Section 8

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ing the identical words of a passage in some work
which I could have sworn he had never set eyes on. I
oe itr ED
id
daresay it was due only to some juggling, like the .
conjuror’s sleight of hand that apparently lets you
choose a card, but in fact forces one on you; and —
he brought the conversation round cleverly to a point when it was obvious I should mention a defi- nite book. He talked very well, with an entertain- ing flow of rather pompous language, which made the amusing things he said particularly funny. His passion for euphuism contrasted strikingly with the. simple speech of those with whom he consoried. It certainly added authority to what he said. He was proud of his family and never hesitated to tell the curious of his distinguished descent. Unless he has much altered, you will already have heard of his relationship with various noble houses. He is, in fact, nearly connected with persons of importance, and his ancesiry is no less distinguished than he as- serts. His father is dead, and he owns a place in Staffordshire which is almost historic. I have seen photographs of it, and it is certainly very fine. His forebears have been noted in the history of England since the days of the courtier who accompanied Anne of Denmark to Scotland, and, if he is proud of his stock, it is not without cause. So he passed his time at Oxford, cordially disliked, at the same time respected and mistrusted; he had the reputa- tion of a liar and a rogue, but it could not be denied that he had considerable influence over others. He
—*
.
>
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amused, angered, irritated, and interested everyone with whom he came in contact. There was always something mysterious about him, and he loved to
_ wrap himself in a romantic impenetrability. Though
he knew so many people, no one knew him, and to the end he remained a stranger in our midst. ‘A legend grew up around him, which he fostered sedulously, and it was reported that he had secret vices, which could only be whispered with bated breath. He was said to intoxicate himself with Oriental drugs, and to haunt the vilest opium-dens in the East of London. He kept the greatest sur- prise for the last, since, though he was never seen to work, he managed, to the universal surprise, to get a first. He went down, and to the best of my belief was never seen in Oxford again.
“T heard vaguely that he was tramping over the world, and, when I met in town now and then some of the fellows who had known him at the ’Varsity, weird rumours reached me. One told me that he was tramping across America, earning Ins living as he went; another asserted that he had been seen in a monastery in India; a third assured me that he had married a ballet-girl in Milan; and someone else was positive that he had taken to drink. One opinion, however, was common to all my inform- ants, and this was that he did something oui of the common. It was clear that he was not the man to settle down to the tame life of a country gentle- man which his position and fortune indicated. At
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last I met him one day in Piccadilly, and we dined together at the Savoy. I hardly recognised him, for he was become enormously stout, and his hair had already grown thin. Though he could not have been more than twenty-five, he looked considerably older. I tried to find out what he had been up to, but, with the air of mystery he affected, he would go into no details. He gave me to understand that he had sojourned in lands where the white man had never been before, and had learnt esoteric secrets which overthrew the foundations of modern science. It seemed to me that he had coarsened in mind as well as in appearance. I do not know if it was due to my own development since the old days at Ox- ford, and to my greater knowledge of the world, but he did not seem to me so brilliant as I remem- bered. His facile banter was rather stupid. In fact he bored me. The pose which had seemed amusing in a lad fresh from Eton now was intolerable, and
‘I was glad to leave him. It was characteristic that,
after asking me to dinner, he left me in a lordly way to pay the bill.
“Then I heard nothing of him till the other day, when our friend Miss Ley asked me to meet at din- ner the German explorer Burkhardt. I dare say you remember that Burkhardt brought out a book a little while ago on his adventures in Central Asia. I knew that Oliver Haddo was his companion in that journey and had meant to read it on this ac- count, but, having been excessively busy, had
actus? tian units nical
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_ omitted to do so. I took the opportunity to ask the
German about our common acquaintance, and we had a long talk. Burkhardt had met him by chance at Mombasa in East Africa, where he was arrang- ing an expedition after big game, and they agreed
_ to go together. He told me that Haddo was a mar-
vellous shot and a hunter of exceptional ability.
Burkhardt had been rather suspicious of a man who boasted so much of his attainments, but was obliged soon to confess that he boasted of nothing unjustly. Haddo has had an extraordinary experience, the truth of which Burkhardt can vouch for. He went out alone one night on the trail of three lions and killed them all before morning with one shot each. I know nothing of these things, but from the way in which Burkhardt spoke, I judge it must be a unique occurrence. But characteristically enough no one was more conscious than Haddo of the sin- gularity of his feat, and he made life almost insuf- ferable for his fellow-travelier in consequence. Burkhardt assures me that Haddo is really remark-
able in pursuit of big game. He has @ sort of in-
stinct which leads him to the most likely places, and a wonderful feeling for country, whereby he can cut across, and head of animals whose spoor he has noticed. His courage is very great. To follow a wounded lion into thick cover 1s the most danger- ous proceeding in the world, and demands the ut- most coolness. The animal invariably sees the sportsman before he sees it, and in most cases
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charges. But Haddo never hesitated on these oc- casions, and Burkhardt could only express entire ad- miration for his pluck. It appears that he 1s not what is called a good sportsman. He kills wantonly, when there can be no possible excuse, for the mere pleasure of it; and to Burkhardt’s indignation fre- quently shot beasts whose skins and horns they did not even trouble to take. When antelope were so far off that it was impossible to kill them, and the ap- proach of night made it useless to follow, he would often shoot, and leave a wretched wounded beast to die by inches. His selfishness was extreme, and he never shared any information with his friend that. might rob him of an uninterrupted pursuit of game. But notwithstanding all this Burkhardt had so high an opinion of Haddo’s general capacity and of his re- sourcefulness that, when he was arranging his jour- ney in Asia, he asked him to come also. Haddo consented, and it appears that Burkhardt’s book gives further proof, if it is needed, of the man’s ex- traordinary qualities. The German confessed that on more than one occasion he owed his life to Haddo’s rare power of seizing opportunities. But they quarrelled at last through Haddo’s overbearing treatment of the natives. Burkhardt had vaguely suspected him of cruelty, but at length it was clear that he used them in a manner which could not be defended. Finally he had a desperate quarrel with one of the camp servants, as a result of which the man was shot dead. Haddo swore that he fired in
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self-defence, but his action caused a general deser- tion, and the travellers found themselves in a very dangerous predicament. Burkhardt thought that Haddo was clearly to blame and refused to have anything more to do with him. They separated. Burkhardt returned to England; and Haddo, pur- sued by the relations of the murdered man, had great difficulty in escaping with his life. Nothing has been heard of him since till I got your letter.
“ Altogether an extraordinary man. I confess that I can make nothing of him. I shall never be surprised to hear anything in connection with him. I recommend you to avoid him like the plague. He can be no one’s friend. As an acquaintance he is treacherous and insincere; as an enemy, I can well imagine that he would be as merciless as he is un- scrupulous.
“ An immensely long letter!
“ Good-bye, my son. I hope that your studies in French methods of surgery will have added to your wisdom. Your industry edifies me, and I am sure that you will eventually be a baronet and the presi- dent of the Royal College of Surgeons; and you shall relieve royal persons of their vermiform ap- pendix. | “Yours ever,
“FRANK HURRELL.”’
Arthur, having read this letter twice, put it in an envelope, and left it without comment for Miss
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Boyd. Her answer came within a couple of hours:
“I’ve asked him to tea on W, ednesday, and I can’t put him off. You must come and help us; but please be as polite to him as if, like most of us, he had only taken mental liberties with the Ten C ommand- ments,”
VII
On the morning of the day upon which they had asked him to tea Oliver Haddo left at Margaret’s door vast masses of chrysanthemums. There were so many that the austere studio was changed in as- pect. It gained an ephemeral brightness that Mar- garet, notwithstanding pieces of silk hung here and there on the walls, had never been able to give it. When Arthur arrived he was dismayed that the thought had not occurred to him.
“Tm so sorry,” he said. ‘ You must think me very inconsiderate.”
Margaret smiled and held his hand.
“T think I like you because you don’t trouble about the common little attentions of lovers.”
“ Margaret’s a wise girl,” smiled Susie. “ She knows that when a man sends flowers it is a sign that he has admired more women than one.”
“T don’t suppose that these were sent particu- larly to me.”
Arthur Burdon sat down and observed with pleasure the cheerful fire. The drawn curtains and the lamps gave the place a nice cosiness, and there was the peculiar air of romance which is always in a studio. There is a sense of freedom about it that disposes the mind to diverting speculations. In
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such an atmosphere it is possible to be serious with- out pompousness and flippant without inanity.
In the few days of their acquaintance Arthur and Susie had arrived at terms of pleasant familiarity. Susie, from her superior standpoint of an unmarried woman no longer young, used him with the good- natured banter which she affected. To her he was a foolish young thing in love, and she marvelled that even the cleverest man in that condition could behave like a perfect idiot. But Margaret knew that, if her friend chaffed him, it was because she completely approved of him. As their intimacy increased Susie learnt to appreciate his solid character. She admired his capacity in dealing with matters that were in his province, and the simplicity with which he left alone those of which he was ignorant. There was no pose in him, She was touched also by an ingenuous candour which gave a persuasive charm to his abruptness. And, though she set a plain woman’s value on good looks, his appearance, rough hewn like a statue in por- phyry, pleased her singularly. It was an index of his character. The look of him gave you the whole man, strong yet gentle, honest and simple, neither very imaginative nor very brilliant, but immensely reliable and trustworthy to the bottom of his soul. He was seated now with Margaret’s terrier on his knees, stroking its ears, and Susie, looking at him, wondered with a little pang why no man like that had ever cared for her. It was evident that he
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would make a perfect companion, and his love, once won, was of the sort that did not alter.
Dr. Porhoét came in and sat down with the modest quietness which was one of his charms. He was not a great talker and loved most to listen in silence to the chatter of young people. The dog jumped down from Arthur’s knee, went up to the doctor, and rubbed itself in friendly fashion against his legs. They began to talk in the soft light and had forgotten almost that another guest was expected. Margaret hoped fervently that he would not come. She had never looked more lovely than on this afternoon, and she busied herself with the preparations for tea with a housewifely grace that added a peculiar delicacy to her comeliness. The dignity which encompassed the perfection of her beauty was delightfully softened, so that you were reminded of those sweet domestic saints who lighten here and there the passionate records of the Golden Book.
“ C’est tellement intime ici,’ smiled Dr. Porhoét, breaking into French in the impossibility of ex- pressing in English the exact feeling which that scene gave him.
It might have been a picture by some master of genre. It seemed hardly by chance that the colours arranged themselves in such agreeable tones, or that the lines of the wall and the seated persons achieved such a graceful decoration. The atmosphere was extraordinarily peaceful.
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There was a knock at the door, and Arthur got up to open. The terrier followed at his heels. Oliver Haddo entered. Susie watched to see what the dog would do and was by this time not surprised to see a change come over it. With its tail between its legs the friendly little beast slunk along the wall to the furthermost corner. It turned a suspicious, fright- ened eye upon Haddo and then hid its head. The visitor, intent upon his greetings, had not noticed even that there was an animal in the room. He ac- cepted with a simple courtesy they hardly expected from him the young woman’s thanks for his flowers. His behaviour surprised them. He put aside his poses. He seemed genuinely to admire the cosy little studio. He asked Margaret to show him her sketches and looked at them with unassumed interest. His observations were pointed and showed a certain knowledge of what he spoke about. He described himself as an amateur, that object of a painter’s derision: the man “‘ who knows what he likes,” but his criticism, though generous, showed that he was no fool. The two women were im- pressed. Putting the sketches aside he began to talk, for once not of himself, but gaily and quite naturally, of the many places he had seen. It was evident that he sought to please. Susie began to understand how it was that, notwithstanding his affectations, he had acquired so great an influence over the undergraduates of Oxford. There was
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romance and laughter in his conversation; and though, as Frank Hurrell had said, lacking in wit, he made up for it with a diverting pleasantry that might very well have passed for humour. But Susie, though amused, felt that this was not the purpose for which she had asked him to come. Dr. Porhoét had lent her his entertaining work on old alchemists, and this gave her a chance to bring their conversation to matters on which Haddo was ex- pert. She had read the book with delight; and her mind all aflame with those strange histories wherein fact and fancy were so wonderfully mingled, she was eager to know more. The long toil in which so many had engaged, always to lose their for- tunes, often to suffer persecution and torture, in- terested her no less than the accounts, almost au- thenticated, of those who had succeeded in their extraordinary quest.
She turned to Dr. Porhoét.
* You are a bold man to assert that now and then the old alchemists actually did make gold,” she said.
“T have not gone quite so far as that,” he smiled. ‘I assert merely that, if evidence as con- clusive were offered of any other historical event, it would be credited beyond doubt. We can dis- believe these circumstantial details only by coming to the conclusion beforehand that it is impossible they should be true,”
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“T wish you would write that life of Paracelsus which you suggest in your preface.”
Dr. Porhoét, smiling, shook his head.
“T don’t think I shall ever do that now,” he said, thoughtfully. ‘‘ Yet he is the most interesting of all - the alchemists, for he offers the fascinating problem of an immensely complex character. It is impossible to know to what extent he was a charlatan and to what a man of serious science.”
Susie glanced at Oliver Haddo, who sat in si- lence, his heavy face in shadow, his eyes fixed steadily on the speaker. The immobility of that vast bulk was peculiar.