Part 10 (2/2)

”No, wait a moment. You don't know. I'm afraid you'll think that I'm absurd--most people will tell you that I am worse. I want you to try to be a friend of mine, at any rate to give me a chance. I scarcely know you--you don't know me at all--but; one goes on first impressions, and I believe that you would understand a little better than most of these people here--for one thing you have gone farther and seen more----”

There was a little pause. Harry was surprised. Here was what he had been wanting--friends.h.i.+p; a week ago he would have seized it with both hands; now he was a little distrustful; a week ago it would have been natural, delightful; now it was unusual, even a little absurd.

”I should be very glad,” he said gravely. ”I--scarcely----”

”Oh,” Bethel broke in, ”we shall come together naturally--there's no fear of that. I could see at once that you know the mysteries of this place just as I do. Those others here are blind. I've been waiting for some one who would understand. But I don't want you to listen to those other people about me; they will tell you a good deal--and most of it's true. I don't blame 'em, but I'm curiously anxious for you not to think with them. It's ridiculous, I know, when I had never seen you before. If you only knew how long I'd been waiting--to talk to some one--about--all this.”

He waved his hand and they stopped. They were standing on the moor.

Above their head mighty grey clouds were driving like fleets before the wind, and the moon, a cold, lifeless thing, a moon of chiselled marble, appeared, and then, as though frightened at the wild flight of the clouds, vanished. The sea, pearl grey, lay like mist on the horizon, and its voice was gentle and tired, as though it were slowly dying into sleep. They were near the Four Stones--gaunt, grey, and old. The dog had followed Harry from the inn and now ran, a white shadow, in front of him.

”Let me tell you,” Bethel said, ”about myself. You know I was born in London--the son of a doctor with a very considerable practice. I received an excellent education, Rugby and Cambridge, and was trained for the law. I was, I believe, a rather ordinary person with a rather more than ordinary power of concentration, and I got on. I built up a business and was extremely and very conventionally happy. I married and we had a little girl. And then, one summer, we came down to Cornwall for our holiday. It was St. Ives. I remember that first morning as though it were yesterday. It was grey with the sea flinging great breakers. There was a smell of clover and cornflowers in the air, and great sheets of flaming poppies in the cornfields. But there was more than that. It was Cornwall, something magical, and that strange sense of old history and customs that you get nowhere else in quite the same way. Ah! but why a.n.a.lyse it?--you know as well as I do what I mean. A new man was born in me that day. I had been sociable and fond of little quite ordinary pleasures that came my way, now I wanted to be alone. Their conversation worried me; it seemed to be pointless and concerned with things that did not matter at all. I had done things like other men--now it was all to no purpose. I used to lie for hours on the cliffs watching the sea. I was often out all day, and I met all sorts of people, tramps, wasters, vagabonds, and they seemed the only people worth talking to. I met some strange fellows but excellent company--and they knew, all of them, the things that I knew; they had been out all night and seen the moon and the stars change and the first light of the dawn, and the little breeze that comes in those early hours from the sea, bringing the winds of other countries with it. And they were merry, they had a philosophy--they knew Cornwall and believed in her.

”Well--the holiday came to an end, and I had to go back! London. My G.o.d! After that I struggled--I went to my work every day with the sound of that sea in my ears and the vision of those moors always there with me. And the freedom! If you have tasted that once, if you have ever got really close so that you can hear strange voices and see beauties of which you had never dreamt, well, you will never get back to your old routine again. I don't care how strong you are--you can't do it, man. Once she's got hold of you, nothing counts. That was eighteen years ago. I kept my work for a year, but it was killing me.

I got ill--I nearly died; once I ran away at night and tried to get to the sea. But I came back--there were my wife and girl. We had a little money, and I gave it all up and we came to live down here. I have done nothing since; rather shameful, isn't it, for a strong man?

They have thought that here; they think that I am a waster--by their lights I am. But the things I have learnt! I didn't know what living was until I came here! I knew nothing, I did nothing, I was a dead man. What do I care for their thoughts of me! They are in the dark!”

He had spoken eagerly, almost breathlessly. He was defending his position, and Harry knew that he had been waiting for years to say these things to some one of his own kind who would understand. And he understood only too well! Had he not himself that very evening been tempted to escape, to flee his duty? He had resisted, but the temptation had been very strong--that very voice of Cornwall of which Bethel had spoken--and if it were to return he did not know what answer he might give. But he was not thinking of Bethel; his thoughts were with the wife and daughter. That poor pathetic little woman--and the girl----

”And your wife and daughter?” he said. ”What of them?”

”They are happy,” Bethel said eagerly. ”They are indeed. I don't see them very often, but they have their own interests--and friends. My wife and I never had very much in common--Ah! you're going to scold,”

he said, laughing, ”and say just what all these other horrid people say. But I know. I grant it you all. I'm a waster--through and through; it's d.a.m.nably selfish--worst of all, in this energetic and pus.h.i.+ng age, it's idle. Oh! I know and I'm sorry--but, do you know, I'm not ashamed. I can't see it seriously. I wouldn't harm a fly.

Why can't they let me alone? At least I am happy.”

They had reached the outskirts of the town by this time and Bethel stopped before a little dark house with red shutters and a tiny strip of garden.

”Here we are!” said he. ”This is my place. Come in and smoke! It must be past your dinner hour up at 'The Flutes.' Come and have something with me.”

Harry laughed. ”They have already ceased wondering at my erratic habits,” he said. ”New Zealand is a bad place for method.”

He followed Bethel in. It was a tiny hall, and on entering he stumbled over an umbrella-stand that lounged forward in a rickety position.

Bethel apologised. ”We're in a bit of a mess,” he said. ”In fact, to tell the truth, we always are!” He hung his coat in the hall and led the way into the dining-room. Mrs. Bethel and her daughter came forward. The little woman was amazing in a dress of bright red silk and an absurd little yellow lace cap. Only half the table was laid; for the rest a shabby green cloth, spotted with ink, formed a background for an incoherent litter of papers and needlework. The walls were lined with books and there were some piled on the floor.

A cold shoulder of mutton, baked potatoes in their skins, a melancholy gla.s.s dish containing celery, and a salad bowl startlingly empty, lay waiting on the table.

”Anne,” said Bethel, ”I've brought a guest--up with the family port and let's be festive.”

His great body seemed to fill the room, and he brought with him the breath of the sea and the wind. He began to carve the mutton like Siegfried making battle with Fafner, and indeed again and again during the evening he reminded Harry of Siegfried's impetuous humour and rejoicing animal spirits.

Mrs. Bethel was delighted. Her little eyes twinkled with excitement, her yellow cap was pushed awry, and her hands trembled with pleasure.

It was obvious that a visitor was an unusual event. Miss Bethel had said very little, but she had given Harry that same smile that he had seen before. She busied herself now with the salad, and he watched her white fingers s.h.i.+ne under the lamplight and the white curve of her neck as she bent over the bowl. She was dressed in some dark stuff--quite simple and una.s.suming, but he thought that he had never seen anything so beautiful.

He said very little, but he was quietly happy. Bethel did not talk very much; he was eating furiously--not greedily, but with great pleasure and satisfaction. Mrs. Bethel talked continuously. Her eyes shone and her cap bobbed on her head like a live thing.

”I said, Mr. Trojan, after our meeting the other day, that you would be a friend. I said so to Mary coming back. I felt sure that first day.

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