A Christmas Garland

THE MOTE IN THE MIDDLE DISTANCE

By

HNRY JM*S

It was with the sense of a, for him, very memorable something that he peered now into the immediate future, and tried, not without compunction, to take that period up where he had, prospectively, left it.  But just where the deuce had he left it?  The consciousness of dubiety was, for our friend, not, this morning, quite yet clean-cut enough to outline the figures on what she had called his “horizon,” between which and himself the twilight was indeed of a quality somewhat intimidating.  He had run up, in the course of time, against a good number of “teasers;” and the function of teasing them back—­of, as it were, giving them, every now and then, “what for”—­was in him so much a habit that he would have been at a loss had there been, on the face of it, nothing to lose.  Oh, he always had offered rewards, of course—­had ever so liberally pasted the windows of his soul with staring appeals, minute descriptions, promises that knew no bounds.  But the actual recovery of the article—­the business of drawing and crossing the cheque, blotched though this were with tears of joy—­had blankly appeared to him rather in the light of a sacrilege, casting, he sometimes felt, a palpable chill on the fervour of the next quest.  It was just this fervour that was threatened as, raising himself on his elbow, he stared at the foot of his bed.  That his eyes refused to rest there for more than the fraction of an instant, may be taken—­was, even then, taken by Keith Tantalus—­as a hint of his recollection that after all the phenomenon wasn’t to be singular.  Thus the exact repetition, at the foot of Eva’s bed, of the shape pendulous at the foot of his was hardly enough to account for the fixity with which he envisaged it, and for which he was to find, some years later, a motive in the (as it turned out) hardly generous fear that Eva had already made the great investigation “on her own.”  Her very regular breathing presently reassured him that, if she had peeped into “her” stocking, she must have done so in sleep.  Whether he should wake her now, or wait for their nurse to wake them both in due course, was a problem presently solved by a new development.  It was plain that his sister was now watching him between her eyelashes.  He had half expected that.  She really was—­he had often told her that she really was—­magnificent; and her magnificence was never more obvious than in the pause that elapsed before she all of a sudden remarked “They so very indubitably are, you know!”

It occurred to him as befitting Eva’s remoteness, which was a part of Eva’s magnificence, that her voice emerged somewhat muffled by the bedclothes.  She was ever, indeed, the most telephonic of her sex.  In talking to Eva you always had, as it were, your lips to the receiver.  If you didn’t try to meet her fine eyes, it was that you simply couldn’t hope to:  there were too many dark, too many buzzing and bewildering and all frankly not negotiable leagues in between.  Snatches of other voices seemed often to intertrude themselves in the parley; and your loyal effort not to overhear these was complicated by your fear of missing what Eva might be twittering.  “Oh, you certainly haven’t, my dear, the trick of propinquity!” was a thrust she had once parried by saying that, in that case, he hadn’t—­to which his unspoken rejoinder that she had caught her tone from the peevish young women at the Central seemed to him (if not perhaps in the last, certainly in the last but one, analysis) to lack finality.  With Eva, he had found, it was always safest to “ring off.”  It was with a certain sense of his rashness in the matter, therefore, that he now, with an air of feverishly “holding the line,” said “Oh, as to that!”

Had she, he presently asked himself, “rung off”?  It was characteristic of our friend—­was indeed “him all over”—­that his fear of what she was going to say was as nothing to his fear of what she might be going to leave unsaid.  He had, in his converse with her, been never so conscious as now of the intervening leagues; they had never so insistently beaten the drum of his ear; and he caught himself in the act of awfully computing, with a certain statistical passion, the distance between Rome and Boston.  He has never been able to decide which of these points he was psychically the nearer to at the moment when Eva, replying “Well, one does, anyhow, leave a margin for the pretext, you know!” made him, for the first time in his life, wonder whether she were not more magnificent than even he had ever given her credit for being.  Perhaps it was to test this theory, or perhaps merely to gain time, that he now raised himself to his knees, and, leaning with outstretched arm towards the foot of his bed, made as though to touch the stocking which Santa Claus had, overnight, left dangling there.  His posture, as he stared obliquely at Eva, with a sort of beaming defiance, recalled to him something seen in an “illustration.”  This reminiscence, however—­if such it was, save in the scarred, the poor dear old woebegone and so very beguilingly not refractive mirror of the moment—­took a peculiar twist from Eva’s behaviour.  She had, with startling suddenness, sat bolt upright, and looked to him as if she were overhearing some tragedy at the other end of the wire, where, in the nature of things, she was unable to arrest it.  The gaze she fixed on her extravagant kinsman was of a kind to make him wonder how he contrived to remain, as he beautifully did, rigid.  His prop was possibly the reflection that flashed on him that, if she abounded in attenuations, well, hang it all, so did he!  It was simply a difference of plane.  Readjust the “values,” as painters say, and there you were!  He was to feel that he was only too crudely “there” when, leaning further forward, he laid a chubby forefinger on the stocking, causing that receptacle to rock ponderously to and fro.  This effect was more expected than the tears which started to Eva’s eyes, and the intensity with which “Don’t you,” she exclaimed, “see?”

“The mote in the middle distance?” he asked.  “Did you ever, my dear, know me to see anything else?  I tell you it blocks out everything.  It’s a cathedral, it’s a herd of elephants, it’s the whole habitable globe.  Oh, it’s, believe me, of an obsessiveness!” But his sense of the one thing it didn’t block out from his purview enabled him to launch at Eva a speculation as to just how far Santa Claus had, for the particular occasion, gone.  The gauge, for both of them, of this seasonable distance seemed almost blatantly suspended in the silhouettes of the two stockings.  Over and above the basis of (presumably) sweetmeats in the toes and heels, certain extrusions stood for a very plenary fulfilment of desire.  And, since Eva had set her heart on a doll of ample proportions and practicable eyelids—­had asked that most admirable of her sex, their mother, for it with not less directness than he himself had put into his demand for a sword and helmet—­her coyness now struck Keith as lying near to, at indeed a hardly measurable distance from, the border-line of his patience.  If she didn’t want the doll, why the deuce had she made such a point of getting it?  He was perhaps on the verge of putting this question to her, when, waving her hand to include both stockings, she said “Of course, my dear, you do see.  There they are, and you know I know you know we wouldn’t, either of us, dip a finger into them.”  With a vibrancy of tone that seemed to bring her voice quite close to him, “One doesn’t,” she added, “violate the shrine—­pick the pearl from the shell!”

Even had the answering question “Doesn’t one just?” which for an instant hovered on the tip of his tongue, been uttered, it could not have obscured for Keith the change which her magnificence had wrought in him.  Something, perhaps, of the bigotry of the convert was already discernible in the way that, averting his eyes, he said “One doesn’t even peer.”  As to whether, in the years that have elapsed since he said this either of our friends (now adult) has, in fact, “peered,” is a question which, whenever I call at the house, I am tempted to put to one or other of them.  But any regret I may feel in my invariable failure to “come up to the scratch” of yielding to this temptation is balanced, for me, by my impression—­my sometimes all but throned and anointed certainty—­that the answer, if vouchsafed, would be in the negative.