All Hallows' Eve (12 page)

Chapter Five

THE HALL BY HOLBORN

Richard Furnival was as wakeful that night in his manner as Betty in hers. Once he had again reached his flat—it was taking him a long time to get used to saying “my flat” instead of “our flat”—and as the night drew on, he found himself chilled and troubled. He knew of a score of easy phrases to explain his vision; none convinced him. Nor had he any conviction of metaphysics into which, retaining its own nature, it might easily pass. He thought of tales of ghosts; he even tried to pronounce the word; but the word was silly. A ghost was a wraith, a shadow; his vision had been of an actual Lester. The rooms were cold and empty—as empty as any boarding-house rooms where the beloved has been and from which (never to return) she has gone. The afternoon with Jonathan had, when he left, renewed in him the tide of masculine friendship. But that tide had always swelled against the high cliff of another element, on which a burning beacon had once stood—and now suddenly had again stood. The sound of deep waves was in his ears, and even then his eyes had again been filled with the ancient fiery light. He had not, since he had first met Lester, lost at all the sense of great Leviathans, disputes and laughter, things native and natural to the male, but beyond them, and shining towards them had been that other less natural, and as it were more archangelic figure—remote however close, terrifying however sustaining, that which was his and not his, more intimate than all that was his, the shape of the woman and his wife. He had yet, for all his goodwill, so neglected her that he had been content to look at her so from his sea; he had never gone in and lived in that strange turret. He had admired, visited, used it. But not till this afternoon had he seen her as simply living. The noise of ocean faded; rhetoric ceased. This that he had seen had been in his actual house, and now it was not, and the house was cold and dark. He lit a fire to warm himself; he ate and drank; he went from room to room; he tried to read. But every book he opened thrust one message at him—from modern novels (“Aunt Rachel can't live much longer——”) to old forgotten volumes (“The long habit of living indisposeth us for dying”; “But she is dead, she's dead …”). His teeth chattered; his body shook. He went to bed and dozed and woke and walked and again lay down, and so on. Till that night he had not known how very nearly he had loved her.

In the morning he made haste to leave. He was indeed on the point of doing so when Jonathan rang him up. Jonathan wanted to tell him about the Clerk's visit and the Clerk's approval of the painting. Richard did his best to pay attention and was a little arrested by the mere unexpectedness of the tale. He said, with a serious sympathy, “But that makes everything much simpler, doesn't it? He'll deal with Lady Wallingford, I suppose?”

“Yes,” said Jonathan's voice, “yes. If I want him to. I don't believe I do want him to.”

“But why not?” asked Richard.

“Because … The fact is, I don't like
him
. I don't like the way he talks about Betty or the way he looks at paintings. You go and see him or hear him or whatever you can, and come on here and tell me. God knows I … well, never mind. I shall be here all day, unless Betty sends for me.”

After this conversation, Richard was about to leave the flat when he paused and went back. He would not seem to run away; if, by any chance, that presence of his wife should again appear, he would not be without all he could accumulate from her environs with which to greet her. Nor would he now seem to fly. He walked through the rooms. He submitted to memory and in some poignant sense to a primitive remorse, for he was not yet spiritually old enough to repent. Then, quietly, he went out and (unable quite to control his uselessly expectant eyes) walked through the streets till he reached Holborn.

It did not take him long to find the place of which he was in search. Behind Holborn, close to Great James Street, in a short street undamaged by the raids, were three buildings, one the largest, of a round shape, in the middle with a house on each side. They were not marked by any board, but as Richard came to the farther house, he saw that the door was open. A small exquisite carving of a hand, so delicate as to be almost a woman's or a child's hand, was fastened to the door-post, its fingers pointing into the house. Richard had never seen any carving that so nearly achieved the color of flesh; he thought at the first glance that it was flesh, and that a real dismembered hand pointed him to the Clerk's lodging. He touched it cautiously with a finger as he went by and was a little ashamed of his relief when he found it was hard and artificial.

He walked on as far as the end of the street; then he walked back. It was a warm sunny morning for October, and as he paced it seemed to him that the air was full of the scent of flowers. The noise of the streets had died away; it was very quiet. He thought, as he paused before turning, how pleasant it was here. It was even pleasant in a way not to have anyone in his mind, or on his mind. People who were in your mind were so often on your mind and that was a slight weariness. One would, of course, rather have it so than not. He had never grudged Lester anything, but here, where the air was so fresh and yet so full of a scent he just did not recognize, and London was as silent as the wood in Berkshire where he and Lester had been for a few days after their marriage, it was almost pleasant to be for a moment without Lester. His eyes averted themselves from where she was not lest she should unexpectedly be there. It was sufficient now to remember her in that wood—and even so, eclectically, for she had one day been rather difficult even in that wood, when she had wanted to go into the nearest town to get a particular magazine, in case by the time they did go on their return, it should be sold out, and he had not, for (as he had rightly and rationally pointed out) she could at a pinch wait for it till they got to London. But she had insisted, and because he always wished to consider her and be as unselfish as possible, they had gone. He was surprised, as he stood there, to remember how much he had considered Lester. A score of examples rushed vividly through his mind, and each of those he remembered was actual and true. He really had considered her; he had been, in that sense, a very good husband. He almost wondered if he had been too indulgent, too kind. No; if it were to do again, he would do it. Now she was gone, he was content to remember it. But also now she was gone, he could attend to himself. Luxuriating—more than he knew—in the thought, he turned. Luxury stole gently out within him and in that warm air flowed about him; luxury,
luxuria
, the quiet distilled
luxuria
of his wishes and habits, the delicate sweet lechery of idleness, the tasting of unhallowed peace.

He remembered with equal distaste that he was on an errand and felt sorry that Jonathan was not doing his own errand. Jonathan could, just as well as not; after all, it was Jonathan who wanted to marry Betty. However, as he had promised, as he was committed … it would be more of a nuisance to explain to Jonathan—and to himself, but he did not add that—than to go in. He contemplated the carved hand with admiration, almost with affection; it really was the most exquisite thing. There was nothing of Jonathan's shouting colors about it. Jonathan was so
violent
. Art, he thought, should be persuasive. This, however, was too much even for his present state of dreaming luxury. He came to, or almost came to, and found himself in the hall.

It was a rather larger hall than he had expected. On his left hand were the stairs; before him the passage ran, with another ascending staircase farther on, to a kind of garden door. There was apparently another passage at the end turning off to the left. On his right was the door into the front room, which was open, and beyond it another door, which was shut. Richard hesitated and began to approach the open door. As he did so, a short rather fat man came out of it and said in a tone of much good humor, “Yes, sir?”

Richard said, “Oh good morning. Is this Father Simon's place?”

The short man answered, “That's right, sir. Can I do anything for you?”

“I just wanted to get some particulars for a friend,” Richard said. “Is there anyone I could see?”

“Come in here, sir,” said the other, retreating into the room. “I'm here to answer, as you may say, the first questions. My name's Plankin; I'm a kind of doorkeeper. Come in, sir, and sit down. They all come to me first, sir, and no one knows better than I do what the Father's done. A tumor on the brain, sir; that's what he cured me of a year ago. And many another poor creature since.”

“Did he?” said Richard, a little sceptically. He was in the front room by now. He had vaguely expected something like an office, but it was hardly that; a waiting-room perhaps. There was a table with a telephone, a few chairs, and that was all. Richard was maneuvered to a chair; the short man sat down on another by the table, put his hands on his knees and looked benevolently at the visitor. Richard saw that, beside the telephone, there was also on the table a large-sized album and a pot of paste. He thought, but he knew one could not judge, that it looked as if Plankin had an easy job. But after a tumor on the brain——! He said, “I wanted to ask about Father Simon's work. Does he——”

The short man, sitting quite still, began to speak. He said, “Yes, sir, a tumor. He put his blessed hands on my head and cured it. There isn't a man or woman in this house that he hasn't cured. I've never had a pain since, not of any kind. Nor they neither. We all carry his mark in our bodies, sir, and we're proud of it.”

“Really?” said Richard. “Yes, you must be. Does he run some kind of clinic, then?”

“Oh no, sir,” Plankin said. “He puts everything right straight away. He took the paralysis away from Elsie Bookin who does the typing, and old Mrs. Morris who's the head cook—he cured her cancer. He does it all. I keep an album here, sir, and I stick in it everything the papers say about him. But it's not like knowing him, as we do.”

“No,” said Richard, “I suppose not. Do you have many inquiries?”

“Not so very many, for the Father wants to be quiet here,” said Plankin. “He sends most of them away after he's seen them, to wait. But they come; oh yes, they come. And some go away and some even come to the Relaxations.”

“The Relaxations?” Richard asked.

“Oh well, sir,” said Plankin, “you'll hear about them if you stay. The Father gives us peace. He'll tell you about it.” He nodded his head, swaying a little and saying, “Peace, peace.”

“Can I see the Father then?” said Richard. Inside the room the warm air seemed again to be full of that attractive smell. He might have been in the very middle of the Berkshire wood again, without Lester, but with an agreeable memory of Lester. The green distemper on the walls of the room was gently moving as if the walls were walls of leaves, and glints of sunlight among them; and the short man opposite him no more than a tree stump. He could be content to sit here in the wood, where the dead did not matter and never returned—no more than if they had not been known, except for this extra exquisiteness of a happy dream. But presently some sort of surge went through the wood, and the tree stump stood up and said, “Ah now that'll be one of the ladies. She'll tell you better than I can.” Richard came to himself and heard a step in the hall. He rose to his feet and as he did so Lady Wallingford appeared in the doorway.

She did not, when she saw him, seem pleased. She stood still and surveyed him. Except for the moment or two of introduction, he had not on the previous afternoon been face to face with her, and now he was struck by the force of her face. She looked at him and she said coldly, “What do you want here?”

The challenge completely restored Richard. He said, “Good morning, Lady Wallingford. I came to ask a few questions about Father Simon. After yesterday I was naturally interested.”

Lady Wallingford said, “Are you sure this is a place for you?”

“Well,” Richard answered, “I hope I'm not pigheaded, and I can quite believe that Jonathan may have been wrong.” He remembered that morning's telephone conversation and added, “If his painting
was
what you thought it. I was wondering if I could meet—I don't want to intrude—meet Father Simon. He must be a very remarkable man. And if he had any public meetings—Knowledge is always useful.”

“You run a certain risk,” Lady Wallingford said. “But I've changed my mind a little about your friend's painting. Of course, there can be no nonsense about an engagement. I have quite other views for her. But if you really wish to learn——”

“Why not?” said Richard. “As for the engagement—that perhaps is hardly my business. I am only thinking of my own instruction.” He began to feel that he was making progress. Jonathan was always apt to rush things. He took a step forward and went on engagingly. “I assure——” He stopped. Another figure had appeared behind Lady Wallingford.

She seemed to know it was there, for without looking round she moved out of the doorway, so as to leave room for it to enter. Richard knew at once who it was. He recognized the shape of the face from Jonathan's painting, yet his first thought was that, in this case, Jonathan's painting was quite ridiculously wrong. There was no bewilderment or imbecility about the face that looked at him; rather there was a highness, almost an arrogance, in it which abashed him. He knew that on his right Plankin had dropped on his knees; he had seen Lady Wallingford move. That the movements did not surprise him was the measure of his sense of sovereignty. He resisted an impulse to retreat; he himself became bewildered; he felt with a shock that Simon was between him and the door. He knew the door was there, but he could not focus it properly. The door was not behind Simon; it was Simon: all the ways from this room and in this wood went through Simon. Lady Wallingford was only a stupid old witch in a wood, but this was the god in the wood. Between the tree stump and the watching witch, he stood alone in the Berkshire wood; and Lester had gone away into the nearest town. He had not gone with her—because he had not gone with her. He had gone to please her, to consider her, which was not at all the same thing. So she had gone alone, and he was alone with the god in the wood and the witch and the tree stump. The god was the witch's husband and father, his father, everyone's father; he loomed in front of him and over him. Yet he was also a way of escape from the wood and from himself. The high emaciated face was at once a wall and a gate in the wall, but the gate was a very old gate, and no one had gone through it, except perhaps the witch, for many years——