“Manana!” the voice screamed again. Oh, in terror! The knife was up to
the hilt in her throat.
I think I lost my head completely for the first time in my life. I made
a dash towards the figure in the opening of Lansdowne Passage. He
didn’t move, didn’t even see me coming. He was sobbing like a baby. Then
I changed my mind and rushed back to Manana. Lay a flower on a pavement
in the rain, and you have Manana as I last saw her. Her eyelids
fluttered once or twice. The rain was washing the blood from her throat
into the gutter. My man had come down and was doing his best. I looked
through the twilight at the crumpled black figure against the iron bar.
“She’s dead, Raphael!” I called, whispering to my man: “Go get him!”
He did his best, poor devil. Raphael yelled: “Yes, for you! And I’ll
never throw but one more knife--but I’ll do that if I have to come back
from hell to do it!” He was gone, through Lansdowne Passage. My wretched
man hadn’t a chance. That night and for days there wasn’t a port in
England that H---- left unwatched for Julian Raphael. But, as in the
story-books, he has never been seen or heard of again. H---- has an idea
he is somewhere in the Americas.
But it’s not quite true (the Admiral added) that Julian Raphael has
never been seen or heard of again. I have seen him and heard him, quite
lately--in a sort of way. Of course, it can be no more than a trick of
the imagination. He has probably been more on my mind recently than I
had realised. But the illusion is quite definitely vivid and unpleasant.
And I can tell you it gets rather on a man’s nerves, this comic talk of
knives on Piccadilly. Imagination, Hilary, can play us queer dark tricks
sometimes. And it’s no good trying to explain them with spirit talk.
The mind is a dark place and we don’t know what’s in the sky and that’s
all there is to it.
* * * * *
Mr. Townshend had listened gravely. A grey man, of the type
conscientiously sad, Mr. Townshend found no aspect of this our life on
earth which was not a proper occasion for the exercise of gravity,
command of temper and forbearance. He therefore forbore to make any
comment on his friend’s tale, but merely remarked:
“You ought not to stay in London, Charles. An unhealthy place, at best.
Why not come down to Magralt with me to-morrow? Guy de Travest is
coming. There’s some fishing. Not much, and that little is poor, but you
can always smoke in peace.”
Sir Charles laughed. “You talk like Manana! But, anyhow, I am due at
Portsmouth the day after to-morrow. No, no, I’ll see my time out in
London. I’ve been in most corners of the world, Hilary, and never found
romance but in London.”
“Hm!” said Mr. Townshend thoughtfully. “You have an odd idea of romance,
Charles. Romance! And I don’t, as a general rule, believe in
apparitions. Hm! Have you rung up H---- to tell him of the reappearance
of this remarkably unpleasant youth?”
“And he laughed me to scorn! Was ready, in fact, to lay a pony against
Raphael’s being within a thousand miles of London or England.”
“You never know,” said Mr. Townshend thoughtfully.
“Never know what, Hilary?”
“Where you are,” said Mr. Townshend thoughtfully. “With Jews.”
It was on the night following this conversation that the Admiral, on
emerging from the Celibates Club, made an astonishing suggestion to Hunt
the commissionaire.
“Hunt,” says Sir Charles, “do you mind walking with me down to the
Piccadilly corner? I will know then that I am actually moving and not
just standing here and thinking I’m moving. You see my point, Hunt?”
“Certainly, Sir Charles. I quite understand.”
“I’m glad someone does!” sighed our gentleman.
The commissionaire with the lined face, whose own antipathy to wine in
his youth had not been insuperable, could sympathise with the Admiral’s
probable condition, while admiring the correct address with which, as
became a gentleman of the sea, he bore his suffering.
“See any Jews about, Hunt?” the Admiral asked as they came to the
Piccadilly corner.
“Not definitely, Sir Charles. But a couple of Rolls-Royces have just
passed. Good-night, Sir Charles.”
“Good-night, Hunt.”
Those were the last words the ancient commissionaire was ever to hear
from his good friend the Admiral. For as Sir Charles made to cross
Piccadilly from Albemarle Street to St. James’s Street he heard that
“whizz” behind him. He had been expecting it, but it startled him. He
half-turned and jumped sideways, colliding with the bonnet of a
fast-moving car.
There was a terrific din about him as he raised himself to his hands and
knees. It deafened him, the din of engines and voices. Many voices
seemed to be arguing. Then, as he rose to his feet, the din happily
receded. There was silence, but the silence of a pleasant voice. He
walked on to St. James’s Street, glad things had been no worse. Then he
saw the face of Julian Raphael. It was just in front of him, smiling. He
was holding out his hand to Sir Charles, smiling. He was beautiful.
Behind his shoulder was Manana. She was laughing at Sir Charles’s
bewilderment. Then, as he stared at them, they pointed over his
shoulder. They were still laughing. Behind him, in the middle of
Piccadilly, there was a great crowd around a large motor-car and a
prostrate figure that looked oddly like a dingy travesty of himself.
That is how it was, but still he did not understand. Julian Raphael and
Manana laughed at him and each took him by an arm and walked with him
down the slope of St. James’s Street. There was a valley at the foot of
St. James’s Street, and over the valley a golden cloud as large as a
continent. Many people were walking about, looking calm and clean and
happy. Manana was still laughing happily.
“Julian died last night in Paris,” she told Sir Charles. “He was just
coming over to London to kill you. Isn’t it idiotic? I don’t say he
loves you now, but he’s willing to consider an intelligent friendship.
Aren’t you, Julian? Death isn’t at all what the Salvation Army thinks,
Charles. You’ll be surprised. You’re just yourself, that’s all. Funny
you have to die before you’re allowed to be yourself. Oh, look! Look,
Charles! Isn’t it beautiful! Charles, let’s walk and walk and walk!”
“Just look at those asses behind!” cried Julian Raphael, shouting with
laughter. But now the people at the head of St. James’s Street were very
faint, the clear golden air of the sun triumphant was falling between
Sir Charles’s eyes and the people grouped round the prostrate figure
that looked oddly like a dingy travesty of himself.
“If they only knew,” said Manana gravely, “that living is worth while
just because one has to die! Come on, Charles, let’s walk!”
“Here, and me!” cried Julian Raphael.
“Young man,” said the Admiral severely, “you just stay where you are. I
have been waiting a long time for this walk with Manana.”
“I’ll follow you. Where are you going to walk to?”
“You can’t follow us, Julian,” laughed Manana. “They won’t let you, yet.
Naturally, dear, considering how awful you’ve been. You can have a drink
while we’re gone.”
“A drink?” said Sir Charles. “But, good Lord, he can’t have a drink
here, can he?”
“But why not?” Manana laughed. “There’s only one hell, dear, and that’s
on earth. Come on, come on! We’ll walk towards that golden cloud and
back!”