Seven Men

`I wondered that I wasn’t tired physically.  There my grand new silk pyjamas were, yet I felt no desire to go to bed…none while it was still possible for me to go.  The little writing-table at the foot of my bed seemed to invite me.  I had brought with me in my portmanteau a sheaf of letters, letters that I had purposely left unanswered in order that I might answer them on Keeb hall note-paper.  These the footman had neatly laid beside the blotting-pad on that little writing-table at the foot of the bed.  I regretted that the notepaper stacked there had no ducal coronet on it.  What matter?  The address sufficed.  If I hadn’t yet made a good impression on the people who were staying here, I could at any rate make one on the people who weren’t.  I sat down.  I set to work.  I wrote a prodigious number of fluent and graceful notes.

`Some of these were to strangers who wanted my autograph.  I was always delighted to send my autograph, and never perfunctory in the manner of sending it….  “Dear Madam,” I remember writing to somebody that night, “were it not that you make your request for it so charmingly, I should hesitate to send you that which rarity alone can render valuable.—­Yours truly, Hilary Maltby.”  I remember reading this over and wondering whether the word “render” looked rather commercial.  It was in the act of wondering thus that I raised my eyes from the note-paper and saw, through the bars of the brass bedstead, the naked sole of a large human foot—­saw beyond it the calf of a great leg; a nightshirt; and the face of Stephen Braxton.  I did not move.

`I thought of making a dash for the door, dashing out into the corridor, shouting at the top of my voice for help.  I sat quite still.

`What kept me to my chair was the fear that if I tried to reach the door Braxton would spring off the bed to intercept me.  If I sat quite still perhaps he wouldn’t move.  I felt that if he moved I should collapse utterly.

`I watched him, and he watched me.  He lay there with his body half-raised, one elbow propped on the pillow, his jaw sunk on his breast; and from under his black brows he watched me steadily.

`No question of mere nerves now.  That hope was gone.  No mere optical delusion, this abiding presence.  Here Braxton was.  He and I were together in the bright, silent room.  How long would he be content to watch me?

`Eleven nights ago he had given me one horrible look.  It was this look that I had to meet, in infinite prolongation, now, not daring to shift my eyes.  He lay as motionless as I sat.  I did not hear him breathing, but I knew, by the rise and fall of his chest under his nightshirt, that he was breathing heavily.  Suddenly I started to my feet.  For he had moved.  He had raised one hand slowly.  He was stroking his chin.  And as he did so, and as he watched me, his mouth gradually slackened to a grin.  It was worse, it was more malign, this grin, than the scowl that remained with it; and its immediate effect on me was an impulse that was as hard to resist as it was hateful.  The window was open.  It was nearer to me than the door.  I could have reached it in time….

`Well, I live to tell the tale.  I stood my ground.  And there dawned on me now a new fact in regard to my companion.  I had all the while been conscious of something abnormal in his attitude—­a lack of ease in his gross possessiveness.  I saw now the reason for this effect.  The pillow on which his elbow rested was still uniformly puffed and convex; like a pillow untouched.  His elbow rested but on the very surface of it, not changing the shape of it at all.  His body made not the least furrow along the bed….  He had no weight.

`I knew that if I leaned forward and thrust my hand between those brass rails, to clutch his foot, I should clutch—­nothing.  He wasn’t tangible.  He was realistic.  He wasn’t real.  He was opaque.  He wasn’t solid.

`Odd as it may seem to you, these certainties took the edge off my horror.  During that walk with Lady Rodfitten, I had been appalled by the doubt that haunted me.  But now the very confirmation of that doubt gave me a sort of courage:  I could cope better with anything to-night than with actual Braxton.  And the measure of the relief I felt is that I sat down again on my chair.

`More than once there came to me a wild hope that the thing might be an optical delusion, after all.  Then would I shut my eyes tightly, shaking my head sharply; but, when I looked again, there the presence was, of course.  It—­he—­not actual Braxton but, roughly speaking, Braxton—­had come to stay.  I was conscious of intense fatigue, taut and alert though every particle of me was; so that I became, in the course of that ghastly night, conscious of a great envy also.  For some time before the dawn came in through the window, Braxton’s eyes had been closed; little by little now his head drooped sideways, then fell on his forearm and rested there.  He was asleep.

`Cut off from sleep, I had a great longing for smoke.  I had cigarettes on me, I had matches on me.  But I didn’t dare to strike a match.  The sound might have waked Braxton up.  In slumber he was less terrible, though perhaps more odious.  I wasn’t so much afraid now as indignant.  “It’s intolerable,” I sat saying to myself, “utterly intolerable!”

`I had to bear it, nevertheless.  I was aware that I had, in some degree, brought it on myself.  If I hadn’t interfered and lied, actual Braxton would have been here at Keeb, and I at this moment sleeping soundly.  But this was no excuse for Braxton.  Braxton didn’t know what I had done.  He was merely envious of me.  And—­wanly I puzzled it out in the dawn—­by very force of the envy, hatred, and malice in him he had projected hither into my presence this simulacrum of himself.  I had known that he would be thinking of me.  I had known that the thought of me at Keeb Hall would be of the last bitterness to his most sacred feelings.  But—­I had reckoned without the passionate force and intensity of the man’s nature.

`If by this same strength and intensity he had merely projected himself as an invisible guest under the Duchess’ roof—­if his feat had been wholly, as perhaps it was in part, a feat of mere wistfulness and longing—­then I should have felt really sorry for him; and my conscience would have soundly rated me in his behalf.  But no; if the wretched creature had been invisible to me, I shouldn’t have thought of Braxton at all—­except with gladness that he wasn’t here.  That he was visible to me, and to me alone, wasn’t any sign of proper remorse within me.  It was but the gauge of his incredible ill-will.

`Well, it seemed to me that he was avenged—­with a vengeance.  There I sat, hot-browed from sleeplessness, cold in the feet, stiff in the legs, cowed and indignant all through—­sat there in the broadening daylight, and in that new evening suit of mine with the Braxtonised shirtfront and waistcoat that by day were more than ever loathsome.  Literature’s Ambassador at Keeb….  I rose gingerly from my chair, and caught sight of my face, of my Braxtonised cheek, in the mirror.  I heard the twittering of birds in distant trees.  I saw through my window the elaborate landscape of the Duke’s grounds, all soft in the grey bloom of early morning.  I think I was nearer to tears than I had ever been since I was a child.  But the weakness passed.  I turned towards the personage on my bed, and, summoning all such power as was in me, WILLED him to be gone.  My effort was not without result—­an inadequate result.  Braxton turned in his sleep.

`I resumed my seat, and…and…sat up staring and blinking, at a tall man with red hair.  “I must have fallen asleep,” I said.  “Yessir,” he replied; and his toneless voice touched in me one or two springs of memory:  I was at Keeb; this was the footman who looked after me.  But—why wasn’t I in bed?  Had I—­no, surely it had been no nightmare.  Surely I had seen Braxton on that white bed.

`The footman was impassively putting away my smoking-suit.  I was too dazed to wonder what he thought of me.  Nor did I attempt to stifle a cry when, a moment later, turning in my chair, I beheld Braxton leaning moodily against the mantelpiece.  “Are you unwellsir?” asked the footman.  “No,” I said faintly, “I’m quite well.”—­“Yessir.  Will you wear the blue suit or the grey?”—­“The grey.”—­“Yessir.”—­It seemed almost incredible that he didn’t see Braxton; he didn’t appear to me one whit more solid than the night-shirted brute who stood against the mantelpiece and watched him lay out my things.—­“Shall I let your bath-water run nowsir?”—­“Please, yes.”—­“Your bathroom’s the second door to the left sir.”—­He went out with my bath-towel and sponge, leaving me alone with Braxton.

`I rose to my feet, mustering once more all the strength that was in me.  Hoping against hope, with set teeth and clenched hands, I faced him, thrust forth my will at him, with everything but words commanded him to vanish—­to cease to be.

`Suddenly, utterly, he vanished.  And you can imagine the truly exquisite sense of triumph that thrilled me and continued to thrill me till I went into the bathroom and found him in my bath.

`Quivering with rage, I returned to my bedroom.  “Intolerable,” I heard myself repeating like a parrot that knew no other word.  A bath was just what I had needed.  Could I have lain for a long time basking in very hot water, and then have sponged myself with cold water, I should have emerged calm and brave; comparatively so, at any rate.  I should have looked less ghastly, and have had less of a headache, and something of an appetite, when I went down to breakfast.  Also, I shouldn’t have been the very first guest to appear on the scene.  There were five or six round tables, instead of last night’s long table.  At the further end of the room the butler and two other servants were lighting the little lamps under the hot dishes.  I didn’t like to make myself ridiculous by running away.  On the other hand, was it right for me to begin breakfast all by myself at one of these round tables?  I supposed it was.  But I dreaded to be found eating, alone in that vast room, by the first downcomer.  I sat dallying with dry toast and watching the door.  It occurred to me that Braxton might occur at any moment.  Should I be able to ignore him?

`Some man and wife—­a very handsome couple—­were the first to appear.  They nodded and said “good morning” when they noticed me on their way to the hot dishes.  I rose—­uncomfortably, guiltily—­and sat down again.  I rose again when the wife drifted to my table, followed by the husband with two steaming plates.  She asked me if it wasn’t a heavenly morning, and I replied with nervous enthusiasm that it was.  She then ate kedgeree in silence.  “You just finishing, what?” the husband asked, looking at my plate.  “Oh, no—­no—­only just beginning,” I assured him, and helped myself to butter.  He then ate kedgeree in silence.  He looked like some splendid bull, and she like some splendid cow, grazing.  I envied them their eupeptic calm.  I surmised that ten thousand Braxtons would not have prevented them from sleeping soundly by night and grazing steadily by day.  Perhaps their stolidity infected me a little.  Or perhaps what braced me was the great quantity of strong tea that I consumed.  Anyhow I had begun to feel that if Braxton came in now I shouldn’t blench nor falter.

`Well, I wasn’t put to the test.  Plenty of people drifted in, but Braxton wasn’t one of them.  Lady Rodfitten—­no, she didn’t drift, she marched, in; and presently, at an adjacent table, she was drawing a comparison, in clarion tones, between Jean and Edouard de Reszke.  It seemed to me that her own voice had much in common with Edouard’s.  Even more was it akin to a military band.  I found myself beating time to it with my foot.  Decidedly, my spirits had risen.  I was in a mood to face and outface anything.  When I rose from the table and made my way to the door, I walked with something of a swing—­to the tune of Lady Rodfitten.

`My buoyancy didn’t last long, though.  There was no swing in my walk when, a little later, I passed out on to the spectacular terrace.  I had seen my enemy again, and had beaten a furious retreat.  No doubt I should see him yet again soon—­here, perhaps, on this terrace.  Two of the guests were bicycling slowly up and down the long paven expanse, both of them smiling with pride in the new delicious form of locomotion.  There was a great array of bicycles propped neatly along the balustrade.  I recognised my own among them.  I wondered whether Braxton had projected from Clifford’s Inn an image of his own bicycle.  He may have done so; but I’ve no evidence that he did.  I myself was bicycling when next I saw him; but he, I remember, was on foot.

`This was a few minutes later.  I was bicycling with dear Lady Rodfitten.  She seemed really to like me.  She had come out and accosted me heartily on the terrace, asking me, because of my sticking-plaster, with whom I had fought a duel since yesterday.  I did not tell her with whom, and she had already branched off on the subject of duelling in general.  She regretted the extinction of duelling in England, and gave cogent reasons for her regret.  Then she asked me what my next book was to be.  I confided that I was writing a sort of sequel—­“Ariel Returns to Mayfair.”  She shook her head, said with her usual soundness that sequels were very dangerous things, and asked me to tell her “briefly” the lines along which I was working.  I did so.  She pointed out two or three weak points in my scheme.  She said she could judge better if I would let her see my manuscript.  She asked me to come and lunch with her next Friday—­“just our two selves”—­at Rodfitten House, and to bring my manuscript with me.  Need I say that I walked on air?

`”And now,” she said strenuously, “let us take a turn on our bicycles.”  By this time there were a dozen riders on the terrace, all of them smiling with pride and rapture.  We mounted and rode along together.  The terrace ran round two sides of the house, and before we came to the end of it these words had provisionally marshalled themselves in my mind: 

            To
          ELEANOR
   Countess of Rodfitten
 this book which OWES all
   to her wise COUNSEL
and UNWEARYING SUPERVISION
  is gratefully DEDICATED
      by her friend
        the author

`Smiled to masonically by the passing bicyclists, and smiling masonically to them in return, I began to feel that the rest of my visit would run smooth, if only—­

`”Let’s go a little faster.  Let’s race!” said Lady Rodfitten; and we did so—­“just our two selves.”  I was on the side nearer to the balustrade, and it was on that side that Braxton suddenly appeared from nowhere, solid-looking as a rock, his arms akimbo, less than three yards ahead of me, so that I swerved involuntarily, sharply, striking broadside the front wheel of Lady Rodfitten and collapsing with her, and with a crash of machinery, to the ground.

`I wasn’t hurt.  She had broken my fall.  I wished I was dead.  She was furious.  She sat speechiess with fury.  A crowd had quickiy collected—­just as in the case of a street accident.  She accused me now to the crowd.  She said I had done it on purpose.  She said such terrible things of me that I think the crowd’s sympathy must have veered towards me.  She was assisted to her feet.  I tried to be one of the assistants.  “Don’t let him come near me!” she thundered.  I caught sight of Braxton on the fringe of the crowd, grinning at me.  “It was all his fault,” I madly cried, pointing at him.  Everybody looked at Mr. Balfour, just behind whom Braxton was standing.  There was a general murmur of surprise, in which I have no doubt Mr. Balfour joined.  He gave a charming, blank, deprecating smile.  “I mean—­I can’t explain what I mean,” I groaned.  Lady Rodfitten moved away, refusing support, limping terribly, towards the house.  The crowd followed her, solicitous.  I stood helplessly, desperately, where I was.

`I stood an outlaw, a speck on the now empty terrace.  Mechanically I picked up my straw hat, and wheeled the two bent bicycles to the balustrade.  I suppose Mr. Balfour has a charming nature.  For he presently came out again—­on purpose, I am sure, to alleviate my misery.  He told me that Lady Rodfitten had suffered no harm.  He took me for a stroll up and down the terrace, talking thoughtfully and enchantingly about things in general.  Then, having done his deed of mercy, this Good Samaritan went back into the house.  My eyes followed him with gratitude; but I was still bleeding from wounds beyond his skill.  I escaped down into the gardens.  I wanted to see no one.  Still more did I want to be seen by no one.  I dreaded in every nerve of me my reappearance among those people.  I walked ever faster and faster, to stifle thought; but in vain.  Why hadn’t I simply ridden through Braxton?  I was aware of being now in the park, among great trees and undulations of wild green ground.  But Nature did not achieve the task that Mr. Balfour had attempted; and my anguish was unassuaged.

`I paused to lean against a tree in the huge avenue that led to the huge hateful house.  I leaned wondering whether the thought of re-entering that house were the more hateful because I should have to face my fellow-guests or because I should probably have to face Braxton.  A church bell began ringing somewhere.  And anon I was aware of another sound—­a twitter of voices.  A consignment of hatted and parasoled ladies was coming fast adown the avenue.  My first impulse was to dodge behind my tree.  But I feared that I had been observed; so that what was left to me of self-respect compelled me to meet these ladies.

`The Duchess was among them.  I had seen her from afar at breakfast, but not since.  She carried a prayer-book, which she waved to me as I approached.  I was a disastrous guest, but still a guest, and nothing could have been prettier than her smile.  “Most of my men this week,” she said, “are Pagans, and all the others have dispatch-boxes to go through—­except the dear old Duke of Mull, who’s a member of the Free Kirk.  You’re Pagan, of course?”

`I said—­and indeed it was a heart-cry—­that I should like very much to come to church.  “If I shan’t be in the way,” I rather abjectly added.  It didn’t strike me that Braxton would try to intercept me.  I don’t know why, but it never occurred to me, as I walked briskly along beside the Duchess, that I should meet him so far from the house.  The church was in a corner of the park, and the way to it was by a side path that branched off from the end of the avenue.  A little way along, casting its shadow across the path, was a large oak.  It was from behind this tree, when we came to it, that Braxton sprang suddenly forth and tripped me up with his foot.

`Absurd to be tripped up by the mere semblance of a foot?  But remember, I was walking quickly, and the whole thing happened in a flash of time.  It was inevitable that I should throw out my hands and come down headlong—­just as though the obstacle had been as real as it looked.  Down I came on palms and knee-caps, and up I scrambled, very much hurt and shaken and apologetic.  “Poor Mr. Maltby!  Really—!” the Duchess wailed for me in this latest of my mishaps.  Some other lady chased my straw hat, which had bowled far ahead.  Two others helped to brush me.  They were all very kind, with a quaver of mirth in their concern for me.  I looked furtively around for Braxton, but he was gone.  The palms of my hands were abraded with gravel.  The Duchess said I must on no account come to church now.  I was utterly determined to reach that sanctuary.  I marched firmly on with the Duchess.  Come what might on the way, I wasn’t going to be left out here.  I was utterly bent on winning at least one respite.

`Well, I reached the little church without further molestation.  To be there seemed almost too good to be true.  The organ, just as we entered, sounded its first notes.  The ladies rustled into the front pew.  I, being the one male of the party, sat at the end of the pew, beside the Duchess.  I couldn’t help feeling that my position was a proud one.  But I had gone through too much to take instant pleasure in it, and was beset by thoughts of what new horror might await me on the way back to the house.  I hoped the Service would not be brief.  The swelling and dwindling strains of the “voluntary” on the small organ were strangely soothing.  I turned to give an almost feudal glance to the simple villagers in the pews behind, and saw a sight that cowed my soul.