To those whose sphere lies in the west of London, Fleet Street is little
more than a name, and Clifford's Inn a mere dead letter. Yet Clifford's
Inn lies as safely stowed away in the shadow of the Law Courts as any
grave under a country church wall; it is as green of grass, as gray of
stone, as irresponsive to the passing footstep.
Facing the railed-in grass-plot of its little court stood the house in
which John Loder had his rooms. Taken at a first glance, the house had
the deserted air of an office, inhabited only in the early hours; but,
as night fell, lights would be seen to show out, first on one floor,
then on another--faint, human beacons unconsciously signalling each
other. The rooms Loder inhabited were on the highest floor; and
from their windows one might gaze philosophically on the tree-tops,
forgetting the uneven pavement and the worn railing that hemmed them
round. In the landing outside the rooms his name appeared above his
door, but the paint had been soiled by time, and the letters for the
most part reduced to shadows; so that, taken in conjunction with the
gaunt staircase and bare walls, the place had a cheerless look.
Inside, however, the effect was somewhat mitigated. The room on the
right hand, as one entered the small passage that served as hall, was of
fair size, though low-ceiled. The paint of the wall-panelling, like
the name above the outer door, had long ago been worn to a dirty and
nondescript hue, and the floor was innocent of carpet; yet in the middle
of the room stood a fine old Cromwell table, and on the plain
deal book-shelves and along the mantel-piece were some valuable
books--political and historical. There were no curtains on the windows,
and a common reading-lamp with a green shade stood on a desk. It was the
room of a man with few hobbies and no pleasures--who existed because he
was alive, and worked because he must.
Three nights after the great fog John Loder sat by his desk in the light
of the green-shaded lamp. The remains of a very frugal supper stood on
the centre-table, and in the grate a small and economical-looking fire
was burning.
Having written for close on two hours, he pushed back his chair and
stretched his cramped fingers; then he yawned, rose, and slowly walked
across the room. Reaching the mantel-piece, he took a pipe from the
pipe-rack and some tobacco from the jar that stood behind the books.
His face looked tired and a little worn, as is common with men who have
worked long at an uncongenial task. Shredding the tobacco between his
hands, he slowly filled the pipe, then lighted it from the fire with a
spill of twisted paper.
Almost at the moment that he applied the light the sound of steps
mounting the uncarpeted stairs outside caught his attention, and he
raised his head to listen.
Presently the steps halted and he heard a match struck. The stranger
was evidently uncertain of his whereabouts. Then the steps moved forward
again and paused.
An expression of surprise crossed Loder's face, and he laid down his
pipe. As the visitor knocked, he walked quietly across the room and
opened the door.
The passage outside was dark, and the new-comer drew back before the
light from the room.
“Mr. Loder--?” he began, interrogatively. Then all at once he laughed
in embarrassed apology. “Forgive me,” he said. “The light rather dazzled
me. I didn't realize who it was.”
Loder recognized the voice as belonging to his acquaintance of the fog.
“Oh, it's you!” he said. “Won't you come in?” His voice was a little
cold. This sudden resurrection left him surprised--and not quite
pleasantly surprised. He walked back to the fireplace, followed by his
guest.
The guest seemed nervous and agitated. “I must apologize for the hour of
my visit,” he said. “My--my time is not quite my own.”
Loder waved his hand. “Whose time is his own?” he said.
Chilcote, encouraged by the remark, drew nearer to the fire. Until this
moment he had refrained from looking directly at his host; now,
however, he raised his eyes, and, despite his preparation, he recoiled
unavoidably before the extraordinary resemblance. Seen here, in the
casual surroundings of a badly furnished and crudely lighted room, it
was even more astounding than it had been in the mystery of the fog.
“Forgive me,” he said again. “It is physical--purely physical. I am
bowled over against my will.”
Loder smiled. The slight contempt that Chilcote had first inspired rose
again, and with it a second feeling less easily defined. The man seemed
so unstable, so incapable, yet so grotesquely suggestive to himself.
“The likeness is rather overwhelming,” he said; “but not heavy enough
to sink under. Come nearer the fire. What brought you here? Curiosity?”
There was a wooden arm-chair by the fireplace. He indicated it with a
wave of the hand; then turned and took up his smouldering pipe.
Chilcote, watching him furtively, obeyed the gesture and sat down.
“It is extraordinary!” he said, as if unable to dismiss the subject.
“It--it is quite extraordinary!”
The other glanced round. “Let's drop it,” he said. “It's so confoundedly
obvious.” Then his tone changed. “Won't you smoke?” he asked.
“Thanks.” Chilcote began to fumble for his cigarettes.
But his host forestalled him. Taking a box from the mantel-piece, he
held it out.
“My one extravagance!” he said, ironically. “My resources bind me to
one; and I think I have made a wise selection. It is about the only vice
we haven't to pay for six times over.” He glanced sharply at the face so
absurdly like his own, then, lighting a fresh spill, offered his guest a
light.
Chilcote moistened his cigarette and leaned forward. In the flare of the
paper his face looked set and anxious, but Loder saw that the lips did
not twitch as they had done on the previous occasion that he had given
him a light, and a look of comprehension crossed his eyes.
“What will you drink? Or, rather, will you have a whiskey? I keep
nothing else. Hospitality is one of the debarred luxuries.”
Chilcote shook his head. “I seldom drink. But don't let that deter you.”
Loder smiled. “I have one drink in the twenty-four hours--generally at
two o'clock, when my night's work is done. A solitary man has to look
where he is going.”
“You work till two?”
“Two--or three.”
Chilcote's eyes wandered to the desk. “You write?” he asked.
The other nodded curtly.
“Books?” Chilcote's tone was anxious.
Loder laughed, and the bitter note showed in his voice.
“No--not books,” he said.
Chilcote leaned back in his chair and passed his hand across his face.
The strong wave of satisfaction that the words woke in him was difficult
to conceal.
“What is your work?”
Loder turned aside. “You must not ask that,” he said, shortly. “When a
man has only one capacity, and the capacity has no outlet, he is apt to
run to seed in a wrong direction. I cultivate weeds--at abominable labor
and a very small reward.” He stood with his back to the fire, facing
his visitor; his attitude was a curious blending of pride, defiance, and
despondency.
Chilcote leaned forward again. “Why speak of yourself like that? You are
a man of intelligence and education.” He spoke questioningly, anxiously.
“Intelligence and education!” Loder laughed shortly. “London is cemented
with intelligence. And education! What is education? The court dress
necessary to presentation, the wig and gown necessary to the barrister.
But do the wig and gown necessarily mean briefs? Or the court dress
royal favor? Education is the accessory; it is influence that is
essential. You should know that.”
Chilcote moved restlessly in his seat. “You talk bitterly,” he said.
The other looked up. “I think bitterly, which is worse. I am one of
the unlucky beggars who, in the expectation of money, has been denied
a profession--even a trade, to which to cling in time of shipwreck; and
who, when disaster comes, drift out to sea. I warned you the other night
to steer clear of me. I come under the head of flotsam!”
Chilcote's face lighted. “You came a cropper?” he asked.
“No. It was some one else who came the cropper--I only dealt in
results.”
“Big results?”
“A drop from a probable eighty thousand pounds to a certain eight
hundred.”
Chilcote glanced up. “How did you take it?” he asked.
“I? Oh, I was twenty-five then. I had a good many hopes and a lot of
pride; but there is no place for either in a working world.”
“But your people?”
“My last relation died with the fortune.”
“Your friends?”
Loder laid down his pipe. “I told you I was twenty-five,” he said, with
the tinge of humor that sometimes crossed his manner. “Doesn't that
explain things? I had never taken favors in prosperity; a change
of fortune was not likely to alter my ways. As I have said, I was
twenty-five.” He smiled. “When I realized my position I sold all my
belongings with the exception of a table and a few books--which I
stored. I put on a walking-suit and let my beard grow; then, with my
entire capital in my pocket, I left England without saying good-bye to
any one.”
“For how long?”
“Oh, for six years. I wandered half over Europe and through a good part
of Asia in the time.”
“And then?”
“Then? Oh, I shaved off the beard and came back to London!” He looked at
Chilcote, partly contemptuous, partly amused at his curiosity.
But Chilcote sat staring in silence. The domination of the other's
personality and the futility of his achievements baffled him.
Loder saw his bewilderment. “You wonder what the devil I came into the
world for,” he said. “I sometimes wonder the same myself.”
At his words a change passed over Chilcote. He half rose, then dropped
back into his seat.
“You have no friends?” he said. “Your life is worth nothing to you?”
Loder raised his head. “I thought I had conveyed that impression.”
“You are an absolutely free man.”
“No man is free who works for his bread. If things had been different
I might have been in such shoes as yours, sauntering in legislative
byways; my hopes turned that way once. But hopes, like more substantial
things, belong to the past--” He stopped abruptly and looked at his
companion.
The change in Chilcote had become more acute; he sat fingering his
cigarette, his brows drawn down, his lips set nervously in a conflict of
emotions. For a space he stayed very still, avoiding Loder's eyes; then,
as if decision had suddenly come to him, he turned and met his gaze.
“How if there was a future,” he said, “as well as a past?”
V
For the space of a minute there was silence in the room, then outside
in the still night three clocks simultaneously chimed eleven, and their
announcement was taken up and echoed by half a dozen others, loud and
faint, hoarse and resonant; for all through the hours of darkness the
neighborhood of Fleet Street is alive with chimes.
Chilcote, startled by the jangle, rose from his seat; then, as if driven
by an uncontrollable impulse, he spoke again.
“You probably think I am mad--” he began.
Loder took his pipe out of his mouth. “I am not so presumptuous,” he
said, quietly.
For a space the other eyed him silently, as if trying to gauge his
thoughts; then once more he broke into speech.
“Look here,” he said. “I came to-night to make a proposition. When I
have made it you'll first of all jeer at it--as I jeered when I made
it to myself; then you'll see its possibilities--as I did; then,”--he
paused and glanced round the room nervously--“then you'll accept it--as
I did.” In the uneasy haste of his speech his words broke off almost
unintelligibly.
Involuntarily Loder lifted his head to retort, but Chilcote put up his
hand. His face was set with the obstinate determination that weak men
sometime exhibit.
“Before I begin I want to say that I am not drunk--that I am neither mad
nor drunk.” He looked fully at his companion with his restless glance.
“I am quite sane--quite reasonable.”
Again Loder essayed to speak, but again he put up his hand.
“No. Hear me out. You told me something of your story. I'll tell you
something of mine. You'll be the first person, man or woman, that I have
confided in for ten years. You say you have been treated shabbily. I
have treated myself shabbily--which is harder to reconcile. I had every
chance--and I chucked every chance away.”
There was a strained pause, then again Loder lifted his head.
“Morphia?” he said, very quietly.
Chilcote wheeled round with a scared gesture. “How did you know that?”
he asked, sharply.
The other smiled. “It wasn't guessing--it wasn't even deduction. You
told me, or as good as told me, in the fog--when we talked of
Lexington. You were unstrung that night, and I--Well, perhaps one gets
over-observant from living alone.” He smiled again.
Chilcote collapsed into his former seat and passed his handkerchief
across his forehead.
Loder watched him for a space; then he spoke. “Why don't you pull up?”
he said. “You are a young man still. Why don't you drop the thing before
it gets too late?” His face was unsympathetic, and below the question in
his voice lay a note of hard ness.
Chilcote returned his glance. The suggestion of reproof had accentuated
his pallor. Under his excitement he looked ill and worn.
“You might talk till doomsday, but every word would be wasted,” he said,
irritably. “I'm past praying for, by something like six years.”
“Then why come here?” Loder was pulling hard on his pipe. “I'm not a
dealer in sympathy.”
“I don't require sympathy.” Chilcote rose again. He was still agitated,
but the agitation was quieter. “I want a much more expensive thing than
sympathy--and I am willing to pay for it.”
The other turned and looked at him. “I have no possession in the world
that would be worth a fiver to you,” he said, coldly. “You're either
under a delusion or you're wasting my time.”
Chilcote laughed nervously. “Wait,” he said. “Wait. I only ask you to
wait. First let me sketch you my position--it won't take many words:
“My grandfather was a Chilcote of Westmoreland; he was one of the first
of his day and his class to recognize that there was a future in trade,
so, breaking his own little twig from the family tree, he went south to
Wark and entered a ship-owning firm. In thirty years' time he died,
the owner of one of the biggest trades in England, having married the
daughter of his chief. My father was twenty-four and still at Oxford
when he inherited. Almost his first act was to reverse my grandfather's
early move by going north and piecing together the family friendship. He
married his first cousin; and then, with the Chilcote prestige revived
and the shipping money to back it, he entered on his ambition, which was
to represent East Wark in the Conservative interest. It was a big fight,
but he won--as much by personal influence as by any other. He was an
aristocrat, but he was a keen business-man as well. The combination
carries weight with your lower classes. He never did much in the House,
but he was a power to his party in Wark. They still use his name there
to conjure with.”
Loder leaned forward interestedly.
“Robert Chilcote?” he said. “I have heard of him. One of those fine,
unostentatious figures--strong in action, a little narrow in outlook,
perhaps, but essential to a country's staying power. You have every
reason to be proud of your father.”
Chilcote laughed suddenly. “How easily we sum up, when a matter is
impersonal! My father may have been a fine figure, but he shouldn't have
left me to climb to his pedestal.”
Loder's eyes questioned. In his newly awakened interest he had let his
pipe go out.
“Don't you grasp my meaning?” Chilcote went on. “My father died and I
was elected for East Wark. You may say that if I had no real inclination
for the position I could have kicked. But I tell you I couldn't. Every
local interest, political and commercial, hung upon the candidate being
a Chilcote. I did what eight men out of ten would have done. I yielded
to pressure.”
“It was a fine opening!” The words escaped Loder.
“Most prisons have wide gates!” Chilcote laughed again unpleasantly.
“That was six years ago. I had started on the morphia tack four years
earlier, but up to my father's death I had it under my thumb--or
believed I had; and in the realization of my new responsibilities and
the excitement of the political fight I almost put it aside. For several
months after I entered Parliament I worked. I believe I made one
speech that marked me as a coming man.” He laughed derisively. “I even
married--”
“Married?”
“Yes. A girl of nineteen--the ward of a great statesman. It was a
brilliant marriage--politically as well as socially. But it didn't work.
I was born without the capacity for love. First the social life palled
on me; then my work grew irksome. There was only one factor to make
life endurable--morphia. Before six months were out I had fully admitted
that.”
“But your wife?”
“Oh, my wife knew nothing--knows nothing. It is the political business,
the beastly routine of the political life, that is wearing me out.” He
stopped nervously, then hurried on, again. “I tell you it's hell to see
the same faces, to sit in the same seat day in, day out, knowing all
the time that you must hold yourself in hand, must keep your grip on the
reins--”
“It is always possible to apply for the Chiltern Hundreds.”
“To retire? Possible to retire?” Chilcote broke into a loud, sarcastic
laugh. “You don't know what the local pressure of a place like Wark
stands for. Twenty times I have been within an ace of chucking the whole
thing. Once last year I wrote privately to Vale, one of our big men
there, and hinted that my health was bad. Two hours after he had read my
letter he was in my study. Had I been in Greenland the result would have
been the same. No. Resignation is a meaningless word to a man like me.”
Loder looked down. “I see,” he said, slowly, “I see.”
“Then you see everything--the difficulty, the isolation of the position.
Five years ago--three--even two years ago--I was able to endure it;
now it gets more unbearable with every month. The day is bound to
come when--when”--he paused, hesitating nervously--“when it will be
physically impossible for me to be at my post.”
Loder remained silent.
“Physically impossible,” Chilcote repeated, excitedly. “Until lately
I was able to calculate--to count upon myself to some extent; but
yesterday I received a shock--yesterday I discovered that--that”--again
he hesitated painfully--“that I have passed the stage when one may
calculate.”
The situation was growing more embarrassing. To hide its awkwardness,
Loder moved back to the grate and rebuilt the fire, which had fallen
low.
Chilcote, still excited by his unusual vehemence, followed him, taking
up a position by the mantelpiece.
“Well?” he said, looking down.
Very slowly Loder rose from his task. “Well?” he reiterated.
“Have you nothing to say?”
“Nothing, except that your story is unique, and that I suppose I am
flattered by your confidence.” His voice was intentionally brusque.
Chilcote paid no attention to the voice. Taking a step forward, he laid
his fingers on the lapel of Loder's coat.
“I have passed the stage where I can count upon myself,” he said, “and I
want to count upon somebody else. I want to keep my place in the world's
eyes and yet be free--”
Loder drew back involuntarily, contempt struggling with bewilderment in
his expression.
Chilcote lifted his head. “By an extraordinary chance,” he said, “you
can do for me what no other man in creation could do. It was suggested
to me unconsciously by the story of a book--a book in which men change
identities. I saw nothing in it at the time, but this morning, as I lay
in bed, sick with yesterday's fiasco, it came back to me--it rushed
over my mind in an inspiration. It will save me--and make you. I'm not
insulting you, though you'd like to think so.”
Without remark Loder freed himself from the other's touch and walked
back to his desk. His anger, his pride, and, against his will, his
excitement were all aroused.
He sat down, leaned his elbow on the desk and took his face between his
hands. The man behind him undoubtedly talked madness; but after five
years of dreary sanity madness had a fascination. Against all reason it
stirred and roused him. For one instant his pride and his anger faltered
before it, then common-sense flowed back again and adjusted the balance.
“You propose,” he said, slowly, “that for a consideration of money I
should trade on the likeness between us--and become your dummy, when you
are otherwise engaged?”
Chilcote colored. “You are unpleasantly blunt,” he said.
“But I have caught your meaning?”
“In the rough, yes.”
Loder nodded curtly. “Then take my advice and go home,” he said. “You're
unhinged.”
The other returned his glance, and as their eyes met Loder was
reluctantly compelled to admit that, though the face was disturbed, it
had no traces of insanity.
“I make you a proposal,” Chilcote repeated, nervously but with
distinctness. “Do you accept?”
For an instant Loder was at a loss to find a reply sufficiently final.
Chilcote broke in upon the pause.
“After all,” he urged, “what I ask of you is a simple thing. Merely to
carry through my routine duties for a week or two occasionally when I
find my endurance giving way--when a respite becomes essential. The work
would be nothing to a man in your state of mind, the pay anything you
like to name.” In his eagerness he had followed Loder to the desk.
“Won't you give me an answer? I told you I am neither mad nor drunk.”
Loder pushed back the scattered papers that lay under his arm.
“Only a lunatic would propose such a scheme.” he said, brusquely and
without feeling.
“Why?”
The other's lips parted for a quick retort; then in a surprising way the
retort seemed to fail him. “Oh, because the thing isn't feasible, isn't
practicable from any point of view.”
Chilcote stepped closer. “Why?” he insisted.
“Because it couldn't work, man! Couldn't hold for a dozen hours.”
Chilcote put out his hand and touched his arm. “But why?” he urged.
“Why? Give me one unanswerable reason.”
Loder shook off the hand and laughed, but below his laugh lay a
suggestion of the other's excitement. Again the scene stirred him
against his sounder judgment; though his reply, when it came, was firm
enough.
“As for reasons--” he said. “There are a hundred, if I had time to name
them. Take it, for the sake of supposition, that I were to accept
your offer. I should take my place in your house at--let us say at
dinnertime. Your man gets me into your evening-clothes, and there, at
the very start, you have the first suspicion set up. He has probably
known you for years--known you until every turn of your appearance,
voice, and manner is far more familiar to him than it is to you. There
are no eyes like a servant's.”
“I have thought of that. My servant and my secretary can both be
changed. I will do the thing thoroughly.”
Loder glanced at him in surprise. The madness had more method than he
had believed. Then, as he still looked, a fresh idea struck him, and he
laughed.
“You have entirely forgotten one thing,” he said. “You can hardly
dismiss your wife.”
“My wife doesn't count.”
Again Loder laughed. “I'm afraid I scarcely agree. The complications
would be slightly--slightly--” He paused.
Chilcote's latent irritability broke out suddenly. “Look here,” he said,
“this isn't a chaffing matter, It may be moonshine to you, but it's
reality to me.”
Again Loder took his face between his hands.
“Don't ridicule the idea. I'm in dead earnest.”
Loder said nothing.
“Think--think it over before you refuse.”
For a moment Loder remained motionless; then h rose suddenly, pushing
back his chair.
“Tush, man! You don't know what you say. The fact of your being married
bars it. Can't you see that?”
Again Chilcote caught his arm.
“You misunderstand,” he said. “You mistake the position. I tell you my
wife and I are nothing to each other. She goes her way; I go mine. We
have our own friends, our own rooms. Marriage, actual marriage, doesn't
enter the question. We meet occasionally at meals, and at other people's
houses; sometimes we go out together for the sake of appearances; beyond
that, nothing. If you take up my life, nobody in it will trouble you
less than Eve--I can promise that.” He laughed unsteadily.
Loder's face remained unmoved.
“Even granting that,” he said, “the thing is still impossible.”
“Why?”
“There is the House. The position there would be untenable. A man
is known there as he is known in his own club.” He drew away from
Chilcote's touch.
“Very possibly. Very possibly.” Chilcote laughed quickly and excitedly.
“But what club is without its eccentric member? I am glad you spoke of
that. I am glad you raised that point. It was a long time ago that I hit
upon a reputation for moods as a shield for--for other things, and, the
more useful it has become, the more I have let it grow. I tell you you
might go down to the House to-morrow and spend the whole day without
speaking to, even nodding to, a single man, and as long as you were I to
outward appearances no one would raise an eyebrow. In the same way you
might vote in my place ask a question, make a speech if you wanted to--”
At the word speech Loder turned involuntarily For a fleeting second the
coldness of his manner dropped and his face changed.
Chilcote, with his nervous quickness of perception, saw the alteration,
and a new look crossed his own face.
“Why not?” he said, quickly. “You once had ambitions in that direction.
Why not renew the ambitions?”
“And drop back from the mountains into the gutter?” Loder smiled and
slowly shook his head.
“Better to live for one day than to exist for a hundred!” Chilcote's
voice trembled with anxiety. For the third time he extended his hand and
touched the other.
This time Loder did not shake off the detaining; hand; he scarcely
seemed to feel its pressure.
“Look here.” Chilcote's fingers tightened. “A little while ago you
talked of influence. Here you can step into a position built by
influence. You might do all you once hoped to do--”
Loder suddenly lifted his head. “Absurd!” he said. “Absurd! Such a
scheme was never carried through.”
“Precisely why it will succeed. People never suspect until they have
a precedent. Will you consider it? At least consider it. Remember, if
there is a risk, it is I who am running it. On your own showing, you
have no position to jeopardize.”
The other laughed curtly.
“Before I go to-night will you promise me to consider it?”
“No.”
“Then you will send me your decision by wire to-morrow. I won't take
your answer now.”
Loder freed his arm abruptly. “Why not?” he asked.
Chilcote smiled nervously. “Because I know men--and men's temptations.
We are all very strong till the quick is touched; then we all wince.
It's morphia with one man, ambitions with another. In each case it's
only a matter of sooner or later.” He laughed in his satirical, unstrung
way, and held out his hand. “'You have my address,” he said. “Au
revoir.”
Loder pressed the hand and dropped it. “Goodbye,” he said, meaningly.
Then he crossed the room quietly and held the door open. “Good-bye,” he
said again as the other passed him.
As he crossed the threshold, Chilcote paused. “Au revoir,” he corrected,
with emphasis.
Until the last echo of his visitor's steps had died away Loder stood
with his hand on the door; then, closing it quietly, he turned and
looked round the room. For a considerable space he stood there as if
weighing the merits of each object; then very slowly he moved to one of
the book-shelves, drew out May's Parliamentary Practice, and, carrying
it to the desk, readjusted the lamp.