This is a story about my friend George Tarlyon, who is a brave man and
no bigger liar than most. Of course, George Tarlyon ought to know better
than to be afraid of walking through Lansdowne Passage at night. But you
can tell him that until you are blue in the face and he will smile at
you and agree with you, but still he will not walk through Lansdowne
Passage at night, saying that he is afraid. And when you ask him of what
he is afraid, he will smile a shameless smile and reply that he gives
Lansdowne Passage a miss because he is afraid of meeting a woman in it.
At that you will at once express impatience, disbelief, and disgust, for
on no female occasion whatsoever will you have noticed upon George
Tarlyon’s brow that cold sweat which denotes a decent bashfulness in a
man. And then, maybe, you will jeer at George Tarlyon, forgetting for a
moment that he is a head taller than any quick-tempered man should be,
and thinking to goad him into revelation of the reason or reasons why
he, a noted warrior on many fields from Ranelagh to Vimy Ridge, should
be afraid of meeting a woman in Lansdowne Passage. And maybe George
Tarlyon will tell you, and maybe he will not.
In these days of easy travelling and tourist facilities it need scarcely
be explained that Lansdowne Passage is a narrow path between two high
walls; and that this path is carved between the princely domains of
Devonshire House and Lansdowne House. Men speak of a time when, midway
through the passage, they had every now and then to pass under a light
wooden bridge which had overnight been thrown from the top of one high
wall to the other, and how it seemed to them pleasant to think that
perhaps the Marquess of Lansdowne was going to step across to visit the
Duke of Devonshire that day. But nothing like that happens nowadays, for
Devonshire House emptily awaits its destiny and Lansdowne House is held
in fief by a distinguished stranger. But there is still something feudal
about Lansdowne Passage, for it is a private right-of-way, and on one
day every year Lord Lansdowne sends his men to lock and bolt the doors
at each end of the passage, as it is his right to do, for the only way a
man has of showing that a passage is his passage is by keeping every
one else out of it for one day every year, the date to be left to his
discretion. Through Lansdowne Passage, on 364 days of the year, the
pedestrian (or two pedestrians abreast, but not more than two, for you
can’t have everything) can walk direct from Curzon Street to Berkeley
Street, and thus save himself an endless amount of walking round by
Piccadilly or Berkeley Square. Mention must also be made of an old man
who, on 364 days of the year, wanders about the passage with a broom, or
sometimes leans the broom against the wall and sits down on the upturned
end of a narrow wooden box, which he brings with him every morning for
that purpose; but he doesn’t really have very much time for sitting on
his box, for all autumn he sweeps away at the leaves, happily without
effect, and for the rest of the year you cannot drop a piece of paper,
orange-peel, or cigarette-end without having it swept away at once; and
all the year round he gives you greeting as you pass, in a friendly way.
Now, one night in May, a year after the world was said to be at peace,
George Tarlyon had reason to be walking in a westerly direction from
Dover Street; down Hay Hill he went, and down the covered stairway from
Berkeley Street into Lansdowne Passage. The hour was very late, the
night pleasantly dark and cool, and the stillness of a sleeping city
broken only by the cameo noises of the narrow hours. His steps rang
gaily between the high walls of the passage, echoes carelessly tossing
themselves from one wall to the other, round and about and every way,
and he was almost half-way through before he realised that he was
sharing the passage with another: a woman just ahead of him, walking
slowly in his direction, but scarcely walking, loitering against the
wall, a self-effacing woman of the night. George Tarlyon passed her, and
about her face he was not at all curious. A word followed him, a shy
word, but he strode on, two steps, three steps--and then another word
followed him, louder, and he swung round, not very amiably.
Now the words which women of the night cast into the night as a lure for
passing men are few, and their expression limited; and many had been
cast to George Tarlyon in passing but never had he chosen one, for that
kind of thing did not amuse him, and he was quite popular enough in his
own circle. But “My dear!” this woman had cried at his back, softly, not
at all insinuatingly: a ladylike voice, without glitter or suggestion,
just appealing; and it somehow caught the drum of George Tarlyon’s ear,
the gentle “my dear,” and he swung round to it.
“Well?” asked George Tarlyon, not very amiably. But he made a gesture
towards his hat, which is more than most men do on the casual occasion.
She softly came towards him, and stood a long way below him, for she was
a short, slight woman: of about middle years, and of the middle sort,
plain featured and dressed unnoticeably: very quiet and ladylike she
was. From one hand hung a bag, just a little larger than those called
hand-bags, and full-looking, as might be that of a sempstress or
governess who is absent from her home all day. The little lady smiled,
without lure....
“Well?” asked George Tarlyon again, not very amiably.
“It’s only,” said the little lady, “that I am afraid to walk alone
through this passage, and would be very grateful if you would allow me
to walk with you as far as the Curzon Street end.” Very quiet and
ladylike she was.
“Why, of course,” said George Tarlyon, politely enough, and more or less
dismissed the thing with a swing round. But the little lady walked as
slowly with him as she had without him, and he had to accommodate his
step to hers.
“But if you’re afraid,” George Tarlyon just thought to ask, “aren’t you
even more afraid of addressing a stranger, who might do a little lady
some harm in a lonely place like this?”
The little lady smiled gently.
“I saw your face as you passed,” she said. “You might be dangerous to a
lady in a drawing-room but not in Lansdowne Passage. Unlike some men I
know....”
They were walking very slowly, and still had almost half of the passage
to go, but George Tarlyon did not say, “Hurry up, little lady,” thinking
she was a pathetic little thing, more than usually pathetic of her kind.
But he was not interested in her, and it was only out of politeness that
he asked:
“Have you had trouble with one or two, then?”
“With one,” she told him softly. She was so small, and he so tall, that
her voice seemed to float up to him from somewhere about his knees. He
scarcely listened to it. To tell the truth, he was rather tired. “With
one,” she repeated. “That is why I am afraid of walking through here by
myself at night. It happened many years ago, but every detail is still
very clear to me.”
“He must have frightened you a good deal,” said George Tarlyon. Not that
he was interested.
“I wouldn’t say that,” said the little lady gently. “But it was
certainly the most important thing that has ever happened in my life.
You see, sir, I had to get three pounds that night. I had already made
two pounds, for that is all I have ever dared to ask, though sometimes
the kinder gentlemen have given me more, but that night I had to make
three pounds more, for five pounds a week was the rent of my rooms and
already overdue some time....” The gentle voice ran on, floating up to
him from somewhere about his knee, and he scarcely listened. They were
quite near the Curzon Street end now, and the words floated upwards
quicker....
“Just about where you passed me, I spoke to him--in the passage here. He
was a short man, and not a gentleman, but I needed three pounds badly
and nowadays you never know who has money and who hasn’t, do you? But as
soon as he answered and looked at me I knew I had made a mistake, but
there’s no use being rude, and so I walked on with him. He said
something about the coolness of the weather, but although I kept my
eyes in front of me, not liking the look of him, you see, I knew very
well that he was taking me in sideways. There’s no use being silly, I
told myself, but I did wish I hadn’t got my two pounds in my bag or that
some one else would come into the passage, though there’s generally
little chance of that at this hour of night, unless it’s a policeman to
smoke a cigarette. And so I hurried on as quick as I could to get to
Curzon Street, and we weren’t more than half-way through this passage
then, but he got hold of my arm and stopped me quick enough. I didn’t
look at his eyes, for I’d seen them once, you see, but I heard him
asking for money, as I knew he would. And then he got hold of my bag by
the strap, but I held on tight, saying there was naught in it but powder
and a handkerchief, but still not looking at his eyes for I knew their
kind well enough. But he held on, and said he would give me some
cocaine, ‘snow’ he called it, if I let him have money, and with his
other hand he fumbled in his pocket. ‘I’ll scream,’ I said, and at that
he let go of my bag quick enough, so I could hurry on to Curzon Street.
He dropped back then, but I was in such a state to get to Curzon Street
that I couldn’t hear him behind me for the beating of my heart. But
behind me he must have been, for I’d just got to within a yard--why,
we’re at the spot now, I _have_ been slow in telling!--when from behind
his hand clapped me over the mouth, and I heard him breathing very
hoarse at my neck, and then a sharp funny pain in the shoulder-blade
took me. As sharp as a knife, they say, but this was a knife, and ever
so sharp in the shoulder-blade it was--but it didn’t hurt so much as
feel funny, if you understand, and everything was so mixed up--his
breathing, and the funny feeling in the shoulder-blade, and somewhere a
clock striking once, but I went off before it struck again, for it must
have been on three o’clock. I never thought death would be like that.”
And George Tarlyon looked for the little lady and he saw only the wall,
and George Tarlyon ran headlong out of Lansdowne Passage, and as he ran
he heard a clock strike the last two notes of three o’clock.