THE GOAT AND BOY
It was the middle of October. Francis Taxater and Luke Andersen sat
opposite one another over a beer-stained table in the parlour of the
Goat and Boy. The afternoon was drawing to its close and the fire in
the little grate threw a warm ruddy light through the darkening room.
Outside the rain was falling, heavily, persistently,--the sort of rain
that by long-continued importunity finds its way through every sort of
obstacle. For nearly a month this rain had lasted. It had come in with
the equinox, and Heaven knew how long it was going to stay. It had so
thoroughly drenched all the fields, woods, lanes, gardens and orchards
of Nevilton, that a palpable atmosphere of charnel-house chilliness
pervaded everything. Into this atmosphere the light sank at night like
a thing drowned in deep water, and into this atmosphere the light rose
at dawn like something rising from beneath the sea.
The sun itself, as a definite presence, had entirely disappeared. It
might have fallen into fathomless space, for all the visible signs it
gave of its existence. The daylight seemed a pallid entity, diffused
through the lower regions of the air, unconnected with any visible
fount of life or warmth.
The rain seemed to draw forth from the earth all the accumulated
moisture of centuries of damp autumns, while between the water
below the firmament and the water above the firmament,--between the
persistent deluge from the sky and the dampness exuded from the
earth,--the death-stricken multitudinous leaves of Nevilton drifted to
their morgue in the cart-ruts and ditches.
The only object in the vicinity whose appearance seemed to suffer no
change from this incursion of many waters was Leo’s Hill. Leo’s Hill
looked as if it loved the rain, and the rain looked as if it loved
Leo’s Hill. In no kind of manner were its familiar outlines affected,
except perhaps in winning a certain added weight, by reason of the fact
that its rival Mount had been stripped of its luxuriant foliage.
“So our dear Mr. Romer has got his Freight Bill through,” said Luke,
sipping his glass of whiskey and smiling at Mr. Taxater. “He at any
rate then won’t be worried by this rain.”
“I’m to dine with him tomorrow,” answered the papal champion, “so I
shall have an opportunity of discovering what he’s actually gained by
this.”
“I wish I’d had James cremated,” muttered Luke, staring at the
fire-place, into which the rain fell down the narrow chimney.
Mr. Taxater crossed himself.
“What do you really feel,” enquired the younger man abruptly, “about
the chances in favour of a life after death?”
“The Church,” answered Mr. Taxater, stirring his rum and sugar with a
spoon, “could hardly be expected to formulate a dogma denying such a
hope. The true spirit of her attitude towards it may perhaps be best
understood in the repetition of her requiem prayer, ‘Save us from
eternal death!’ We none of us want eternal death, my friend, though
many of us are very weary of this particular life. I do not know that
I am myself, however. But that may be due to the fact that I am a real
sceptic. To love life, Andersen, one cannot be too sceptical.”
“Upon my soul I believe you!” answered the stone-carver, “but I cannot
quite see how _you_ can make claim to that title.”
“You’re not a philosopher my friend,” said Mr. Taxater, leaning his
elbows on the table and fixing a dark but luminous eye upon his
interlocutor.
“If you were a philosopher you would know that to be a true sceptic it
is necessary to be a Catholic. You, for instance, aren’t a sceptic, and
never can be. You’re a dogmatic materialist. You doubt everything in
the world except doubt. I doubt doubt.”
Luke rose and poked the fire.
“I’m afraid my little Annie’ll be frightfully wet,” he remarked, “when
she gets home tonight. I wish that last train from Yeoborough wasn’t
quite so late.”
“Do you propose to go down to the station to meet her?” enquired Mr.
Taxater.
Luke sighed. “I suppose so,” he said. “That’s the worst of being
married. There’s always something or other interfering with the main
purpose of life.”
“May I ask what the main purpose of life may be?” said the theologian.
“Talking with you, of course,” replied the young man smiling; “talking
with any friend. Oh damn! I can’t tell you how I miss going up to Dead
Man’s Cottage.”
“Yes,” said the great scholar meditatively, “women are bewitching
creatures, especially when they’re very young or very old, but they
aren’t exactly arresting in conversation.”
Luke became silent, meditating on this.
“They throw out little things now and then,” he said. “Annie does. But
they’ve no sense of proportion. If they’re happy they’re thrilled by
everything, and if they’re unhappy,--well, you know how it is! They
don’t bite at the truth, for the sake of biting, and they never get to
the bone. They just lick the gloss of things with the tips of their
tongues. And they quiver and vibrate so, you never know where they are,
or what they’ve got up their sleeve that tickles them.”
Mr. Taxater lifted his glass to his mouth and carefully replaced it
on the table. There was something in this movement of his plump white
fingers which always fascinated Luke. Mr. Taxater’s hands looked as
though, beyond the pen and the wine-cup, they never touched any earthly
object.
“Have you heard any more of Philip Wone?” enquired the stone-carver.
The theologian shook his head. “I’m afraid, since he went up to London,
he’s really got entangled in these anarchist plots.”
“I’m not unselfish enough to be an anarchist,” said Luke, “but I
sympathize with their spirit. The sort of people I can’t stand are
these Christian Socialists. What really pleases me, I suppose, is the
notion of a genuine aristocracy, an aristocracy as revolutionary as
anarchists in their attitude to morals and such things, an aristocracy
that’s flung up out of this mad world, as a sort of exquisite flower
of chance and accident, an aristocracy that is _worth_ all this damned
confusion!”
Mr. Taxater smiled. It always amused him when Luke Andersen got excited
in this way, and began catching his breath and gesticulating. He seemed
to have heard these remarks on other occasions. He regarded them as a
signal that the stone-carver had drunk more whiskey than was good for
him. When completely himself Luke talked of girls and of death. When a
little depressed he abused either Nonconformists or Socialists. When in
the early stages of intoxication he eulogized the upper classes.
“It’s a pity,” said the theologian, “that Ninsy couldn’t bring herself
to marry that boy. There’s something morbid in the way she talks. I met
her in Nevil’s Gully yesterday, and I had quite a long conversation
with her.”
Luke looked sharply at him. “Have you yourself ever seen her, across
there?” he asked making a gesture in the direction of the churchyard.
Mr. Taxater shook his head. “Have you?” he demanded.
Luke nodded.
A sudden silence fell upon them. The rain beat in redoubled fury upon
the window, and they could hear it pattering on the roof and falling in
a heavy stream from the pipe above the eaves.
The younger man felt as though some tragic intimation, uttered in a
tongue completely beyond the reach of both of them, were beating about
for entry, at closed shutters.
Mr. Taxater felt no sensation of this kind. “_Non est reluctandum cum
Deo_” were the sage words with which he raised his glass to his lips.
Luke remained motionless staring at the window, and thinking of a
certain shrouded figure, with hollow cheeks and crossed hands, to whom
this rain was nothing, and less than nothing.
Once more there was silence between them, as though a flock of
noiseless night-birds were flying over the house, on their way to the
far-off sea.
“How is Mrs. Seldom getting on?” enquired Luke, pushing back his chair.
“Is Vennie allowed to write to her from that place?”
The theologian smiled. “Oh, the dear lady is perfectly happy! In fact,
I think she’s really happier than when she was worrying herself about
Vennie’s future.”
“I don’t like these convents,” remarked Luke.
“Few people like them,” said the papal champion, “who have never
entered them.
“I’ve never seen an unhappy nun. They are almost too happy. They are
like children. Perhaps they’re the only persons in existence who know
what continual, as opposed to spasmodic, happiness means. The happiness
of sanctity is a secret that has to be concealed from the world, just
as the happiness of certain very vicious people has,--for fear there
should be no more marriages.”
“Talking of marriages,” remarked Luke, “I’d give anything to know how
our friend Gladys is getting on with Clavering. I expect his attitude
of heroic pity has worn a little thin by this time. I wonder how soon
the more earthly side of the shield will wear thin too! But--poor dear
girl!--I do feel sorry for her. Fancy having to listen to the Reverend
Hugh’s conversation by night and by day!
“I sent her a picture post-card, the other afternoon, from
Yeoborough--a comic one. I wonder if she snapped it up, and hid it,
before her husband came down to breakfast!”
The jeering tone of the man jarred a little on Mr. Taxater’s nerves.
“I think I understand,” he thought to himself, “why it is that he
praises the aristocracy.”
To change the conversation, he reverted to Miss Seldom’s novitiate.
“Vennie was very indignant with me for remaining so long in London,
but I am glad now that I did. None of our little arrangements--eh, my
friend?--would have worked out so well as her Napoleonic directness.
That shows how wise it is to stand aside sometimes and let things take
their course.”
“Romer doesn’t stand aside,” laughed Luke. “I’d give a year of my life
to know what he felt when Dangelis carried those people away! But I
suppose we shall never know.
“I wonder if it’s possible that there’s any truth in that strange idea
of Vennie’s that Leo’s Hill has a definite evil power over this place?
Upon my soul I’m almost inclined to wish it has! God, how it does rain!”
He looked at his watch. “I shall have to go down to the station in a
minute,” he remarked.
One curious feature of this conversation between the two men was that
there began to grow up a deep and vague irritation in Mr. Taxater’s
mind against his companion. Luke’s tone when he alluded to that
picture-card--“a comic one”--struck him as touching a depth of cynical
inhumanity.
The theologian could not help thinking of that gorgeous-coloured
image of the wayward girl, represented as Ariadne, which now hung in
the entrance-hall of her father’s house. He recalled the magnificent
pose of the figure, and its look of dreamy exultation. Somehow, the
idea of this splendid heathen creature being the wife of Clavering
struck his mind as a revolting incongruity. For such a superb being to
be now stretching out hopeless arms towards her Nevilton lover,--an
appeal only answered by comic post-cards,--struck his imagination as
a far bitterer commentary upon the perversity of the world than that
disappearance of Vennie into a convent which seemed so to shock Luke.
He extended his legs and fumbled with the gold cross upon his
watch-chain. He seemed so clearly to visualize the sort of look which
must now be settling down on that pseudo-priest’s ascetic face. He gave
way to an immoral wish that Clavering might take to drink. He felt as
though he would sooner have seen Gladys fallen to the streets than thus
made the companion of a monkish apostate.
He wondered how on earth it had been managed that Mr. Romer had
remained ignorant of the cause of Dangelis’ flight and the girl’s
precipitate marriage. It was inconceivable that he should be aware
of these things and yet retain this imperturbable young man in his
employment. How craftily Gladys must have carried the matter through!
Well,--she was no doubt paying the penalty of her double-dyed
deceptions now. The theologian experienced a sick disgust with the
whole business.
The rain increased in violence. It seemed as though the room where they
sat was isolated from the whole world by a flood of down-pouring waves.
The gods of the immense Spaces were weeping, and man, in his petty
preoccupation, could only mutter and stare.
Luke rose to his feet. “To Romer and his Stone-Works,” he cried,
emptying his glass at one gulp down his throat, “and may he make me
their Manager!”
Mr. Taxater also rose. “To the tears that wash away all these things,”
he said, “and the Necessity that was before them and will be after
them.”
They went out of the house together, and the silence that fell between
them was like the silence at the bottom of deep waters.
THE END