Complete Works of a E W Mason

by A. E. W. Mason

Mario Escobar sat back. The challenge had startled him. He reflected, and as the recollection came he turned slowly very white.

  “I?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Hardiman, leaning forward. But it was not at Hardiman that Escobar was looking. His eyes were fixed warily on Hillyard. He answered the question warily too, fragment by fragment, ready to stop, ready to take the words back, if a sign of recollection kindled in Hillyard’s face.

  “It is what we should call here the esplanade — the sea and harbour on one side, the houses on the other. The band plays under the palms in front of the Casino on summer nights. I — —” and he took the last words at a rush— “I was sitting in a lounge chair in front of the club, when I saw Mr. Hillyard pass. An Englishman is noticeable in Alicante. There are so few of them.”

  “Yes,” Hillyard agreed. No recollection was stirred in him by Escobar’s description. Escobar turned away, but he could not quite conceal the relief he felt.

  “Yes, my friend,” said Hardiman to himself, “you have taken your water-jump too. And you’re uncommonly glad that you haven’t come a cropper.”

  After that noticeable moment of tension, the talk swept on into sprightlier channels.

  CHAPTER IV

  The Secret of Harry Luttrell

  “SHALL I TAKE you home?”

  “Oh, will you?” cried Stella Croyle, with a little burst of pleasure. After all, Hillyard was the great man of the evening, and that he should consider her out of all that company was pleasant. “I will get my cloak.”

  Throughout the supper-party Hillyard had been at a loss to discover in Stella Croyle the woman whom Hardiman had led him to expect. Her spirits were high, but unforced. She chattered away with more gaiety than wit, like the rest of Hardiman’s guests, but the gaiety was apt to the occasion. She had the gift of a clear and musical laugh, and her small delicate face would wrinkle and pout into grimaces which gave to her a rather attractive air of gaminerie — Hillyard could find no word but the French one to express her on that evening. He drove her to a small house in the Bayswater Road, overlooking Kensington Gardens.

  “Will you come in for a moment?” she asked.

  Hillyard followed her up a paved pathway, through a tiny garden enclosed in a high wall, to her door. She led him into a room bright with flowers and pictures. Curtains of purple brocade were drawn across the window, a fire burned on the hearth, and thick soft cushions on broad couches gave the room a look of comfort.

  “You live here alone?” Hillyard asked.

  “Yes.”

  She turned suddenly towards him as he gazed about the room.

  “I married a long while ago.” She stood in front of him like a slim child. It seemed impossible. “Yes, before I knew anything — to get away from home. Our marriage did not go smoothly. After three years I ran away — oh, not with any one I cared for; he happened to be there, that was all. After a month he deserted me in Italy. I have fortunately some money of my own and a few friends who did not turn me down — Lady Splay, for instance. There!”

  She moved to a table and poured out for Hillyard a whisky-and-soda.

  “My question was thoughtless,” he said. “I did not mean that you should answer it as you did.”

  “I preferred you to know.”

  “I am honoured,” Hillyard replied.

  Stella Croyle sat down upon a low stool in front of the fire. Hillyard sank into one of the deep-cushioned chairs. The day of tension was over, and there was no doubt about the success of “The Dark Tower.” Stella Croyle sat very quietly, with the firelight playing upon her face and her delicate dress. Her vivacity had dropped from her like the pretty cloak she had thrown aside. Both became her well, but they were for use out-of-doors, and Hillyard was grateful that she had discarded them.

  “You are tired, no doubt,” he said, reluctantly. “I ought to go.”

  “No,” she answered. “It is pleasant before the fire here.”

  “Thank you. I should like to stay for a little while. I did not know until I came into this room with how much anxiety I had been looking forward to this night.”

  He leaned forward with his hands clenched, and saw pass in the bright coals glimpses of the long tale of days when endeavour was fruitless and hopes were disappointed. “Success! Lord, how I wanted it!” he whispered.

  Stella Croyle looked at him with a smile.

  “It was sure to come to you, since you wanted it enough,” she said.

  “Yes, but in time?” exclaimed Hillyard.

  “In time for what?”

  Hillyard broke into a laugh.

  “I don’t know,” he answered. He was silent for a little while, and the comfort of the room, the quiet of the night, the pleasant sympathy of Stella Croyle, all wrought upon him. “I don’t know,” he repeated slowly. “I am waiting. But out of my queer life something more has got to come — something more and something different. I have always been sure of it, but I used to be afraid that the opportunity would come while I was still chained to the handles of the barrow.”

  Hillyard’s life, though within a short time its vicissitudes had been many and most divergent, had probably not been as strange as he imagined it to be. He looked back upon it with too intense an interest to be its impartial judge. Certainly its distinctive feature had escaped him altogether. At the age of twenty-nine he was a man absolutely without tradition.

  His father, a partner in a small firm of shipping agents which had not the tradition of a solid, old-fashioned business, had moved in Martin’s boyhood from a little semi-detached villa with its flight of front steps in one suburb, to a house in a garden of trees in another. The boy had been sent to a brand new day-school of excessive size, which gathered its pupils into its class-rooms at nine o’clock in the morning and dispersed them to their homes at four. No boy was proud that he went to school at St. Eldred’s, or was deterred from any meanness by the thought that it was a breach of the school’s traditions. The school meant so many lessons in so many class-rooms, and no more.

  Hillyard was the only child. Between himself and his parents there was little sympathy and understanding. He saw them at meals, and fled from the table to his own room, where he read voraciously.

  “You never heard of such a jumble of books,” he said to Stella Croyle. “Matthew Arnold, Helps, Paradise Lost, Ten Thousand a Year, The Revolt of Islam, Tennyson. I knew the whole of In Memoriam by heart — absolutely every line of it, and pages of Browning. The little brown books! I would walk miles to pick one of them up. My people would find the books lying about the house, and couldn’t make head or tail of why I wanted to read them. There were two red-letter days: one when I first bought the two volumes of Herrick, the second when I tumbled upon De Quincey. That’s the author to bowl a boy over. The Stage-Coach, the Autobiography, the Confessions — I could never get tired of them. I remember buying an ounce of laudanum at a chemist’s on London Bridge and taking it home, with the intention of following in the steps of my hero and qualifying to drink it out of a decanter.”

  Stella Croyle had swung round from the fireplace, and was listening now with parted lips.

  “And did you?” she exclaimed, in a kind of eager suspense.

  Hillyard shook his head.

  “The taste was too unpleasant. I drank about half an ounce and threw the rest away. I was saved from that folly.”

  Stella Croyle turned again to the fire.

  “Yes,” she said rather listlessly.

  Yet Hillyard might almost have become a consumer of drugs, such queer and wayward fancies took him in charge. It became a fine thing to him to stay up all night just for the sake of staying up, and many a night he passed at his open window, even in winter time, doing nothing, not even dreaming, simply waiting for the day to break. It seemed to him soft and wrong that a man should take his clothes off and lie comfortably between sheets. And then came another twist. When all the house was quiet, he would slip out of a ground-floor window and roam for hours about the lonely r
oads, a solitary boy revelling even then in the extraordinary conduct of his life. There was in the neighbourhood a footpath through a thick grove of trees which ran up a long, high hill, and, midway in the ascent, crossed a railway cutting by a rustic bridge.

  “That was my favourite walk, though I always entered by the swing-gate in fear, and trembled at every movement of the branches, and continually expected an attack. I would hang over that railway bridge, especially on moonlit nights, and compose poems and thoughts — you know — great, short thoughts.” Hillyard laughed. “I was going to be a poet, you understand — a clear, full voice such as had seldom been heard; my poems were all about the moon sailing in the Empyrean and Death. Death was my strong suit. I sent some of my poems to the local Press, signed ‘Lethe,’ but I could never hear that they were published.”

  Stella Croyle laughed, and Hillyard went on. “From the top of the hill I would strike off to the west, and see the morning break over London. In summer that was wonderful! The Houses of Parliament. St Paul’s like a silver bubble rising out of the mist, then, as the mist cleared over the river, a London clean and all silver in the morning light! I was going to conquer all that, you know — I —

  “‘Silent upon a peak of Peckham Rye.’”

  “I wonder you didn’t kill yourself,” cried Stella.

  “I very nearly did,” answered Hillyard.

  “Didn’t your parents interfere?”

  “No. They never knew of my wanderings. They did know, of course, that I used not to go to bed. But they left me alone. I was a bitter disappointment in every way. They wanted a reasonable son, who would go into the agency business, and they had instead — me. I should think that I was pretty odious, too, and we were all of passionate tempers. Besides, with all this reading, I didn’t do particularly well at school. How could I when day after day I would march off from the house, leaving a smooth bed behind me in my room? We were thorny people. Quarrels were frequent. My mother had a phrase which set my teeth on edge— ‘Don’t you talk, Martin, until you are earning your living’ — the sort of remark that stings and stays in a boy’s memory as something unfair. There was a great row in the end, one night at ten o’clock, when I was sixteen, and I left the house and tramped into London.”

  “What in the world did you do?” cried Stella.

  “I shipped as a boy on a fruit-tramp for Valencia in Spain. And I believe that saved my life. For my lungs were beginning to be troublesome.”

  The fruit-tramp had not been out more than two days when the fo’c’sle hands selected the lad, since he had some education, to be their spokesman on a deputation to the captain. Martin Hillyard went aft with the men and put their case for better food and less violence. He was not therefore popular with the old man, and at Valencia he thought it prudent to desert.

  Stella Croyle had turned towards him again. There was a vividness in his manner, an enjoyment, too, which laid hold upon her. It was curious to her to realise that this man talking to her here in the Bayswater Road, had been so lately a ragged youth scouting for his living on the quays of Southern Spain.

  “You were at that place — Alicante!” she cried.

  “Part of the time.”

  “And there Mario Escobar saw you. I wonder why he was frightened lest you too should have seen him,” she added slowly.

  “Was he?”

  “Yes. He was sitting on the same side of the table as you, so you wouldn’t have noticed. But he was opposite to me; and he was afraid.”

  Hillyard was puzzled.

  “I can’t think of a reason. I was a shipping clerk of no importance. I can’t remember that I ever came across his name in all the eighteen months I spent in Alicante.”

  When Martin Hillyard was nineteen, Death intervened in the family feud. His parents died within a few weeks of each other.

  “I was left with a thousand pounds.”

  “What did you do with them?”

  “I went to Oxford.”

  “You? After those years of independence?”

  “It had been my one passionate dream for years.”

  “The Scholar Gipsy,” “Thyrsis,” the Preface to the “Essays in Criticism,” one or two glimpses of the actual city, its grey spires and towers, caught from the windows of a train, had long ago set the craving in his heart. Oxford had grown dim in unattainable mists, no longer a desire so much as a poignant regret, yet now he actually walked its sacred streets.

  “And you enjoyed it?” asked Stella.

  “I had the most wondrous time,” Hillyard replied fervently. “There was one bad evening, when I realised that I couldn’t write poetry. After that I cut my hair and joined the Wine Club. I stroked the Torpid and rowed three in my College Eight. I had friends for the first time. One above all”

  He stopped over-abruptly. Stella Croyle had the impression of a careless sentinel suddenly waked, suddenly standing to attention at the door of a treasure-house of memories. She was challenged. Very well. It was her humour to take the challenge up just to prove to herself that she could slip past a man’s guard if the spirit moved her. She turned on Hillyard a pair of most friendly sympathetic eyes.

  “Tell me of your friend.”

  “Oh, there’s not much to tell. He rowed in the same boat with me. He had just what I had not — traditions. From his small old brown manor-house in a western county to his very choice of a career, he was wrapped about in tradition. He went into the army. He had to go.”

  “What is his name?”

  Stella Croyle interrupted him. She was not looking at him any more. She was staring into the fire, and her body was very still. But there was excitement in her voice.

  “Harry Luttrell,” replied Hillyard, and Stella Croyle did not move. “I don’t know what has become of him. You see, I had ninety pounds left out of the thousand when I left Oxford. So I just dived.”

  “But you have come up again now. You will resume your friends at the point where you dived.”

  “Not yet. I am going away in a week’s time.”

  “For long?”

  “Eight months.”

  “And far?”

  “Very.”

  “I am sorry,” said Stella.

  It had been the intention of Hillyard to use his first months of real freedom in a great wandering amongst wide spaces. The journey had been long since planned, even details of camp outfit and equipment and the calibre of rifles considered.

  “I have been at my preparations for years,” he said. “I lived in a cubbyhole in Westminster, writing and writing and writing, but when I thought of this journey to be, certain to be, the walls would dissolve, and I would walk in magical places under the sun.”

  “Now the New Year reviving old desires,

  The thoughtful soul to solitude retires”

  Stella Croyle quoted the verses gaily, and Hillyard, lost in the anticipation of his journey, never noticed that the gaiety rang false.

  “And where are you going?” she asked.

  “To the Sudan.”

  It seemed that Stella expected just that answer and no other. She gazed into the fire without moving, seeking to piece together a picture in the coals of that unknown country which held all for which she yearned.

  “I shall travel slowly up the White Nile to Renk,” Hillyard continued, blissfully. He was delighted at the interest which Mrs. Croyle was taking in his itinerary. She was clearly a superior person. “From Renk, I shall cross to the Blue Nile at Rosaires, and travel eastward again to the River Dinder — —”

  “You are most fortunate,” Stella interrupted wistfully.

  “Yes, am I not?” cried Hillyard. It looked as if nothing would break through his obtuseness.

  “I should love to be going in your place.”

  “You?”

  Hillyard smiled. She was for a mantelshelf in a boudoir, not for a camp.

  “Yes — I,” and her voice suddenly broke.

  Hillyard sprang up from his chair, but Stella held up her hand to
check him, and turned her face still further away. Hillyard resumed his seat uncomfortably.

  “You may meet your friend Harry Luttrell in the Sudan,” she explained. “He is stationed somewhere in that country — where exactly I would give a great deal to know.”

  They sat without speaking for a little while, Stella once more turning to the fire. Hillyard watching her wistful face and the droop of her shoulders understood at last the truth of Hardiman’s description. The mask was lain aside. Here indeed was a Lady of Sorrows.

  Stella Croyle was silent until she was quite sure that she had once more the mastery of her voice. It was important to her that her next words should not be forgotten. But even so she did not dare to speak above a whisper.

  “I want you to do me a favour. If you should meet Harry, I should like him to have news of me. I should like him also — oh, not so often — but just every now and then to write me a little line.”

  There were tears glistening on her dark eyelashes. Hillyard fell into a sort of panic as he reflected upon his own vaunting talk. Compared with this woman’s poignant distress, all the vicissitudes of his life seemed now quite trivial and small. Here were tears falling and Hillyard was unused to tears. Nor had he ever heard so poignant a longing in any human voice as that on which Stella’s prayer to him was breathed. He was ashamed. He was also a little envious of Harry Luttrell. He was also a little angry with Harry Luttrell.

  “You won’t forget?”

  Stella clasped her hands together imploringly.

  “No,” Hillyard replied. “Be very sure of that, Mrs. Croyle! If I meet Luttrell he shall have your message.”

  “Thank you.”

  Stella Croyle dried the tears from her cheeks and stood up.

  “I have been foolish. You won’t find me like that again,” she cried, and she helped Hillyard on with his coat. She went to the door to see him out, but stopped as she grasped the handle.

  All Hillyard’s talk about himself had passed in at one ear and out at the other. But every word which he had spoken about Harry Luttrell was written on her heart. And one phrase had kindled a tiny spark of hope. She had put it aside by itself, wanting more knowledge about it, and meaning to have that knowledge before Hillyard departed. She put her question now, with the door still closed and her back to it.