AN OUTLANDISH WATCH.
As I entered the little town, I came upon two of the fishermen's wives
interchanging that last word "which never was the last": and it occurred
to me, as an experiment with the Magic Watch, to wait till the little
scene was over, and then to 'encore' it.
"Well, good night t'ye! And ye winna forget to send us word when your
Martha writes?"
"Nay, ah winna forget. An' if she isn't suited, she can but coom back.
Good night t'ye!"
A casual observer might have thought "and there ends the dialogue!" That
casual observer would have been mistaken.
"Ah, she'll like 'em, I war'n' ye! _They'll_ not treat her bad, yer may
depend. They're varry canny fowk. Good night!"
"Ay, they _are_ that! Good night!"
"Good night! And ye'll send us word if she writes?"
"Aye, ah will, yer may depend! Good night t'ye!"
And at last they parted. I waited till they were some twenty yards
apart, and then put the Watch a minute back. The instantaneous change
was startling: the two figures seemed to flash back into their former
places.
"--isn't suited, she can but coom back. Good night t'ye!" one of them
was saying: and so the whole dialogue was repeated, and, when they had
parted for the second time, I let them go their several ways, and
strolled on through the town.
"But the real usefulness of this magic power," I thought, "would be to
undo some harm, some painful event, some accident----" I had not long to
wait for an opportunity of testing _this_ property also of the Magic
Watch, for, even as the thought passed through my mind, the accident I
was imagining occurred. A light cart was standing at the door of the
'Great Millinery Depôt' of Elveston, laden with card-board
packing-cases, which the driver was carrying into the shop, one by one.
One of the cases had fallen into the street, but it scarcely seemed
worth while to step forward and pick it up, as the man would be back
again in a moment. Yet, in that moment, a young man riding a bicycle
came sharp round the corner of the street and, in trying to avoid
running over the box, upset his machine, and was thrown headlong against
the wheel of the spring-cart. The driver ran out to his assistance, and
he and I together raised the unfortunate cyclist and carried him into
the shop. His head was cut and bleeding; and one knee seemed to be badly
injured; and it was speedily settled that he had better be conveyed at
once to the only Surgery in the place. I helped them in emptying the
cart, and placing in it some pillows for the wounded man to rest on; and
it was only when the driver had mounted to his place, and was starting
for the Surgery, that I bethought me of the strange power I possessed of
undoing all this harm.
"Now is my time!" I said to myself, as I moved back the hand of the
Watch, and saw, almost without surprise this time, all things restored
to the places they had occupied at the critical moment when I had first
noticed the fallen packing-case.
Instantly I stepped out into the street, picked up the box, and replaced
it in the cart: in the next moment the bicycle had spun round the
corner, passed the cart without let or hindrance, and soon vanished in
the distance, in a cloud of dust.
"Delightful power of magic!" I thought. "How much of human suffering I
have--not only relieved, but actually annihilated!" And, in a glow of
conscious virtue, I stood watching the unloading of the cart, still
holding the Magic Watch open in my hand, as I was curious to see what
would happen when we again reached the exact time at which I had put
back the hand.
The result was one that, if only I had considered the thing carefully, I
might have foreseen: as the hand of the Watch touched the mark, the
spring-cart--which had driven off, and was by this time half-way down
the street, was back again at the door, and in the act of starting,
while--oh woe for the golden dream of world-wide benevolence that had
dazzled my dreaming fancy!--the wounded youth was once more reclining on
the heap of pillows, his pale face set rigidly in the hard lines that
told of pain resolutely endured.
"Oh mocking Magic Watch!" I said to myself, as I passed out of the
little town, and took the seaward road that led to my lodgings. "The
good I fancied I could do is vanished like a dream: the evil of this
troublesome world is the only abiding reality!"
And now I must record an experience so strange, that I think it only
fair, before beginning to relate it, to release my much-enduring reader
from any obligation he may feel to believe this part of my story. _I_
would not have believed it, I freely confess, if I had not seen it with
my own eyes: then why should I expect it of my reader, who, quite
possibly, has never seen anything of the sort?
I was passing a pretty little villa, which stood rather back from the
road, in its own grounds, with bright flower-beds in front--creepers
wandering over the walls and hanging in festoons about the
bow-windows--an easy-chair forgotten on the lawn, with a newspaper lying
near it--a small pug-dog "couchant" before it, resolved to guard the
treasure even at the sacrifice of life--and a front-door standing
invitingly half-open. "Here is my chance," I thought, "for testing the
reverse action of the Magic Watch!" I pressed the 'reversal-peg' and
walked in. In _another_ house, the entrance of a stranger might cause
surprise--perhaps anger, even going so far as to expel the said stranger
with violence: but _here_, I knew, nothing of the sort could happen. The
_ordinary_ course of events--first, to think nothing about me; then,
hearing my footsteps to look up and see me; and then to wonder what
business I had there--would be reversed by the action of my Watch. They
would _first_ wonder who I was, _then_ see me, then look down, and think
no more about me. And as to being expelled with violence, _that_ event
would necessarily come _first_ in this case. "So, if I can once get
_in_," I said to myself, "all risk of _expulsion_ will be over!"
[Illustration: 'THE PUG-DOG SAT UP']
The pug-dog sat up, as a precautionary measure, as I passed; but, as I
took no notice of the treasure he was guarding, he let me go by without
even one remonstrant bark. "He that takes my life," he seemed to be
saying, wheezily, to himself, "takes trash: But he that takes the _Daily
Telegraph_----!" But this awful contingency I did not face.
The party in the drawing-room--I had walked straight in, you understand,
without ringing the bell, or giving any notice of my approach--consisted
of four laughing rosy children, of ages from about fourteen down to ten,
who were, apparently, all coming towards the door (I found they were
really walking _backwards_), while their mother, seated by the fire with
some needlework on her lap, was saying, just as I entered the room,
"Now, girls, you may get your things on for a walk."
To my utter astonishment--for I was not yet accustomed to the action of
the Watch--"all smiles ceased" (as Browning says) on the four pretty
faces, and they all got out pieces of needle-work, and sat down. No one
noticed _me_ in the least, as I quietly took a chair and sat down to
watch them.
When the needle-work had been unfolded, and they were all ready to
begin, their mother said "Come, _that's_ done, at last! You may fold up
your work, girls." But the children took no notice whatever of the
remark; on the contrary, they set to work at once sewing--if that is the
proper word to describe an operation such as _I_ had never before
witnessed. Each of them threaded her needle with a short end of thread
attached to the work, which was instantly pulled by an invisible force
through the stuff, dragging the needle after it: the nimble fingers of
the little sempstress caught it at the other side, but only to lose it
again the next moment. And so the work went on, steadily undoing itself,
and the neatly-stitched little dresses, or whatever they were, steadily
falling to pieces. Now and then one of the children would pause, as the
recovered thread became inconveniently long, wind it on a bobbin, and
start again with another short end.
At last all the work was picked to pieces and put away, and the lady led
the way into the next room, walking backwards, and making the insane
remark "Not yet, dear: we _must_ get the sewing done first." After
which, I was not surprised to see the children skipping backwards after
her, exclaiming "Oh, mother, it _is_ such a lovely day for a walk!"
In the dining-room, the table had only dirty plates and empty dishes on
it. However the party--with the addition of a gentleman, as
good-natured, and as rosy, as the children--seated themselves at it very
contentedly.
You have seen people eating cherry-tart, and every now and then
cautiously conveying a cherry-stone from their lips to their plates?
Well, something like that went on all through this ghastly--or shall we
say 'ghostly'?--banquet. An empty fork is raised to the lips: there it
receives a neatly-cut piece of mutton, and swiftly conveys it to the
plate, where it instantly attaches itself to the mutton already there.
Soon one of the plates, furnished with a complete slice of mutton and
two potatoes, was handed up to the presiding gentleman, who quietly
replaced the slice on the joint, and the potatoes in the dish.
Their conversation was, if possible, more bewildering than their mode of
dining. It began by the youngest girl suddenly, and without provocation,
addressing her eldest sister. "Oh, you _wicked_ story-teller!" she said.
I expected a sharp reply from the sister; but, instead of this, she
turned laughingly to her father, and said, in a very loud stage-whisper,
"To be a bride!"
The father, in order to do _his_ part in a conversation that seemed only
fit for lunatics, replied "Whisper it to me, dear."
But she _didn't_ whisper (these children never did anything they were
told): she said, quite loud, "Of course not! Everybody knows what
_Dolly_ wants!"
And little Dolly shrugged her shoulders, and said, with a pretty
pettishness, "Now, Father, you're not to tease! You know I don't want to
be bride's-maid to _anybody_!"
"And Dolly's to be the fourth," was her father's idiotic reply.
Here Number Three put in her oar. "Oh, it _is_ settled, Mother dear,
really and truly! Mary told us all about it. It's to be next Tuesday
four weeks--and three of her cousins are coming to be
bride's-maids--and----"
"_She_ doesn't forget it, Minnie!" the Mother laughingly replied. "I do
wish they'd get it settled! I don't like long engagements."
And Minnie wound up the conversation--if so chaotic a series of remarks
deserves the name--with "Only think! We passed the Cedars this morning,
just exactly as Mary Davenant was standing at the gate, wishing good-bye
to Mister--I forget his name. Of course we looked the other way."
By this time I was so hopelessly confused that I gave up listening, and
followed the dinner down into the kitchen.
But to you, O hypercritical reader, resolute to believe no item of this
weird adventure, what need to tell how the mutton was placed on the
spit, and slowly unroasted--how the potatoes were wrapped in their
skins, and handed over to the gardener to be buried--how, when the
mutton had at length attained to rawness, the fire, which had gradually
changed from red-heat to a mere blaze, died down so suddenly that the
cook had only just time to catch its last flicker on the end of a
match--or how the maid, having taken the mutton off the spit, carried it
(backwards, of course) out of the house, to meet the butcher, who was
coming (also backwards) down the road?
The longer I thought over this strange adventure, the more hopelessly
tangled the mystery became: and it was a real relief to meet Arthur in
the road, and get him to go with me up to the Hall, to learn what news
the telegraph had brought. I told him, as we went, what had happened at
the Station, but as to my further adventures I thought it best, for the
present, to say nothing.
The Earl was sitting alone when we entered. "I am glad you are come in
to keep me company," he said. "Muriel is gone to bed--the excitement of
that terrible scene was too much for her--and Eric has gone to the hotel
to pack his things, to start for London by the early train."
"Then the telegram has come?" I said.
"Did you not hear? Oh, I had forgotten: it came in after you left the
Station. Yes, it's all right: Eric has got his commission; and, now that
he has arranged matters with Muriel, he has business in town that must
be seen to at once."
"What arrangement do you mean?" I asked with a sinking heart, as the
thought of Arthur's crushed hopes came to my mind. "Do you mean that
they are _engaged_?"
"They have been engaged--in a sense--for two years," the old man gently
replied: "that is, he has had my promise to consent to it, so soon as he
could secure a permanent and settled line in life. I could never be
happy with my child married to a man without an object to live
for--without even an object to die for!"
"I hope they will be happy," a strange voice said. The speaker was
evidently in the room, but I had not heard the door open, and I looked
round in some astonishment. The Earl seemed to share my surprise. "Who
spoke?" he exclaimed.
"It was I," said Arthur, looking at us with a worn, haggard face, and
eyes from which the light of life seemed suddenly to have faded. "And
let me wish _you_ joy also, dear friend," he added, looking sadly at the
Earl, and speaking in the same hollow tones that had startled us so
much.
"Thank you," the old man said, simply and heartily.
A silence followed: then I rose, feeling sure that Arthur would wish to
be alone, and bade our gentle host 'Good night': Arthur took his hand,
but said nothing: nor did he speak again, as we went home, till we were
in the house and had lit our bed-room candles. Then he said, more to
himself than to me, "_The heart knoweth its own bitterness_. I never
understood those words till now."
The next few days passed wearily enough. I felt no inclination to call
again, by myself, at the Hall; still less to propose that Arthur should
go with me: it seemed better to wait till Time--that gentle healer of
our bitterest sorrows--should have helped him to recover from the first
shock of the disappointment that had blighted his life.
Business, however, soon demanded my presence in town; and I had to
announce to Arthur that I must leave him for a while. "But I hope to run
down again in a month," I added. "I would stay now, if I could. I don't
think it's good for you to be alone."
"No, I ca'n't face solitude, _here_, for long," said Arthur. "But don't
think about _me_. I have made up my mind to accept a post in India, that
has been offered me. Out there, I suppose I shall find something to live
for; I can't see _anything_ at present. '_This life of mine I guard, as
God's high gift, from scathe and wrong, Not greatly care to lose!_'"
"Yes," I said: "your name-sake bore as heavy a blow, and lived through
it."
"A far heavier one than _mine_," said Arthur. "The woman _he_ loved
proved false. There is no such cloud as _that_ on my memory of--of----"
He left the name unuttered, and went on hurriedly. "But _you_ will
return, will you not?"
"Yes, I shall come back for a short time."
"Do," said Arthur: "and you shall write and tell me of our friends. I'll
send you my address when I'm settled down."