'You imagine that.'

  'No, I don't…. But tell me. Do you have at all the sort of feeling I have—that he isn't really dead? I can't believe he is. With all his faults, he could look after himself, and that was such a silly way to die.'

  'Why, of course he's dead!' I cried out sharply. Then pulling myself in as though I were dragging back into my very entrails some lithe animal with sharp, white teeth and red hair, I said quietly, smiling: 'Aren't I wearing his ring?'

  'Oh, I know! I know! … Of course he's dead. Oh, I miss him! John—Oh, I beg your pardon. It slipped out—'

  'That's all right,' I said carelessly.

  'May I? Fine! And you must call me Bella. Funny, isn't it? At one time I wouldn't have dreamt of it, but now—Jimmie has drawn us together a little, hasn't he? Or don't you want me to say that?'

  'I think he has.'

  'Well, what I was going to say is that you have no idea how dreadfully I miss him! That house is horrible to me now! Oh, you don't know how horrible it is! I have to play chess with Mother. She always wins. She likes to win. A cat with a mouse, that's what she is when she plays me. She just lets me go on. She likes to make me think I'm winning. And then she pounces! But now—she looks at me over the chess–board. I'm sure now that she knows all about Jimmie and me. I didn't think so before. But now I'm sure that she knew all the time. And she's pleased that he's dead. Horribly pleased. She hasn't mentioned his name.'

  'You're imagining all this,' I said.

  'Oh, no, I'm not. You can't imagine things with someone like Mother if she wants you to be sure of something. She can make anything definite without saying a syllable…. I want to get away—to London! I must! I must!'

  'Well, why don't you?'

  'I can't leave Mother there helpless. Besides, she never lets me have a penny of my own. Don't let anyone else know that, will you, John? I've never let anyone else know except Jimmie. He knew and was awfully generous. He was always giving me money.'

  I had a sudden impulse.

  'I'd like you to have some,' I said, 'if it would be a help—'

  'Oh, no!' She was blushing a little and looked quite young. I thought that one day perhaps if she allowed me I might kiss her. 'I wouldn't think of it. It's awfully good of you, but I wouldn't take money from anyone—Only Jimmie and I—'

  I suddenly couldn't endure her. I wanted to get away at once, at once.

  I paid the girl.

  'I'm sorry,' I said. 'I promised to meet someone at the shop—'

  'Of course,' she said, gathering up her gloves and bag.

  I come now to the first of the events that were presently to follow. I said at the beginning of my narrative that I am writing all this down to the smallest detail that I may prove to myself, beyond any possible question, that I am telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, as they say in the law courts. But, if there ever should be a reader of my story, I want him to realize how sane, composed, undisturbed I am while I am writing this. It is for that reason that I record so accurately many conversations and go often into minute detail. I AM not mad! I AM not mad! God, God, Thou knowest. Thou hast given me this trial because of what I have done and I submit. Thou hast the right. I submit! I submit!

  I found that, as the weeks proceeded, I frequented the Lower Town very considerably. As I have said already, I had a great liking for it, its silence, its green undisturbed atmosphere, the lapping of the sea waters against the broken pier, and sometimes the sea storming and leaping over the old boards and thundering against the age–stout shore.

  I never, until a certain evening, entered 'The Green Parrot.' I found now that I was attracted to it as I had never been in the old days. Attracted and repelled! Something told me not to pass those doors, just as in childhood something had told me not to steal a sweet or read a book that had been forbidden me.

  But on one wet, dreary evening the temptation was too strong for me and I went in. 'The Green Parrot' hung, in its upper storeys, over the sea, and when you were inside the bar–room you could hear the sound of the waters quite clearly. The room was very bright and cheerful on this particular evening, but as I stood a little uncertainly by the door, I saw to my alarm that Basil Cheeseman, Bob Steele, and a young good–for–nothing called Frank Romilly were seated, drinking together, at a table. They were the very last companions I wanted just then and I would have retreated had I been able, but it was too late.

  Cheeseman, lifting his pipe and waving it in the air, called out:

  'Talbot! Talbot! … Why, who would have thought … '

  There was a man or two leaning on the bar and talking to the barmaid—Ted Warner, the fat landlord with a round face like a turnip lantern, and a bald head that was always perspiring, looked at me with astonishment.

  I went over to the table. They put a chair for me; they were all greatly surprised to see me there.

  'What will you have?' Cheeseman asked. 'Now, boys, what about another? All of you. The drinks are on me.'

  'I'll have a ginger ale,' I said. They all laughed. Cheeseman was half–way towards the bar. He looked back, his foxy face agrin. 'A ginger ale! Nonsense! No one has a ginger ale here, do they, Ted?'

  'I'm a teetotaller, you know,' I said, with that half–ashamed, half– boasting tone that teetotallers always assume.

  'All right,' Cheeseman said. 'It's your funeral—not mine.'

  He said something to Ted and they both laughed; then he came back to us.

  Frank Romilly was a good–looking, dissipated young fellow whose character was as weak as a spider's web. He was supposed to work in an oil business of his uncle's, but he was supposed also to live on the favours of a rich widow called Mrs. Godfrey, who owned much property some ten miles from our town. I saw at once that Cheeseman had, before my arrival, been turning the screw on both Steele and Romilly. He was in excellent spirits while they were both in the sulks.

  Something urged me to continue sitting there; something else pressed me to be gone. I couldn't understand my own mood. But after I had drunk my ginger ale, which I did almost at a gulp, I felt a kind of audacity, a new, bold spirit. It was the best ginger ale I had ever drunk and had a flavour to it that was most agreeable. When I had finished Cheeseman said:

  'Now for another!'

  'It's on me this time!' I cried. 'As soon as you're ready, all of you—it's on me.'

  Cheeseman took my glass and went to the bar with it.

  'So you're wearing Jimmy Tunstall's ring,' Romilly said. 'Poor old chap! Christ, how I miss him! Do you remember, Bob, how we used to sit at this very table and the songs he'd sing?'

  'God! I should say I did,' said Steele, who was a little drunk. 'Why, old man,' he said, leaning towards me and laying his podgy fingers on my arm, 'it was that very night you came into my cinema— David Copperfield—do you remember? 'Strewth, it was that very same night … poor old Jimmie—the best sport, the best … '

  But Cheeseman had returned to the table with my drink, and the effect that he had on his two friends was truly remarkable. It was clear that he had been telling them of something unpleasant.

  I drank half of my glass with one impulse: then I put the glass down on the table with a shudder. Cheeseman this time had given me a whisky and soda. I had all my life loathed the smell of whisky, and once, given a very small amount as a medicine, had been sick from it. The very thought of whisky made me ill. Now when I had drunk unsuspiciously half a glass of it I was revolted as though I had committed an obscene act. At the same time I was familiar with it. It seemed to me that there was nothing strange in it and that I loved it while I hated it. And yet I was trembling with rage at Cheeseman. It was all I could do not to throw the glass in his face.

  He was watching me, grinning at me over the top of his pipe.

  'That was whisky,' I said.

  'As a matter of fact, it was.'

  'What right had you … ? You know I loathe the filthy stuff.'

  'You can't loathe it, old boy, if you've never tasted it.'

  The other men laughed.

  'Now come—confess—it wasn't so bad.'

  I got on to my feet. I was about to tell him what I thought of him and go when I did an incredible thing. I drank the rest of the whisky. It wasn't I. Oh, I swear that it wasn't I who acted thus— an action that was to be one of the landmarks in my story. I hadn't known that I had drunk it until I realized that I was standing there stupidly looking at the empty glass.

  How they laughed, all three of them! There was I, furious in the very act of saying that I hated the stuff, and I drank it. My body was warm, the room glowed in the light of the fire. I could see Ted smiling at me across the floor.

  'No,' cried Steele, clapping me on the haunches. 'It wasn't so bad, old man, was it? And there's plenty more where that came from.'

  I remembered that the drinks were to be on me. I sat down. 'What are you all having?' I said.

  After that a great friendliness seemed to spring up between us. I felt as though I had known young Romilly most intimately although, in actual fact, I had with him a very slight acquaintance. I had always disapproved of him and said so.

  After a little time he alluded to this: he had drunk freely by now and his eyes shone brightly, his lips were wet, and he smiled at me as though he loved me. 'It's a funny thing, Talbot, but either I'm changed or you are. I've often thought I'd like to know you better, but you've always been so damned stand–offish. "Who does he think he is?" I used to say, meaning you and no offence meant. And they'd tell me you didn't like me a bit and used to warn the girls off me. Not that that had any effect, you know!' He threw his handsome head back and laughed like anything. 'But now you're a regular fellow. I'll swear he is. Isn't he, Bob? And I'm damned glad we're friends. Always wanted to be friends and now we ARE friends! It's as though your wearing old Jimmie's ring has sort of brought us together. Let's shake hands on it!'

  His hand was damp and strong and warm.

  I noticed at the same time that something came from under the table. It was Tunstall's fox–terrier, Scandal, the dog that had been down with us on the beach that day. When Tunstall had been there the dog, who had been devoted to him, never paid any attention to anyone else.

  He now came from under the table and sat there on his haunches looking at us with large, mournful eyes.

  'Why, that's Tunstall's dog?' I said.

  'Yes,' Cheeseman said, 'I've taken him over. Here, Scandal, old boy. Come along, old boy.' But the dog didn't move. He stared at Cheeseman with the same intense melancholy. A shiver ran down his spine. Suddenly he lifted up his head and howled.

  I cannot possibly describe the effect that that dog's howl had on the warm and brightly–lit bar. It was like what an unexpected gun– shot would be in a cathedral!

  We all cried out at once: 'Oh, drown the bastard!'—'What the hell—'—'We can't have that here, Mr. Cheeseman!' After the rest I said: 'What's the matter, old boy?' At once he turned his head to me. He looked at me as though he would stare my face away. Then, very slowly, he came towards me. It was almost as though he crawled. We all watched in silence. He came. He sniffed at my trousers. He sniffed again and again. He raised his head and stared again. Then with a sigh he lay down and stayed stretched out, his handsome head with its short, stiff white curls resting on his paws.

  'He seems to know you,' Cheeseman said.

  'He's seen me when I've been with Tunstall.'

  'I can't say he's been much fun since I've had him,' Cheeseman said. 'Misses his master all the time. And Jimmie didn't treat him over well, either.'

  'Treat 'em rough. Treat 'em rough,' Romilly said. 'Women and dogs. Treat 'em rough.'

  'Well, Jimmie certainly did.'

  'Jimmie! Jimmie!' Bob Steele suddenly broke out in his thick, mumbling voice. 'Why has it always got to be Jimmie? I hated the man personally. Oh, I know he seemed jolly enough, but he wasn't jolly really—not by a long chalk. He is dead and there's no one very sorry if you ask me. Yet here we are, always talking about him as though he were still alive. You'd think he was sitting at the very table with us by the way you go on.'

  I looked at Steele with a grim determination.

  'So that's how you feel, is it?' I said to him, and I could see at once how greatly surprised he was both by my look and my voice. 'Well, that's pretty ungrateful and you know that it is. Many's the time he's helped you out of a nasty scrape. What about that time in Nottingham and the girl—?'

  He broke in. 'By God, Talbot, who told you about that? He can't have done. And yet nobody else knew. But you keep your mouth shut, do you hear? How did you know? He can't have told you—'

  'Never mind how I know,' I answered. 'I'm blasted well disgusted with you, Steele, you ungrateful bastard—'

  And those are the last words that I clearly and definitely remember. I had never drunk whisky before. I had never sworn before. Whether they were connected I cannot say.

  All I can remember is that I went on drinking and while I was drinking I began to disintegrate. I disintegrated before my own eyes. I had always been sure that I had a personality and had suspected that I had a soul to be saved, but now I fell apart—a leg there, ribs and intestines here, blood and muscles and nerves— all tumbling into a golden haze that seemed to emanate from the taproom fire. And if I had no body, what was there to assure me that I had a soul? Why should I imagine that there was any such entity as John Talbot?—a bit of John Talbot, a bit of someone else— a bit of a dog, of a fox, of a bird, of a stoat. I remember that I leant across the table wagging my finger and saying something like this:

  'I am nothing. You are nothing. My spittle is as good as your spittle and it is only spittle. Isn't it? Now answer me. You're afraid to. You're afraid because you must have your identity. What's your name? Romilly. Frank Romilly. That's right. Well, Frank Romilly, without your identity you're nothing—see? An empty dwelling–place and seven devils enter in. And the last state of that house shall be worse. See what I mean, Romilly? A devil HAS entered into you. It's looking out of your eyes now. I'll wash him out for you.'

  And I threw the rest of my glass of whisky and soda in his face. I don't know what happened after that.

  I was valiant, standing on my feet singing the indecent song 'My landlady fell down, fell down … ' I didn't know the song. I had never sung it before. And then I crawled on the floor imitating the dog Scandal. And then Cheeseman was seeing me home through the cool night air.

  I remember Cheeseman saying before we reached my door:

  'I haven't heard anyone sing that song about the landlady since Tunstall sang it up at the Spider Club one night—'

  I was violently sick and Cheeseman stood there and waited. Then he opened my door for me, led me in and left me.

  I sat down in the dark room on the sofa. The fit of nausea had cleared my head and I was cold as though lapped in snow. I was also terrified. I called out at the top of my voice: 'Eve! Eve! Eve!' A moment later her step was on the stairs, she had switched on the electric light, and in her primrose–coloured dressing–gown, her hair bound virginally with a silk handkerchief, she stood looking at me.

  'John!' Then she added, half–way towards me: 'You're drunk!'

  'I am.' I was too wretched to care. But I was frightened. 'There's someone in the room.'

  She paid no attention to that. She came over to me and sat on the sofa beside me. I put my head against her breast.

  'I'm ashamed…. It's never happened before…. You know it hasn't…. Be kind. I need you so.'

  But she was not at all angry, only business–like.

  'I should hope it hasn't. I'm completely astonished. Now come upstairs. I'll help you to undress.'

  She assisted me upstairs. She helped me to undress. When we were in bed she tucked me up and then lay at some distance from me. I longed that she should take me in her arms, but I was ashamed and I realized that I stank of whisky.

  'My head aches,' I murmured.

  'Here, rub this on your forehead. Now you know how unpleasant the effects of drinking are, you won't do it again.'

  As I lay there I realized that I was completely my old self. I was not masterful nor roguish nor obscene.

  The thought of Cheeseman and his companions, the memory of my chatter, the soft warmth of Romilly's hand—these things repelled and revolted me.

  'Where did you go? Who were you with?'

  Eve's voice, calm, resolved, unangered, told me that I was in for a questioning. I knew well by now Eve's investigations. There was nothing in the world more definite and relentless. My head throbbed, my body shivered. I was afraid, I knew not why. I stretched out my cold hand and took hers. She let my hand lie in hers, but I knew that she was scarcely aware that it lay there. When she was determined to satisfy some curiosity, she could be ravished and not know her ravisher.

  'Where did you go?' she repeated. 'And why? It's so unlike you.'

  I lifted my hand and laid it under her breast, but so unconscious was that breast of any contact that I took my hand away again.

  'I'm frightened,' I said, and drew closer to her.

  'Poor John! What are you frightened of?'

  I lay close against her warm, strong side and could feel the calm beating of her heart.

  'I'll tell you,' I said. 'I was in the Lower Town. I pushed open the door of "The Green Parrot" because it was wet and went in. Cheeseman and Bob Steele and Frank Romilly were there.'

  'The worst—' murmured Eve.

  'Yes, of course, I know. I've always hated them, especially Cheeseman. But something made me. I sat down with them. I had a ginger ale. I think now that Cheeseman must have put something to it, for it was strong, better than any ginger ale I ever … ' I broke off. 'Eve,' I said pitifully, 'put your arms round me. I'm so miserable. My head is awful.'

  'Yes. All right.' She put her soft arms around me. I buried my face in her nightdress then timidly raised my head and kissed her soft, warm, enchanting cheek.

  'I know,' I murmured. 'The whisky … it's hateful….'

  But she wasn't caring for what I did. She said quickly, in the clear, sharp tone of one who is thinking of nothing but the answer to a question: 'Yes, yes. He put something into the ginger ale. Gin, I suppose. What happened then?'

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20