“Perhaps it would be better if you told him the facts, Allgood,” said
Mrs. Trafford.
The critic leaned back in his chair and placed the tips of the fingers
of one hand against the tips of the fingers of the other. He spoke with
unction.
“I had to see Edward Driffield last night about a literary article that
I am doing for him and after dinner, since the night was fine, I thought
I would walk round to his house. He was expecting me; and I knew besides
that he never went out at night except for some function as important as
the Lord Mayor’s banquet or the Academy dinner. Imagine my surprise
then, nay, my utter and complete bewilderment, when as I approached I
saw the door of his house open and Edward in person emerge. You know of
course that Immanuel Kant was in the habit of taking his daily walk at a
certain hour with such punctuality that the inhabitants of Königsberg
were accustomed to set their watches by the event and when once he came
out of his house an hour earlier than usual they turned pale, for they
knew that this could only mean that some terrible thing had happened.
They were right; Immanuel Kant had just received intelligence of the
fall of the Bastille.”
Allgood Newton paused for a moment to mark the effect of his anecdote.
Mrs. Barton Trafford gave him her understanding smile.
“I did not envisage so world-shaking a catastrophe as this when I saw
Edward hurrying toward me, but it immediately occurred to me that
something untoward was afoot. He carried neither cane nor gloves. He
wore his working coat, a venerable garment in black alpaca, and a
wide-awake hat. There was something wild in his mien and distraught in
his bearing. I asked myself, knowing the vicissitudes of the conjugal
state, whether a matrimonial difference had driven him headlong from the
house or whether he was hastening to a letter box in order to post a
letter. He sped like Hector flying, the noblest of the Greeks. He did
not seem to see me and the suspicion flashed across my mind that he did
not want to. I stopped him. ‘Edward,’ I said. He looked startled. For a
moment I could have sworn he did not know who I was. ‘What avenging
furies urge you with such hot haste through the rakish purlieus of
Pimlico?’ I asked. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said. ‘Where are you going?’ I
asked. ‘Nowhere,’ he replied.”
At this rate I thought Allgood Newton would never finish his story and
Mrs. Hudson would be vexed with me for turning up to dinner half an hour
late.
“I told him on what errand I had come, and proposed that we should
return to his house where he could more conveniently discuss the
question that perturbed me. ‘I’m too restless to go home,’ he said;
‘let’s walk. You can talk to me as we go along.’ Assenting, I turned
round and we began to walk; but his pace was so rapid that I had to beg
him to moderate it. Even Dr. Johnson could not have carried on a
conversation when he was walking down Fleet Street at the speed of an
express train. Edward’s appearance was so peculiar and his manner so
agitated that I thought it wise to lead him through the less frequented
streets. I talked to him of my article. The subject that occupied me was
more copious than had at first sight appeared, and I was doubtful
whether after all I could do justice to it in the columns of a weekly
journal. I put the matter before him fully and fairly and asked him his
opinion. ‘Rosie has left me,’ he answered. For a moment I did not know
what he was talking about, but in a trice it occurred to me that he was
speaking of the buxom and not unprepossessing female from whose hands I
had on occasion accepted a cup of tea. From his tone I divined that he
expected condolence from me rather than felicitation.”
Allgood Newton paused again and his blue eyes twinkled.
“You’re wonderful, Allgood,” said Mrs. Barton Trafford.
“Priceless,” said her husband.
“Realizing that the occasion demanded sympathy, I said: ‘My dear
fellow.’ He interrupted me. ‘I had a letter by the last post,’ he said.
‘She’s run away with Lord George Kemp.’”