Part 2 (2/2)

Thereafter the primitive instinct for self-preservation and Aesculapius's excellent footwork had solved his problem. He reached the kitchen door, around the corner and out of our sight, plunged within, and took immediate refuge atop the shelf of a kitchen cabinet well out of reach of that malignant, unheard-of demon like a big black frog which was pursuing him and which, doubtless, would haunt his dreams for the rest of his existence. So much for little Aesculapius, who thus happily pa.s.ses out of the affair.

My halting was, of course, only momentary. I paused, as I have mentioned, but for so brief a period as not to allow Doctor Pelletier to catch up with me. I ran, then, with the net open in my hands, diagonally across the straight course being pursued by the Thing. My mind was made up to intercept It, entangle It in the meshes. This should not be difficult considering its smallness and the comparative shortness of Its arms and legs; and, having rendered It helpless, to face the ultimate problem of Its later disposal.

But this plan of mine was abruptly interfered with. Precisely as the flying body of the pursued pick'ny disappeared around the corner of the house, my cook's cat, a ratter with a neighborhood reputation and now, although for the moment I failed to realize it, quite clearly an instrument of that Providence responsible for my scruple, came upon the scene with violence, precision, and that uncanny accuracy which actuates the feline in all its physical manifestations.

This avatar, which, according to a long-established custom, had been sunning itself demurely on the edge of the rain-water piping which ran along the low eaves of the three yard cabins, aroused by the discordant yells of the child and the three women in four distinct keys, had arisen, taken a brief, preliminary stretch, and condescended to turn its head toward the scene below - The momentum of the cat's leap arrested instantaneously the Thing's course of pursuit, bore it, sprawled out and flattened, to the ground, and twenty sharp powerful retractile claws sank simultaneously into the p.r.o.ne little body.

The Thing never moved again. A more merciful snuffing out would be difficult to imagine.

It was a matter of no difficulty to drive Junius, the cat, away from his kill. I am on terms of pleasant intimacy with Junius. He allowed me to take the now limp and flaccid little body away from him quite without protest, and sat down where he was, licking his paws and readjusting his rumpled fur.

And thus, unexpectedly, without intervention on our part, Pelletier and I saw brought to its sudden end, the tragical denouement of what seems to me to be one of the most outlandish and most distressing affairs which could ever have been evolved out of the mad mentality of Satan, who dwells in his own place to distress the children of men.

And that night, under a flagstone in the alleyway, quite near where the Thing's strange habitation had been taken up, I buried the mangled leathery little body of that unspeakably grotesque homunculus which had once been the twin brother of my houseman, Brutus h.e.l.lman. In consideration of my own scruple which I have mentioned, and because, in all probability, this handful of strange material which I lowered gently into its last resting place had once been a Christian, I repeated the Prayer of Committal from the Book of Common Prayer. It may have been - doubtless was, in one sense - a grotesque act on my part. But I cherish the conviction that I did what was right.

HUGH WALPOLE.

THE TARN.

Foster moved unconsciously across the room, bent, toward the bookcase, and stood leaning forward a little, choosing now one book, now another, with his eyes. His host, seeing the muscles of the back of his thin, scraggy neck stand out above his low flannel collar, thought of the ease with which he could squeeze that throat, and the pleasure, the triumphant, l.u.s.tful pleasure that such an action would give him.

The low, white-walled, white-ceilinged room was flooded with the mellow, kindly Lakeland sun. October is a wonderful month in the English Lakes - golden, rich, and perfumed, slow suns moving through apricot-tinted skies to ruby evening glories; the shadows lie then thick about that beautiful country, in dark purple patches, in long weblike patterns of silver gauze, in thick splotches of amber and gray. The clouds pa.s.s in galleons across the mountains, now veiling, now revealing, now descending with ghostlike armies to the very breast of the plains, suddenly rising to the softest of blue skies and lying thin in lazy languorous color.

Fenwick's cottage looked across to Low Fells; on his right, seen through side windows, sprawled the hills above Ullswater.

Fenwick looked at Foster's back and felt suddenly sick, so that he sat down, veiling his eyes for a moment with his hand. Foster had come up there, come all the way from London, to explain. It was so like Foster to want to explain, to want to put things right. For how many years had he known Foster? Why, for twenty at least, and during all those years Foster had been forever determined to put things right with everybody. He could never bear to be disliked; he hated that anyone should think ill of him; he wanted everyone to be his friend. That was one reason, perhaps, why Foster had got on so well, had prospered so in his career; one reason, too, why Fenwick had not.

For Fenwick was the opposite of Foster in this. He did not want friends, he certainly did not care that people should like him - that is, people for whom, for one reason or another, he had contempt - and he had contempt for quite a number of people.

Fenwick looked at that long, thin, bending back and felt his knees tremble. Soon Foster would turn round and that high, reedy voice would pipe out something about the books. What jolly books you have, Fenwick! How many, many times in the long watches of the night, when Fenwick could not sleep, had he heard that pipe sounding close there - yes, in the very shadows of his bed! And how many times had Fenwick replied to it, I hate you! You are the cause of my failure in life! You have been in my way always. Always, always, always! Patronizing and pretending, and in truth showing others what a poor thing you thought me, how great a failure, how conceited a fool! I know. You can hide nothing from me! I can hear you!

For twenty years now Foster had been persistently in Fenwick's way. There had been that affair, so long ago now, when Robins had wanted a sub-editor for his wonderful review the Parthenon, and Fenwick had gone to see him and they had had a splendid talk. How magnificently Fenwick had talked that day; with what enthusiasm he had shown Robins (who was blinded by his own conceit, anyway) the kind of paper the Parthenon might be; how Robins had caught his own enthusiasm, how he had pushed his fat body about the room, crying, ”Yes, yes, Fenwick - that's fine! That's fine indeed!” - and then how, after all, Foster had got that job.

The paper had only lived for a year or so, it is true, but the connection with it had brought Foster into prominence just as it might have brought Fenwick!

Then, five years later, there was Fenwick's novel, The Bitter Aloe - the novel upon which he had spent three years of blood-and-tears endeavor - and then, in the very same week of publication, Foster brought out The Circus, the novel that made his name; although, heaven knows, the thing was poor-enough sentimental trash. You may say that one novel cannot kill another - but can it not? Had not The Circus appeared would not that group of London know-alls - that conceited, limited, ignorant, self-satisfied crowd, who nevertheless can do, by their talk, so much to affect a book's good or evil fortunes - have talked about The Bitter Aloe and so forced it into prominence? As it was, the book was stillborn and The Circus went on its prancing, triumphant way.

After that there had been many occasions - some small, some big - and always in one way or another that thin scraggy body of Foster's was interfering with Fenwick's happiness.

The thing had become, of course, an obsession with Fenwick. Hiding up there in the heart of the Lakes, with no friends, almost no company, and very little money, he was given too much to brooding over his failure. He was a failure and it was not his own fault. How could it be his own fault with his talents and his brilliance? It was the fault of modern life and its lack of culture, the fault of the stupid material mess that made up the intelligence of human beings - and the fault of Foster.

Always Fenwick hoped that Foster would keep away from him. He did not know what he would not do did he see the man. And then one day, to his amazement, he received a telegram: Pa.s.sing through this way. May I stop with you Monday and Tuesday? - Giles Foster.

Fenwick could scarcely believe his eyes, and then - from curiosity, from cynical contempt, from some deeper, more mysterious motive that he dared not a.n.a.lyze - he had telegraphed - Come.

And here the man was. And he had come - would you believe it? - to ”put things right.” He had heard from Hamlin Eddis that Fenwick was hurt with him, had some kind of grievance.

”I didn't like to feel that, old man, and so I thought I'd just stop by and have it out with you, see what the matter was, and put it right.”

Last night after supper Foster had tried to put it right. Eagerly, his eyes like a good dog's who is asking for a bone that he knows he thoroughly deserves, he had held out his hand and asked Fenwick to ”say what was up.”

Fenwick had simply said that nothing was up; Hamlin Eddis was a d.a.m.ned fool.

”Oh, I'm glad to hear that!” Foster had cried, springing up out of his chair and putting his hand on Fenwick's shoulder. ”I'm glad of that, old man. I couldn't bear for us not to be friends. We've been friends so long.”

Lord! How Fenwick hated him at that moment.

”What a jolly lot of books you have!” Foster turned round and looked at Fenwick with eager, gratified eyes. ”Every book here is interesting! I like your arrangement of them, too, and those open bookshelves - it always seems to me a shame to shut up books behind gla.s.s!”

Foster came forward and sat down quite close to his host. He even reached forward and laid his hand on his host's knee. ”Look here! I'm mentioning it for the last time - positively! But I do want to make quite certain. There is nothing wrong between us, is there, old man? I know you a.s.sured me last night, but I just want -”

Fenwick looked at him and, surveying him, felt suddenly an exquisite pleasure of hatred. He liked the touch of the man's hand on his knee; he himself bent forward a little and, thinking how agreeable it would be to push Foster's eyes in, deep, deep into his head, crunching them, smas.h.i.+ng them to purple, leaving the empty, staring, b.l.o.o.d.y sockets, said, ”Why, no. Of course not. I told you last night. What could there be?”

The hand gripped the knee a little more tightly.

”I am so glad! That's splendid! Splendid! I hope you won't think me ridiculous, but I've always had an affection for you ever since I can remember. I've always wanted to know you better. I've admired your talent so greatly. That novel of yours - the - the - the one about the aloe -”

”The Bitter Aloe?”

”Ah, yes, that was it. That was a splendid book. Pessimistic, of course, but still fine. It ought to have done better. I remember thinking so at the time.”

”Yes, it ought to have done better.”

”Your time will come, though. What I say is that good work always tells in the end.”

”Yes, my time will come.”

The thin, piping voice went on. ”Now, I've had more success than I deserved. Oh, yes, I have. You can't deny it. I'm not falsely modest. I mean it. I've got some talent, of course, but not as much as people say. And you! Why, you've got so much more than they acknowledge. You have, old man. You have indeed. Only - I do hope you'll forgive my saying this - perhaps you haven't advanced quite as you might have done. Living up here, shut away here, closed in by all these mountains, in this wet climate - always raining - why, you're out of things! You don't see people, don't talk and discover what's really going on. Why, look at me!”

Fenwick turned round and looked at him.

”Now, I have half the year in London, where one gets the best of everything, best talk, best music, best plays; and then I'm three months abroad, Italy or Greece or somewhere, and then three months in the country. Now, that's an ideal arrangement. You have everything that way.”

Italy or Greece or somewhere!

Something turned in Fenwick's breast, grinding, grinding, grinding. How he had longed, oh, how pa.s.sionately, for just one week in Greece, two days in Sicily! Sometimes he had thought that he might run to it, but when it had come to the actual counting of the pennies - And how this fool, this fathead, this self-satisfied, conceited, patronizing - He got up, looking out at the golden sun.

”What do you say to a walk?” he suggested. ”The sun will last for a good hour yet.”

As soon as the words were out of his lips he felt as though someone else had said them for him. He even turned half round to see whether anyone else were there. Ever since Foster's arrival on the evening before he had been conscious of this sensation. A walk? Why should he take Foster for a walk, show him his beloved country, point out those curves and lines and hollows, the broad silver s.h.i.+eld of Ullswater, the cloudy purple hills hunched like blankets about the knees of some rec.u.mbent giant? Why? It was as though he had turned round to someone behind him and had said, ”You have some further design in this.”

They started out. The road sank abruptly to the lake, then the path ran between trees at the water's edge. Across the lake tones of bright-yellow light, crocus-hued, rode upon the blue. The hills were dark.

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