Lore of Proserpine

by Maurice Hewlett

  QUIDNUNC

  I was so fired by that extraordinary adventure, that I think I couldhave overcome my constitutional timidity and made myself acquaintedwith the only actor in it who was accessible if I had not becomeinvolved in another matter of the sort. But I don't know that I shouldhave helped myself thereby. To the night the things of the nightpertain. If I could have had speech with Mrs. Ventris in that seasonof her radiancy there would have been no harm; but by day she wasanother creature. Thereby contact was impossible because it would havebeen horrible. It is true that a certain candour of conductdistinguished her from the frowsy drabs with whom she must havejostled in public-house bars or rubbed elbows at lodging-house doors,a sort of unconsciousness of evil, which I take to have been due to anentire absence of a moral sense. It is probable that she was not amiserable sinner because she did not know what was miserable sin. Heatand cold she knew, hunger and thirst, rage and kindness. She could notbe unwomanly because she was not woman, nor good because she couldnot be bad. But I could have been very bad; and to me she was,luckily, horrible. I could not divorce her two apparent natures, stillless my own. We are bound--all of us--by our natures, bound by themand bounded. I could not have touched the pitch she lived with, thepitch of which she was, without defilement. Let me hope that Irealised that much. I shall not say how my feet burned to enter thatslum of squalor where hovered this bird of the night, unless I add, asI can do with truth, that I did not slake them there. I saw her on andoff afterward for a year, perhaps; but tenancies are short in London.There was a flitting during one autumn when I was away on vacation,and I came back to see new faces in the half-doorway and other elbowson the familiar ledge.

  But as I have said above, a new affair engrossed me shortly after mynight pageant on Parliament Hill. This was concerned with a famouspersonage whom all knowing London (though I for one had not known it)called Quidnunc.

  But before I present to the curious reader the facts of a case whichcaused so much commotion in distinguished bosoms of the late"eighties," I think I should say that, while I have a strongconviction as to the identity of the person himself, I shall notexpress it. I accept the doctrine that there are some names not to beuttered. Similarly I shall neither defend nor extenuate; if I throw itout at all it will be as a hint to the judicious, or a clew, if youlike, to those who are groping a way in or out of the labyrinth ofBeing. To me two things are especially absurd: one is that thetrousered, or skirted, forms we eat with, walk with, or pass unheeded,are all the population of our world; the other, that these creatures,ostensibly men or women with fancies, hopes, fears, appetites like ourown, are necessarily of the same nature as ourselves. If beings fromanother sphere should, by intention or chance, meet and mingle withus, I don't see how we could apprehend them at all except in our ownmode, or unless they were, so to speak, translated into our idiom. Butenough of that. The year in which I first met Quidnunc, so far as mymemory serves me, was 1886.

  * * * * *

  I was in those days a student of the law, with chambers in Gray's Innwhich I daily attended; but being more interested in palaeography thanin modern practice, and intending to make that my particular branch ofeffort, I spent much of my time at the Public Record Office; indeed, aportion of every working day. The track between R---- Buildings andRolls Yard must have been sensibly thinned by my foot-soles; therecan have been few of the frequenters of Chancery Lane, Bedford Row andthe squares of Gray's Inn who were not known to me by sight orconcerning whom I had not imagined (or discerned) circumstancesinvisible to their friends or themselves to account for their acts orappearances. Among these innumerable personages--portly solicitors,dashing clerks, scriveners, racing tipsters, match-sellers, postmen,young ladies of business, young ladies of pleasure, clients descendingout of broughams, clients keeping rendezvous in public-houses, andwhat not--Quidnunc's may well have been one; but I believe that it wasin Warwick Court (that passage from Holborn into the Inn) that, quitesuddenly, I first saw him, or became aware that I saw him; for being,as he was, to all appearance an ordinary telegraphic messenger, I mayhave passed him daily for a year without any kind of notice. But on aday in the early spring of 1886--mid-April at a guess--I came upon himin such a way as to remark him incurably. I saw before me on thatmorning of tender leafage, of pale sunlight and blue mist contendingfor the day, a strangely assorted pair proceeding slowly toward theInn. A telegraph boy was one; by his side walked, vehementlyexplaining, a tall, elderly solicitor--white-whiskered, drab-spatted,frock-coated, eye-glassed, silk-hatted--in every detail the trustedfamily lawyer. I knew the man by sight, and I knew him by name andrepute. He was, let me say--for I withhold his real name--GeorgeLumley Fowkes, of Fowkes, Vizard and Fowkes, respectable head of amore than respectable firm; and here he was, with his hat pushed backfrom his dewy forehead, tip-toeing, protesting, extenuating to a slipof a lad in uniform. The positions of the odd pair were unaccountablyreversed; Jack was better than his master, the deference was from theelder to the brat. The stoop of Fowkes's shoulder, the anxious angleof his head, his care to listen to the little he got--and how littlethat was I could not but observe--his frequent ejaculations of "Godbless my soul!" his deep concern--and the boy's unconcern, curtlyexpressed, if expressed at all--all this was singular. So much morethan singular was it to myself that it enthralled me.

  They stopped at the gateway which admits you to Bedford Row to finishtheir colloquy. The halt was made by Fowkes, barely acquiesced in byhis companion. Poor old Fowkes, what with his asthma, the mopping ofhis head, the flacking of his long fingers, exhibited signals of thehighest distress. "I need hardly assure you, sir ..." I heard; andthen, "Believe me, sir, when I say...." He was marking time, unhappygentleman, for with such phrases does the orator eke out his waningsubstance. The lad listened in a critical, staring mood, and once ortwice nodded. While I was wondering how long he was going to put upwith it, presently he jerked his head back and showed Fowkes, by thelook he gave him, that he had had enough of him. The old lawyer knewit for final, for he straightened his back, then his hat, touched thebrim and made a formal bow. "I leave it so, sir," he said; "I amcontent to leave it so;" and then, with every mark of respect, he wenthis way into Bedford Row. I noticed that he walked on tiptoe for someyards, and then more quickly, flapping his arms to his sides.

  The boy stood thoughtful where he was, communing by the looks of himquite otherwhere, and I had the opportunity to consider him. Heappeared to be a handsome, well-built lad of fifteen or so, big forhis age, and precocious. By that I mean that his scrutiny of life wasmature; that he looked capable, far beyond the warrant of his years.He was ruddy of complexion, freckled, and had a square chin. His eyeswere light grey, with dark lashes to them; they were startlingly lightand bright for such a sunburnt face, and seemed to glow in it likesteady fires. It was in them that resided, that sat, as it were,enthroned, that mature, masterful expression which I never saw beforeor since in one so young. I have seen the eyes of children look as ifthey were searching through our world into another; that is almosthabitual in children. But here was one, apparently a boy, who seemedto read into our circumstances (as you or I into a well-studied book)as though they held nothing inexplicable, nothing unaccounted for.Beyond these singular two eyes of his, his smiling mouth, with itsreminder of archaic statuary, was perhaps his only noticeable feature.He wore the ordinary uniform of a telegraphic messenger, which inthose days was grey, with a red line down the trousers and a belt forthe tunic. His boots were of the service pattern, so were hisankle-jacks. His hands were not cleaner than they ought to have been,his nails well bitten back. Such was he.

  Studying him closely over the top of my newspaper, by-and-by he fixedme with his intent, bright eyes. My heart beat quicker; but when hesmiled--like the Pallas of AEgina--I smiled too. Then, without varyinghis expression, even while he smiled upon me, he vanished.

  Vanished! There's no other word for it: he vanished; I did not see himgo; I don't know whether he went or where he went. At on
e moment hewas there, smiling at me, looking into my eyes; at the next moment hewas not there. That's all there is to say about it. I flashed aglance through the gate into Bedford Row, another up to R----Buildings, and even ran to the corner which showed me the length andbreadth of Field Place. He was not gone any of these ways. Thesethings are certain.

  Now for the sequel. Mere fortune led me at four that afternoon intoBedford Row. A note had been put into my hands at the Record Officeinviting me to call upon a client whose chambers were in that quarter,and I complied with it directly my work was over. Now as I walkedalong the Row, the boy of that morning's encounter was going into theentry of the house in which Fowkes and Vizards have their offices. Ihad just time to recognise him when the double knock announced hiserrand. I stopped immediately; he delivered in a telegram and cameout. I was on the step. Whether he knew me or not he did not look hisknowledge. His eyes went through me, his smiling mouth did not smileat me. My heart beat, I didn't know why; but I laughed and nodded. Hewent his leisurely way and I watched him, this time, almost out ofsight. But while I stood so, watching, old Fowkes came bursting out ofhis office, tears streaming down his face, the telegram in his hand."Where is he? Where is he?" This was addressed to me. I pointed theway. Old Fowkes saw his benefactor (as I suppose him to have been)and began to run. The lad turned round, saw him coming, waved himaway, and then--disappeared. Again he had done it; but old Fowkes, inno way surprised, stood rooted to the pavement with his hands extendedso far toward the mystery that I could see two or three inches of bonyold wrist beyond his shirt-cuffs. After a while he turned and slowlycame back to his chambers. He seemed now not to see me; or he wascareless whether I saw him or not. As he entered the doorway he heldup the telegram, bent his head and laid a kiss upon the pink paper.

  But that is by no means all. Now I come, to the Richborough story,which all London that is as old as I am remembers. That part ofLondon, it may be, will not read this book; or if it does, will notobject to the recall of a case which absorbed it in 1886-87. I am notgoing to be indiscreet. The lady married, and the lady left England.Moreover, naturally, I give no names; but if I did I don't see thatthere is anything to be ashamed of in what she was pleased to do withher hand and person. It was startling to us of those days, it might bestartling in these; what was more than startling was the manner inwhich the thing was done. That is known to very few persons indeed.

  I had seen enough upon that April day, whose events form my prelude,to give me remembrance of the handsome telegraph boy. The next time Isaw him, which was near midnight in July--the place Hyde Park--I knewhim at once.

  I had been sharing in Prince's Gate, with a dull company, aninterminable dinner, one of those at which you eat twice as much asyou intend, or desire, because there is really nothing else to do. Onone side of me I had had a dowager whom I entirely failed to interest,on the other, a young person who only cared to talk with her left-handneighbour. There was a reception afterward to which I had to stop, sothat I could not make my escape till eleven or more. The night wasvery hot and it had been raining; but such air as there was was balmafter the still furnace of the rooms. I decided immediately to walk tomy lodging in Camden Town, entered by Prince's Gate, crossed theSerpentine Bridge and took a bee-line for the Marble Arch. It wascloudy, but not at all dark. I could see all the ankle-high railingswhich beset the unwary passenger and may at any moment break his legsand his nose, imperil his dignity and ruin his hat. Dimly ahead of me,upon a broad stretch of grass, I presently became aware of aconcourse. There was no sound to go by, and the light afforded me nodefinite forms; the luminous haze was blurred; but certainly peoplewere there, a multitude of people. I was surprised, but not alarmed.Save for an occasional wastrel of civilisation, incapable ofdegradation and concerned only for sleep, the park is wont to be adesert at that hour; but the hum of the traffic, the flashing cablamps, never quite out of sight, prevent fear. Far from being afraid Iwas highly interested, and hastening my steps was soon on theoutskirts of a throng.

  A throng it certainly was, a large body of persons, male and female,scattered yet held together by a common interest, loitering andexpectant, strangely silent, not concerned with each other, rarely incouples, with all their faces turned one way--namely, to thesouth-east, or (if you want precision) precisely to Hyde Park Corner.I have remarked upon the silence: that was really surprising; so alsowas the order observed, and what you may call decorum. There was noribaldry, no skylarking, no shrill discord of laughter without mirthin it to break the solemnity of the gracious night. These people juststood or squatted about; if any talked together it was in secretwhispers. It is true that they were under the watch of a tallpoliceman; yet he too, I noticed, watched nobody, but looked steadilyto the south-east, with his lantern harmless at his belt. As my eyesgrew used to the gloom I observed that all ranks composed thecompany. I made out the shell jacket, the waist and elongated limbs ofa life-guardsman, the open bosom of an able seaman. I happened upon ayoung gentleman in the crush hat and Inverness of the current fashion;I made certain of a woman of the pavement and of ladies of theboudoir, of a hospital nurse, of a Greenwich pensioner, of twoflower-girls sitting on the edge of one basket, of a shoeblack (Ithink), of a costermonger, and a nun. Others there were, and more thanone or two of most categories: in a word, there was an assembly.

  I accosted the policeman, who heard me civilly but without committinghimself. To my first question, what was going to happen? he carefullyanswered that he couldn't say, but to my second, with theirrepressible scorn of one who knows for one who wants to know, heanswered more frankly, "Who are they waiting for? Why, Quidnunc.Mister Quidnunc. That's who it is. Him they call Quidnunc. So now youknow." In fact, I did not know. He had told me nothing, would tell meno more, and while I stood pondering the oracle I was sensible of somecommon movement run through the company with a thrill, unite them,intensify them, draw them together to be one people with one faith,one hope, one assurance. And then the nun, who stood near me, fell toher knees, crossed herself and began to pray; and not far off her aslim girl in black turned aside and covered her face with her hands. Aperceptible shiver of emotion, a fluttering sigh such as steals over apine-wood toward dawn ran through all ranks. Far to the south-east aspeck of light now showed, which grew in intensity as it came swiftlynearer, and seemed presently to be a ball of vivid fire surrounded bya shroud of lit vapour. Again, as by a common consent, the crowdparted, stood ranked, with an open lane between. The on-coming flare,grown intolerably bright, now seemed to fade out as it resolved itselfinto a human figure. A human figure at the entry of the lane of peoplethere undoubtedly was, a figure with so much light about him, raying(I thought) from him, that it was easy to observe his form andfeatures. Out of the flame and radiant mist he grew, and showedhimself to me in the trim shape and semblance, with the small head andalert air of a youth; and such as he was, in the belted tunic andpeaked cap of a telegraph messenger, he came smoothly down the laneformed by the obsequious throng, and stood in the midst of it andlooked keenly, with his cold, clear eyes and fixed and inscrutablesmile, from one expectant face to another. There was no mistaking himwhom all those people so eagerly awaited; he was my former wonder ofGray's Inn, the saviour of old Mr. Fowkes.

  But all my former wonder paled before this my latter. For he stoodhere like some young Eastern king among his slaves, one hand on hiship, the other at his chin, his face expressionless, his eyes fixedbut unblinking. Meantime, the crowd, which had stretched out arms tohim as he came, was now seated quietly on the grass, intently waiting,watching for a sign. They sat, all those people, in a wide ring abouthim; he was in the midst, a hand to his chin.

  Whether sign was made or not, I saw none; but after some moments ofpause a figure rose erect out of the ring and hobbled toward the boy.I made out an old woman, an old wreck of womanhood, a scant-haired,blue-lipped ruin of what had once been woman. I heard her snivel andsniff and wheeze her "Lord ha' mercy" as she went by, slipperingforward on her miserable feet, hugging to her wast
ed sides whatremnant of gown she had, fawning before the boy, within the sphere oflight that came from him. If he loathed, or scorned, or pitied her, heshowed no sign; if he saw her at all his fixed eyes looked beyond her;if he abhorred her, his nostrils did not betray him. He stood likemarble and suffered what followed. It was strange.

  Enacting what seemed to be a proper rite, she put her shaking lefthand upon his right shoulder, her right hand under his chin, as if tocup it; and then, with sniffs and wailings interspersed, came herpetition to his merciful ears.

  What she precisely asked of him, muttering, wheezing, whining,snivelling, as she did, repeating herself--with her burthen of "Odear, O dear, O dear!"--I don't know. Her lost girl, her fineup-standing girl, her Nance, her only one, figured in it as needingmercy. Her "Oh, sir, I ask you kindly!" and "Oh, sir, for this once ...!"made me sick: yet he bore with her as she ran on, dribblingtears and gin in a mingled flood; he bore with her, heard her insilence, and in the end, by a look which I was not able to discover,quieted and sent her shuffling back to her place. So soon as she wasdown, the life-guardsman was on his feet, a fine figure of a man. Hemarched unfalteringly up, stiffened, saluted, and then, observing theritual of hand to shoulder, hand to chin, spoke out his piece like thehonest fellow he was; spoke it aloud and without fear, evenly andplainly. I thought that he had got it by heart, as I thought also ofanother person I was to hear by-and-by. He wanted, badly it seemed,news of his sweetheart, whom he was careful to call Miss Dixon. Shehad last been heard of outside the Brixton Bon Marche, where she hadbeen seen with a lady friend, talking to "two young chaps" inVolunteer uniform. They went up the Brixton Road toward Acre Lane, andMiss Dixon, at any rate, was never heard of again. It was wearing himout; he wasn't the man he had been, and had no zest for his meals. Shehad never written; his letters to her had come back through the "DeadOffice." He thought he should go out of his mind sometimes; was afraidto shave, not knowing what he might be after with "them things." Ifanything could be done for him he should be thankful. Miss Dixon wasvery well connected, and sang in a choir. Here he stopped, saluted,turned and marched away into the night. I heard him pass a word or twoto the policeman, who turned aside and blew his nose. The hospitalnurse, who spoke in a feverish whisper, then a young woman from thePiccadilly gas-lamps, who cried and rocked herself about, followed;and then, to my extreme amazement, two ladies with cloaks and hoodsover evening gowns--one of them a Mrs. Stanhope, who was known to me.The taller and younger lady, chaperoned by my friend, I did notrecognise. Her face was hidden by her hood.

  I was now more than interested, it seemed to me that I was, in asense, implicated. At any rate I felt very delicate about overhearingwhat was to come. It is one thing to become absorbed in a ritual thelike of which, in mid-London, you can never have experienced before,but quite another thing to listen to the secret desires of a friend inwhose house you may have dined within the month. However--by whatevercasuistries I might have compassed it--I did remain. Let me hope, nay,let me believe of myself that if the postulant had proved to be myfriend, Mrs. Shrewton Stanhope, herself, I should either have stoppedmy ears or immediately retired.

  But Mrs. Stanhope, I saw at once, was no more than _dame decompagnie_. She stood in mid-ring with bent head and hands claspedbefore her while the graceful, hooded girl approached nearer to themysterious oracle and fulfilled the formal rites demanded of all whosought his help. Her ringed left hand was laid upon his rightshoulder, her fair right hand upheld his chin. When she began tospeak, which she did immediately and without a tremor, again I had thesensation of hearing one who had words by heart. This was her burden,more or less. "I am very unhappy about a certain person. It is CaptainMaxfield. I am engaged to him, and want to break it off. I must dothat--I must indeed. If I don't I shall do a more dreadful thing. I dohope you will help me. Mrs. ----, my friend, was sure that you would. Ido hope so. I am very unhappy." She had commanded her voice until thevery end; but as she pitied herself there came a break in it. I heardher catch her breath; I thought she would fall,--and so did Mrs.Stanhope, it was clear, for she went hurriedly forward and put an armround her waist. The younger lady drooped to her shoulder; Mrs.Stanhope inclined her head to the person--not a sign from him, mindyou--and gently withdrew her charge from the ring. The pair thenhurried across the park in the direction of Knightsbridge, and leftme, I may admit, consuming in the fire of curiosity and excitementwhich they had lit.

  Petitions succeeded, of various interest, but they seemed pale andineffectual to me. Before all or nearly all of the waiting throng hadbeen heard I saw uneasiness spread about it. Face turned to face, headto head; subtle but unmistakable movements indicated unrest. Then, ofthe suddenest, amid lifted hands and sighed-forth prayers the youthfulobject of so much entreaty, receiver of so many secret sorrows, seemedto fade and, without effort, to recede. I know not how else todescribe his departure. He backed away, as it were, into the dark. Thepeople were on their feet ere this. Sighs, wailing, appeals, sobs,adjurations broke the quietness of the night. Some ran stumbling afterhim with extended arms; most of them stayed where they were, watchinghim fade, hoping against hope. He emptied himself, so to speak, oflight; he faded backward, diminishing himself to a luminous glow, to ablur, to a point of light. Thus he was gone. The disappointed creptsilently away, each into silence, solitude and the night, and I foundmyself alone with the policeman.

  Now, what in the name of God was all this? I asked him, and must haveit. He gave me some particulars, admitting at the outset that it was a"go." "They seem to think," he said, "that they will get what theywant out of him--by wire. Let him bring them a wire in the morning;that's the way of it. Anything in life, from sudden death to apenn'orth of bird-seed. Death! Ah, I've heard 'em cringe to him fordeath, times and again. They crawl for it--they must have it. Can't doit theirselves, d'ye see? No, no. Let him do it--somehow. Once a week,during the season--his season, I should say, because he ain't herealways, by no means--they gets about like this; and how they knowwhere to spot him is more than I can tell you. If I knew it, Iwould--but I don't. Nobody knows that--and yet they know it. Sometimeshe's to be found here two weeks running; then it'll be the Regent'sPark, or the Knoll in the Green Park. He's had 'em all the way toHampstead before now, and Primrose Hill's a likely place, they tellme. Telegrams: that's what he gives 'em--if he's got the mind. Butthey don't get all they want, not by no means. And some of 'em getsmore than they want, by a lot." He thought, then chuckled at a rathergrim instance.

  "Why, there was old Jack Withers, 'blue-nosed Jack' they calls him,who works a Hammersmith 'bus! Did you ever hear of that? That was agood one, if you like. Now you listen. This Jack was coming up theBrompton Road on his 'bus--and I was on duty by the Boltons and seehim coming. There was that young feller there too--him we've just hadhere--standing quiet by a pillar-box, reading a letter. One foot hehad in the roadway, and his back to the 'bus. Up comes old Jack,pushing his horses, and sees the boy. Gives a great howl like atom-cat. 'Hi! you young frog-spawn,' he says, 'out of my road,' andstartled the lad. I see him look up at Jack very steady, and keep hiseye on him. I thought to myself, 'There's something to pay ondelivery, my boy, for this here.' Jack owned up to it afterwards thathe felt queer, but he forgot about it. Now, if you'll believe me, sir,the very next morning Jack was at London Bridge after his secondjourney, when up comes this boy, sauntering into the yard. Comes up toJack and nods. 'Name of Withers?' he says. 'That's me,' says old Jack.'Thought so,' he says. 'Telegram for you.' Jack takes it, opens it,goes all white. 'Good God!' he says; 'good God Almighty! My wife'sdead!' She'd been knocked down by a Pickford that morning, sure as agun. What do you think of that for a start?

  "He served Spotty Smith the fried-eel man just the very same, and lotsmore I could tell you about. They call him Quidnunc--Mister Quidnunc,too, and don't you forget it. There's that about him I--well, sir, ifit was to come to it that I had to lay a hand on him for something outof Queer Street I shouldn't know how to do it. Now I'm telling you afact. I shouldn't--know-
-how--to--do it."

  He was not, obviously, telling me a fact, but certainly he was much inearnest. I commented upon the diversity of the company, and so learnedthe name of my friend Mrs. Stanhope's friend. He clacked his tongue."Bless you," he said, "I've seen better than to-night, though we didhave a slap-up ladyship and all. That was Lady Emily Rich, that youngthing was, Earl of Richborough's family--Grosvenor Place. But we had aDuchess or something here one night--ah, and a Bishop another, a LordBishop. You'd never believe the tales we hear. He's known to everynight-constable from Woolwich to Putney Bridge--and the company hegets about him you'd never believe. High and low, and all huddledtogether like so many babes in a nursing-home. No distinction. You sawold Mother Misery get first look-in to-night? My lady waited her turn,like a good girl!" His voice sank to a whisper. "They tell me he's theonly living soul--if he _is_ a living soul--that's ever been insidethe Stock Exchange and come out tidy. He goes and comes in as helikes--quite the Little Stranger. They all know him in ThrogmortonStreet. No, no. There's more in this than meets the eye, sir. He's notlike you and me. But it's no business of mine. He don't go down in mypocket-book, I can tell you. I keep out of his way--and with reason.He never did no harm to me, nor shan't if I can help it. Quidnunc!Mister Quidnunc! He might be a herald angel for all I know."

  I went my way home and to bed, but was not done with Quidnunc.

  The next day, which was the first day of the Eton and Harrow Match, Iread a short paragraph in the _Echo_, headed "Painful Scene atLord's," to the effect that a lady lunching on Lord Richborough's draghad fainted upon the receipt of a telegram, and would have fallen hadshe not been caught by the messenger--"a strongly built youth," itsaid, "who thus saved what might have been a serious accident." Thatwas all, but it gave me food for thought, and a suspicion whichSaturday confirmed in a sufficiently startling way. On that Saturday Iwas at luncheon in the First Avenue Hotel in Holborn, when a man camein--Tendring by name--whom I knew quite well. We exchanged greetingsand sat at our luncheon, talking desultorily. A clerk from his officebrought in a telegram for Tendring. He opened it and seemedthunder-struck. "Good Lord!" I heard him say. "Good Lord, here'strouble." I murmured sympathetically, and then he turned to me, quitebeyond the range where reticence avails. "Look here," he said, "thisis a shocking business. A man I know wires to me--from Bow Street.He's been taken for forgery--that's the charge--and wants me to bailhim out." He got up as we finished and went to write his reply: Iturned immediately to the clerk. "Is the boy waiting?" I asked. Hewas. I said "Excuse me, Tendring," and ran out of the restaurant tothe street door. There in the street, as I had suspected, stood myinscrutable, steady-eyed, smiling Oracle of the night. I stood,meeting his look as best I might. He showed no recognition of mewhatsoever. Then, as I stood there, Tendring came out. "Call me acab," he told the hall-porter; and to Quidnunc he said, "There's noanswer. I'm going at once." Quidnunc went away.

  Now Tendring's friend, I learned by the evening paper, was one CaptainMaxfield of the Royal Engineers. He was committed for trial, bailrefused. I may add that he got seven years.

  So much for Captain Maxfield! But much more for Lady Emily Rich, ofwhose fate I have now to tell. My friend, Mrs. Shrewton Stanhope, wasvery reserved, would tell me nothing, even when I roundly said that Ihad fancied to see her in the park one evening. She had the hardihoodto meet my eyes with a blank denial, and very plainly there wasnothing to be learned from her. A visit, many visits to the Londonparks at the hour between eleven and midnight taught me no more; butbeing by now thoroughly interested in the affairs of Lady Emily Rich Imade it my business to get a glimpse of her. She was, it seemed, theonly unmarried daughter of the large Richborough family which had doneso well in that sex, and so badly in the other that there was not onlyno son, but no male heir to the title. That, indeed, expired with LadyEmily's father. I don't really know how many daughters there were, orwere not. Most of them married prosperously. One of them became aRoman princess; one married a Mr. Walker, an American stock-jobber(with a couple of millions of money); another was Baroness deGrass--De Grass being a Jew; one became an Anglican nun to thedisgust (I was told) of her family. Lady Emily, whose engagement tothe wretched Maxfield was so dramatically terminated was, I think, theyoungest of them. I saw her one night toward the end of the season atthe Opera. Tendring, who was with me, pointed her out in a box. Shewas dressed in black and looked very scared. She hardly moved oncethroughout the evening, and when people spoke to her seemed not tohear. She was certainly a very pretty girl. It may have been fancy, orit may not, but I could have sworn to the corner of a pinky-brownenvelope sticking out of the bosom of her dress. I don't think I wasmistaken; I had a good look through the glasses. She touched itshortly afterward and poked it down. At the end I saw her come out. Atall girl, rather thin; very pretty certainly, but far from well. Hereyes haunted me; they had what is called a hag-ridden look. And yet,thought I, she had got her desire of Quidnunc. Ah, but had she? Hearthe end of the tale.

  I say that I saw her come out, that's not quite true. I saw her comedown the staircase and stand with her party in the crowded lobby. Shestood in it, but not of it; for her vague and shadowed eyes soughtotherwhere than in those of the neat-haired young man who waschattering in front of her. She scanned, rather, the throng of peopleanxiously and guardedly at once, as if she was looking for somebody,and must not be seen to look. As time wore on and the carriagedelayed, her nervousness increased. She seemed to get paler, she shuther eyes once or twice as though to relieve the strain which watchingand waiting put upon them, and then, quite suddenly, I saw that shehad found what she expected; I saw that her empty eyes were nowfilled, that they held something without which they had faded out. Ina word, I saw her look fixedly, fiercely and certainly at somethingbeyond the lobby. Following the direction she gave me, I looked also.There, assuredly, in the portico, square, smiling and assured of hiswill, I saw Quidnunc stand, and his light eyes upon hers. For quite aspace of time, such as that in which you might count fifteendeliberately, those two looked at each other. Messages, I am sure,sped to and fro between them. His seemed to say, "Come, I haveanswered you. Now do you answer me." Hers cried her hurt, "Ah, butwhat can I do?" His, with their cool mastery of time and occasion,"You must do as I bid you. There's no other way." Hers pleaded, "Giveme time," and his told her sternly, "I am master of time--since I madeit." The throng of waiting people began to surge toward the door; outthere in the night link-boys yelled great names. I heard "LordRichborough's carriage," and saw Lady Emily clap her hand to her side.I saw her reach the portico and stand there hastily covering her headwith a black scarf; I saw her sway alone there. I saw her party godown the steps. The next moment Quidnunc flashed to her side. He saidnothing, he did not touch her. He simply looked at her--intently,smiling, self-possessed, a master. Her face was averted; I could seeher tremble; she bowed her head. Another carriage was announced--theRichborough coach then was gone. I saw Quidnunc now put his hand uponher arm; she turned him her face, a faint and tender smile, verybeautiful and touching, met his own. He drew her with him out of thepress and into the burning dark. London never saw her again.

  I don't attempt to explain what is to me inexplicable. Was mypoliceman right when he called Quidnunc a herald angel? Is there anysubstance behind the surmise that the ancient gods still sway thesouls and bodies of men? Was Quidnunc, that swift, remorseless,smiling messenger, that god of the winged feet? The Argeiphont? Whocan answer these things? All I have to tell you by way of an epilogueis this.

  A curate of my acquaintance, a curate of St. Peter's, Eaton Square,some few years after these events, took his holiday in Greece. Hewent out as one of a tourist party, but having more time at hisdisposal than was contemplated by the contracting agency, he stayedon, chartered a dragoman and wandered far and wide. On his return hetold me that he had seen Lady Emily Rich at Pherae in Arcadia, and thathe had spoken to her. He had seen her sitting on the door-step of aone-storied white house, spinning flax. She wore the costume of thepeasants, whi
ch he told me is very picturesque. Two or threehalf-naked children tumbled about her. They were beautiful as angels,he said, with curly golden hair and extremely light eyes. He noticedthat particularly, and recurred to it more than once. Now Lady Emilywas a dark girl, with eyes so deeply blue as to be almost black.

  My friend spoke to her, he said. He had seen that she recognised him;in fact, she bowed to him. He felt that he could not disregard her.Mere commonplaces were exchanged. She told him that her husband wasaway on a journey. She fancied that he had been in England; but sheexplained half-laughingly that she knew very little about his affairs,and was quite content to leave them to him. She had her children tolook after. My friend was surprised that she asked no question ofEngland or family matters; but, in the circumstances, he added, hehardly liked to refer to them. She served him with bread and winebefore he left her. All he could say was that she appeared to beperfectly happy.

  It is odd, and perhaps it is more than odd, that there was a famoustemple of Hermes in Pherae in former times. Pindar, I believe,acclaimed it in one of his Epinikean odes; but I have not been able toverify the reference.