert island, or afloat on a raft for an indefinite period. They could speak to each other frankly, almost with the simplicity of children.
Presently they went into dinner. It was an excellent meal, beautifully served, of a very simple character. There was wine which Llewellyn refused.
"If you'd prefer whisky…"
The other shook his head.
"Thank you-just water."
"Is that-excuse me-a principle with you?"
"No. Actually it is a way of life that I need no longer follow. There is no reason-now-why I should not drink wine. Simply I am not used to it."
As he uttered the word 'now', Wilding raised his bead sharply. He looked intensely interested. He almost opened his mouth to speak, then rather obviously checked himself, and began to talk of extraneous matters. He was a good talker, with a wide range of subjects. Not only had he travelled extensively, and in many unknown parts of the globe, but he had the gift of making all he himself had seen and experienced equally real to the person who was listening to him.
If you wanted to go to the Gobi Desert, or to the Fezzan, or to Samarkand, when you had talked of those places with Richard Wilding, you had been there.
It was not that he lectured, or in any way held forth. His conversation was natural and spontaneous.
Quite apart from his enjoyment of Wilding's talk, Llewellyn found himself increasingly interested by the personality of the man himself. His charm and magnetism were undeniable, and they were also, so Llewellyn judged, entirely unself-conscious. Wilding was.not exerting himself to radiate charm; it was natural to him. He was a man of parts, too, shrewd, intellectual without arrogance, a man with a vivid interest in ideas and people as well as in places. If he had chosen to specialise in some particular subject-but that, perhaps, was his secret: he never had so chosen, and never would. That left him human, warm, and essentially approachable.
And yet, it seemed to Llewellyn, he had not quite answered his own question-a question as simple as that put by a child. "Why do I like this man so much?"
The answer was not in Wilding's gifts. It was something in the man himself.
And suddenly, it seemed to Llewellyn, he got it. It was because, with all his gifts, the man himself was fallible. He was a man who could, who would, again and again prove himself mistaken. He had one of those warm, kindly emotional natures that invariably meet rebuffs because of their untrustworthiness in making judgments.
Here was no clear, cool, logical appraisal of men and things; instead there were warm-hearted impulsive beliefs, mainly in people, which were doomed to disaster because they were based on kindliness always rather than on fact. Yes, the man was fallible, and being fallible, he was also lovable. Here, thought Llewellyn, is someone whom I should hate to hurt.
They were back again now in the library, stretched out in two big arm-chairs. A wood fire had been lit, more to convey the sense, of a hearth, than because it was needed. Outside the sea murmured, and the scent of some nightblooming flower stole into the room.
Wilding was saying disarmingly:
"I'm so interested, you see, in people. I always have been. In what makes them tick, if I might put it that way. Does that sound very cold-blooded and analytical?"
"Not from you. You wonder about your fellow human beings because you care for them and are therefore interested in them."
"Yes, that's true." He paused. Then he said: "If one can help a fellow human being, that seems to me the most worthwhile thing in the world."
"If," said Llewellyn.
The other looked at him sharply.
"That seems oddly sceptical, coming from you."
"No, it's only a recognition of the enormous difficulty of what you propose."
"Is it so difficult? Human beings want to be helped."
"Yes, we all tend to believe that in some magical manner others can attain for us what we can't-or don't want to-attain for ourselves."
"Sympathy-and belief," said Wilding earnestly. "To believe the best of someone is to call the best into being. People respond to one's belief in them. I've found that again and again."
"For how lo
ng?"
Wilding winced, as though something had touched a sore place in him.
"You can guide a child's hand on the paper, but when you take your hand away the child still has to learn to write himself. Your action may, indeed, have delayed the process."
"Are you trying to destroy my belief in human nature?"
Llewellyn smiled as he said:
"I think I'm asking you to have pity on human nature."
"To encourage people to give of their best-"
"Is forcing them to live at a very high altitude; to keep up being what someone expects you to be is to live under a great strain. Too great a strain leads eventually to collapse."
"Must one then expect the worst of people?" asked Wilding satirically.
"One should recognise that probability."
"And you a man of religion!"
Llewellyn smiled:
"Christ told Peter that before the cock crew, he would have denied Him thrice. He knew Peter's weakness of character better than Peter himself knew it, and loved him none the less for it."
"No," said Wilding, with vigour, "I can't agree with you. In my own first marriage"-he paused, then went on-"my wife was-could have been-a really fine character. She'd got into a bad set; all she needed was love, trust, belief. If it hadn't been for the war-" He stopped. "Well, it was one of the lesser tragedies of war. I was away, she was alone, exposed to bad influences."
He paused again before saying abruptly: "I don't blame her. I make allowances-she was the victim of circumstances. It broke me up at the time. I thought I'd never feel the same man again. But time heals…"
He made a gesture.
"Why I should tell you the history of my life I don't know. I'd much rather hear about your life. You see, you're something absolutely new to me. I want to know the 'why' and 'how' of you. I was impressed when I came to that meeting, deeply impressed. Not because you swayed your audience that I can understand well enough. Hitler did it. Lloyd George did it. Politicians, religious leaders and actors, they can all do it in a greater or lesser degree. It's a gift. No, I wasn't interested in the effect you were having, I was interested in you. Why was this particular thing worthwhile to you?"
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