IN HYDE PARK AT NIGHT
But now that Lilian Rosenberg was possessed of all this information
respecting the trio, she was once again in doubt how to act, or
whether to act at all. Supposing she were to attempt to warn Gladys
Martin against Hamar, how would Gladys take the warning? Would she pay
any attention to it? The odds were she would not; that having set her
heart on marrying Hamar for his money, she would blind herself to his
faults and resolutely shut her ears to anything said against him. Also
there was the very great possibility of Gladys being rude to her--and
even the thought of this was more than she could bear to contemplate.
If only Shiel were reasonable! If only he could be made to see how
utterly ridiculous it was for him to think of winning such a girl as
Gladys--Gladys the pretty, dolly-faced, pampered actress, who had
never known a single hardship, had always had a well-lined purse, and
would never, never marry poverty! Then back to Lilian Rosenberg's mind
came her parting with Shiel--she recalled his intense scorn and
indignation. A liar! He did not wish to have anything to do with a
liar! It's a good thing every man is not so fastidious, she said to
herself bitterly, or the population of the world would soon fizz out.
She laughed. He had never questioned her morals in any other
sense--perhaps, in his innocence or assumed innocence, he had thought
them spotless--at all events he had most graciously ignored them. But
a liar! A liar--he could not put up with. And why! Because the lie had
touched him on a sore point. When lies do not touch a sore point,
they, too, are ignored.
She walked to the Imperial and looked again at Gladys's photographs.
How any man could fall madly in love with such a face, was more than
she could conceive. It was a mincing, maudlin, finicking face--it
irritated her intensely. She turned away from it in disgust, yet came
back to have another look--and yet another. God knows why! It
fascinated her. Finally she left it, fully resolved to let its odious
original go to her fate--without a warning. Soon after her return to
the Hall in Cockspur Street, she was sent for by Hamar.
"Didn't I tell you," he said, "that you were on no account to
encourage Mr. Kelson?"
"You did!" Lilian Rosenberg replied.
"Will you kindly explain, then," Hamar said, "why you have disobeyed
my orders?"
"How have I disobeyed them?" Lilian Rosenberg asked.
"How!" Hamar retorted, his cheeks white with passion. "You dare to
inquire how! Why, you were on the point of accompanying him to his
rooms last night to supper, when I stopped you! I have overlooked your
disobedience so many times that I can do so no longer. Your services
will not be required by the Firm after to-day fortnight."
"Won't they?" Lilian Rosenberg replied, her anger rising. "I think you
are mistaken. I know a great deal too much to make it safe for you to
part with me. I know--for instance--all about your Compact with the
Unknown!"
"You know nothing," Hamar said, his voice faltering.
"Oh, yes, I do!" Lilian Rosenberg answered. "I know everything. I know
how you first got in communication with the Unknown in San Francisco;
I know how you receive fresh powers from the Unknown every three
months (the old powers being cancelled). I know the penalty you will
undergo should the Compact be broken--and--what is more--I know how
the Compact can be broken."
"How the deuce have you learned all this?" Hamar stammered.
"Never you mind. Am I to remain in your service or leave?"
"I think," Hamar said, stroking his chin thoughtfully, "it is better
that you should remain--better for all parties. I owe you some little
recompense for your loyalty to the Firm, and for the admirable way you
spoke up for the Firm in Court. I will make you out a cheque for a
hundred pounds now--and your salary shall be doubled at the end of
this week. Promise to keep out of Mr. Kelson's way in future--for the
next six months at any rate--after that time you may see him as often
as you like--and I will give you as a wedding present a cheque for
twenty thousand pounds!"
"Twenty thousand pounds! You are joking!"
"I'm not. I vow and declare I mean it. Is that a bargain?"
"I will certainly think it well over," Lilian Rosenberg said, "and let
you know my decision later on."
From what Curtis had told her she knew it was the last day of stage
four, that the trio that evening would be initiated into stage
five--the Stage of Cures, and a mad desire seized her to witness the
initiation. But how would the Unknown manifest itself on this
occasion--and to which of the trio? She could not keep a close watch
on the three of them. If only she had been friends with Shiel, they
might, in some way, have worked it together. Curtis had carefully
avoided her since the supper; but she had seen Kelson, and he had
looked at her each time he met her as if he yearned to fall down at
her feet and worship her. Should she attach herself to him for the
evening--and run the risk of another quarrel with Hamar? She dearly
loved risks and dangers--and the danger she would encounter in defying
Hamar appealed to her sporting nature. It was easy to secure
Kelson--one glance from her eyes--and he would have followed her to
Timbuctoo.
"Charing Cross--under clock--after show to-night," she whispered as
she flew hurriedly past him. "I want to speak to you."
Now it so happened that Hamar had given Kelson orders to return to his
rooms, directly the performance was over, and to remain in them till
morning, in case he was wanted in connection with the initiation. But
he might have spared himself the trouble. It was Lilian, and Lilian
only, that Kelson now thought of--it was Lilian, and Lilian only, that
he would obey. The idea of meeting her--of having her all to
himself--of being able to do her a service--filled him with such
uncontrollable delight, that he hardly knew how to comport himself so
as not to arouse Hamar's suspicions. Directly the performance was over
he sneaked out of the Hall, and pretending not to hear Hamar, who
called after him, he jumped into a taxi, and was whirled away to the
trysting-place. Lilian Rosenberg, who arrived a moment later, was
dressed in a new costume, and Kelson thought her looking smarter and
daintier than ever.
"You shall kiss me at once," she said, "if you promise me one thing."
"And what is that?" he asked, looking hungrily at her lips.
"I want you to let me see the Unknown when it comes to you to-night,"
she said.
"Good God! What do you know about the Unknown!" he exclaimed, his jaws
falling, and a look of terror creeping into his eyes.
"A great deal," she laughed, "so much that I want to learn more"--and
of what she knew she told him, just as much as she had told Hamar.
"And now," she said, "I repeat my promise--you shall have a
kiss--think of that--if only you will hide me somewhere so that I can
see the Unknown or its emissary."
"I would do anything for a kiss," Kelson said, "but I fear it is
impossible to fulfil the condition, because I haven't the remotest
idea where or when the Unknown will appear. Besides, it is just as
likely to go to Hamar or Curtis as to come to me; and up to the
present I haven't felt the remotest suggestion of its favouring me. Is
this the only condition I can fulfil, so that you will let me kiss
you?"
"Certainly," Lilian Rosenberg replied. "I am not in the habit of being
kissed. Such an event can only happen in the most exceptional and
privileged circumstances--such, for example, as exist at the present
moment, when I ask you to put yourself to some considerable
trouble--if not actually to incur danger--in order to accomplish what
I wish."
"And yet I remember kissing you unconditionally," Kelson commented.
"Memory is a fickle thing," Lilian Rosenberg replied, "and so is
woman. Times have changed. I'll leave you at once, unless you promise
to do your very utmost to grant my request."
Kelson promised, and--after they had had supper at the Trocadero,
suggested that they should take a stroll in Hyde Park.
"I hope you are not awfully shocked?" he inquired rather anxiously,
"but a sudden impulse has come over me to go there. I believe it is
the will of the Unknown. Will you come with me?"
"We shan't be able to get in, shall we, it's so late?" Lilian
Rosenberg said. "Otherwise I should like to--I'm rather in a mood for
adventure."
"They don't shut the gates till twelve," Kelson said, "and it's not
that yet."
"Very well, let's go, then. I'm game to go anywhere to see the
Unknown," and so saying Lilian rose from the table, and Kelson
followed her into the street.
They took a taxi, and alighting at Hyde Park Corner entered the Park.
It was very dark and deserted.
"It's nearly closing time," a policeman called out to them rather
curtly.
"We are only taking a constitutional," Kelson explained. "We shall be
back in five minutes."
They crossed the road to the statue, and were deliberating which
direction to take, when they heard a groan.
"It's only some poor devil of a tramp," Kelson said. "The benches are
full of them--they stay here all night. We had better, perhaps, turn
back."
"Nonsense!" Lilian Rosenberg replied. "I'm not a bit afraid. There's
another groan. I'm going to see what's up," and before he could stop
her she had disappeared in the darkness. "Here I am," she called;
"come, it's some one ill."
Plunging on, in the darkness, Kelson at last found Lilian. She was
sitting on a chair under a tree, by the side of a man, who was lying,
curled up, on the ground.
"He's had nothing to eat for two days, and has Bright's Disease,"
Lilian Rosenberg announced. "Can't we do something for him?"
"Two gentlemen told me just now," the man on the ground groaned, "that
if I stayed here for a couple of hours--they would pass by again and
guarantee to cure me. I reckoned there was no cure for Bright's
Disease, when it is chronic, like it is in my case; but they laughed,
and said, 'We can--or at least--shall be able to cure anything.'"
"What were the two gentlemen like?" Kelson asked.
"How could I tell?" the man moaned. "I couldn't see their faces any
more than I can see yours--but they talked like you. Twang--twang--
twang--all through their noses."
"Sounds as if it might be Hamar and Curtis," Kelson remarked.
"That's it!" the man ejaculated. "'Amar. I heard the other fellow call
him by that name."
"How long ago is it since they were here?" Kelson asked.
"I can't say, perhaps ten minutes. I've lost count of time and
everything else, since I've slept out here. They talked of going to
the Serpentine."
"We had better try and find them," Kelson said.
"If you had the money couldn't you get shelter for the night," Lilian
Rosenberg said. "It must be awful to lie out here in the cold, feeling
ill and hungry."
"I dare say some place would take me in," the man muttered, "only I
couldn't walk--at least no distance."
"Well! here's five shillings," Lilian Rosenberg said, "put it
somewhere safe--and try and hobble to the gates. If they haven't
closed them, you will be all right."
"Five shillings!" the man gasped; "that's--it's no good--I can't
count. I've no head now. Thank you, missy! God bless you. I'll get
something hot--something to stifle the pain." He struggled on to his
knees, and Lilian Rosenberg helped him to rise.
"How could you be so foolish as to touch him," Kelson said, as they
started off down a path, they hoped would take them to the Serpentine.
"You may depend upon it, he was swarming with vermin--tramps always
are."
"Very probably, but I run just as much risk in a 'bus, the twopenny
tube, or a cinematograph show. Besides, I can't see a human being
helpless without offering help. Listen! there's some one else
groaning! The Park is full of groans."
What she said was true--the Park was full of groans. From every
direction, borne to them by the gently rustling wind, came the groans
of countless suffering outcasts--legions of homeless, starving men
and women. Some lay right out in the open on their backs, others
under cover of the trees, others again on the seats. They lay
everywhere--these shattered, tattered, battered wrecks of
humanity--these gangrened exiles from society, to whom no one ever
spoke; whom no one ever looked at; whom no one would even own that
they had seen; whose lot in life not even a stray cat envied. Here
were two of them--a man and a woman tightly hugged in each other's
embrace--not for love--but for warmth. Lilian Rosenberg almost fell
over them, but they took no notice of her. Every now and then, one of
them would emerge from the shelter of the trees, and cross the grass
in the direction of the distant, gleaming water, with silent, stealthy
tread. Once a tall, gaunt figure, suddenly sprang up and confronted
the two adventurers; but the moment Kelson raised his stick, it
jabbered something wholly unintelligible, and sped away into the
darkness.
"A scene like this makes one doubt the existence of a good God,"
Lilian Rosenberg said.
"It makes one doubt the existence of anything but Hell," Kelson said.
"Compared with all this suffering--the suffering of these thousands of
hungry, hopeless wretches--the bulk of whom are doubtless tortured
incessantly, with the pains of cancer and tuberculosis, to say nothing
of neuralgia and rheumatism--Dante's Inferno and Virgil's Hades pale
into insignificance. The devil is kind compared with God."
"I believe you are right," Lilian Rosenberg said, "I never thought the
devil was half as bad as he was painted. The Park to-night gives the
lie direct to the ethics of all religions, and to the boasted efforts
of all governments, churches, chapels, hospitals, police, progress and
civilization. There is no misery, I am sure, to vie with it in any
pagan land, either now or at any other period in the world's history."
"True," Kelson replied, "and why is it? It is because civilization has
killed charity. Giving--in its true sense--if it exists at all--is
rarely to be met with--giving in exchange--that is, in order to
gain--flourishes everywhere. People will subscribe for the erection of
monuments to kings and statesmen, or to well-known and, often,
richly-endowed charitable institutes, in exchange for the pleasure of
seeing, in the newspapers, a list of the subscribers' names, and
themselves included amongst those whom they consider a peg above them
socially; or in exchange for votes, or notoriety, they will give
liberally to the brutal strikers, or outings for poor."
"I suppose, by the poor, you mean the pampered, ill-mannered and
detestably conceited County Council children," Lilian Rosenberg chimed
in. "I wouldn't give a farthing to such a miscalled charity, no--not
if I were rolling in riches."
"And I think you would be right," Kelson replied. "But for these
really poor Park refugees it is a different matter. Obviously, no one
will make the slightest effort to work up the public interest on their
behalf, simply because they are labelled 'useless.' They belong
nowhere--they have no votes--they are too feeble to combine--they are
even too feeble to commit an atrocious murder; consequently, for the
help they would receive, they could give nothing in return. By the
bye, I doubt if they could muster between them a pair of suspenders--a
bootlace--a shirt-button, or even a--"
Lilian Rosenberg caught him by the arm. "Stop," she said, "that's
enough. Don't get too graphic. What's the matter with that tree?"
They were now close beside the banks of the Serpentine; the moon had
broken through its covering of black clouds, and they perceived some
twenty yards ahead of them, a tall, isolated lime, that was rocking in
a most peculiar manner.
[Illustration: THEY GAZED FASCINATED]