VI

Severn was taken home at the beginning of September, and a few days

later a letter from him invited me to dinner at the End House. He wrote

that he had stood the journey very well, and was delighted to be back in

his own home.

Helen and June were both in the drawing-room when I arrived, and if

Helen's attitude was a shade cool, June's was a shade warm to make up

for it. I did not see Severn himself till we went into the dining-room;

the butler then wheeled him in on a specially-constructed chair and

placed him at the angle of the table that was most convenient. He was a

good deal paler than I had seen him before, but his spirits were high as

ever. He said that of the two occupations, walking and talking, he very

much preferred the latter, which was lucky, in view of what had

happened. "Fortunately, also," he added, "I was always extremely lazy,

and never walked an inch when I could possibly find a vehicle of any

sort to ride in. Now I can even ride in and out of my own

dining-room...."

The dinner itself was quite up to Severn's usual high standard. He and I

lingered over our coffee while the others took theirs on the verandah.

His peculiar pose (the only unusual feature of him) suited the informal

stage of the meal and made him seem almost his old self again; even when

he discussed his changed future with me I found it hard to believe in

the tragic reality that was behind it all. He said that the accident had

settled one thing, at any rate; it had put the veto on his political

career. "I might fight the next election as a _tour-de-force_, but I

could never dream of taking office--that goes without saying.... Anyhow,

since he who runs may read, I suppose he who cannot run may write. There

are a few much-maligned characters in history I've always had a fancy to

defend, so now's my chance.... Disraeli for one ... and Machiavelli, and

Robert Walpole ... and perhaps even Pontius Pilate...."

He went on: "There's another matter which has perhaps been settled by

those scoundrelly French railways ... I mean--about Helen."

I said "Of course," hardly knowing what I meant; and he rejoined: "She

won't leave me now, whatever happens--women are like that.... So

perhaps, in the altered circumstances, it would be rather needlessly

cruel to supply her with hotel evidence from Buda-Pesth."

I said eagerly that I was very glad, and hoped that he and Helen would

learn to be very happy again, and so on. He soon interrupted me. He

said: "You know, Hilton, you're too damned sentimental, that's what's

the matter with you. You've still got the idea that I'm a very moral

fellow at heart, and that all my talk is just a sort of cynical pose to

cover up the gold underneath.... The fact is, you're born, in my

opinion, to be a successful novel-writer. You've just got the right

mixture of brains, sentiment, and conventionality."

We laughed together, and then he asked me to tell him all the news about

Terry. I did so, and at the end of the recital he said: "He's an

extraordinary puzzle. What possessed him to work himself to death in

Vienna? What possessed him to preach at me like an infuriated

missionary? What possesses him to do anything?"

"_Something_ possesses him," I admitted.

"You reckon you understand him?"

"A little, perhaps."

"Then perhaps you'll be able to understand this letter. It reached me

yesterday."

He took it from his pocket and handed it to me. It was on Valley Hotel

notepaper and ran thus:

"DEAR SEVERN,--Thanks for your letter telling me the bad news. I'm no

good at writing, but you'll know what I mean when I just say I'm sorry.

If there were anything I could do, I'd do it, but there isn't anything.

You've been right and I've been wrong in our ways of looking at things,

and I can see that now, though I couldn't years ago when we argued about

progress. Please don't ask me to come to the End House yet--I don't feel

I _could_ come. All you have done for me--and especially the chance

you've given me of being here--makes me feel ashamed and a prig.

Sincerely yours,

"TERRY."

Severn was smiling when I had finished reading. "Can you give me some or

any idea what it's all about?" he asked, with a whimsical lift of his

eyebrows.

I read it through once again very carefully before I replied. Somehow I

_felt_ the meaning of it right enough, but to explain it to Severn was

another matter. Nor was I at all sure that I would explain it, even if I

could. I said at last: "I think it shows the state of his mind more than

anything else."

"Do you mean that he's off his head?"

"Oh, no--not that, by any means."

"Then what?"

"I don't know that I can tell you exactly.... It seems to me that he's

in a sort of slough of despond--he's overworked and over-worried himself

into a state of acute mental and spiritual depression--do you know what

I mean? I can imagine he's on the verge of anything--he might suddenly

take to drink, or religion, or fall headlong into some love affair, or

even kill himself.... Or, of course, he might--and probably will--just

do nothing at all."

Severn laughed. "Your explanation is even more bewildering than Terry

himself."

"I daresay it is. It's hard to put into a sentence something that could

only be properly explained by giving you the whole history of the man's

life."

"All right. Give it to me. I've heaps of time to listen."

"I'm afraid it would take too long.... Oughtn't we to be joining the

ladies?"

"Oh, never mind the ladies. For the moment they aren't half as

interesting as Terry.... You said just now that the true explanation of

him is in his life-history?"

"I certainly think it is, but I didn't say I could give it you off-hand.

As a matter of fact, a good deal of it's so complicated that I don't

think I _could_ tell it--though I might manage to put it down on paper."

He was silent for a moment, and then the idea came to him. "My dear

fellow," he exclaimed suddenly, brandishing his cigar, "the solution's

staring us in the face and we haven't seen it! ... Man, it's a great

notion! ... _Put_ it down on paper, as you say--put down every word of

it! Then spin it out, or cut it down, as the case may be, into a

full-length novel! ... I told you years ago that you'd have to write a

novel some time or other--it's expected of every literary man. Now's

your big chance--a novel about Terry, giving a rational and coherent

account of all his virtues, vices, and vagaries!"

I laughed, and said that the trouble would begin when other people's

virtues, vices and vagaries invaded the story, as they certainly would.

He answered: "That doesn't matter a bit. Change all our names and nobody

will be the wiser."

"Except ourselves."

"What do you mean?"

I said, rather carefully: "Well, there are certain things that you and I

know, and that Helen doesn't know, aren't there?"

"I suppose there are."

"There are also--maybe--things that Helen and I know, and that you don't

know."

"_Really_?" His eyes suddenly sparkled. "But, my dear chap, what a

splendid reason for writing the novel! Pour all these strange and

exclusive secrets into the melting-pot--let's all of us know the plain

unadulterated (and, if possible, unadulterous) truth about one another,

and damned be him that first cries, 'Hold, enough'!"

Argumentatively it sounded all right; in practice, as I could see, it

bristled with dangers and objections. And yet the idea of setting down

the truth about Terry began to be just slightly fascinating, and all the

rest of the evening it was vaguely on my mind. So also must it have been

on Severn's, for the last thing he said when I bade him good-night was:

"As soon as you get home, take a pen and a clean sheet of paper and

write 'Chapter One' at the top left-hand corner.... I'm serious, mind;

in fact, I shall ring you up in the morning and ask if you've done

it...."