On the night of Chilcote's return to his own, Loder tasted the lees of
life poignantly for the first time. Before their curious compact had
been entered upon he had been, if not content, at least apathetic; but
with action the apathy had been dispersed, never again to regain its old
position.
He realized with bitter certainty that his was no real home-coming. On
entering Chilcote's house he had experienced none of the unfamiliarity,
none of the unsettled awkwardness, that assailed him now. There he had
almost seemed the exile returning after many hardships; here, in the
atmosphere made common by years, he felt an alien. It was illustrative
of the man's character that sentimentalities found no place in his
nature. Sentiments were not lacking, though they lay out of sight, but
sentimentalities he altogether denied.
Left alone in the sitting-room after Chilcote's departure, his first
sensation was one of physical discomfort and unfamiliarity. His own
clothes, with their worn looseness, brought no sense of friendliness
such as some men find in an old garment. Lounging, and the clothes that
suggested lounging, had no appeal for him. In his eyes the garb that
implies responsibility was symbolic and even inspiring.
And, as with clothes, so with his actual surroundings. Each detail of
his room was familiar, but not one had ever become intimately close.
He had used the place for years, but he had used it as he might use a
hotel; and whatever of his household gods had come with him remained,
like himself, on sufferance. His entrance into Chilcote's surroundings
had been altogether different. Unknown to himself, he had been in the
position of a young artist who, having roughly modelled in clay, is
brought into the studio of a sculptor. To his outward vision everything
is new, but his inner sight leaps to instant understanding. Amid all
the strangeness he recognizes the one essential--the workshop, the
atmosphere, the home.
On this first night of return Loder comprehended something of his
position; and, comprehending, he faced the problem and fought with it.
He had made his bargain and must pay his share. Weighing this, he had
looked about his room with a quiet gaze. Then at last, as if finding the
object really sought for, his eyes had come round to the mantel-piece
and rested on the pipe-rack. The pipes stood precisely as he had left
them. He had looked at them for a long time, then an ironic expression
that was almost a smile had touched his lips, and, crossing the room,
he had taken the oldest and blackest from its place and slowly filled it
with tobacco.
With the first indrawn breath of smoke his attitude had unbent. Without
conscious determination, he had chosen the one factor capable of easing
his mood. A cigarette is for the trivial moments of life; a cigar for
its fulfilments, its pleasant, comfortable retrospections; but in real
distress--in the solving of question, the fighting of difficulty--a pipe
is man's eternal solace,
So he had passed the first night of his return to the actualities of
life. Next day his mind was somewhat settled and outward aid was not
so essential; but though facts faced him more solidly, they were
nevertheless very drab in shade. The necessity for work, that blessed
antidote to ennui, no longer forced him to endeavor. He was no longer
penniless; but the money, he possessed brought with it no desires. When
a man has lived from hand to mouth for years, and suddenly finds himself
with a hundred pounds in his pocket, the result is sometimes curious. He
finds with a vague sense of surprise that he has forgotten how to spend.
That extravagance, like other artificial passions, requires cultivation.
This he realized even more fully on the days that followed the night of
his first return; and with it was born a new bitterness. The man who has
friends and no money may find life difficult; but the man who has money
and no friend to rejoice in his fortune or benefit by his generosity is
aloof indeed. With the leaven of incredulity that works in all strong
natures, Loder distrusted the professional beggar--therefore the charity
that bestows easily and promiscuously was denied him; and of other
channels of generosity he was too self-contained to have learned the
secret.
When depression falls upon a man of usually even temperament it
descends with a double weight. The mercurial nature has a hundred
counterbalancing devices to rid itself of gloom--a sudden lifting
of spirit, a memory of other moods lived through, other blacknesses
dispersed by time; but the man of level nature has none of these.
Depression, when it comes, is indeed depression; no phase of mind to be
superseded by another phase, but a slackening of all the chords of life.
It was through such a depression as this that he labored during three
weeks, while no summons and no hint of remembrance came from Chilcote.
His position was peculiarly difficult. He found no action in the
present, and towards the future he dared not trust himself to look. He
had slipped the old moorings that familiarity had rendered endurable;
but having slipped them, he had found no substitute. Such was his case
on the last night of the three weeks, and such his frame of mind as he
crossed Fleet Street from Clifford's Inn to Middle Temple Lane.
It was scarcely seven o'clock, but already the dusk was falling; the
greater press of vehicles had ceased, and the light of the street lamps
gleamed back from the spaces of dry and polished roadway, worn smooth
as a mirror by wheels and hoofs. Something of the solitude of night that
sits so ill on the strenuous city street was making itself felt,
though the throngs of people on the pathway still streamed eastward and
westward and the taverns made a busy trade.
Having crossed the roadway, Loder paused for a moment to survey the
scene. But humanity in the abstract made small appeal to him, and his
glance wandered from the passers-by to the buildings massed like clouds
against the dark sky. As his gaze moved slowly from one to the other
a clock near at hand struck seven, and an instant later the chorus was
taken up by a dozen clamorous tongues. Usually he scarcely heard, and
never heeded, these innumerable chimes; but this evening their effect
was strange. Coming out of the darkness, they seemed to possess a
personal note, a human declaration. The impression was fantastic, but
it was strong; with a species of revolt against life and his own
personality, he turned slowly and moved forward in the direction of
Ludgate Hill.
For a space he continued his course, then, reaching Bouverie Street,
he turned sharply to the right and made his way down the slight incline
that leads to the Embankment. There he paused and drew a long breath.
The sense of space and darkness soothed him. Pulling his cap over
his eyes, he crossed to the river and walked on in the direction of
Westminster Bridge.
As he walked the great mass, of water by his side looked dense and
smooth as oil with its sweeping width and network of reflected light.
On its farther bank rose the tall buildings, the chimneys, the flaring
lights that suggest another and an alien London; close at hand stretched
the solid stone parapet, giving assurance of protection.
All these things he saw with his mental eyes, but with his mental
eyes only, for his physical gaze was fixed ahead where the Houses of
Parliament loomed out of the dusk. From the great building his eyes
never wavered until the Embankment was traversed and Westminster Bridge
reached. Then he paused, resting his arms on the coping of the bridge.
In the tense quietude of the darkness the place looked vast and
inspiring. The shadowy Terrace, the silent river, the rows of lighted
windows, each was significant. Slowly and comprehensively his glance
passed from one to the other. He was no sentimentalist and no dreamer;
his act was simply the act of a man whose interests, robbed of their
natural outlet, turn instinctively towards the forms and symbols of the
work that is denied them. His scrutiny was steady--even cold. He was
raised to no exaltation by the vastness of the building, nor was
he chilled by any dwarfing of himself. He looked at it long and
thoughtfully; then, again moving slowly, he turned and retraced his
steps.
His mind was full as he walked back, still oblivious of the stone
parapet of the Embankment, the bare trees, and the flaring lights of the
advertisements across the water. Turning to the left, he regained Fleet
Street and made for his own habitation with the quiet accuracy that some
men exhibit in moments of absorption.
He crossed Clifford's Inn with the same slow, almost listless step;
then, as his own doorway came into view, he stopped. Some one was
standing in its recess.
For a moment he wondered if his fancy were playing him a trick; then his
reason sprang to certainty with so fierce a leap that for an instant his
mind recoiled. For we more often stand aghast at the strength of our own
feelings than before the enormity of our neighbor's actions.
“Is that you, Chilcote?” he said, below his breath.
At the sound of his voice the other wheeled round. “Hallo!” he said. “I
thought you were the ghost of some old inhabitant. I suppose I am very
unexpected?”
Loder took the hand that he extended and pressed the fingers
unconsciously. The sight of this man was like the finding of an oasis at
the point where the desert is sandiest, deadliest, most unbearable.
“Yes, you are--unexpected,” he answered.
Chilcote looked at him, then looked out into the court. “I'm done up,”
he said. “I'm right at the end of the tether.” He laughed as he said it,
but in the dim light of the hall Loder thought his face looked ill
and harassed despite the flush that the excitement of the meeting had
brought to it. Taking his arm, he drew him towards the stairs.
“So the rope has run out, eh?” he said, in imitation of the other's
tone. But under the quiet of his manner his own nerves were throbbing
with the peculiar alertness of anticipation; a sudden sense of mastery
over life, that lifted him above surroundings and above persons--a sense
of stature, mental and physical, from which he surveyed the world. He
felt as if fate, in the moment of utter darkness, had given him a sign.
As they crossed the hall, Chilcote had drawn away and was already
mounting the stairs. And as Loder followed, it came sharply to his mind
that here, in the slipshod freedom of a door that was always open and
stairs that were innocent of covering, lay his companion's real
niche--unrecognized in outward avowal, but acknowledged by the inward,
keener sense that manifests the individual.
In silence they mounted the stairs, but on the first landing Chilcote
paused and looked back, surveying Loder from the superior height of two
steps.
“I did very well at first,” he said. “I did very well--I almost
followed your example, for a week or so. I found myself on a sort of
pinnacle--and I clung on. But in the last ten days I've--I've rather
lapsed.”
“Why?” Loder avoided looking at his face; he kept his eyes fixed
determinately on the spot where his own hand gripped the banister.
“Why?” Chilcote repeated. “Oh, the prehistoric tale--weakness stronger
than strength. I'm-I'm sorry to come down on you like this, but it's the
social side that bowls me over. It's the social side I can't stick.”
“The social side? But I thought--”
“Don't think. I never think; it entails such a constant upsetting of
principles and theories. We did arrange for business only, but one
can't set up barriers. Society pushes itself everywhere nowadays--into
business most of all. I don't want you for theatre-parties or dinners.
But a big reception with a political flavor is different. A man has to
be seen at these things; he needn't say anything or do anything, but
it's bad form if he fails to show up.”
Loder raised his head. “You must explain,” he said, abruptly.
Chilcote started slightly at the sudden demand.
“I--I suppose I'm rather irrelevant,” he said, quickly. “Fact is,
there's a reception at the Bramfells' to-night. You know Blanche
Bramfell--Viscountess Bramfell, sister to Lillian Astrupp.” His
words conveyed nothing to Loder, but he did not consider that. All
explanations were irksome to him and he invariably chafed to be done
with them.
“And you've got to put in an appearance--for party reasons?” Loder broke
in.
Chilcote showed relief. “Yes. Old Fraide makes rather a point of it--so
does Eve.” He said the last words carelessly; then, as if their sound
recalled something, his expression changed. A touch of satirical
amusement touched his lips and he laughed.
“By-the-way, Loder,” he said, “my wife was actually tolerant of me for
nine or ten days after my return. I thought your representation was to
be quite impersonal? I'm not jealous,” he laughed. “I'm not jealous, I
assure you; but the burned child shouldn't grow absentminded.”
At his tone and his laugh Loder's blood stirred; with a sudden,
unexpected impulse his hand tightened on the banister, and, looking up,
he caught sight of the face above him--his own face, it seemed, alight
with malicious interest. At the sight a strange sensation seized him;
his grip on the banister loosened, and, pushing past Chilcote, he
hurriedly mounted the stairs.
Outside his own door the other overtook him.
“Loder!” he said. “Loder! I meant no harm. A man must have a laugh
sometimes.”
But Loder was facing the door and did not turn round.
A sudden fear shook Chilcote. “Loder!” he exclaimed again, “you wouldn't
desert me? I can't go back to-night. I can't go back.”
Still Loder remained immovable.
Alarmed by his silence, Chilcote stepped closer to him.
“Loder! Loder, you won't desert me?” He caught hastily at his arm.
With a quick repulsion Loder shook him off; then almost as quickly he
turned round.
“What fools we all are!” he said, abruptly. “We, only differ in degree.
Come in, and let us change our clothes.”