THE FATEFUL TICKET-PUNCHER
The master of the good ship _Albatross_ departed, chartered for another
voyage to the Port of Lagos with his cargo of gravel, gathered with the
sweat of the brow and the tearing of the finger nails from the paths in
Kensington Gardens.
John hid the short story away and lit a cigarette. She watched him take
it loose from his waistcoat pocket. Had he no cigarette case? She
watched him take a match--loose also--from the ticket pocket of his
coat. Had he no match-box? She watched him strike it upon the sole of
his boot, believing all the time that he was unaware of the direction of
her eyes.
But he knew. He knew well enough, and took as long over the business as
it was possible to be. When the apprehension of discovery made her turn
her head, he threw the match away. Well, it was a waste of time then.
"I thought," said she presently, "you had told me your name was John?"
"So it is."
"Then why did you tell Ronald to deliver the papers to Thomas Grey?"
"That is my father."
"And does he live in Venice?"
What a wonderful thing is curiosity in other people, when you yourself
are only too ready to divulge! Loth only to tell her it all too
quickly, John readily answered all she asked.
"Yes, he lives in Venice," he replied.
"Always?"
"Always now."
She gazed into a distance of her own--that distance in which nearly
every woman lives.
"What a wonderful place it must be to live in," said she.
He turned his head to look at her.
"You've never been there?"
"Never."
"Ah! there's a day in your life yet then."
Her forehead wrinkled. Ah, it may not sound pretty, but it was. The
daintiest things in life are not to be written in a sentence. You get
them sometimes in a single word; but oh, that word is so hard to find.
"How do you mean?" she asked.
"The day you go to Venice--if ever you do go--will be one day quite by
itself in your life. You will be alive that day."
"You love it?"
She knew he did. That was the attraction in asking the question--to
hear him say so. There is that in the voice of one confessing to the
emotion--for whatever object it may happen to be--which can thrill the
ear of a sensitive listener. A sense of envy comes tingling with it.
It is the note in the voice, perhaps. You may hear it sometimes in the
throat of a singer--that note which means the passion, the love of
something, and something within you thrills in answer to it.
"You love it?" she repeated.
"I know it," replied John--"that's more than loving."
"What does your father do there?"
"He's an artist--but he does very little work now. He's too old. His
heart is weak, also."
"Then does he live there by himself?"
"Oh, no--my mother lives with him. They have wonderful old rooms in the
Palazzo Capello in the Rio Marin. She is old, too. Well--she's over
sixty. They didn't marry until she was forty. And he's about ten years
older than she is."
"Are you the only child?"
"The only child--yes."
"How is it that they didn't marry until your mother was forty?"
She pattered on with her questions. Having accepted him as a friend,
the next thing to do was to get to know all about him. It is just as
well, in case people should ask; but in this huddle of houses where one
knows more of the life of one's next-door neighbour than one ever does
of one's friends, it really scarcely matters. She thought she wanted to
know because she ought to know. But that was not it at all. She had to
know. She was meant to know. There is a difference.
"Perhaps I'm being too inquisitive?" she suggested gently. This is only
another way of getting one's question answered. You might call it the
question circumspect and, by borrowing from another's wit, mark the
distinction between it and the question direct. But it is not so much
the name that matters, as its effectiveness.
In a moment, John was all apologies for his silence.
"Inquisitive? No! It's only the new sensation."
"What new sensation?"
"Somebody wanting to know something about oneself. On the other side of
the street where I live, there resides a parrot; and every Sunday they
put him outside on the window-sill, and there he keeps calling out--'Do
you want to know who I am? Do you want to know who I am?' And crowds
of little boys and little girls, and idle men and lazy women, stand down
below his cage in the street and imitate him in order to get him to say
it again. 'Do you want to know who I am, Polly?' they call out. And
oh, my goodness, it's so like life. They never reply--'Who are you,
then?' But every single one of them must ask him if he wants to know
who they are, just when he's longing to tell them all about himself. It
is like life you know."
"What nice little stories you tell. I believe you make them up as you
go along--but they're quite nice. So that's the new sensation?"
"Yes--that's it. Someone, at last, has said 'Who are you, then?' And I
hardly know where to begin."
"Well, I asked you why your father didn't marry till your mother was
forty. You said she was forty."
"Yes, I know--yes, that's quite right. You see he was married before to
a wealthy woman. They lived here in London. I'm afraid they didn't get
on well together. It was his fault. He says so, and I believe it was.
I can quite understand the way it all happened. You must love money
very much to be able to get on with it when it's not your own. He
didn't love it enough. Her money got between them. One never really
knows the ins and outs of these things. Nobody can possibly explain
them. I say I understand it, but I don't. They happen when people
marry. Only, it would appear, when they marry. She never threw it in
his face, I'm sure of that. He always speaks of her as a wonderful
woman; but it was just there--that's all. Gold's a strange metal, you
know--an uncanny metal, I think. They talk of the ill-luck of the opal,
it's nothing to the ill-luck of the gold the opal is set in. You must
realise the absolute valuelessness of it, that it's no more worth than
tin, or iron, or lead, or any other metal that the stray thrust of a
spade may dig up; if you don't think of it like that, if you haven't an
utter contempt for it, it's a poison, is gold. It's subtle, deadly
poison that finds its heavy way into the most sacred heart of human
beings and rots the dearest and the gentlest thoughts they have. They
say familiarity breeds contempt. In every case but that of gold, it's
true. But in gold it's just the reverse. The only way with gold, to
have contempt for it, is to have none and, when it does enter your
possession, give it away. You keep it, you struggle for it, you give it
a moment's place on your altar, and you'll find that your first-born
must be the burnt offering you will have to make to assuage its
insatiable lust."
The sense of humour saved him from saying more. Suddenly he turned and
looked at her, and laughed. The only way with gold, to have contempt for
it, is to have none and, when it does enter your possession, give it
away.
Glorious words to say when you have only a penny in your pocket to pay
for your chair in Kensington Gardens--such a fine sense of bravado in
them. As for the chance of money falling from the heavens or the elm
trees into your lap, it is so remote, that you can afford to voice your
preachings without fear of having to put them into immediate practice.
Seeing all this and, seeing the solemn expression on her face, John
laughed. All that fine parade of words of his was very human. He knew
it. There is not one amongst us but who does it every day. There never
is so fine an army of brave men as you will find in times of peace;
never so lavish a man with money as he who has none. These are the real
humours, the real comedies in this struggle for existence. And yet, it
is the only philosophy for the poor man who has nothing, to say he wants
less. So you cheat the little gods of their laughter, and whistle a tune
to show how little you care.
But to see through it all--there are so many who do it
unconsciously--that is a quality beyond philosophy. John laughed.
She looked up quickly.
"You laugh? Why?"
"You look so serious."
"I was. It's so true--quite true, all you said. But what is one to do
when everybody around one sets their standard in gold--when people are
only good-spirited when there is money to be had, and cross and
inconsiderate when there is none? What is one to do then?"
"Must you follow their lead?" asked John.
"What else? The community governs, doesn't it?"
"So they say. But even government is a thing that must be taught, and
someone must teach it to the community, so that the community may become
proficient at its job. When you get into a community of people like
that, all you have to do is to break away. It doesn't matter how
universally good a wrong may be, you can't make it right for the
individual."
"What did your father do?"
"Oh--he disobeyed the laws of the community. He went away. He deserted
her."
She stole a hurried glance at his face.
"Don't you speak rather hardly?"
"No--conventionally--that's all. That is the technical term. He
deserted her. Went and lived in the slums and worked. He was probably
no paragon, either, until he met my mother. No man is until he meets
_the_ woman with the great heart and God's good gift of understanding."
"Have you ever met her yet?"
"No--I'm only twenty-six."
"Do you think you ever will meet her?"
"Yes--one day."
"When?"
"Oh, the time that Fate allots for these things."
"When is that?"
"When it's too late."
"Isn't that pessimistic?"
"No--I'm only speaking of Time. Time's nothing--Time doesn't count.
You may count it--you generally do with a mechanical contrivance called
a clock--but it doesn't count itself. As the community looks at these
things it may be too late, but it's not too late to make all the
difference in life. The point is meeting her, knowing her. Nothing else
really matters. Once you know her, she is as much in your life as ever
marriage and all such little conventional ceremonies as that can make
her."
She looked up at him again.
"What strange ideas you have."
"Are they?"
"They are to me. Then your father didn't meet your mother too late?
How soon did he meet her after--after he went away?"
"Two years or so."
"Oh--he was quite old, then?"
"No--quite young."
"But I thought you said they didn't marry until she was forty."
"Yes--that is so. He couldn't marry her till then. They were both
Catholics, you see. Eighteen years went by before they married."
She made patterns on a bare piece of ground with the ferrule of her
umbrella, as she listened. When he came to this point of the story, she
carved the figure one and eight in the mould.
"Yes," said John, looking at them--"it was a long time to wait--wasn't
it?"
She nodded her head and slowly scratched the figures out.
"So the secret papers were sent to your father?" she said.
"Yes."
She communed with herself for a few moments. She was very curious to
know the secret of those papers; just as curious as that other mariner
had been. But when you get beyond a certain age, they tell you it is
rude to be curious--more's the pity! It takes away half the pleasure
from life. She wanted so much to know. The mystery that surrounded
John Grey in Fetter Lane was clinging to him here in Kensington Gardens.
She felt just as curious about him as did Mrs. Meakin, and Mrs. Rowse;
and Mrs. Morrell, and, like them, she was afraid to show it to him.
Presently she left off scratching her patterns in the mould and raised
her head, looking out wistfully across the pond.
"Ronald was delighted to be carrying secret papers," she said pensively.
"Was he?"
"Yes--he's been reading Stevenson, and Henty, and all those books--the
idea of secret papers was just what he loved."
John's eyes twinkled.
"Do you think he told that other boy?" he asked.
"Oh--no--I'm sure he wouldn't."
"Not if he got the other boy to play the part of Thomas Grey--and
satisfied his conscience like that?"
"No--because he delivered them to you. I'm sure he never looked at
them. You're the only one who knows the secret."
John's eyes twinkled again. She was so curious to know.
"It's a terrible thing to be the only possessor of a secret like that,"
he said solemnly.
She glanced quickly at his face.
"It is, if it's something you mustn't tell," said she. And you could
hear the question in that; just the faint lingering note of it; but it
was there. Of course, if he could not tell, the sooner she knew it the
better. You can waste upon a person even so poor a sentiment as
curiosity, and when a woman gets proud, she will give you none of it.
If he had kept his secret another moment longer, she would undoubtedly
have got proud; but just then, there came into view the insignificant
little figure of a man in faded, dirty livery, a peaked cap, a
sleuth-like, watchful air and, hidden in the grasping of his hand, there
was a fateful ticket puncher. Two seats, and John had only a penny!
What can one do under such circumstances as these? He looked helplessly
through his mind for a way out of the dilemma. He even looked on the
ground to see whether some former charitable person had thrown away
their tickets when they left--he always did as much for the cause of
unknown humanity himself. You never know how many people there are in
London with only a penny in their pockets. But he looked in vain. There
were only the figures that she had carved and scratched out in the
mould.
He thought of saying that he had bought a ticket and lost it. One of
those little gusts of wind that were dancing under the elm trees would
readily vouch for the truth of his story in such a predicament as this.
But then this might be the only ticket puncher in the gardens at that
time of the year, and he would know. He thought of going through all
his pockets and simulating the despair of a man who has lost his last
piece of gold. And the slouching figure of the chair man drew nearer
and nearer. And oh, he came so cunningly, as if he had nothing whatever
to do with this crushing tax upon the impoverished resources of those
who seek Romance.
Yes, John rather liked that last idea. Anyone might lose their last
piece of gold. It is not even a paradox to say it would be the first
they would lose. But it would be acting the lie to her as well as to
the chairman. Was that fair? The chairman would only look
imperturbably at him with a stony eye--it was more than likely he would
have heard that story before, and a chair man will not be baulked of his
prey. Then she would have to pay. No--that would not be fair.
Then----
"I'm going to pay for my seat," said the Lady of St. Joseph.
"Oh, no!" said John vehemently--"Why should you?"
Couldn't he get up and say he was only sitting there by accident; had
never meant to sit down at all?
"Yes--I'm going to pay," she said--"I owe you a penny for the candle to
St. Joseph."
Ah! That was the way out of it! You see, if you only pray earnestly
enough, St. Joseph is bound to answer your prayer. This was his return
for John's offer of generosity. There is not a doubt of it in my mind.
There was not a doubt of it in his.