AT THE LAVENDER ARMS
In certain moods Paul Harley was impossible as a companion, and I,
who knew him well, had learned to leave him to his own devices at such
times. These moods invariably corresponded with his meeting some problem
to the heart of which the lance of his keen wit failed to penetrate.
His humour might not display itself in the spoken word, he merely became
oblivious of everything and everybody around him. People might talk to
him and he scarce noted their presence, familiar faces appear and he
would see them not. Outwardly he remained the observant Harley who
could see further into a mystery than any other in England, but his
observation was entirely introspective; although he moved amid the
hustle of life he was spiritually alone, communing with the solitude
which dwells in every man’s heart.
Presently, then, as we came to the lake at the foot of the sloping
lawns, where water lilies were growing and quite a number of swans had
their habitation, I detected the fact that I had ceased to exist so
far as Harley was concerned. Knowing this mood of old, I pursued my way
alone, pressing on across the valley and making for a swing gate which
seemed to open upon a public footpath. Coming to this gate I turned and
looked back.
Paul Harley was standing where I had left him by the edge of the lake,
staring as if hypnotized at the slowly moving swans. But I would have
been prepared to wager that he saw neither swans nor lake, but mentally
was far from the spot, deep in some complex maze of reflection through
which no ordinary mind could hope to follow him.
I glanced at my watch and found that it was but little after two
o’clock. Luncheon at Cray’s Folly was early. I therefore had some time
upon my hands and I determined to employ it in exploring part of the
neighbourhood. Accordingly I filled and lighted my pipe and strolled
leisurely along the footpath, enjoying the beauty of the afternoon, and
admiring the magnificent timber which grew upon the southerly slopes of
the valley.
Larks sang high above me and the air was fragrant with those wonderful
earthy scents which belong to an English countryside. A herd of very
fine Jersey cattle presently claimed inspection, and a little farther on
I found myself upon a high road where a brown-faced fellow seated aloft
upon a hay-cart cheerily gave me good-day as I passed.
Quite at random I turned to the left and followed the road, so that
presently I found myself in a very small village, the principal building
of which was a very small inn called the “Lavender Arms.”
Colonel Menendez’s curaçao, combined with the heat of the day, had made
me thirsty; for which reason I stepped into the bar-parlour determined
to sample the local ale. I wars served by the landlady, a neat, round,
red little person, and as she retired, having placed a foam-capped mug
upon the counter, her glance rested for a moment upon the only other
occupant of the room, a man seated in an armchair immediately to the
right of the door. A glass of whisky stood on the window ledge at his
elbow, and that it was by no means the first which he had imbibed, his
appearance seemed to indicate.
Having tasted the cool contents of my mug, I leaned back against the
counter and looked at this person curiously.
He was apparently of about medium height, but of a somewhat fragile
appearance. He was dressed like a country gentleman, and a stick and
soft hat lay upon the ledge near his glass. But the thing about him
which had immediately arrested my attention was his really extraordinary
resemblance to Paul Harley’s engraving of Edgar Allan Poe.
I wondered at first if Harley’s frequent references to the eccentric
American genius, to whom he accorded a sort of hero-worship, were
responsible for my imagining a close resemblance where only a slight one
existed. But inspection of that strange, dark face convinced me of
the fact that my first impression had been a true one. Perhaps, in my
curiosity, I stared rather rudely.
“You will pardon me, sir,” said the stranger, and I was startled to
note that he spoke with a faint American accent, “but are you a literary
man?”
As I had judged to be the case, he was slightly bemused, but by no
means drunk, and although his question was abrupt it was spoken civilly
enough.
“Journalism is one of the several occupations in which I have failed,” I
replied, lightly.
“You are not a fiction writer?”
“I lack the imagination necessary for that craft, sir.”
The other wagged his head slowly and took a drink of whisky.
“Nevertheless,” he said, and raised his finger solemnly, “you were
thinking that I resembled Edgar Allan Poe!”
“Good heavens!” I exclaimed, for the man had really amazed me. “You
clearly resemble him in more ways than one. I must really ask you to
inform me how you deduced such a fact from a mere glance of mine.”
“I will tell you, sir,” he replied. “But, first, I must replenish my
glass, and I should be honoured if you would permit me to replenish
yours.”
“Thanks very much,” I said, “but I would rather you excused me.”
“As you wish, sir,” replied the American with grave courtesy, “as you
wish.”
He stepped up to the counter and rapped upon it with half a crown, until
the landlady appeared. She treated me to a pathetic glance, but refilled
the empty glass.
My American acquaintance having returned to his seat and having added a
very little water to the whisky went on:
“Now, sir,” said he, “my name is Colin Camber, formerly of Richmond,
Virginia, United States of America, but now of the Guest House, Surrey,
England, at your service.”
Taking my cue from Mr. Camber’s gloomy but lofty manner, I bowed
formally and mentioned my name.
“I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr. Knox,” he assured me;
“and now, sir, to answer your question. When you came in a few moments
ago you glanced at me. Your eyes did not open widely as is the case
when one recognizes, or thinks one recognizes, an acquaintance, they
narrowed. This indicated retrospection. For a moment they turned aside.
You were focussing a fugitive idea, a memory. You captured it. You
looked at me again, and your successive glances read as follows: The
hair worn uncommonly long, the mathematical brow, the eyes of a poet,
the slight moustache, small mouth, weak chin; the glass at his elbow.
The resemblance is complete. Knowing how complete it is myself, sir, I
ventured to test my theory, and it proved to be sound.”
Now, as Mr. Colin Camber had thus spoken in the serious manner of a
slightly drunken man, I had formed the opinion that I stood in the
presence of a very singular character. Here was that seeming mésalliance
which not infrequently begets genius: a powerful and original mind
allied to a weak will. I wondered what Mr. Colin Camber’s occupation
might be, and somewhat, too, I wondered why his name was unfamiliar to
me. For that the possessor of that brow and those eyes could fail to
make his mark in any profession which he might take up I was unwilling
to believe.
“Your exposition has been very interesting, Mr. Camber,” I said. “You
are a singularly close observer, I perceive.”
“Yes,” he replied, “I have passed my life in observing the ways of my
fellowmen, a study which I have pursued in various parts of the world
without appreciable benefit to myself. I refer to financial benefit.”
He contemplated me with a look which had grown suddenly pathetic.
“I would not have you think, sir,” he added, “that I am an habitual
toper. I have latterly been much upset by--domestic worries, and--er--”
He emptied his glass at a draught. “Surely, Mr. Knox, you are going
to replenish? Whilst you are doing so, would you kindly request Mrs.
Wootton to extend the same favour to myself?”
But at that moment Mrs. Wootton in person appeared behind the counter.
“Time, please, gentlemen,” she said; “it is gone half-past two.”
“What!” exclaimed Mr. Camber, rising. “What is that? You decline to
serve me, Mrs. Wootton?”
“Why, not at all, Mr. Camber,” answered the landlady, “but I can serve
no one now; it’s after time.”
“You decline to serve me,” he muttered, his speech becoming slurred. “Am
I, then, to be insulted?”
I caught a glance of entreaty from the landlady. “My dear sir,” I said,
genially, “we must bow to the law, I suppose. At least we are better off
here than in America.”
“Ah, that is true,” agreed Mr. Camber, throwing his head back and
speaking the words as though they possessed some deep dramatic
significance. “Yes, but such laws are an insult to every intelligent
man.”
He sat down again rather heavily, and I stood looking from him to the
landlady, and wondering what I should do. The matter was decided for
me, however, in a way which I could never have foreseen. For, hearing
a light footfall upon the step which led up to the bar-parlour, I
turned--and there almost beside me stood a wrinkled little Chinaman!
He wore a blue suit and a tweed cap, he wore queer, thick-soled
slippers, and his face was like a smiling mask hewn out of very old
ivory. I could scarcely credit the evidence of my senses, since the
Lavender Arms was one of the last places in which I should have looked
for a native of China.
Mr. Colin Camber rose again, and fixing his melancholy eyes upon the
newcomer:
“Ah Tsong,” he said in a tone of cold anger, “what are you doing here?”
Quite unmoved the Chinaman replied:
“Blingee you chit, sir, vellee soon go back.”
“What do you mean?” demanded Mr. Camber. “Answer me, Ah Tsong: who sent
you?”
“Lilly missee,” crooned the Chinaman, smiling up into the other’s face
with a sort of childish entreaty. “Lilly missee.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Camber in a changed voice. “Oh.”
He stood very upright for a moment, his gaze set upon the wrinkled
Chinese face. Then he looked at Mrs. Wootton and bowed, and looked at me
and bowed, very stiffly.
“I must excuse myself, sir,” he announced. “My wife desires my presence
at home.”
I returned his bow, and as he walked quite steadily toward the door,
followed by Ah Tsong, he paused, turned, and said: “Mr. Knox, I should
esteem it a friendly action if you would spare me an hour of your
company before you leave Surrey. My visitors are few. Any one, any one,
will direct you to the Guest House. I am persuaded that we have much in
common. Good-day, sir.”
He went down the steps, disappearing in company with the Chinaman,
and having watched them go, I turned to Mrs. Wootton, the landlady, in
silent astonishment.
She nodded her head and sighed.
“The same every day and every evening for months past,” she said. “I am
afraid it’s going to be the death of him.”
“Do you mean that Mr. Camber comes here every day and is always fetched
by the Chinaman?”
“Twice every day,” corrected the landlady, “and his poor wife sends here
regularly.”
“What a tragedy,” I muttered, “and such a brilliant man.”
“Ah,” said she, busily removing jugs and glasses from the counter, “it
does seem a terrible thing.”
“Has Mr. Camber lived for long in this neighbourhood?” I ventured to
inquire.
“It was about three years ago, sir, that he took the old Guest House at
Mid-Hatton. I remember the time well enough because of all the trouble
there was about him bringing a Chinaman down here.”
“I can imagine it must have created something of a sensation,” I
murmured. “Is the Guest House a large property?”
“Oh, no, sir, only ten rooms and a garden, and it had been vacant for a
long time. It belongs to what is called the Crayland Park Estate.”
“Mr. Camber, I take it, is a literary man?”
“So I believe, sir.”
Mrs. Wootton, having cleared the counter, glanced up at the clock and
then at me with a cheery but significant smile.
“I see that it is after time,” I said, returning the smile, “but the
queer people who seem to live hereabouts interest me very much.”
“I can’t wonder at that, sir!” said the landlady, laughing outright.
“Chinamen and Spanish men and what-not. If some of the old gentry that
lived here before the war could see it, they wouldn’t recognize the
place, of that I am sure.”
“Ah, well,” said I, pausing at the step, “I shall hope to see more of
Mr. Camber, and of yourself too, madam, for your ale is excellent.”
“Thank you, sir, I’m sure,” said the landlady much gratified, “but as
to Mr. Camber, I really doubt if he would know you if you met him again.
Not if he was sober, I mean.”
“Really?”
“Oh, it’s a fact, believe me. Just in the last six months or so he has
started on the rampage like, but some of the people he has met in here
and asked to call upon him have done it, thinking he meant it.”
“And they have not been well received?” said I, lingering.
“They have had the door shut in their faces!” declared Mrs. Wootton with
a certain indignation. “He either does not remember what he says or does
when he is in drink, or he pretends he doesn’t. Oh, dear, it’s a funny
world. Well, good-day, sir.”
“Good-day,” said I, and came out of the Lavender Arms full of sympathy
with the views of the “old gentry,” as outlined by Mrs. Wootton; for
certainly it would seem that this quiet spot in the Surrey Hills had
become a rallying ground for peculiar people.