HOW THE STRANGER STOPPED ON AT KRAKATOA VILLA. OF THE FREAKS OF AN
EXTINGUISHED MEMORY. OF HOW THE STRANGER GOT A GOOD APPOINTMENT,
BUT NONE COULD SAY WHO HE WAS, NOR WHENCE
We must suppose that the personal impression produced by the man so
strangely thrown on the hands of Mrs. Nightingale and her daughter was
a pleasant one. For had the reverse been the case, the resources of
civilisation for disposing of him elsewhere had not been exhausted
when the decision was come to that he should remain where he was;
till next morning, at any rate. The lady of the house--of course the
principal factor in the solution of the problem--appeared, as we have
seen, to have made up her mind on the subject. And probably her
daughter had been enough influenced by the stranger's manner and
appearance, even in the short period of the interview we have just
described, to get rid of a feeling she had of self-reproach for her
own rashness. We don't understand girls, but we ask this question of
those who do: Is it possible that Miss Sally was impressed by the
splendid arm with the name tattooed on it--an arm in which every
muscle told as in a Greek statue, without infringing on its
roundness--the arm of Theseus or Ilissus? Or was it the tone of his
voice--a musical one enough? Or merely his generally handsome face
and courteous manner?
He remained that night at the house, but next day still remembered
nothing. He wished to go on his way--destination not known; but
_somewhere_--and would have done so had it not been for Mrs.
Nightingale, whose opposition to his going was, thought Dr. Vereker,
almost more decisive than the case called for. So he remained on, that
day and the next, slowly regaining the use of his right hand. But his
memory continued a blank; and though he was not unable to converse
about passing events, he could not fix his attention, or only with
a great effort. What was very annoying to Sally was that he was
absolutely unable to account for his remark about her name and her
mother's in the railway-carriage. He could not even remember making
this. He could recall no reason why he should have made it, from any
of the few things that came back to his mind now--hazily, like ghosts.
Was he speaking the truth? Why not? Mrs. Nightingale asked. Why not
forget that as readily as anything else?
His distress at this inability to remember, to account for himself,
to himself or any one else, was almost painful to witness. The only
consolatory circumstance was that his use and knowledge of words
remained intact; it was his memory of actual incidents and people
in the past that was in fault. Definite effort to follow slight
clues remaining in his mind ended in failure, or only served to
show that their origin was traceable to literary fiction. But his
language-faculty seemed perfectly in order. It came out that he spoke
French fluently, and a little Spanish, but he was just as ready with
German. It seemed as if he had been recently among French people, if
one could judge from such things as his calling his hostess "Madame"
when he recovered. These facts came to light in the course of next
day, the second of his stay in the house. The favourable impression he
had produced on Miss Sally did not diminish, and it seemed much easier
and more natural to acquiesce in his remaining than to cast about for
a new whereabouts to transfer him to. So his departure was
deferred--for a day, at least, or perhaps until the room he occupied
should be wanted for other purposes. The postponements on the days
that followed were a natural sequence so long as there remained any
doubt of his ability to shift for himself.
But in about a month's time the effects of the nervous shock had
nearly disappeared, and he had almost recovered the use of his
hand--could, in fact, write easily. Besides, as long as he remained,
it would be impossible for an old friend of Mrs. Nightingale's, who
frequently stayed the night, when he came on an evening visit, to
follow a custom which was in the winter almost invariable. In the
summer it was less important; and as soon as this friend, an old
military gentleman spoken of as "the Major," could be got to
understand exactly what had taken place, he readily gave up his
quarters at Krakatoa Villa, and returned to his own, at the top of
a house in Ball Street, Mayfair.
Nevertheless, the inevitable time came for looking Fenwick's future in
the face. It was difficult, as he was unable to contribute a solution
of the question, except by his readiness to go out and find work for
himself, promising not to come back till he found it.
"You'll see I shall come back to dinner," said he. "I shan't make you
late."
Sally asked him what sort of work he should look for.
"I have a sort of inner conviction," he replied, "that I could do
almost anything I turned my hand to. Probably it is only a diseased
confidence bred of what you might call my artificial inexperience.
Every sharp young man's _bona fide_ inexperience lands him in that
delusion."
"But you must have _some_ kind of preference for _something_, however
much you forget."
"If I were to choose, I think I should like horse-training.... Oh no,
of course I can't recall the training of any specific horse. But I
know I know all about it, for all that. I can feel the knowledge of it
itching in my finger-ends. Yes--I could train horses. Fruit-farming
would require capital."
"Who said anything about fruit-farming?"
Fenwick laughed aloud. It was a great big laugh, that made Rosalind,
who was giving directions in the kitchen, just across the passage,
call out to know what they were laughing at.
"I'll be hanged if I know," said he, "_why_ I said fruit-farming--I
must have had something to do with it. It's all very odd."
"But the horses--the horses," said Sally, who did not want him to
wander from the point. "How should you go about it? Should you walk
into Tattersall's without a character, and ask for a place?"
"Not a bit of it! I should saunter into Tat's' like a swell, and ask
them if they couldn't find me a raw colt to try my hand on for a
wager. Say I had laid a hundred I would quiet down the most vicious
quadruped they could find in an hour."
"But that would be fibs."
"Oh no! I could do it. But I don't know why I know...."
"I didn't mean that. I meant you wouldn't have laid the wager."
"Yes, I should. I lay it you now! Come, Miss Sally!--a hundred pounds
to a brass farthing I knock all the vice out of the worst beast they
can find in an hour. I shouldn't say the wager had been accepted, you
know."
"Well, anyhow, I shan't accept it. You haven't got a hundred pounds
to pay with. To be sure, I haven't got a brass farthing that I know
of. It's as broad as it is long."
"Yes, it's that," he replied musingly--"as broad as it is long. I
_haven't_ got a hundred pounds, that I know of." He repeated this
twice, becoming very absent and thoughtful.
Sally felt apologetic for reminding him of his position, and
immediately said so. She was evidently a girl quite incapable of any
reserves or concealments. But she had mistaken his meaning.
"No, no, dear Miss Sally," said he. "Not that--not that at all!
I spoke like that because it all seemed so strange to me. Do you
know?--of all the things I can't recollect, the one I can't recollect
_most_--can you understand?--is ever being in want of money. I _must_
have had plenty. I am sure of it."
"I dare say you had. You'll recollect it all presently, and what
a lark that will be!" Sally's ingenious optimism made matters very
pleasant. She did not like to press the conversation on these lines,
lest Mr. Fenwick should refer to a loan she knew her mother had made
him; indeed, had it not been for this the poor man would have been
hard put to it for clothes and other necessaries. All such little
matters, which hardly concern the story, had been landed on a
comfortable footing at the date of this conversation.
But Mr. Fenwick did not lend himself to the agreeable anticipation of
Sally's "lark." There was a pained distraction on his handsome face as
he gave his head a great shake, tossing about the mass of brown hair,
which was still something of a lion's mane, in spite of the recent
ministrations of a hairdresser. He walked to the window-bay that
looked out on the little garden, shaking and rubbing his head, and
then came back to where he had been sitting--always as one wrestling
with some painful half-memory he could not trace. Then he spoke again.
"Whether the sort of flash that comes in my mind of writing my name
in a cheque-book is really a recollection of doing so, or merely
the knowledge that I _must_ have done so, I cannot tell. But it is
disagreeable--thoroughly disagreeable--and _strange_ to the last
degree. I cannot tell you how--how torturing it is, always to be
compelled to stop on the threshold of an uncompleted recollection."
"I have the idea, though, quite!" said Sally. "But of course one never
remembers signing one's name, any particular time. One does it
mechanically. So I don't wonder."
"Yes! But the nasty part of the flash is that I always know that it is
not _my_ name. Last time it came--just now this minute--it was a name
like Harrington or Carrington. Oh dear!" He shook and rubbed his head
again, with the old action.
"Perhaps your name isn't Fenwick, but Harrington or Carrington?"
"No! That cock won't fight. In a flash, I know it's not my _own_ name
as I write it."
"Oh, but I see!" Sally is triumphant. "You signed for a firm you
belonged to, of course. People _do_ sign for firms, don't they?" added
she, with misgivings about her own business capacity. But Mr. Fenwick
did not accept this solution, and continued silent and depressed.
The foregoing is one of many similar conversations between Fenwick
and Sally, or her mother, or all three, during the term of his stay
at Krakatoa Villa. They were less encouraged by the older lady, who
counselled Fenwick to accept his oblivion passively, and await the
natural return of his mental powers. They would all come in time, she
said; and young Dr. Vereker, though his studious and responsible face
grew still more studious and responsible as time went on, and the mind
of this case continued a blank, still encouraged passivity, and spoke
confidently--whatever he thought--of an early and complete recovery.
When, in Fenwick's absence, Sally reported to Dr. Vereker and her
mother the scheme for applying to "Tat's" for a wild horse to break
in, the latter opposed and denounced it so strongly, on the ground of
the danger of the experiment, that both Sally and the doctor promised
to support her if Fenwick should broach the idea again. But when he
did so, it was so clear that the disfavour Mrs. Nightingale showed for
such a risky business would be sufficient to deter him from trying it
that neither thought it necessary to say a word in her support; and
the conversation went off into a discussion of how it came about that
Fenwick should remember Tattersall's. But, said he, he did not
remember Tattersall's even now. And yet hearing the name, he had
automatically called it "Tat's." Many other instances showed that his
power of imagery, in relation to the past, was paralysed, while his
language-faculty remained intact, just as many fluent speakers and
writers spell badly. Only it was an extreme case.
A fortunate occurrence that happened at this time gave its quietus to
the unpopular horse-breaking speculation. It happened that, as Mrs.
Nightingale was shopping at a big "universal providing" stores not far
away, one of the clerks had some difficulty in interpreting a French
phrase in a letter just received from abroad. No one near him looked
more likely to help than Mrs. Nightingale, but she could do nothing
when applied to; although, she said, she had been taught French in her
youth. But she felt certain Mr. Fenwick could be of use--at her house.
French idiom was evidently unfamiliar in the neighbourhood, for the
young gentleman from the office jumped at the opportunity. He went
away with Mrs. Nightingale's card, inscribed with a message, and came
back before she had done shopping (not that that means such a very
short time), not only with an interpretation, but with an exhaustive
draft of an answer in French, which she saw to be both skilful and
scholarly. It was so much so that a fortnight later an inquiry came to
know if Mr. Fenwick's services would be available for a firm in the
City, which had applied to be universally provided with a man having
exactly his attainments and no others. In less than a month he was
installed in a responsible position as their foreign correspondent and
in receipt of a very respectable salary. The rapidity of phrasing in
this movement was abnormal--_prestissimo_, in fact, if we indulge our
musical vocabulary. But the instrumentation would have seemed less
surprising to Sally had she known the lengths her mother had gone in
the proffer of a substantial guarantee for Fenwick's personal honesty.
This seeming rashness did not transpire at the time; had it done so,
it might have appeared unintelligible--to Sally, at any rate. She
would not have been surprised at herself for backing the interests of
a man nearly electrocuted over her half-crown, but why should her
mother endorse her _protégé_ so enthusiastically?
It is perhaps hardly necessary for us to dwell on the unsuccessful
attempts that were made to recover touch with other actors on the
stage of Fenwick's vanished past. Advertisement--variously worded--in
the second column of the "Times," three times a week for a month,
produced no effect. Miss Sally frequently referred with satisfaction
to the case of John Williams, reported among the Psychical Researches
of the past years, in which a man who vanished in England was found
years after carrying on a goods-store in Chicago under another name,
with a new wife and family, having utterly forgotten the first half of
his life and all his belongings. Her mother seemed only languidly
interested in this illustration, and left the active discussion of the
subject chiefly to Sally, who speculated endlessly on the whole of the
story; without, however, throwing any fresh light on it--unless
indeed, the Chicago man could be considered one. And the question
naturally arose, as long as his case continued to hold out hopes of
a sudden return of memory, and until we were certain his condition was
chronic, why go to expense and court publicity? By the time he was
safely installed in his situation at the wine-merchant's, the idea of
a police-inquiry, application to the magistrates, and so forth, had
become distasteful to all concerned, and to none more so than Fenwick
himself.
When Dr. Vereker, acting on his own account, and unknown to Mrs.
Nightingale and Fenwick, made confidential reference to Scotland Yard,
that Yard smiled cynically over the Chicago storekeeper, and expressed
the opinion that probably Fenwick's game was a similar game, and that
things of this sort were usually some game. The doctor observed that
he knew without being told that nine such cases out of ten had human
rascality at the bottom of them, but that he had consulted that Yard
in the belief that this might be a tenth case. The Yard said very
proper, and it would do its best, and no doubt did, but nothing was
elucidated.
It is just possible that had Mr. Fenwick communicated _every_ clue he
found, down to the smallest trifle, Dr. Vereker might have been able
to get at something through the Criminal Investigation Department.
But it wasn't fair to Sherlock Holmes to keep anything back. Fenwick,
knowing nothing of Vereker's inquiry, did so; for he had decided to
say nothing about a certain pawn-ticket that was in the pocket of an
otherwise empty purse or pocket-book, evidently just bought. He would,
however, investigate it himself, and did so.
It was quite three weeks, though, before he felt safe to go about
alone to any place distant from the house, more especially when he
did not know what the expedition would lead to. When at last he got
to the pawnbroker's, he found that that gentleman at the counter did
not recognise him, or said he did not. Fenwick, of course, could not
ask the question: "Did I pawn this watch?" It would have seemed
lunacy. But he framed a question that answered as well, to his
thinking.
"Would you very kindly tell me," he asked, dropping his voice,
"whether the person that pawned this watch was at all like me--like
a brother of mine, for instance?" Perhaps he was not a good hand at
pretences, and the pawnbroker outclassed him easily.
"No, sir," replied he, without looking to see; "that I most certainly
can _not_ tell you." Fenwick was not convinced that this was true, but
had to admit to himself that it might be. This man's life was one long
record of an infinity of short loans, and its problem was the
advancing of the smallest conceivable sums on the largest obtainable
security. Why _should_ he recollect one drop in the ocean of needy
applicants? The only answer Fenwick could give to this was based on
his belief that he looked quite unlike the other customers. More
knowledge would have shown him that there was not one of those
customers, scarcely, but had a like belief. It is the common form of
human thought among those who seek to have pawns broked. They are a
class made up entirely of exceptions.
Fenwick came away from the shop with the watch that _must have been_
his. That was how he thought of it. As soon as he wore it again, it
became _his_ watch, naturally. But he could remember nothing about it.
And its recovery from the pawnbroker's he could not remember leaving
it at became an absurd dream. Perhaps in Sherlock Holmes's hands it
would have provided a valuable clue. Fenwick said nothing further
about it; put it in a drawer until all inquiries about him had died
into the past.
Another little thing that might have helped was the cabman's number
written on his wristband. But here Fate threw investigation off her
guard. The ciphers were, as it chanced, 3,600; and an unfortunate
shrewdness of Scotland Yard, when Dr. Vereker communicated this clue,
spotted the date in it--the third day of the sixth month of 1900. So
no one dreamed of the cabby, who could at least have shown where the
hat was lost that might have had a name or address inside it, and
where he left its owner in the end. And there was absolutely no clue
to anything elsewhere among his clothes. The Panama hat might have
been bought anywhere; the suit of blue serge was ticketless inside the
collar, and the shirt unmarked--probably bought for the voyage only.
Fenwick had succeeded in forgetting himself just at a moment when he
was absolutely without a reminder. And it seemed there was nothing
for it but to wait for the revival of memory.
This, then, is how it came about that, within three months of his
extraordinary accident, Mr. Fenwick was comfortably settled in an
apartment within a few minutes' walk of Krakatoa Villa; and all the
incidents of his original appearance were getting merged in the
insoluble, and would soon, no doubt, under the influence of a steady
ever-present new routine of life, be completely absorbed in the actual
past.