By ALGERNON BLACKWOOD

From Ten Minute Stories, by Algernon Blackwood,

by permission of E. P. Dutton and Company.

“But what seems so odd to me, so horribly pathetic, is that such people

don’t resist,” said Leidall, suddenly entering the conversation. The

intensity of his tone startled everybody; it was so passionate, yet with

a beseeching touch that made the women feel uncomfortable a little. “As

a rule, I’m told, they submit willingly, almost as though——”

He hesitated, grew confused, and dropped his glance to the floor; and a

smartly-dressed woman, eager to be heard, seized the opening. “Oh, come

now,” she laughed; “one always hears of a man being _put_ into a strait

waistcoat. I’m sure he doesn’t slip it on as if he were going to a

dance!” And she looked flippantly at Leidall, whose casual manners she

resented. “People are put under restraint. It’s not in human nature to

accept it—healthy human nature, that is?” But for some reason no one

took her question up. “That is so, I believe, yes,” a polite voice

murmured, while the group at tea in the Dover Street Club turned with

one accord to Leidall as to one whose interesting sentence still

remained unfinished. He had hardly spoken before, and a silent man is

ever credited with wisdom.

“As though—you were just saying, Mr. Leidall?” a quiet little man in a

dark corner helped him.

“As though, I meant, a man in that condition of mind is not insane all

through,” Leidall continued stammeringly; “but that some wise portion of

him watches the proceeding with gratitude, and welcomes the protection

against himself. It seems awfully pathetic. Still”—again hesitating and

fumbling in his speech—“er—it seems queer to me that he should yield

quietly to enforced restraint—the waistcoat, handcuffs, and the rest.”

He looked round hurriedly, half suspiciously, at the faces in the

circle, then dropped his eyes again to the floor. He sighed, leaning

back in his chair. “I cannot understand it,” he added, as no one spoke,

but in a very low voice, and almost to himself. “One would expect them

to struggle furiously.”

Someone had mentioned that remarkable book, _The Mind that Found

Itself_, and the conversation had slipped into this serious vein. The

women did not like it. What kept it alive was the fact that the silent

Leidall, with his handsome, melancholy face, had suddenly wakened into

speech, and that the little man opposite to him, half invisible in his

dark corner, was assistant to one of London’s great hypnotic doctors,

who could, an he would, tell interesting and terrible things. No one

cared to ask the direct question, but all hoped for revelations,

possibly about people they actually knew. It was a very ordinary

tea-party indeed. And this little man now spoke, though hardly in the

desired vein. He addressed his remarks to Leidall across the

disappointed lady.

“I think, probably, your explanation is the true one,” he said gently,

“for madness in its commoner forms is merely want of proportion; the

mind gets out of right and proper relations with its environment. The

majority of madmen are mad on one thing only, while the rest of them is

as sane as myself—or you.”

The words fell into the silence. Leidall bowed his agreement, saying no

actual word. The ladies fidgeted. Someone made a jocular remark to the

effect that most of the world was mad anyhow, and the conversation

shifted with relief into a lighter vein—the scandal in the family of a

politician. Everybody talked at once. Cigarettes were lit. The corner

soon became excited and even uproarious. The tea-party was a great

success, and the offended lady, no longer ignored, led all the

skirmishes—towards herself. She was in her element. Only Leidall and the

little invisible man in the corner took small part in it; and presently,

seizing the opportunity when some new arrivals joined the group, Leidall

rose to say his adieux, and slipped away, his departure scarcely

noticed. Dr. Hancock followed him a minute later. The two men met in the

hall; Leidall already had his hat and coat on. “I’m going West, Mr.

Leidall. If that’s your way too, and you feel inclined for the walk, we

might go together.” Leidall turned with a start. His glance took in the

other with avidity—a keenly-searching, hungry glance. He hesitated for

an imperceptible moment, then made a movement towards him, half

inviting, while a curious shadow dropped across his face and vanished.

It was both pathetic and terrible. The lips trembled. He seemed to say,

“God bless you; _do_ come with me!” But no words were audible.

“It’s a pleasant evening for a walk,” added Dr. Hancock gently; “clean

and dry under foot for a change. I’ll get my hat and join you in a

second.” And there was a hint, the merest flavour, of authority in his

voice.

That touch of authority was his mistake. Instantly Leidall’s hesitation

passed. “I’m sorry,” he said abruptly, “but I’m afraid I must take a

taxi. I have an appointment at the Club, and I’m late already.” “Oh, I

see,” the other replied, with a kindly smile; “then I mustn’t keep you.

But if you ever have a free evening, won’t you look me up, or come and

dine? You’ll find my telephone number in the book. I should like to talk

with you about—those things we mentioned at tea.” Leidall thanked him

politely and went out. The memory of the little man’s kindly sympathy

and understanding eyes went with him.

“Who was that man?” someone asked, the moment Leidall had left the

tea-table. “Surely he’s not the Leidall who wrote that awful book some

years ago?”

“Yes—the _Gulf of Darkness_. Did you read it?”

They discussed it and its author for five minutes, deciding by a large

majority that it was the book of a madman. Silent, rude men like that

always had a screw loose somewhere, they agreed. Silence was invariably

morbid.

“And did you notice Dr. Hancock? He never took his eyes off him. That’s

why he followed him out like that. I wonder if _he_ thought anything!”

“I know Hancock well,” said the lady of the wounded vanity. “I’ll ask

him and find out.” They chattered on, somebody mentioned a _risqué_

play, the talk switched into other fields, and in due course the

tea-party came to an end.

And Leidall, meanwhile, made his way towards the Park on foot, for he

had not taken a taxi after all. The suggestion of the other man,

perhaps, had worked upon him. He was very open to suggestion. With hands

deep in his overcoat pockets, and head sunk forward between his

shoulders, he walked briskly, entering the Park at one of the smaller

gates. He made his way across the wet turf, avoiding the paths and

people. The February sky was shining in the west; beautiful clouds

floated over the houses; they looked like the shore-line of some radiant

strand his childhood once had known. He sighed; thought dived and

searched within; self-analysis, that old, implacable demon, lifted its

voice; introspection took the reins again as usual. There seemed a

strain upon the mind he could not dispel. Thought circled poignantly. He

knew it was unhealthy, morbid, a sign of those many years of difficulty

and stress that had marked him so deeply, but for the life of him he

could not escape from the hideous spell that held him. The same old

thoughts bored their way into his mind like burning wires, tracing the

same unanswerable questions. From this torture, waking or sleeping,

there was no escape. Had a companion been with him it might have been

different. If, for instance, Dr. Hancock——

He was angry with himself for having refused—furious; it was that vile,

false pride his long loneliness had fostered. The man was sympathetic to

him, friendly, marvellously understanding; he could have talked freely

with him, and found relief. His intuition had picked out the little

doctor as a man in ten thousand. Why had he so curtly declined his

gentle invitation? Dr. Hancock _knew_; he guessed his awful secret. But

how? In what had he betrayed himself?

The weary self-questioning began again, till he sighed and groaned from

sheer exhaustion. He _must_ find people, companionship, someone to talk

to. The Club—it crossed his tortured mind for a second—was impossible;

there was a conspiracy among the members against him. He had left his

usual haunts everywhere for the same reason—his restaurants where he had

his lonely meals; his music-hall, where he tried sometimes to forget

himself; his favourite walks, where the very policeman knew and eyed

him. And, coming to the bridge across the Serpentine just then, he

paused and leaned over the edge, watching a bubble rise to the surface.

“I suppose there _are_ fish in the Serpentine?” he said to a man a few

feet away.

They talked a moment—the other was evidently a clerk on his way home,

and then the stranger edged off and continued his walk, looking back

once or twice at the sad-faced man who had addressed him. “It’s

ridiculous, that with all our science we can’t live under water as the

fish do,” reflected Leidall, and moved on round the other bank of the

water, where he watched a flight of duck whirl down from the darkening

air and settle with a long, mournful splash beside the bushy island. “Or

that, for all our pride of mechanism in a mechanical age, we cannot

really fly.” But these attempts to escape from self were never very

successful. Another part of him looked on and mocked. He returned ever

to the endless introspection of self-analysis, and in the deepest moment

of it—ran into a big, motionless figure that blocked his way. It was the

Park policeman, the one who had always eyed him. He sheered off suddenly

towards the trees, while the man, recognising him, touched his cap

respectfully. “It’s a pleasant evening, sir; turned quite mild again.”

Leidall mumbled some reply or other, and hurried on to hide himself

among the shadows of the trees. The policeman stood and watched him,

till the darkness swallowed him. “He knows too!” groaned the wretched

man. And every bench was occupied; every face turned to watch him; there

were even figures behind the trees. He dared not go into the street, for

the very taxi-drivers were against him. If he gave an address, he would

not be driven to it; the man would _know_, and take him elsewhere. And

something in his heart, sick with anguish, weary with the endless

battle, suddenly yielded.

“There _are_ fish in the Serpentine,” he remembered the stranger had

said. “And,” he added to himself, with a wave of delicious comfort,

“they lead secret, hidden lives that no one can disturb.” His mind

cleared surprisingly. In the water he could find peace and rest and

healing. Good Lord! How easy it all was! Yet he had never thought of it

before. He turned sharply to retrace his steps, but in that very second

the clouds descended upon his thought again, his mind darkened, he

hesitated. Could he get out again when he had had enough? Would he rise

to the surface? A battle began over these questions. He ran quickly,

then stood still again to think the matter out. Darkness shrouded him.

He heard the wind rush laughing through the trees. The picture of the

whirring duck flashed back a moment, and he decided that the best way

was by air, and not by water. He would fly into the place of rest, not

sink or merely float; and he remembered the view from his bedroom

window, high over old smoky London town, with a drop of eighty feet on

to the pavements. Yes, that was the best way. He waited a moment, trying

to think it all out clearly, but one moment the fish had it, and the

next the birds. It was really impossible to decide. Was there no one who

could help him, no one in all this enormous town who was sufficiently on

his side to advise him on the point? Some clear-headed, experienced,

kindly man?

And the face of Dr. Hancock flashed before his vision. He saw the gentle

eyes and sympathetic smile, remembered the soothing voice and the offer

of companionship he had refused. Of course, there was one serious

drawback: Hancock _knew_. But he was far too tactful, too sweet and good

a man to let that influence his judgment, or to betray in any way at all

that he did know.

Leidall found it in him to decide. Facing the entire hostile world, he

hailed a taxi from the nearest gate upon the street, looked up the

address in a chemist’s telephone book, and reached the door in a

condition of delight and relief. Yes, Dr. Hancock was at home. Leidall

sent his name in. A few minutes later the two men were chatting

pleasantly together, almost like old friends, so keen was the little

man’s intuitive sympathy and tact. Only Hancock, patient listener though

he proved to be, was uncommonly full of words. Leidall explained the

matter very clearly. “Now, what is your decision, Dr. Hancock? Is it to

be the way of the fish or the way of the duck?” And, while Hancock began

his answer with slow, well-chosen words, a new idea, better than either,

leaped with a flash into his listener’s mind. It was an inspiration. For

where could he find a better hiding-place from all his troubles than

Hancock himself? The man was kindly; he surely would not object. Leidall

this time would not hesitate a second. He was tall and broad; Hancock

was small; yet he was sure there would be room. He sprang upon him like

a wild animal. He felt the warm, thin throat yield and bend between his

great hands ... then darkness, peace and rest, a nothingness that surely

was the oblivion he had so long prayed for. He had accomplished his

desire. He had secreted himself forever from persecution—inside the

kindliest little man he had ever met—inside Hancock....

He opened his eyes and looked about him into a room he did not know. The

walls were soft and dimly coloured. It was very silent. Cushions were

everywhere. Peaceful it was, and out of the world. Overhead was a

skylight, and one window, opposite the door, was heavily barred.

Delicious! No one could get in. He was sitting in a deep and comfortable

chair. He felt rested and happy. There was a click, and he saw a tiny

window in the door drop down, as though worked by a sliding panel. Then

the door opened noiselessly, and in came a little man with smiling face

and soft brown eyes—Dr. Hancock.

Leidall’s first feeling was amazement. “Then I didn’t get into him

properly after all! Or I’ve slipped out again, perhaps! The dear, good

fellow!” And he rose to greet him. He put his hand out, and found that

the other came with it in some inexplicable fashion. Movement was

cramped. “Ah, then I’ve had a stroke,” he thought, as Hancock pressed

him, ever so gently, back into the big chair. “Do not get up,” he said

soothingly but with authority; “sit where you are and rest. You must

take it very easy for a bit; like all clever men who have overworked——”

“I’ll get in the moment he turns,” thought Leidall. “I did it badly

before. It must be through the back of his head, of course, where the

spine runs up into the brain,” and he waited till Hancock should turn.

But Hancock never turned. He kept his face towards him all the time,

while he chatted, moving gradually nearer to the door. On Leidall’s face

was the smile of an innocent child, but there lay a hideous cunning

behind that smile, and the eyes were terrible.

“Are those bars firm and strong,” asked Leidall, “so that no one can get

in?” He pointed craftily, and the doctor, caught for a second unawares,

turned his head. That instant Leidall was upon him with a roar, then

sank back powerless into the chair, unable to move his arms more than a

few inches in any direction. Hancock stepped up quietly and made him

comfortable again with cushions.

And something in Leidall’s soul turned round and looked another way. His

mind became clear as daylight for a moment. The effort perhaps had

caused the sudden change from darkness to great light. A memory rushed

over him. “Good God!” he cried. “I am violent. I was going to do you an

injury—you who are so sweet and good to me!” He trembled dreadfully, and

burst into tears. “For the sake of Heaven,” he implored, looking up,

ashamed and keenly penitent, “put me under restraint. Fasten my hands

before I try it again.” He held both hands out willingly, beseechingly,

then looked down, following the direction of the other’s kind brown

eyes. His wrists, he saw, already wore steel handcuffs, and a strait

waistcoat was across his chest and arms and shoulders.