The golden journey of Mr. Paradyne
‘Of course I do,’ she replied politely. ‘But, all the same, it isn’t
funny looking after a dead man.’
He was a dry, pragmatic fellow, accustomed to interpret the exact
signification of words.
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Nothing more than what I said, Cosmo.’
Sitting on the steps of the caravan, he repeated, as these incidents
passed through his mind:
‘Yes, what the devil did she mean by that?’
He continued his review.
The dull meal over, he lit his after-dinner cigar, his one concession
to the hedonistic, and smoked it as usual, in solitude. Mrs. Paradyne
allowed cigarettes, on necessary occasions, in her drawing-room, but
never cigars. As it tasted bitter, he threw it away half-smoked and
joined his wife, whom he found casting up wedding accounts at her
escritoire. After a short while, he bade her good night, kissed a
half-turned cheek and, according to unvarying custom when at home, went
into his study to work. He was in the middle of a book, _The Relations
of Equity to Common Law_, which, luminously written, would supply a
long-felt want. He sat down and opened out his manuscript.
There his memory failed. What had happened after that? Instinctively he
searched his right-hand pocket for his pipe. He found it; but he found
something else, too, which caused him mighty astonishment. It was a
very short, though somewhat elaborate, silver flageolet.
The dim light of dawn had now overspread the earth so that objects near
and far were visible; but, for the next few moments, all that he saw
was the bright and alluring instrument in his hands.
Now, Cosmo Paradyne was a musician in a dry and scientific way;
furthermore, an authority on the history and use of wind instruments.
He had founded the Ealing Symphonic Society and once a month or so
played oboe or clarinet at their concerts. He had a fair collection in
his study. But this silver flageolet had never been in his possession.
He had never seen one like it.
He stared at it, put it to his lips, and, fingering the stops and keys,
began to play, without premeditated act of volition, an extraordinary
air. But after a few phrases he leaped to his feet in a shiver of
fright, dropping the flageolet on the grass. How had this Puckish
melody come into his head?
Then, returning memory flashed a clear picture.
He had fallen asleep over his _Relations of Equity to Common Law_, to
be awakened late by clear and curious music outside the house. His
study and his bedroom leading off it were on the ground floor. His
study window lay open to the lawn. He stepped out, walked a few paces,
and there at the angle of the building by the curve of the entrance
drive stood the musician. He was an ordinary young man in a soft felt
hat, and he played a flageolet which gleamed silver in the starlight.
Cosmo Paradyne stood bemused and fascinated, for never had he heard
such wonder from a flageolet. It was like the song of birds; the song
of trees, of streams, of woods; the song of laughter, of dainty frolic,
of elfin devilry. Now it broke into trills of a joy so exquisite that
he caught his breath; now into phrases of longing that gripped his
heart. And it was all based on a _motif_ which he had not heard before,
of which he had not dreamed of hearing, simple as the music of the
wind, yet subtle as though it harped upon the rays of a star.
The young man ceased suddenly, advanced, took off his hat and held it
out for alms.
‘I’m glad you don’t mind my playing,’ said he. ‘Many people turn me
away. Last night I had a dog set on me, to my extreme discomfort.’
‘But you’re a musician. An extraordinary musician,’ said Paradyne.
The young man laughed frankly. ‘I rather think I am,’ said he. And he
edged his hat an inch or two nearer.
To bestow upon this amazing minstrel the largess of a shilling were
impossible. He fumbled in his case and dropped a pound note into the
hat.
‘I thank you, sir, for your bounty,’ said the young man, pocketing the
note. He put on his hat with a flourish and prepared to turn.
‘Excuse me,’ said Paradyne, ‘I happen to be an amateur clarinettist,
and I thought I knew as much as any man living of the music written
for wind-instruments; but the thing you were playing just now I can’t
recognize.’
‘I’m sure you can’t,’ replied the young man pleasantly. ‘It is my own
composition, and it has never even been set down on paper; much less
published for amateurs--saving your presence--to make a hash of. Again,
sir, a million thanks. Good night.’
He swept a bow and marched off. Paradyne went into the house, with the
music ringing through his brain.
The next morning to chambers. It was all perfectly clear. Griffiths had
brought his elderly client, Miss Phillibert, to consultation.
Wait a bit. He sat on the caravan steps again. Something rather funny
had happened. Yes. In the middle of it he had started to whistle and
had been brought back to his senses only by the staggered expression on
the faces of solicitor and client. He had been whistling this damned
tune.
He lunched at his club, at a solitary table, not feeling equal to
jaunty companionship. Then home to Ealing where, feeling ill and jaded,
he went to bed. There, in spite of his wife’s protests, did he remain.
Martha did not believe in people staying in bed unless they came out in
spots or betrayed _malaise_ by other unmistakable physical symptoms.
It upset the routine of the house. Still, he was the master. She would
give the necessary orders. For dinner he had a sole which Martha called
fried, but which he, with elementary humour, called dried; whereupon
she went off, taking leave of him with acerb courtesy.
Later, servants came to make his bed and see to the comfort of his
night. He rose, put on his dressing-gown, and felt very much the
better for his rest. He bade the butler set out his golfing things in
readiness for the morrow--Sunday. He went into his study next door.
Being at a loose end, for to-night no work was possible, he bethought
him of Tuesday’s early start for Boulogne. Better get everything in
readiness now, there being no principles in life more imperative than
foresight and method. So, idly, he got together, from the mentally
docketed and locked drawers in which they lay, his bundle of ten-pound
notes, his store of French money left over from last year’s golfing
holiday, his yellow Cook’s tickets procured a few days ago with their
reservations of Pullman and Private Cabin, his letter from the Le
Touquet hotel confirming his order for rooms, a little wad of visiting
cards, a prescription for tonic and another for indigestion pills and
a very dirty card setting forth, in tabulated form, the mathematical
rules for the banker’s draw at Chemin de Fer. Having passed the lot in
review he stuffed them into his special leather holiday wallet, which,
entering his now prepared bedroom, he laid upon the dressing-table,
intending to lock it up in the drawer.
Now, did he, or didn’t he? He couldn’t remember.
At any rate, what was certain was that, when he re-entered his study to
turn out the light preparatory to going to bed, he heard the infernal
young man in the garden playing his fantastically diabolical tune.
Again he went forth--this time in pyjamas and dressing-gown--and again
he stood entranced till the musician ended and came forward smiling,
with outstretched hat.
‘Go on, go on,’ cried Paradyne.
‘Alas, I have but one piece,’ said the young man, ‘and I only play it
once.’
Paradyne flapped his hands against empty night pockets.
‘I’m sorry----’ he began.
‘Don’t mention it.’
‘I must go into the house, and----’
‘I pray you, don’t.’
‘Will you come to-morrow night?’
The young man cocked his head at a humorous angle and smiled, holding
up a protesting hand. ‘I only came to-night because you seemed to
appreciate my music. But to-morrow----? Do you think I’m going to spend
my life in Ealing?’
The very words of his daughter, Viola. He put his hands up to his
temples as though to steady an odd rocking.
He said:
‘Who are you? Tell me. I should very much like to know.’
‘Ah, that’s my secret,’ laughed the young man.
And mockingly he put the flageolet to his lips and played a few bars,
the _motif_ of his melody.
‘Wait, please,’ cried Paradyne. ‘You interest me enormously. I can’t
let you go without----I shan’t be a moment.’
He turned the corner, crossed the lawn, and entered the house through
the French window of the study. When he returned, Treasury note in
hand, the musician had disappeared. He opened the wooden gate of the
circular entrance drive and looked up and down the road in vain search
for the musician.
Sleep was impossible. It was a hot night in early June. Through his
brain rang the tantalizing music. He rose.
‘I’m going crazy,’ said he. ‘I must walk it off.’
Never had he done such a thing in his decorous life as to get out of
bed and take a midnight walk. But now he did it. He clad himself in his
golfing things, laid ready to his hand, and going through his study,
locking the door behind him and putting the key in his pocket, he
marched out. He marched out along the white respectable road bordered
by the grounds of respectable villas, swinging his stick, with a
feeling of schoolboy freedom. And, suddenly, in the distance he heard
the abominable tune.
And then? And, then, all was blank. Behind that and his present
awakening, blank, nothingness, darkness, what you will.
He argued it out in lawyer-fashion. There was the young man’s silver
flageolet on the grass. That meant that he must have overtaken him
and by some means got possession of the instrument. Possibly he had
wandered some distance in his company, and had fainted by the way. He
realized that he had been on the verge of a nervous breakdown. What
more simple explanation than that, he cracking up altogether, his
friend had stuffed him into this gipsy caravan, while he and the owner
had gone off to the nearest town for medical assistance? So it was
Sunday morning after all, and his walking terror lest he should have
missed his Monday application before the Judge was futile.
‘Splendid,’ said he, ‘splendid!’ He rose and thrust his hands into the
pockets of his Norfolk jacket. In the left-hand pocket he felt the key
of his study window. He laughed aloud and called himself a silly ass.
It was now broad daylight. A wooden gate a few yards ahead of him
opened, and a small girl in a blue smock emerged, holding in her hand a
bottle of milk. She came towards him and piped childishly:
‘_Voici le lait, Monsieur._’
‘What?’
It was a roar of bewilderment at which the child shrank back,
frightened.
‘_C’est le lait que Monsieur a commandé, hier soir._’
‘My God,’ said he.
‘_C’est six sous, Monsieur_,’ said the child, holding out her hand.
He was in France after all. Of that he now had no need to be assured
by the child’s speech and attire. A glance around the infinite plain,
dotted sparsely with red-roofed farm buildings and crossed by dead
straight line of poplars marking roads like the one in front of him
gave him full evidence. But how he had got to France, what he was
doing there with a hawker’s caravan and a horse, he had no notion. And
whereabouts in France was he? Certainly not near Le Touquet.
‘Where does this road lead to?’ he asked, waving a hand.
‘Why Chartres, Monsieur. Ten kilometres. Are you not going to the fair?’
She touched a chord that awakened echoes of dreamland. His
sub-conscious self had already registered a long while ago, it seemed,