I
ARTHUR BERNALD could never afterward recall just when the first
conjecture flashed on him: oddly enough, there was no record of it
in the agitated jottings of his diary. But, as it seemed to him in
retrospect, he had always felt that the queer man at the Wades’ must
be John Pellerin, if only for the negative reason that he couldn’t
imaginably be any one else. It was impossible, in the confused pattern
of the century’s intellectual life, to fit the stranger in anywhere,
save in the big gap which, some five and twenty years earlier, had been
left by Pellerin’s unaccountable disappearance; and conversely, such a
man as the Wades’ visitor couldn’t have lived for sixty years without
filling, somewhere in space, a nearly equivalent void.
At all events, it was certainly not to Doctor Wade or to his mother that
Bernald owed the hint: the good unconscious Wades, one of whose chief
charms in the young man’s eyes was that they remained so robustly
untainted by Pellerinism, in spite of the fact that Doctor Wade’s
younger brother, Howland, was among its most impudently flourishing
high-priests.
The incident had begun by Bernald’s running across Doctor Robert Wade
one hot summer night at the University Club, and by Wade’s saying, in
the tone of unprofessional laxity which the shadowy stillness of the
place invited: “I got hold of a queer fish at St. Martin’s the other
day--case of heat-prostration picked up in Central Park. When we’d
patched him up I found he had nowhere to go, and not a dollar in his
pocket, and I sent him down to our place at Portchester to re-build.”
The opening roused his hearer’s attention. Bob Wade had an odd
unformulated sense of values that Bernald had learned to trust.
“What sort of chap? Young or old?”
“Oh, every age--full of years, and yet with a lot left. He called
himself sixty on the books.”
“Sixty’s a good age for some kinds of living. And age is of course
purely subjective. How has he used his sixty years?”
“Well--part of them in educating himself, apparently. He’s a
scholar--humanities, languages, and so forth.”
“Oh--decayed gentleman,” Bernald murmured, disappointed.
“Decayed? Not much!” cried the doctor with his accustomed literalness.
“I only mentioned that side of Winterman--his name’s Winterman--because
it was the side my mother noticed first. I suppose women generally do.
But it’s only a part--a small part. The man’s the big thing.”
“Really big?”
“Well--there again. ... When I took him down to the country, looking
rather like a tramp from a ‘Shelter,’ with an untrimmed beard, and a
suit of reach-me-downs he’d slept round the Park in for a week, I felt
sure my mother’d carry the silver up to her room, and send for the
gardener’s dog to sleep in the hall the first night. But she didn’t.”
“I see. ‘Women and children love him.’ Oh, Wade!” Bernald groaned.
“Not a bit of it! You’re out again. We don’t love him, either of us. But
we _feel_ him--the air’s charged with him. You’ll see.”
And Bernald agreed that he _would_ see, the following Sunday. Wade’s
inarticulate attempts to characterize the stranger had struck his
friend. The human revelation had for Bernald a poignant and ever-renewed
interest, which his trade, as the dramatic critic of a daily paper, had
hitherto failed to discourage. And he knew that Bob Wade, simple and
undefiled by literature--Bernald’s specific affliction--had a free and
personal way of judging men, and the diviner’s knack of reaching their
hidden springs. During the days that followed, the young doctor gave
Bernald farther details about John Winterman: details not of fact--for
in that respect his visitor’s reticence was baffling--but of impression.
It appeared that Winterman, while lying insensible in the Park, had been
robbed of the few dollars he possessed; and on leaving the hospital,
still weak and half-blind, he had quite simply and unprotestingly
accepted the Wades’ offer to give him shelter till such time as he
should be strong enough to go to work.
“But what’s his work?” Bernald interjected. “Hasn’t he at least told you
that?”
“Well, writing. Some kind of writing.” Doctor Bob always became vague
and clumsy when he approached the confines of literature. “He means to
take it up again as soon as his eyes get right.”
Bernald groaned. “Oh, Lord--that finishes him; and _me!_ He’s looking
for a publisher, of course--he wants a ‘favourable notice.’ I won’t
come!”
“He hasn’t written a line for twenty years.”
“A line of _what?_ What kind of literature can one keep corked up for
twenty years?”
Wade surprised him. “The real kind, I should say. But I don’t know
Winterman’s line,” the doctor added. “He speaks of the things he used
to write merely as ‘stuff that wouldn’t sell.’ He has a wonderfully
confidential way of _not_ telling one things. But he says he’ll have to
do something for his living as soon as his eyes are patched up, and that
writing is the only trade he knows. The queer thing is that he seems
pretty sure of selling _now_. He even talked of buying the bungalow of
us, with an acre or two about it.”
“The bungalow? What’s that?”
“The studio down by the shore that we built for Howland when he thought
he meant to paint.” (Howland Wade, as Bernald knew, had experienced
various “calls.”) “Since he’s taken to writing nobody’s been near it. I
offered it to Winterman, and he camps there--cooks his meals, does
his own house-keeping, and never comes up to the house except in the
evenings, when he joins us on the verandah, in the dark, and smokes
while my mother knits.”
“A discreet visitor, eh?”
“More than he need be. My mother actually wanted him to stay on in the
house--in her pink chintz room. Think of it! But he says houses smother
him. I take it he’s lived for years in the open.”
“In the open where?”
“I can’t make out, except that it was somewhere in the East. ‘East of
everything--beyond the day-spring. In places not on the map.’ That’s
the way he put it; and when I said: ‘You’ve been an explorer, then?’ he
smiled in his beard, and answered: ‘Yes; that’s it--an explorer.’ Yet he
doesn’t strike me as a man of action: hasn’t the hands or the eyes.”
“What sort of hands and eyes has he?”
Wade reflected. His range of observation was not large, but within its
limits it was exact and could give an account of itself.
“He’s worked a lot with his hands, but that’s not what they were made
for. I should say they were extraordinarily delicate conductors of
sensation. And his eye--his eye too. He hasn’t used it to dominate
people: he didn’t care to. He simply looks through ‘em all like windows.
Makes me feel like the fellows who think they’re made of glass.
The mitigating circumstance is that he seems to see such a glorious
landscape through me.” Wade grinned at the thought of serving such a
purpose.
“I see. I’ll come on Sunday and be looked through!” Bernald cried.