A BOLT FROM THE BLUE
Burton's life moved for a time among the easy places. The sub-editor of
the Piccadilly Gazette, to which he still contributed, voluntarily
increased his scale of pay and was insatiable in his demand for copy.
Burton moved into pleasant rooms in a sunny corner of an old-fashioned
square. He sent Ellen three pounds a week--all she would accept--and
save for a dull pain at his heart which seldom left him, he found much
pleasure in life. Then came the first little break in the clear sky.
Mr. Waddington came in to see him one day and Mr. Waddington was
looking distinctly worried. He was neatly and tastefully dressed, and
his demeanor had lost all its old offensiveness. His manner, too, was
immensely improved. His tone was almost gentle. Nevertheless, there
was a perplexed frown upon his forehead and an anxious look in his eyes.
"Business all right, I hope?" Burton asked him, after he had welcomed
his late employer, installed him in an easy chair and pushed a box of
cigarettes towards him.
"It is better than all right," Mr. Waddington replied. "It is
wonderful. We have never had such crowds at the sales, and I have taken
on four more clerks in the house-letting department."
Burton laughed softly. The humor of the auctioneer's position appealed
to him immensely.
"I am making money fast," Mr. Waddington admitted, without enthusiasm.
"Another year or two of this and I could retire comfortably."
"Then what," Burton asked, "is the worry?"
Mr. Waddington smoked vigorously for a moment. "Has it ever occurred
to you, Burton," he inquired, "to ask yourself whether this peculiar
state, in which you and I find ourselves, may be wholly permanent?"
Burton was genuinely startled. He sat looking at his visitor like one
turned to stone. The prospect called up by that simple question was
appalling. His cigarette burned idly away between his fingers. The
shadow of fear lurked in his eyes.
"Not permanent?" he repeated. "I never thought of that. Why do you
ask?"
Mr. Waddington scratched his chin thoughtfully. It was not a graceful
proceeding, and Burton, with a sinking heart, remembered that this was
one of his employer's old habits. He scrutinized his visitor more
closely. Although his appearance at first sight was immaculate, there
were certain alarming symptoms to be noted. His linen collar was
certainly doing service for the second time, and Burton noticed with
dismay a slight revival of the auctioneer's taste for loud colors in his
shirt and socks.
"It was yesterday afternoon," Mr. Waddington continued. "I was selling
an oak chest. I explained that it was not a genuine antique but that it
had certainly some claims to antiquity on account of its design. That
seemed to me to be a very fair way of putting it. Then I saw a man, who
was very keen on buying it, examining the brass handles. He looked up
at me. 'Why, the handles are genuine!' he exclaimed. 'They're real old
brass, anyway!' Now I knew quite well, Burton, that those handles,
though they were extraordinarily near the real thing, were not genuine.
I opened my mouth to tell him so, and then, Burton, do you know that I
hesitated?"
"You didn't tell him--that they were genuine!" Burton gasped.
Mr. Waddington shook his head.
"No," he admitted, "I did not go so far as that. Still, it was almost
as great a shock to me. I felt a distinct impulse to tell him that they
were. A few days ago, such an idea would never have entered my head.
It would have been a sheer impossibility."
"Anything else?"
Mr. Waddington hesitated. He seemed to be feeling the shame of these
avowals.
"This morning," he confessed, "I passed the door of the Golden Lion on
my way to the office. For the first time since--you know when--I felt a
desire--a faint desire but still it was there--to go in and chaff Milly
and have a pint of beer in a tankard. I didn't go, of course, but I
felt the impulse, nevertheless."
Burton had turned very pale.
"This," he exclaimed, "is terrible! What have you done with the rest of
the beans?"
"I have nine," Mr. Waddington replied. "I carry them in my waistcoat
pocket. I am perfectly convinced now that there is trouble ahead, for
on my way up the stairs here I felt a strong inclination to tell you
that I had lost them, in case you should want any."
"It would be only fair," Burton declared warmly, "to divide them." Mr.
Waddington frowned.
"I see no reason for that at all," he objected, feeling his waistcoat
pocket. "The beans are in my possession."
"But if we are to revert to our former state of barbarism," Burton
urged, "let us at least do so together."
"You are some time ahead of me," Mr. Waddington pointed out. "None of
these warnings have come to you yet. It may be something wrong with my
disposition, or the way I have swallowed my bean. Yours may be a
permanent affair."
Burton hesitated. Then he threw himself into a chair and buried his
face in his hands.
"My time is coming, too!" he confessed mournfully. "I am in the same
position. Even while you were speaking just now, I felt a strong desire
to deceive you, to invent some experience similar to your own."
"Are you sure of that?" Mr. Waddington asked anxiously.
"Quite sure!" Burton groaned.
"Then we are both of us in it, and that's a fact," Mr. Waddington
affirmed.
Burton looked up.
"About those beans?"
Mr. Waddington thought for some few moments.
"I shall keep five and give you four," he decided. "It is treating you
very generously. I am not obliged to give you any at all, you know. I
am doing it because I am good-natured and because we are in this thing
together. If the worst happens, you can come back to your old place in
the firm. I dare say we shall pull along somehow."
Burton shuddered from head to foot. He saw it all mapped out before
him--the miserable routine of dull, undignified work, the whole
intolerable outlook of that daily life. He covered his face with his
hands to shut out the prospect.
"I couldn't come back!" he muttered "I couldn't!"
"That's all very well," Mr. Waddington objected, "but if this thing
really passes off, you'll be only too glad to. I suppose I shall flirt
with Milly again, and drink beer, give up Ruskin for the Sporting Times,
wear loud clothes, tell most frightful falsehoods when I sell that
terrible furniture and buy another trotting horse to drive out on
Sundays. Oh, Lord!"
Mr. Waddington rose slowly to his feet. He lit a cigarette, sniffed
it, and looked at it disparagingly. It was very fine Turkish tobacco
and one of Burton's extravagances.
"I am not sure, after all," he declared, "that there isn't more flavor
in a British cigar."
Burton shuddered
"You had better take a bean at once," he groaned. "Those cigarettes are
made from the finest tobacco imported."
Mr. Waddington felt in his waistcoat pocket with trembling fingers,
slowly produced a little silver box, took out a bean and crunched it
between his teeth. An expression of immense relief at once spread over
his features. He sniffed at his cigarette with an air of keen
appreciation, and deliberately handed over to Burton his share of the
remaining beans.
"I am myself again," he declared firmly. "I can feel the change
already."
Burton eyed him anxiously.
"Cigarette taste all right now?"
"Delicious!" Mr. Waddington replied. "Most exquisite tobacco! Makes
me shiver inside to think how I could ever have smoked that other filthy
rubbish."
"No idea of calling in at the Golden Lion on your way back, eh?" Burton
persisted.
Mr. Waddington's expression was full of reproach. "The very thought of
that place, with its smell of stale beer and those awful creatures
behind the bar, makes me shiver," he confessed. "I shall walk for an
hour before lunch in Kensington Gardens. If I have a moment to spare I
shall run into the Museum and spend a little time with the mosaics.
What a charming effect the sunlight has coming through those trees,
Burton! I want you to come down and see my rooms sometime. I have
picked up a few trifles that I think you would appreciate."
"I will come with pleasure," Burton replied. "This afternoon, if you
could spare a few minutes?" the auctioneer suggested. "We might go
around and look at that Romney which has just been unearthed. I have
been to Christie's three times already to see it, but I should like to
take you. There's something about the face which I don't quite
understand. There is a landscape there, too, just sent up from some
country house, which I think would interest you."
Burton shook his head and moved feverishly towards his desk.
"I am going to work," he declared. "You have frightened me a little. I
must economize time. I shall write a novel, a novel of real life. I
must write it while I can still see the perfect truth."