Mr. Harper had never heard of Nietzsche, and he didn't hesitate to say so. Lady Pridmore alone, of the four people present, failed to respect his frankness. To her mind, it was inconceivable that an author by profession and one reputed to be successful should not have heard of Nietzsche. It was almost as if he had not heard of Lord Tennyson.
Yet Mary and Silvia and even the Prince honored this candor. This chap was a queer freak in the eyes of the budding diplomatist, but he had been told by people who knew about such matters that all writing chaps were, if they were at all first rate. All the same, he liked him. One felt he was straight and decent, in spite of his outlandishness. Somehow this quaint bird did not seem to be following the usual line of country of the soaring eagles of the moment whom his sisters brought to the house from time to time.
The Prince took not unkindly to the sailorman, who had written two very curious books about the sea. They were much overrated, in the Prince's opinion. The style was uncertain, and the colors were laid on too thick for anything, but people who knew Ted Ambrose, for instance, thought a good deal of them. Personally, the Prince believed in style. Stevenson, for example, wrote like an educated man. This man's writing in its crude force had somehow the air of the lower deck. Ambrose said there was greatness in it, all the same. Personally, the Prince preferred polished mediocrity, and was not ashamed of the fact, not that one could call a chap like Stevenson mediocre. But this man Harper lacked something, although it was to his credit to admit that he had never heard of Nietzsche. But obviously he hadn't.
VIII
Mary's enthusiasm for the sailorman was shared by Silvia, although not perhaps in an equal degree. Lady Pridmore was inclined to be a little distressed by it, in the way that she was inclined to be a little distressed by so many things. The Prince merely thought there was no harm in the chap, but that he was a freak.
Edward Ambrose, who had discovered what Lady Pridmore considered this rather odd young man, had many questions to answer when next he appeared in Queen Street. As a particular friend of the house, he turned the tables by adroitly chaffing Lady Pridmore and the Prince, and by ministering gaily to Mary's and Silvia's tempered ecstasies.
In the meantime, the Sailor was indulging little private ecstasies of his own. The visit to a Mayfair drawing-room had marked one more epoch in a strange career. He had entered another new and wonderful world. It was a world whose language was a closed book to him at present. Perhaps it always would be; at any rate, it seemed to lie out of the range even of Madame Sadleir, whose instruction he still courted diligently.
It was a world of peculiar grace, of external harmony and beauty. The trained minds marching with the trained movements of these people lent the quality of poetry to all they said and did. And they took what he could only call their refinement so much for granted, that they seemed almost to apologize for the sheer niceness in which they had so completely enveloped themselves. He had not known that such people existed in mass and bulk, at least that they had a corporate life of their own. The glamour they had for him was extraordinary. It would have been impossible to think without a thrill of his friend Miss Pridmore, even if she had not been the sister of the immortal Klondyke.
Mary herself found so much in common with the Sailor that she began to show him the sights of the town. She was quite a modern girl in her breadth and independence, happily inoculated against every sort of ism, but at the same time capable of following any line she marked out for herself. The Sailor had soon begun to interest her very much, and instinctively divining something of his handicap, she wished to help him all she could.
About a week after the first visit to Queen Street, she led the young man to the National Gallery to see the Turners. They spent a very profitable morning holding high communion before them. His unstudied comments seemed to give her a juster view not of art merely, but of life as well. The depth of his intoxication as he stood before these seascapes, sensing them, drinking them in, filled her with wonder.
"God!" he muttered once. She saw his eyes were full of tears, and she felt a stab of pity.
Life had not been kind to this man. A thousand subtle, half apprehended things had already told her that. He had said in his odd way, which was yet so poignant, that he "had started a long way behind scratch." Indeed, it was the sight of these very Turners which had wrung the admission from him.
After this, they went one day to Manchester Square to see the Wallace collection, and to concerts on several Sunday afternoons, but the climax of esthetic delight was reached for Henry Harper when one evening he was taken to the Opera to hear "Tristan." Edward Ambrose, who it seemed numbered the super-rich among his friends, had been lent a box on the grand tier. And nothing would content him save that others should share the blessings which attend acquaintance with plutocracy.
The box was able to accommodate six persons, and those whom Edward Ambrose lured into honoring it and being honored by it were the three ladies, the Prince, Henry Harper, and himself. Lady Pridmore and the Prince were a little bored undoubtedly. She had the lowest opinion of Wagner and thought the Germans overrated generally. The Prince was more discreet in his condemnation, but he certainly thought the Prelude was too long. Edward Ambrose, Mary, and Silvia had heard it so often that it was almost ceasing to be an excitement for them: a frame of mind, it is said, which connotes the amateur. As for Mr. Harper, that was an ever-memorable night.
From this time on he was in a state of growing ecstasy which threatened to become perilous. Existence was now an enchanted thing. A veritable Fairy Princess had come into his life. In speech, in manner, in look, in deed, she was of royal kin. In all the Sailor's wanderings, in all his imaginings, no mortal woman had assumed the significance of this sister of the immortal Klondyke.
O goddess rare and strange! He was already in her thrall. She was gray-eyed Athena of whom his reading had lately been telling him, she was Wisdom herself come to earth in the disciplined splendor of her spirit. Already he was prostrate at the shrine. It was for Her that he had sailed the multitudinous seas, it was for Her that he had traversed noisome caverns measureless to man.
Aladdin, with a flash of the wonderful lamp, had shown him a reason for many things. Strange and dreadful burdens had been laid upon him, every inch of his endurance had been tested in Fate's crucible, that in the end he might win through to a high destiny. Was it for nothing that, shoeless and stockingless, he had cried, "Orrible Crime on the Igh Seas," in the slush of a Blackhampton gutter? Was it for nothing that he had looked on the Island of San Pedro? No; there was purpose behind it all. At the chosen hour the goddess Athena was to appear in order that he might be healed with the divine wisdom.
Life was touched to very fine issues for the Sailor now. And yet so swift was the change that he did not realize its peril. The sister of Klondyke meant much to him already. Sometimes he read his work to her. When they discussed it afterwards her comments would reveal a depth of knowledge that astonished him, and raised the whole matter of the argument to a higher plane. Many an enchanted talk they had together. So miraculously were their minds in tune that it almost seemed they must have conversed through unnumbered ages. Then, too, in the most tactful and delicate way, she was his guide amid the elusive paths of this new and divine world he was entering. Yet she asked so little and gave so much, such a change was wrought in his life by subtle degrees, that he was blind to the terrible danger.
It was in late spring, when they had known each other nearly three months, that the Sailor had a first intimation of coming disaster. By that time he had yielded completely to a state of bliss. Moreover, he was now in the thrall of Athena's counterfeit and epitome as imaged by other sailormen who had held communings with her. She had sent to Brinkworth Street on three successive Mondays, recking nought of her deed, certain magic volumes in which she herself was mirrored by the mind of a poet: "Richard Feverel," "Beauchamp," and "The Egoist." And then as he felt the sorcery of Renee, Clara, Lucy, and other adumbrations of Athena herself, something happened.
It was merely that she went out of town for a fortnight. But that fortnight was enough to tell the Sailor one tragic thing. A glamour had gone from the earth. The grass of May was no longer green; Chelsea's river was no longer a vindication of Turner; the birds no longer sang in Middlesex.
A strange thing had come to pass. The Sailor had suffered one sea change the more. But at first, had his life depended on it, he could not have said what it was. He only knew that he was losing appetite for the magic food on which he had been waxing lately: it was no longer possible to devour poetry and wisdom in the way he had done. Moreover his pen no longer flew across the paper. It took him a whole week to do that which he now expected to accomplish in a morning, and then the result pleased him so little that he tore it up. He was bitterly disconcerted by this mystery. But one day, the eighth of her absence, the truth came to him, like a ghost in the night. Life was no longer possible without Mary Pridmore.
It was about four o'clock of a morning in June when this fact overtook him. As he lay in bed, facing it as well as he could, it seemed to submerge him. He sprang forth to meet the cold dawn creeping from the Thames, flung up the blind and opened the window. In the grip of the old relentless force he turned his eyes to the east. The faint flecks of orange across the river were the gates of paradise, yet the Sailor hardly knew whether the sinister gloom beyond was a bank of cloud or the trees upon the Island of San Pedro. In an exaltation of the spirit which he had only known once before in his life, he seemed to hear a particular name being twittered by the birds in the eaves. Mary Pridmore! Mary Pridmore!
It was fantastic, it was ridiculous, it was perhaps a form of mania, but there was the fact. And a policeman, passing along Brinkworth Street at that moment, seemed to tread out that magic name upon its echoing pavement!
She had given him her address: Miss Pridmore, at Greylands, near Woking. He must write, she had said, but not before he had finished "The Egoist," and had made up his mind about it; thereby revealing, as became a properly conventional Miss Pridmore, that it was not so much the sailorman who was of consequence as his opinion on a highly technical matter!
In the innocence of his heart he had already written and posted a letter. His views were expressed with a naïveté at the opposite pole from Box Hill on these high epistolary occasions. It was not in this wise that the mage addressed his own particular goddesses.
No answer had yet come to this letter. Therefore in the half light of dawn he sat down to write a second and more considered one. Vain endeavor! It was not for the pen of mortal to unlock the heart of the true prince, unless the genie willed it. And this morning, alas, the genie was not amenable. For it suddenly addressed the Sailor, not with the voice of a magician, but with rude horse sense.
"Get into bed, you fool," said the genie. "Cease making an idiot of yourself. Athena is as far beyond you as the stars in their courses which have just gone back into heaven."
The Sailor returned to his bed, to dream. He did his best to be rational, but the task was hopeless. "Mary Pridmore! Mary Pridmore!" twittered the sparrows in the eaves of Chelsea.
IX
A little after five had struck by the church of St. Clement at the bottom of Brinkworth Street, he rose again from his bed. He flung on his clothes, draped a scarf round his neck in lieu of a collar, crept downstairs and out of the front door of No. 14 into the streets of the metropolis.
This morning there was a coolness in the air. And as soon as he felt it he was able to think more clearly. A sharp thrill ran through his brain. It was hardly three months since he had roamed the streets of London in the morning hours with tumult in his heart.
Since that night he had explored whole continents; hardly anything remained of many former worlds he had inhabited; but there was a spear in the side of Ulysses, and he must always remember that none could pluck it out.
As he reached the bottom of the street and Thames in his majesty smiled grimly upon him, he knew that he was in terrible case. He was no more than a frail mortal, caught in the toils of irresistible forces. What hope had such a one of outfacing the decrees of fate?
It was not until he had walked for an hour by the waters of Thames that he returned to Brinkwater Street, to breakfast. A letter with the Woking postmark was at the side of his plate. It said:
Greylands.
Thursday.
MY DEAR MR. HARPER,
Your view of 'The Egoist' is a new light to me on a most wonderful book. It is not exactly how I see it myself, but I somehow feel you are very near the truth. But when you say that a man such as Willoughby is not quite sane there is a point for argument. You are also too severe, I think, in your judgment of the author of his being. You say he could never really have known what life is. There I frankly don't agree with you, but of course we look at things so differently, and that is the great charm of your long letter. This is a very stupid one, but I won't apologize for it, because it is the best I can write, and I shall not have the presumption to try to meet you on your own ground. You have sailed the High Seas, whereas I have only read about them. Looking back on the conversations we have had I see you as a master mariner. This is not an idle compliment. You have not yet gained your full stature, you have yet to declare yourself in your power, but believe me you have the strength of a giant, and if such a wish is not an impertinence I hope you will have the courage to achieve your destiny.
Yours always most sincerely,
MARY PRIDMORE.
This letter was like a draft of wine to the Sailor. He read it many times before that day was out, but he turned to it again and again long after he knew every word by heart. It gave him a new zest for his work. He had quite a good day with the pen. Under these high auspices he took new courage to go on. Much was asked of him by this sacred intimacy. By deeds alone could he show himself worthy.
In reply to this letter he wrote a very long one to Miss Pridmore, at Greylands, near Woking. It was not so discreet and carefully considered as the one he had intended to write; he let himself go far more than he felt he ought to have done. And the reply he received the day before the fortnight was up was similarly expansive and just as entrancing as the former one. But the whole effect was marred by a grievous disappointment. Instead of returning from Greylands on the morrow, which was Saturday, she was going to stay another week.
How could he bear the burden of existence for such an intolerable length of time without a sight of her? It was asking more of flesh and blood than flesh and blood thought reasonable.
The next day, Saturday, was a time of gloom. He could not work at all, and it was no use making a pretence of it. But in the evening, sadly smoking a pipe after so meager a dinner that Mr. Paley was quite disconcerted, there came an inspiration.
Why not pay a visit to Woking on the morrow? Why not make his way to Greylands – wherever Greylands might be – and without revealing an unsanctioned presence, gaze upon Athena in all her glory as she came out of church, which he knew she attended every Sunday?
The idea at once took possession of him. And presently it flamed so hot in his mind that he borrowed a Bradshaw from Mr. Paley and found, as he had surmised, that there was no lack of trains to Woking on the morrow. He decided that the one which arrived at 9.20 would be the best for his purpose. That would give him plenty of time to locate Greylands, and ample opportunity, no doubt, to reach it.
Sunday came, a fair June day, and the Sailor, having made an early, but in the circumstances surprisingly efficient, breakfast, set forth to Waterloo Station. Such an adventure could receive no sanction from men or gods, but after all, reflected Henry Harper as he went his way, no possible harm can come of it if I don't let her see me!
The train arrived at Woking only five minutes late, which was really not bad for the Sabbath. Only one porter was to be seen on the deserted platform, and he, with the gruffness of a martyr ill resigned, had "never heard on it," that is to say, had never heard of Greylands.
This was a rebuff. The clerk in the booking office, suffering also from a sense of injustice, was equally unhelpful. However, outside the station was a solitary flyman in charge of a promiscuous vehicle, and he, it seemed, had heard of Greylands, moreover, scenting a fare, knew how to get there.
"It's afore you come to Bramshott, just off the Guildford Road. How far? All out three mile. But I shan't ask more than four shilling."
The Sailor declined this offer with politeness. He would have plenty of time to walk, which was what he wanted to do. The flyman, in spite of a keen disappointment, received such a sincere and cordial "Good morning," that he returned it without discourtesy.
The first thing to enkindle the senses of the Sailor was the smell of the fresh country earth. A very little rain had fallen in the night, but enough to renew with a divine cleanliness these wide spaces, these open heaths.
The bracken, young and green and a mass of shining crystals, was uncurling itself on each side of the road. The birds were in full choir, the trees were near the pomp of midsummer, the sun of June made a glory of the distant hills. It was a noble world. Long before the Sailor came to Greylands he was like a harp strung and touched to ecstasy by the implicit hand of nature.
He knew he was speculating on the bare chance of a sight of Athena. There was nothing to tell him that she would go that morning to Bramshott parish church. The only guide he had was that she went to church at least once every Sunday, and sometimes twice, but whether this would involve attendance at the local service must be the part of faith to answer.
At any rate, whether he set eyes on her or not, he was trudging to Greylands through the bracken in ease of mind and high expansion of spirit. He might not see her, yet he was giving himself the glorious opportunity. It was on the knees of the gods, but already he felt stronger, braver, saner, for having put it to the touch.
A little after ten he came to Bramshott village. It was a small place of quaint timber-framed houses, and in the middle was a church. But it all seemed commonplace enough. There was nothing here to minister to an intense emotion; nothing but the sun, the birds, the sky, the bracken, the perfumed loveliness of mother earth.
He was not such a fool as to fear his ecstasy. Come what might he would live his hour. The towers of Greylands, he was told in the village, could be seen from the church porch. There they were, sure enough, banked and massive, cutting across the sun with their importunate red brick. This, at any rate, was her local habitation. It was his to gaze upon even if no other guerdon rewarded him.
As became a true sailorman, who had sailed six years before the mast, he had brought home a pocket of horse sense from his wanderings. Therefore, as soon as he had drunk his fill of those flanked towers, he went inside the church and found a decrepit pew-opener who was full of information.
The service began at eleven. Reverend Manson was the vicar and also the squire of the parish, although Greylands was the rich folk, and they always came of a Sunday morning, whatever the weather, if the Fambly was at home. Their name was Ellis, and they were very rich.
Armed with this knowledge, the Sailor decided upon a bold course. He took up a position in a corner of the church some way behind the Greylands pew, which had been duly pointed out to him. Here he sat unseen with one solid pillar to conceal him. But he had taken care that in spite of the pillar a clear sight of the Greylands pew should be his.
It seemed a long time to eleven. But it came at last, and with it, or rather shortly before it, by the courtesy of the gods, came Mary Pridmore. She entered before the Sailor, counting the seconds in his fastness, realized that she was there.
She wore a simple dress of soft gray and a black hat. But in no particular had she abated a whit of her regality. In that fine outline was a quality that made his pulses leap. As she went down the aisle with two white-spatted, ultra-princelike cavaliers, and two ladies, older than she, yet in garb more fanciful, the Sailor caught just a glimpse of her face. Yes, this was Athena herself, a creature altogether splendid yet restrained, who drew the Sailor's very soul and held it, while she knelt on her hassock, with an air of gravest submission and dignity.
Suddenly he realized that she was praying. With a rather irrational impulse of shame he fell on his knees. The knowledge abased him that he had neglected this obvious duty, but yet he had the excuse, such as it was, that this was the very first time in his life he had entered a church.
Hitherto – if the Sailor must face the truth – the whole of his intercourse with religious things had been confined to two tea and bun fights with addresses to follow, under the ægis of that light of his youth, the Reverend Rogers, at the Brookfield Street Mission Hall. Therefore he didn't know in the least what to do. However, let him keep his eyes in front of him. When Athena got up he must get up, when she sat down he must sit down. And kneeling as she kneeled, he devoutly hoped that he was rendering homage to the same God as she, although with far less whole-hearted allegiance than hers at the moment.
It was hard to know what use to make of the Book of Common Prayer that the verger had given him. He had never opened such a volume before. To the best of his recollection one had been lent him at the Brookfield Street Mission Hall, but certainly it had not been opened. It would have been no use to do so, seeing that he could not read a word of it then. But he could read it now, and he desired to render thanks for that miraculous, that crowning mercy.
The service was long, but to the Sailor it was entrancing. The imperial outline of Athena was ever before him; and yet in despite of her he had at least a part of a devout mind to spare for an ancient mystery. Reverend Manson in his dual role of vicar and squire of Bramshott was something of a patriarch. It was a fine face, and to the Sailor it was a symbolical presence. He was simple and sincere, and whatever his learning may have been he wore it like a flower. Somehow, Reverend Manson spoke to the heart of the Sailor. During that enchanted hour he followed him into an unknown kingdom. Yet as he did this the young man was thrilled by the thought that he did not journey alone. Athena was with him at every step he took.
The prayers passed and the singing, which affected him strangely; then came the sermon, and after that more singing, and then came the verger with the collection plate. The Sailor put in half a sovereign; anything but gold seemed a profanation of a most solemn rite. And then he did an immensely wise thing. He glided swiftly, in the midst of the hymn, out of the church, and out of Bramshott village into the lanes of Surrey.