CHAPTER XXII
A VISIT TO BRYANSTON SQUARE
Unwillingly enough, I set out with our guest to consult my UncleTheodore. Assuredly it was a scheme in which common sense, in thegeneral acceptation of that elusive quality, had no part. Yet, howeverpreposterous the proceeding, it was an act of common humanity to takeeven an extravagant measure for the relief of such an acute suffering.It was impossible not to pity the unhappy creature. Her eyes were wildand her appearance had been transformed into that of a hunted animal.
On the way up to town we were fortunate enough to secure a carriage toourselves. Throughout the journey my companion hardly addressed a wordto me, but she continued to betray many tokens of mental anguish. Thetrain was punctual, and by a few minutes after four o'clock we were inBryanston Square.
It is only once in a lustrum that I visit my Uncle Theodore. He isrich, a bachelor, and in the family is regarded as an incorrigiblecrank. The champion of lost causes, a poet, a radical, a practitionerof the occult, a scorner of convention, and a robust hater of manythings, including all that relates to the merely expedient, theutilitarian and the material, he is looked upon as a dangerous hereticwho might be more esteemed if he belonged to a less eminentlyresponsible clan.
Howbeit, I confess that I never visit my Uncle Theodore without feelingconstrained to pay a kind of involuntary homage to his personality. Hehas a way with him; there is a something about him which is theabsolute negation of the commonplace. He is tall and extraordinarilyfrail, with a picturesque mop of orange-coloured hair, and a pair oflarge round eyes of remarkable luminosity, which seem like twin moonsof liquid light.
It was our good fortune to find this bravo at home and in receipt of mytelegram. I left my companion in another room while I went forth andbearded the lion in his den. Dressed in a velvet jacket, a red tie anda pair of beaded Oriental slippers he was in the act of composition,and was writing very slowly with a feathered quill upon a sheet ofunruled foolscap.
"I am writing a letter to the time-serving rag that disgraces us," hesaid with a kind of languid vehemence, "and the time-serving rag won'tprint it, but I shall keep a copy and publish it in a pamphlet at theprice of three-pence."
"Then put me down for four copies," said I. "You know I always regardyou as one of the few living masters of the King's English."
"The King's English! The King, my boy, has no English. He has lessEnglish than the average self-respecting costermonger."
"The well of English undefiled, then."
"That is better. You are perfectly right. It is my firm convictionthat my prose is quite equal to my poetry, and yet these dunces persistin saying that we poets can't write prose. Swinburne couldn't, it'strue, and with tears in my eyes I used to beseech him to give uptrying. But he was an obstinate little fellow. Milton couldn't,either. But Goethe now, Goethe could write prose as well as I canmyself, and so could Wordsworth if he had liked, and so could Shelley.As for that yokel from Stratford-on-Avon, if there is anybody who daresto say he couldn't write prose, I should like to have the pleasure ofcontradicting him."
"I think," said I, "you will be among the prose-writers after yourdeath. If I survive you, I shall hope to prepare a collected editionof the letters you have had rejected by the newspapers."
"That's a bargain, my boy. I will select them for you. It will be anice little legacy to leave to posterity. A hundred years hence theywill speak of me as the British Lucian who opened the stinkingcasements of a putrid age and let in God's honest sunlight. What atime we live in, and what a poisonous crew inhabits it! Why, do youknow, my boy, we have less real freedom in this country than they havein Illyria."
The totally unexpected mention of the blessed word Illyria startled meconsiderably. That sinister kingdom was evidently in the air.
"You are right, Theodore," said I. "'The stinking casements of aputrid age'--that is a phrase I shall remember when next I am at thepoint of asphyxiation upon the green benches of the Mother ofParliaments."
"What a football-kicking, boat-tugging, gymnasium-bred crew they mustbe to stand such an atmosphere day after day, night after night! Ishouldn't have thought that a really _polite_ man could have existed init for three days. I wonder what Edmund Burke thinks of the place whenhe enters it now."
A rough working knowledge of the subject with which I had to coperendered it imperative that I should make a determined effort to layhold of his head before he took charge of me altogether.
"Theodore," said I, "I am not here to yield to the delight of yourconversation, much as I yearn to do so. I have brought a lady with mewho desires to consult you about the stars."
He seemed to laugh a deep, hollow laugh out of the depths of himself,much as an ogre might be expected to do.
"Vain superstition!" he guffawed, as he stretched out his long tenuoushands. "O ye upper-middle-class British Pharisees, that ye shouldcondescend! Who is this weak vessel that would consult the stars?Not, I trow and trust, a daughter of the late Sir John Stubberfield,Bart.?"
"The late Sir John Stubberfield, Bart." was a symbol erectedpermanently in his mind, with which he toyed when he was moved toexercise his fancy at the expense of his countrymen.
"Not a daughter of Sir John," I assured him. "An even more potentpersonage."
"Impossible, my boy! A veritable daughter of Sir John stands at theapex of human endeavour. She is the crown of social, political andphilosophical beatitude. Do you forget that it was a daughter of SirJohn Stubberfield, Bart., who married a Prosser? Do you forget it wasa daughter of Sir John Stubberfield, Bart., who had issue an heir male,a little Prosser?"
"Peace, peace, my good Theodore. You have a bare half-hour in which toread the stars in their courses for a fair unknown. And I beg that youwill treat her tenderly, for she is a brave woman and an unhappy."
"Aha!" The Ogre--the name he was known by in the family--sighed aromantic sympathy. It may seem out of harmony with the terms in whichI have endeavoured to render the personality of this Berserk, but hehad an almost Quixotic development of the sense of chivalry. Nothingso greatly delighted this champion of lost causes as to succour thosewho were in distress.
"Produce the languishing vestal, so that the arts of the necromancermay sustain her. But stay, my boy; before we go further, may I suggestthat you conform to the conventional practice of confiding the name shegoes by among men?"
"Certainly. Her name is Mrs. Nevil Fitzwaren."
"Aha!" The Ogre swung half round in his writing-chair to confront me.He seemed like a satyr, and the twin moons that were his eyes began tomagnetise me with their uncanny effulgence. "A woman about thirty, offoreign extraction?"
"Ye--es."
"Married an English squire about five years ago?"
"How the deuce do you know that?" said I, in amazement.
Again the look of the satyr seemed to transfigure him.
"What, pray, is the use of being a soothsayer without one is permittedto dabble a little in the black arts?"
"Theodore, my friend," said I, with a somewhat disconcerted laugh, "Iam inclined to think you must be the Devil."
"Perchance, my dear boy, perchance." The Ogre placed the tips of hisfingers together in a way he had. "May it interest you to know thatthe Devil is a more potent figure in the public life of our little daythan our German friends allow for. Never despise the Devil, and nevermention him lightly in any company, for he is always looking at you."
The twin moons were enfolding me with a refulgence that in the dimJanuary twilight was so uncanny that, had I been other than of a fairlyrobust materialistic texture, I might have felt a kind of horror.
"It is very interesting that your friend Mrs. Fitzwaren--black hair,olive complexion, remarkable appearance, a type you can't place--shouldcome to me like this. The fact is, my dear boy, things are not alwayswhat they seem. Judging by the recent behaviour of one or two ratherimportant planetary bodies, and of the new body of which our observantFrench friends have lately
learned to take cognisance, the visit ofyour friend Mrs. Nevil Fitzwaren to your cracked Uncle Theodore at hislocal habitation in Bryanston Square may have some kind of a bearing onthe destiny of nations. How say you?"
"My dear Theodore," I expostulated, from motives of policy, "my dearTheodore, you really are, 'pon my word you really are----!"
All the same, it was with a singular complexity of emotion that I wentforth to lead this prophet and soothsayer into the presence of theCrown Princess of Illyria.
It struck me as I preceded my carpet-slippered relation into the greatbare room that the unhappy lady was looking more distinguished and moredistraught than-ever. Had I had a merely superficial acquaintance withour family Berserk I must have had qualms as to the mode of hisreception of his visitor. In uncongenial company he could be apositive Boeotian savage, but, again, if it pleased him, he coulddisplay an ease and a sympathetic charm of bearing which was whollydelightful to those who had the good fortune to call it forth.
As he came shambling in with his flaming tie, his mop oforange-coloured hair, his hands in his pockets and his heels half outof his slippers, would it please him to be the polished and graciouscourtier, or the wild Boeotian savage?
His visitor rose to receive him and a grave bow was exchanged. And forthe first time in my knowledge of her Mrs. Fitz seemed at a loss forspeech. Small wonder was it, for this gaunt, lean presence with thefaun-like smile and the still, full, luminous gaze, seemed to hold thekey to realms of infinite mystery and power.
"If you will come to my room, we can talk," he said, quite gently.
As he was about to lead the way, he half turned and leered at meogre-like over his shoulder with his peculiarly significant malice.
"Tell Peacock to give you the _Sporting Times_ and a cigar and awhisky-and-soda, my dear boy," he said.
"Thanks," said I, "but I am afraid you cannot be allowed more thantwenty minutes for your interview. It is imperative that Mrs.Fitzwaren should catch the 5.28 from the Grand Central."
"The 5.28 from the Grand Central." He repeated the words as though animportance was attached to them that they had no reason to claim. Thenhe added musingly, "I am not so clear as I should like to be that youwill be wise to catch it. It would be better, I think, if Mrs.Fitzwaren could arrange to travel to-morrow."
"Impossible, my dear Theodore. Mrs. Fitzwaren is staying with us, andwe must certainly be back to dinner."
The Princess nodded her concurrence.
"Well, well, if you really must. And perhaps I exceed my prerogative."
The singular creature proceeded to lead the way to his study. I wasleft to meditate alone for twenty minutes upon this latest expressionof his personality. Never before had I realised so fully that he wasthe possessor of gifts the nature of which was as a sealed book to thecommon mortal. There had been occasions when we "in the family" hadbeen tempted to believe that there was a strong infusion of thecharlatan in his pretension to occult knowledge. A prophet is notwithout honour save in his own country.
But as I sat this January evening in his house in Bryanston Square, Irealised more fully than I had ever done before that the last word hasyet to be uttered in regard to the things around us. It was as thoughall at once my cranky relation in his carpet slippers, his velvet coatand his red tie had brought me into a more intimate contact with theUnseen.
Somehow, and for no specific reason that I was able to discover, myunruly nerves began to tick like a clock. The temperature of the roomwas not high, but a perspiration broke out all over me. A full fiveminutes I sat in the silence of the gathering darkness not quiteknowing what to do and not caring particularly. It was as though theenervating atmosphere of my uncle's nearness had taken from me thepower of volition.
It never occurred to me to ring the bell, and yet I had merely to pressthe button at my elbow. Nevertheless, when a servant entered with alamp it was a real relief.
"Hullo, Peacock!" said I, issuing with a little shiver from my reverie.
Somehow it seemed that that retainer, trusted, elderly, responsible,looked singularly pale and meagre in the lamp-light.
"Are you very well, Peacock?"
"Thank you, sir, not very." The old servant sighed heavily.
"Why, what's the matter?"
The old fellow proceeded to draw the curtains and then turned to faceme with a kind of nervous defiance.
"Fact is, Mr. Odo," he said, "this place is getting too much for me. Iam afraid I shan't be able to go on much longer. Fact is, Mr.Odo"--the old man lowered his voice to a whisper of painfulsolemnity--"it is contrary to the will of God."
"What is contrary to the will of God?"
"The goings on, sir, of Mr. Theodore. My private opinion is--and I sayto you, Mr. Odo, what I wouldn't say to another"--the voice of the oldfellow grew lower and lower--"that Mr. Theodore is getting to know abit more than any man ought to: in fact, sir, more than the Almightyintended any man should."
"What do you mean, Peacock? You are not growing superstitious in yourold age, are you?"
I strove to speak in a light tone. But in my own ears my voice soundedcuriously high and thin.
"I mean this, sir. The line ought to be drawn somewhere. And Mr.Theodore doesn't know where to draw it. The people he has here,sir--it's--well, it's appalling! Clairvoyants, mediums, mahatmas,Indian fakirs, table-turners, spirit-rappers, and I can't say what.Communion with spirits is all very well, sir, but it is contrary to thewill of God. The Almighty never intended, sir, that we should pry intoall the secrets of existence."
"How do you know that, Peacock?"
"I know by this, sir." The old fellow tapped the centre of hisforehead solemnly. "The thing that lies behind this."
To my surprise the old servant wrung his hands and burst into tears.
"It can't go on, sir--at least, as far as I am concerned. Either Mr.Theodore will have to mend his ways or I shall have to leave him. Ihave been a long time with Mr. Theodore, and of course I was with hisfather before him, and I daresay I am getting old, but do you know whatwe have got in the attic, sir?"
"What have you got in the attic, Peacock?"
"An Egyptian mummy, sir. It is several thousand years old, and I amconvinced that a curse is on it. I wouldn't enter that attic, sir, notme, not for all the wealth of the Rothschilds."
"I was not aware that you were superstitious, Peacock," said I, with avery ineffectual assumption of the formal tone of the married man, thefather of the family, and the county member.
"It is not superstition, sir, but I know what I know. That mummy hasgot to leave this house, or I shall leave it."
"Is that the fiat of the True Believer?"
"I don't fear God the less, sir, because I fear an Egyptian mummy, ifthat is what you mean."
"But you are inclined to think there are more things in earth andheaven than it is well for the average man to be concerned with?"
"I am convinced of that, sir; and if Mr. Theodore doesn't get rid ofthat mummy and amend his goings on, I shall be compelled to givenotice."
Stated baldly, the old fellow's words may seem ridiculous. But as heuttered them his distress was so sincere that it was impossible to denyhim a meed of sympathy.
"Quite right, if you do, Peacock," I agreed. "And you can lay it tothat honest conscience of which you are rightly proud that you haveserved the family long and faithfully, and that no one will questionyour right to an annuity."
"Oh, that will be all right, sir," said the old retainer; "even if Mr.Theodore does act contrary to the will of God, nobody can deny that heis a perfect gentleman."
"Is not that rather a confirmation of the ancient, theory that theDevil was the first perfect gentleman?"
"I have not thought of that before, sir, but now you mention it, it iscertainly worth thinking about."
Having lent sanction to this profound truth, the old fellow went out ofthe room. But I recalled him from the threshold.
"By the way, Peacock, Mr. Theodore
told me to ask for the _SportingTimes_, a cigar and a whisky-and-soda."
"Very good, sir." The old fellow withdrew.
"And thank God for them!" I muttered devoutly to the bare walls.