The clockwork man, p.10
The Clockwork Man, page 10
Was Lilian going to destroy their happiness for the sake of these modern heresies? Surely she would not throw him over now; and yet her message left that impression. Nowadays women were so led by their sensibilities. Lilian’s hypersensitive nature might revolt at the prospect of living with him in the surroundings of his own choice.
He would look such a fool if the match did not come off. He had made so many sacrifices for her sake, sacrifices that were undignified, but necessary in a country town where every detail of daily life speedily becomes common knowledge. That was why he would appear so ridiculous if the marriage did not take place. It had been necessary, in the first place, to establish himself in the particular clique favoured by Lilian’s parents, and although this manoeuvre had involved a further lapse from his already partly disestablished principles, and an almost palpable insincerity, the Doctor had adopted it without much scruple. He had resigned his position as Vicar’s churchwarden at the rather eucharistic parish church, and become a mere worshipper in a back pew at the Baptist chapel; for Lilian’s father favoured the humble religion of self-made men. He had subscribed to the local temperance society, and contributed medical articles to the local paper on the harmful effects of alcohol and the training of midwives. In the winter evenings he gave lantern lectures on “The Wonders of Science.” He organised a P.S.A., delivered addresses to Young Men Only, and generally did all he could to advance the Baptist cause, which, in Great Wymering, stood not only for simplicity of religious belief, but also for the simplification of daily life aided by scientific knowledge and common sense. All that had been necessary in order to become legitimately intimate with the Payne family; for they enjoyed the most aggravating good health, and the Doctor had grown tired of awaiting an opportunity to dispense anti-toxins in exchange for tea.
But the class to which the Paynes belonged were not really humble. They were urban in origin, and the semi-aristocratic tradition of Great Wymering was opposed to them. They had come down from the London suburbs in response to advertisements of factory sites, and their enterprise had been amazing. Within a few years Great Wymering had ceased to be a pleasing country town, with historic associations dating back to the first Roman occupation; it was merely known to travellers on the South-Eastern and Chatham railway as the place where Payne’s Dog Biscuits were manufactured.
The Doctor, in establishing himself in the right quarter, had forgotten to allow for the fact that the force that had lifted the Paynes out of their urban obscurity had descended to their daughter. Lilian had been expensively educated, and although the Doctor denied it to himself a hundred times a week, there was no evading the fact that an acute brain slumbered behind her rather immobile beauty. True, the fruits of her learning languished a little in Great Wymering, and that beyond a slight permanent frown and a disposition to argue about modern problems, she betrayed no revolt against the narrowness of her existence, but appeared, graceful and willowy, at garden parties or whist drives. It was the development of her mind that the Doctor feared, especially as, all unconsciously at first, he had acted as its chief stimulant. During their talks together he had spoken too many a true word in jest; and his witticisms had revealed to Lilian a whole world about which to think and theorise.
He glanced up at her photograph on the mantelpiece. If there was a flaw in the composition of her fair, Saxon beauty, it was that the mouth was a little too large and opened rather too easily, disclosing teeth that were not as regular as they should be. But nature’s blunder often sets the seal on man’s choice, and to the Doctor this trifling fault gave warmth and vivacity to a face that might easily have been cold and impassive, especially as her eyes were steel blue and she had no great art in the use of them. Her voice, too, often startled the listener by its occasional note that suggested an excitability of temperament barely under control.
In vain the Doctor tried to throw off his heavy reflections and assume the air of gaiety usual to him when drinking his coffee and thinking of Lilian. Such an oppression could hardly be ascribed to the malady of love. It was not Romeo’s “heavy lightness, serious vanity.” It was a deep perplexity, a grave foreboding that something had gone hideously wrong with him, something that he was unable to diagnose. It could not be that he was growing old. As a medical man he knew his age to an artery. And yet, in spite of his physical culture and rather deliberate chastity, he felt suddenly that he was not a fit companion for this young girl with her resilient mind. He had always been fastidious about morals, without being exactly moral, but there was something within him that he did not care to contemplate. It almost seemed as though the sins of the mind were more deadly than those of the flesh, for the latter expressed themselves in action and re-action, while the former remained in the mind, there to poison and corrupt the very source of all activity.
What was it then—this feeling of a fixation of himself—of a slowing down of his faculties? Was it some strange new malady of the modern world, a state of mind as yet not crystallised by the poet or thinker? It was difficult to get a clear image to express his condition; yet that was his need. There was no phrase or word in his memory that could symbolise his feeling.
And then there was the Clockwork man—something else to think about, to be wondered at.
At this point in the Doctor’s reflections the door opened suddenly and Mrs. Masters ushered in the Curate, very dishevelled and obviously in need of immediate medical attention. His collar was all awry, and the look upon his face was that of a man who has looked long and fixedly at some object utterly frightful and could not rid himself of the image. “I’ve had a shock,” he began, trying pathetically to smile recognition. “Sorry disturb you—meal time—” He sank into a saddle-bag chair and waved limp arms expressively. “There was a man—” he got out.
The Doctor wiped his mouth and produced a stethoscope. His manner became soothingly professional. He murmured sympathetic phrases and pulled a chair closer to his patient.
“There was a man,” continued the Curate, in ancient-mariner-like tones, “at the Templars’ Hall. I thought he was the conjurer, but he wasn’t—at least, I don’t think so. He did things—impossible things—”
“What sort of things,” enquired the Doctor, slowly, as he listened to the Curate’s heart. “You must make an effort to steady yourself.”
“He—he made things appear,” gasped the Curate, with a great effort, “out of nowhere—positively.”
“Well, isn’t that what conjurers are supposed to do?” observed the Doctor, blandly.
But the Curate shook his head. Fortunately, in his professional character there was no need for the Doctor to exhibit surprise. On the contrary, it was necessary, for his patient’s sake, to exercise control. He leaned against the mantelpiece and listened attentively to the Curate’s hurried account of his encounter with the Clockwork man, and shook his head gravely.
“Well, now,” he prescribed, “complete rest for a few days, in a sitting posture. I’ll give you something to quieten you down. Evidently you’ve had a shock.”
“It’s very hard,” the Curate complained, “that my infirmity should have prevented me from seeing more. The spirit was willing but the flesh was weak.”
“Very likely,” the Doctor suggested, “someone has played a trick upon you. Perhaps your own nerves are partly to blame. Men with highly strung nerves like you are very liable to—er—hallucinations.”
“I wonder,” said the Curate, grasping the edge of his chair, “I wonder, now, if Moses felt like this when he saw the burning bush.”
“Ah, very likely,” rejoined the Doctor, glad of the opportunity to enforce his analogy. “There’s not the least doubt that many so-called miracles in the past had their origin in some pathological condition improperly understood at the time. Moses probably suffered from some sort of hysteria—a sort of hypnosis. Even in those days there was the problem of nervous breakdown.”
His voice died away. The Curate was not actually shaking his head, but there was upon his features an expression of incredulity, the like of which the Doctor had not seen before upon a human face, for it was the incredulity of a man to whom all arguments against the incredible are in themselves unbelievable. It was a grotesque expression, and with it there went a pathetic fluttering of the Curate’s eyelids, a twitching of his lips, a clasping of small white hands.
“I’m afraid your explanation won’t hold water,” he rejoined. “I can’t bring myself not to believe in what I saw. You see, all my life I have been trying to believe in miracles, in manifestations. I have always said that if only we could bring ourselves to accept what is not obvious. My best sermons have been upon that subject: of the desirability of getting ourselves into the receptive state. Sometimes the Vicar has objected. He seemed to think I was piling it on deliberately. But I assure you, Doctor Allingham, that I have always wanted to believe—and, in this case, it was only my infirmity and my unfortunate nervousness that led me to lose such an opportunity.”
The Doctor drew himself up stiffly, and just perceptibly indicated the door. “I think you need a holiday,” he remarked, “and a change from theological pursuits. And don’t forget. Rest, for a few days, in a sitting posture.”
“Thank you,” the Curate beamed, “I’m afraid the Vicar will be very annoyed, but it can’t be helped.”
They were in the hall now, and the Doctor was holding the street door open.
“But it happened,” the Curate whispered. “It really did happen—and we shall hear and see more. I only hope I shall be well enough to stand it. We are living in great days.”
He hovered on the doorstep, rubbing his hands together and looking timidly up at the stars as though half expecting to see a sign. “It distressed me at first,” he resumed, “because he was such an odd-looking person, and the whole experience was really on the humorous side. I wanted to laugh at him, and it made me feel so disgraceful. But I’m quite sure he was a manifestation of something, perhaps an apotheosis.”
“Don’t hurry home,” warned the Doctor. “Take things quietly.”
“Oh, yes, of course. The body is a frail instrument. One forgets that. So good of you. But the spirit endures. Good night.”
He glided along the deserted High Street. The Doctor held the door ajar for a long while and watched that frail figure, nursing a tremendous conviction and hurrying along, in spite of instructions to the contrary.
7
The Clockwork Man Explains Himself
I
Late that evening the Doctor returned from a confinement case, which had taken him to one of the outlying villages near Great Wymering. The engine was grinding and straining as the car slowly ascended a steep incline that led into the town; and the Doctor leaned forward in the seat, both hands gripping the wheel, and his eyes peering through the wind-screen at the stretch of well-lit road ahead of him.
He had almost reached the top of the hill, and was about to change his gear, when a figure loomed up out of the darkness and made straight for the car. The Doctor hastily jammed his brake down, but too late to avert a collision. There was a violent bump; and the next moment the car began running backwards down the hill, followed by the figure, who had apparently suffered no inconvenience from the contact.
Aware that his brakes were not strong enough to avert another disaster, the Doctor deftly turned the car sideways and ran backwards into the hedge. He leapt out into the road and approached the still moving figure.
“What the devil!”
The figure stopped with startling suddenness, but offered no explanation.
“What are you playing at?” the Doctor demanded, glancing at the crumpled bonnet of his car. “It’s a wonder I didn’t kill you.”
And then, as he approached nearer to that impassive form, staring at him with eyes that glittered luridly in the darkness, he recognised something familiar about his appearance. At the same moment he realised that this singular individual had actually run into the car without apparently incurring the least harm. The reflection rendered the Doctor speechless for a few seconds; he could only stare confusedly at the Clockwork man. The latter remained static, as though, in his turn, trying to grasp the significance of what had happened.
It occurred to the Doctor that here was an opportunity to investigate certain matters.
“Look here,” he broke out, after a collected pause, “once and for all, who are you?”
A question, sharply put, generally produced some kind of effect upon the Clockwork man. It seemed to release the mechanism in his brain that made coherent speech possible. But his reply was disconcerting.
“Who are you?” he demanded, after a preliminary click or two.
“I am a doctor,” said Allingham, rather taken back, “a medical man. If you are hurt at all—”
An extra gleam of light shone in the other’s eye, and he seemed to ponder deeply over this statement.
“Does that mean that you can mend people?” he enquired, at last.
“Why yes, I suppose it does,” Allingham admitted, not knowing what else to say.
The Clockwork man sighed, a long, whistling sigh. “I wish you would mend me. I’m all wrong you know. Something has got out of place, I think. My clock won’t work properly.”
“Your clock,” echoed the Doctor.
“It’s rather difficult to explain,” the Clockwork man continued, “but so far as I remember, doctors were people who used to mend human beings before the days of the clock. Now they are called mechanics. But it amounts to the same thing.”
“If you will come with me to my surgery,” the Doctor suggested, with as much calmness as he could assume, “I’ll do my best for you.”
The Clockwork man bowed stiffly. “Thank you. Of course, I’m a little better than I was, but my ears still flap occasionally.”
The Doctor scarcely heard this. He had turned aside and stooped down in order to rewind the engine of his car. When he looked up again he beheld an extraordinary sight.
The Clockwork man was standing by his side, a comic expression of pity and misgiving animating his crude features. With one hand he was softly stroking the damaged bonnet of the car.
“Poor thing,” he was saying, “It must be suffering dreadfully. I am so sorry.”
Allingham paused in the turning of the handle and stared, aghast, at his companion. There was no mistaking the significance of the remark, and it had been spoken in tones of strange tenderness. Rapidly there swept across the Doctor’s mind a sensation of complete conviction. If there was any further proof required of the truth of Gregg’s conjecture, surely it was expressed in this apparently insane and yet obviously sincere solicitude on the part of the Clockwork man for an inanimate machine? He recognised in the mechanism before him a member of his own species!
The thing was at once preposterous and rational, and the Doctor almost yielded to a desire to laugh hysterically. Then, with a final jerk of the handle, he started the engine and opened the door of the car for the Clockwork man to enter. The latter, after making several absurd attempts to mount the step in the ordinary manner, stumbled and fell head foremost into the interior. The Doctor followed, and picking up the prostrate figure, placed him in a sitting posture upon the seat. He was extraordinarily light, and there was something about the feel of his body that sent a thrill of apprehension down the Doctor’s spine. He was thoroughly frightened by now, and the manner in which his companion took everything for granted only increased his alarm.
“I know one thing,” the Clockwork man remarked, as the car began to move, “I’m devilish hungry.”
II
That the Clockwork man was likely to prove a source of embarrassment to him in more ways than one was demonstrated to the Doctor almost as soon as they entered the house. Mrs. Masters, who was laying the supper, regarded the visitor with a slight huffiness. He obtruded upon her vision as an extra meal for which she was not prepared. And the Doctor’s manner was not reassuring. He seemed, for the time being, to lack that urbanity which usually enabled him to smooth over the awkward situations in life. It was unfortunate, perhaps, that he should have allowed Mrs. Masters to develop an attitude of distrust, but he was nervous, and that was sufficient to put the good lady on her guard.
“Lay an extra place, will you, Mrs. Masters,” the Doctor had requested as they entered the room.
“I’m afraid you’ll ’ave to make do,” was the sharp rejoinder, for there was not much on the table, and the Doctor favoured a light supper. “There’s watercress,” she added, defensively.
“Care for watercress?” enquired the Doctor, trying hard to glance casually at his guest.
The Clockwork man stared blankly at his interrogator. “Watercress,” he remarked, “is not much in my line. Something solid, if you have it, and as much as possible. I feel a trifle faint.”
He sat down rather hurriedly, on the couch, and the Doctor scanned him anxiously for symptoms. But there were none of an alarming character. He had not removed his borrowed hat and wig.
“Bring up anything you can find,” the Doctor whispered in Mrs. Masters’ ear, “my friend has had rather a long journey. Anything you can find. Surely we have things in tins.”
His further suggestions were drowned by an enormous hyæna-like yawn coming from the direction of the couch. It was followed by another, even more prodigious. The room fairly vibrated with the Clockwork man’s uncouth expression of omnivorous appetite.
“Bless us!” Mrs. Masters could not help saying. “Manners!”
“Is there anything you particularly fancy?” enquired the Doctor.
“Eggs,” announced the figure on the couch. “Large quantities of eggs—infinite eggs.”
“See what you can do in the matter of eggs,” urged the Doctor, and Mrs. Masters departed, with the light of expedition in her eye, for to feed a hungry man, even one whom she regarded with suspicion, was part of her religion.
