Эдвард Бенсон
Across the Stream
It was thus that he stated to himself the message that Martin seemed to have brought him last night, and, stated thus, it was a spiritual aspiration of high endeavour, and it did not occur to him how, stated ever so little differently, and yet following the lines of the communication, it assumed a diabolical aspect. The love which he had for Helena was a carnal love, that sprang from desire for her enchanting prettiness; that love he was to cling to, not sacrifice an iota of it. The hate that he felt for her, arising from her falseness, her encouragement of him for just so long as she was uncertain whether she could capture a man who was nothing to her, but whose position and wealth she coveted, Archie was to transform into indifference; he was to get over it. But, though it was hate, it had a spiritual quality, for it was hatred of what was mean and base, whereas his love for her had no spiritual quality: it was no more than lust, and to that under the name of love he was to cling… Here, then, was another interpretation of the words he had heard last night, and, according to it, it would have been fitter to attribute the message to some intelligence far other than the innocent soul of the brother who had so mysteriously communicated with him in childlike ways. But that interpretation (and here was the subtlety of it) never entered Archie's head at all. A message of apparent consolation and hope had come to him when he was feeling the full blast of his bitterness, the wind that blew from the empty desert of his heart and his stagnant brain. He had called for help from the everlasting and unseen Cosmos that encompasses the little blind half-world of material existence, and from it, somewhere from it, a light had shone into his dark soul, no mere flicker, or so it seemed this morning, like that spurious sunshine which he and his father basked in together, but rays from a more potent luminary.
Till now Archie, with the ordinary impulse of a disappointed man, had tried to banish from his mind (with certain exterior aids) the picture of the face and the form that he loved. But now he not only need not, but he must not, do that any longer: he had to cling to love. And while he waited for his father he kept recalling certain poignant moments in the growth of Helena's bewitchment of him. One was the night when they sat together for the last time in the dark garden at Silorno, and he wondered whether the suggestion of a cousinly kiss would disturb her. What had kept him back was the knowledge that it would not be quite a cousinly kiss on his part… Then there was the moment when he had caught sight of her on the platform at Charing Cross: she had come to meet his train on his arrival from abroad… Best of all, perhaps, for there his passion had most been fed with the fuel of her touch, had been the dance at his aunt's that same night, when the rhythm of the waltz and the melodious command of the music had welded their two young bodies into one. It was not "he and she" who had danced: it was just one perfect and complete individual. Here, on this quiet Sunday morning, the thought of that made him tingle and throb. It was that sort of memory which Martin told him he must keep alive… It was his resentment, his anger, that must die, not that. Helena had chosen somebody else, but he must long for her still.
Lord Tintagel appeared, unusually white and shaky, and, as lunch-time was approaching, he rang for the apparatus of cocktails.
"I sat up late last night, Archie," he said, "bothering myself over those Russian shares. It's really of you and your mother I am thinking. It won't be long before all the mines in Russia will matter nothing to me, for a few feet of earth will be all I shall require. But, before I went to bed, I came to the conclusion that I was wrong to worry. I think the scare will soon pass, and the shares recover. Indeed, I think the wisest thing would be not to sell, and cut my loss, but to buy more, at the lower price. I shall telegraph to my broker to-morrow. But I got into no end of a perplexity about it, and I feel all to bits this morning."
He mixed himself a cocktail with a shaking hand, and shuffled back to his chair.
"Help yourself, Archie," he said. "Let me see, we were going to have a talk about something this morning. What was it? That worry about my Russians has put everything out of my head."
Once again, as last night, it struck Archie as immensely comical that this white-faced, shaky man, who was his father, should be pulling himself together with a strong cocktail in order to discuss the virtues of temperance, and make the necessary resolutions whereby to acquire them. He felt neither pity nor sympathy with him, nor yet disgust; it was only the humour of the situation, the farcical absurdity of it, that appealed to him.
"We were going to make good resolutions not to drink quite so much," he said.
Lord Tintagel finished his cocktail and put the glass down.
"To be sure; that was it," he said. "It's time we took ourselves in hand. Your grandfather gave me a warning, and I wish to God I had taken it. But we'll help each other – eh, Archie? That will make it easier for both of us."
"I don't care a toss whether I take alcohol or not," said Archie. "As you remarked last night, father, I hardly touched it till a month ago."
Lord Tintagel laughed.
"But you've shown remarkable aptitude for it since," he said. "You found no difficulty at all in getting the hang of the thing."
Faintly, like a lost echo, there entered into Archie's mind the inherent horror of such an interview between father and son. But it was drowned by the inward laughter with which the scene inspired him, and his spirit, whatever it was that watched the play, looked on as from some curtained box, where, unseen, it could giggle at unseemliness, at some uncensored farce. Last night the same thing had amused him, but then he was in that contented oblivion of his troubles which alcohol lent him, whereas now it was morning and the time when he was least likely to take any but the most bitter and savage view of a situation. But all morning he had been possessed by the sunny lightness of heart with which Martin's communication of last night had inspired him. He must be patient, disperse and blow away by the great winds of love the hatred and intolerance that had been obscuring his soul. And surely it was not only for Helena that he must feel that nobler impulse: all that touched his daily life must be treated with the same manly tenderness. Nothing must shock him, nothing must irritate him, for such emotions were narrow and limited, incompatible with the oceanic quality of love. All this seemed directly inspired by Martin, who had brought him the first ray of true illumination. And yet, while he sunned himself in the light, there was something that apparently belonged to his bitter, his disappointed self that cried out for recognition, insisting that these dreams of love and tolerance were of a fibre infinitely coarser than its own rebellious attitude. It strove and cried, and the smooth edification of Martin's voice silenced it again.
The suggested compact between father and son soon framed itself into a treaty. There was to be nothing faddish or unreasonable about it: wine should circulate in its accustomed manner at dinner; but here, once and for all, was the end of trays brought to Lord Tintagel's study. A glass or two of claret should be allowed at lunch, but the cocktails and the whiskies in the evening were to be closed from henceforth. And the arrangement entered into appeared to be of a quality that sacrificed the desire of each for the sake of the other, or so at least it passed in their minds. Archie stifled the snigger of his inward laughter, and thought how clear was his duty to save his father, even at this late day, from falling wholly into the pit he had digged, while to his father the compact represented itself as an effort to save Archie from the path he had begun to tread. But, even as they agreed on their abstemious proceedings, there occurred to the minds of both of them a vague, luminous thought, like the flash of summer lightning far away which might move nearer…
Once again Archie was seized with the ironic mockery that all the time had quaked like a quick-sand below his seriousness.
"I haven't had my cocktail yet, father." he said. "I'll drink success to our scheme. You've had yours, you know. Our plan dates from now, when I've had mine. After that – no more."
His father's eyes followed him as he mixed the gin and vermouth.
"Well, upon my word, Archie," he said, "you ought to ask me to have a drink with you."
Archie somehow clung to the fact that his father had had a cocktail and that he had not.
"Have another by all means," he said, "and I'll have two. But do be fair, father."
And once again the horrible sordidness of these proceedings struck, as it seemed, his worse self, that part of himself that had all those weeks been uninspired by Martin. Martin was all love and tolerance: he gave no directions on such infinitesimal subjects as cocktails or whiskies. He, outside the material plane, was concerned only with the motive, the spiritual aspiration, with love and all its ineffable indulgences.
* * * * *
Jessie was leaving for town early next morning, and once again, as twenty-four hours ago, she and Archie strolled out after dinner into the dusk. But to-night, his father and he had followed the two ladies almost immediately into the drawing-room, and the two younger folk had left their elders playing a game of piquet together. That was quite unlike the usual procedure after dinner, for Lord Tintagel generally dozed for a little in his chair, and then retired to his study. But to-night he showed no inclination either to doze or to go away, and it was by his suggestion that the card-table had been brought out. He seemed to Jessie rather restless and irritable, and had said that it was impossible to play cards with chattering going on. That had been the immediate cause of her stroll with Archie. The remark had been addressed very pointedly to Archie and also very rudely. But Archie, checking his hot word in reply, almost without an effort, had apologized for the distraction, quietly and sufficiently.
"Awfully sorry, father," he had said. "I didn't mean to disturb you.
Come out for a stroll, Jessie."
So there they were in the dusk again, and again Archie took Jessie's arm.
"Father's rather jumpy to-night," he said. "But I think he wanted to get rid of us: he may wish to talk to my mother. So it was best to leave them, wasn't it?"
Jessie's heart swelled. She knew from last night all that Archie was suffering, but the whole day he had been like this – gentle, considerate, infinitely sensitive to others, incapable of taking offence.
"Yes, much best," she said. "You know, Archie, you do behave nicely."
He knew what she meant. He knew how easy it would have been to make some provocative rejoinder to his father. But simply, he had not wanted to. Martin, and Martin's counsel, was still like sunlight within him.
"Oh, bosh," he said. "The gentle answer is so much easier than any other. I should have had to pump up indignation. But he was rather rude, wasn't he? Isn't it lucky that one doesn't feel like that?"
Archie drew in a long breath of the vigorous night-air. To himself it seemed that he drew in a long breath of the inspiration that had come to him last night.
"Jessie, I'm going to save father," he said. "We had an awfully nice talk this morning, and it was so pathetic. He has been a heavy drinker for years, you know. His father was so before him. So one mustn't think it is his fault, any more than it was my fault that I had consumption when I was little. It isn't a vice, it's a disease. Well, I've made a compact with him. I found that he had got it into his head – God knows how – that I – I know you'll laugh – was beginning to take to that beastly muck too. So I saw my opportunity. He's fond of me, you know; he really is, and it had seriously occurred to him that I was getting the habit. So I took advantage of that. I said I wouldn't have any more whiskies and cocktails if he wouldn't. We made a bargain about it. Without swagger, it was rather a good piece of work, don't you think?"
Jessie knew exactly what she honestly felt, and what she honestly felt she could not possibly say. For though it was a good bargain on Archie's part, the virtue of it would affect not only Lord Tintagel, but Archie himself. But the knowledge of this added to the sincerity of her reply.
"Oh, Archie," she said, "that was brilliant of you. Do you – do you think your father will keep to it?"
"He can't help it," said Archie triumphantly. "I'm going to be down here, except when I go up to town for Helena's wedding, and I'm always in and out of his room. I should know if he doesn't keep to it."
He paused, thinking out further checks on his father.
"There's William, too," he said. "William's devoted to me, simply, as far as I can tell, because he saved my life when I was a tiny kid. If I ask William to tell me whether my father gets drinks through him quietly when I'm not there, I'm sure he will let me know. How would that be?"
Jessie had an uncomfortable moment. The idea of getting a servant to report to Archie on his father's proceedings was as repugnant to her as, she thought, it must be to Archie. Possibly his main motive, that of taking care of his father, was so dominant in him that he did not pause to consider the legitimacy of any means. But, somehow, it was very unlike Archie to have conceived so backstairs an idea.
"Oh, I wouldn't quite do that," she said. "You wouldn't either, Archie."
"I don't see why not. The cure is more important than the means."
Jessie suddenly felt a sort of bewilderment. It could scarcely have been
Archie who said that, according to her knowledge of Archie.
"But surely that's impossible," she said. "What would you feel if you found your father had been setting William to spy and report on you?"
Archie's voice suddenly rose.
"Oh, what nonsense!" he said. "You speak as if I was going to break my bargain with my father. I never heard such nonsense."
Once again the sense of bewilderment came over Jessie. That wasn't like
Archie…
"I don't imply anything of the kind," she said. "But I do feel that it's impossible for you to get William to have an eye on your father, and report to you. And I'm almost certain that you really agree with me."
Archie considered this, and then laughed.
"I suppose I do," he said. "But the ardour of the newly born missionary was hot within me. Are missionaries born or made, by the way? Anyhow, I'm a missionary now. Nobody could have guessed that I was going to be a missionary."
Their stroll to-night was only up and down the broad gravel walk in front of the windows. It was very hot and all the drawing-room windows were open, so also were those of Lord Tintagel's study and the windowed door that led into the garden. As they passed this Archie saw a footman bring in a tray on which were set the usual evening liquids, and he guessed that his father had forgotten or had omitted to say that the syphon and some ice was all that would be needed. He thought for a moment, intently and swiftly.
"Jessie, they've brought in that beastly whisky again," he said. "I must tell them to take it away: my father mustn't see it. Just go down opposite the drawing-room windows, will you, and make sure my father is still playing cards, while I take the bottle away. Make me a sign."
Archie waited outside till this was given, and then went into his father's room. The man had gone away, and he took up the whisky-bottle with the intention of putting it back in the dining-room. But, even as his fingers closed on it, without warning, his desire for drink swooped down on him like the coming of a summer storm. He half filled a glass with the spirit, poured soda-water on the top and gulped it down. That was what he wanted, and then, with a swift cunning, he rinsed out the glass with soda-water, drank that also, and, filling it half up again with water, put it on the table by the chair where he usually sat. Then there was the bottle to dispose of, and he went out into the hall to take it to the dining-room. But, even as he crossed the foot of the stairs, another notion irresistibly possessed him, and up he went three steps at a time, and concealed it behind some clothes in his chest of drawers. He had discovered an excellent reason for doing that, for, if he left it in the dining-room, his father might find it there. It was much safer in his room. Then, tingling and content, and feeling that Martin would approve (indeed it seemed that he had prompted) this missionary enterprise, he rejoined Jessie again, his eyes sparkling, his mouth gay and quivering.
"I've done it," he said. "I thought at first of taking the bottle to the dining-room, but my father might have found it there."
"What did you do with it?" asked Jessie.
Archie took no time to consider.
"I rang the bell and told James to take it away again to the pantry," he said.
"That was clever of you, Archie."
"I know that. They're still playing cards, aren't they? Let's have one more turn, then. Jessie, I wish you weren't going away to-morrow."
"I must. I promised my father to get back. And Helena wants me."
"Oh well, that settles it," said Archie. "Helena must have all she wants. That is part of Helena, isn't it?"
For a moment Jessie thought that he was speaking with the bitterest irony, but immediately afterwards she withdrew that, for it struck her that Archie was, in some inexplicable way, perfectly sincere: there was the unmistakable ring of truth in his voice; he meant what he said. And, as if to endorse that, he went on:
"We all do what Helena wants: you, I, the Bradshaw, all of us. She wants to be loved, isn't that it? and to want to be loved is a royal command; all proper people must obey. I have been a rebel you know, and, – oh Jessie, how awfully ashamed I am! I let myself hate Helena; I encouraged myself to hate her. But I've returned to my allegiance, thank God."
She turned an enquiring face to him.
"Archie, dear," she said, "I am so thankful that you are so changed. You're utterly different from what you have been. Last night you were bitter and terrible: you made my heart ache. But all to-day you've been absolutely your old self again. And it's so immense and so sudden. Can't you tell me at all what caused it? I should love to know, if you feel like telling me."
He took her arm again.
"I'll tell you one thing," he said. "You did me a lot of good last night when you made me realize your friendship. That helped; I do believe that helped."
Jessie could not quite accept this, though it warmed her heart that
Archie thought of that.
"But you always knew my friendship," she said.
"I know I did. But I appreciated it most when I felt absolutely empty.
There's something more than that, though…"
He paused.
"Ah, do tell me," said Jessie.
He could not make up his mind on the instant, for he knew Jessie's repugnance to the whole idea of those supernatural communications. But he felt warm and alert and expansive; besides, her friendship, which he truly valued, yearned for his confidence, which is the meat and drink of friendship. Sometimes it was necessary to deceive your friends; it had been necessary for him to deceive her about the disposal of the whisky-bottle; but, though she might not approve, he could at least tell her what had made sunshine all day for him, and what was making it now.
"It's this," he said. "Martin came to me last night. I talked to him; I saw him. It has put me right: he has made me see things quite differently. He told me to be patient, to cling to love always, to let my hate be turned into love. I can't express to you at all what a difference that made to me. I felt he knew; he could see, as he said, that the darkness in which I thought I walked was not darkness at all. I know you have no sympathy with his coming to me: it seems to you either nonsense or something very dangerous. But I know you have sympathy with the result of it."
Suddenly his explanation of the voices she had heard last night occurred to him.
"When you told me this morning that you had heard talking in my room," he said, "I did not mean to tell you about Martin, and so I invented something – oh yes, that I had been reading aloud what I had written, to account for it. It wasn't true, but I had to tell some fib. And did you really hear conversation going on? That's awfully interesting."
"I thought I did," said she. "And there was knocking or hammering. Did you invent something about that too?"
"Oh yes," said Archie. "But I don't really know what the knocking was.
As I was going off into trance, I heard loud knocking of some sort, but
I didn't let it disturb the oncoming of the trance. It deepened, and then Martin came, and I talked with him and saw him."
"Oh Archie, how do you know it was he?" she cried, wildly enough, hardly knowing what she meant, but speaking from the dictate of some nightmare that screamed and struggled in her mind.
"Why, of course it was he," said Archie. "I recognized him, superficially, that is to say, from my knowledge of my own face, just as I recognized the photograph in the cache at Grives from its likeness to me. But I know it was he in some far more essential and inward manner. It was Martin."
"Will he come again?" asked the girl.
"I hope so, many times. Indeed, he promised to. I needed him, he got permission to come to me in my need. Is he not ministering to it? Haven't you seen the immense change in me?"
Undeniably she had seen that, and for a moment a little pang of human disappointment came over her.
"I'm afraid, then, the knowledge of my friendship hasn't had much to do with it," she said.
"Jessie, don't think I undervalue that," said Archie, speaking quite frankly and sincerely. "I thank you for it tremendously; I love to know it is there. I may count on it always, mayn't I?"
They still stood a moment under the star-swarming sky, sundered by the night from all other presences.
"I needn't assure you of that," she said. "And, Archie, I may be utterly wrong in what I feel about Martin's communications to you. Who knows what conditions exist for the souls of those we have loved, and whom we neither of us believe have died with the decay of the perishable body? But, my dear, do be careful. If in some miraculous way you have been given access which is denied to almost all mankind, do use it only in truth and love and reverence."
"You're frightened about it," said Archie.
"I know I am. If Martin can come to you, why should not other spirits? Other spirits, intelligences terrible and devilish, might deceive you into thinking that they were he. You remember at Silorno he said he couldn't come again."
"I know; but I wasn't in sore need then," said he.
They had again come opposite Lord Tintagel's study, and, even as they passed, Archie saw him with his finger on the bell. Instantly he guessed that he was ringing to know why the whisky had not been brought. The footman would come and say that he had brought it…
Archie felt an exhilarated acuteness of brain: the situation had only to be put before him for him to see the answer to it. In his presence, remembering the contract of the morning, his father could not ask for the whisky.
"Come in and say good-night to my father, Jess," he said.
They entered together and immediately afterwards the footman came in from the hall-door. Lord Tintagel looked at him, then back at Archie, who was watching.
"It's nothing, James," he said. "I rang for something, but it doesn't matter."
The man left the room and immediately afterwards Jessie said good-night and went also. Archie turned to his father with a broad, kindly smile.
"Father, I believe I'm a great thought-reader," he said. "I believe I can tell you what you rang for."
His father's grim face relaxed.
"You young devil," he said.
Archie laughed.
"I've guessed right, then," he said. "You surely don't want to drink success to our contract again."
"But I don't know why James didn't bring the whisky as usual," said he.
"I – I forgot to tell him not to."
"But I didn't," said Archie.
"I see. Well, a bargain's a bargain. Only now there doesn't seem to be any particular reason for not going to bed."
Archie yawned rather elaborately, and went to the table where, earlier in the evening, he had put down his glass half filled with soda. He drank it, sniffing to see if there was any taint of spirit about it. But he had rinsed it thoroughly.
"I came in during my stroll with Jessie and took some soda," he said. "Not a bad drink, but I think it makes one sleepy. I shall go to bed, too."
* * * * *
Jessie left early next morning, expecting to be gone before anybody else made an appearance. But, just as she got into the motor, Archie, rosy and suffused with sleep, like a child that has lain still and grown all night, came flying downstairs in dressing-gown and pyjamas.
"Had to come down and say good-bye, Jessie," he said. "Do come back; come down for next Sunday, and we'll go up together for Helena's wedding. Promise!"
Jessie looked at that "morning face" which glowed with the exuberance of boyish health and happiness. She herself had slept very badly, dozing for a little and then being awakened by the sound of talking next door, and of peremptory resounding tappings. And here was Archie, radiant and fresh and revitalized, and her love glowed at the thought that he wanted her, even though it was but friendship that he sought and friendship that he had to offer.
"Yes, Archie, I should love to come," she said.
"That's ripping. I say, shall I drive with you to the station just as I am? Why shouldn't I? Pyjamas and dressing-gown are perfectly decent if William will fetch me my slippers, which I seem to have forgotten, unless he lends me his boots."
"Your bath's ready, my lord," said William with a broad grin.
"Well, perhaps I'll have it then. Good-bye, Jess. Come early on
Saturday."