Author: Arthur Machen
Category: Fiction
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THE ENCOUNTER OF THE PAVEMENT.
Mr. Dyson, walking leisurely along Oxford. Street, and staring withbland inquiry at whatever caught his attention, enjoyed in all its rareflavors the sensation that he was really very hard at work. Hisobservation of mankind, the traffic, and the shop-windows tickled hisfaculties with an exquisite bouquet; he looked serious, as one looks onwhom charges of weight and moment are laid, and he was attentive in hisglances to right and left, for fear lest he should miss somecircumstance of more acute significance. He had narrowly escaped beingrun over at a crossing by a charging van, for he hated to hurry hissteps, and indeed the afternoon was warm; and he had just halted by aplace of popular refreshment, when the astounding gestures of a welldressed individual on the opposite pavement held him enchanted andgasping like a fish. A treble line of hansoms, carriages, vans, cabs,and omnibuses, was tearing east and west, and not the most daringadventurer of the crossings would have cared to try his fortune; but theperson who had attracted Dyson's attention seemed to rage on the veryedge of the pavement, now and then darting forward at the hazard ofinstant death, and at each repulse absolutely dancing with excitement,to the rich amusement of the passers-by. At last, a gap that would, havetried the courage of a street-boy appeared between the serried lines ofvehicles, and the man rushed across in a frenzy, and escaping by ahair's breadth pounced upon Dyson as a tiger pounces on her prey. "I sawyou looking about you," he said, sputtering out his words in his intenseeagerness; "would you mind telling me this? Was the man who came out ofthe Aerated Bread Shop and jumped, into the hansom three minutes ago ayoungish looking man with dark whiskers and spectacles? Can't you speak,man? For Heaven's sake can't you speak? Answer me; it's a matter of lifeand death."
The words bubbled and boiled out of the man's mouth in the fury of hisemotion, his face went from red to white, and the beads of sweat stoodout on his forehead, and he stamped his feet as he spoke and tore withhis hand at his coat, as if something swelled and choked him, stoppingthe passage of his breath.
"My dear sir," said Dyson, "I always like to be accurate. Yourobservation was perfectly correct. As you say, a youngish man, a man, Ishould say, of somewhat timid bearing, ran rapidly out of the shop here,and bounced into a hansom that must have been waiting for him, as itwent eastwards at once. Your friend also wore spectacles, as you say.Perhaps you would like me to call a hansom for you to follow thegentleman?"
"No, thank you; it would be waste of time." The man gulped downsomething which appeared to rise in his throat, and Dyson was alarmed tosee him shaking with hysterical laughter, and he clung hard to alamp-post and swayed and staggered like a ship in a heavy gale.
"How shall I face the doctor?" he murmured to himself. "It is too hardto fail at the last moment." Then he seemed to recollect himself, andstood straight again, and looked quietly at Dyson. I owe you an apologyfor my violence, he said at last. "Many men would not be so patient asyou have been. Would you mind adding to your kindness by walking with mea little way? I feel a little sick; I think it's the sun."
Dyson nodded assent, and devoted himself to a quiet scrutiny of thisstrange personage as they moved on together. The man was dressed inquiet taste, and the most scrupulous observer could find nothing amisswith the fashion or make of his clothes, yet, from his hat to his boots,everything seemed inappropriate. His silk hat, Dyson thought, shouldhave been a high bowler of odious pattern worn with a baggymorning-coat, and an instinct told him that the fellow did not commonlycarry a clean pocket-handkerchief. The face was not of the mostagreeable pattern, and was in no way improved by a pair of bulbouschin-whiskers of a ginger hue, into which mustaches of light colormerged imperceptibly. Yet in spite of these signals hung out by nature,Dyson felt that the individual beside him was something more thancompact of vulgarity. He was struggling with himself, holding hisfeelings in check, but now and again passion would mount black to hisface, and it was evidently by a supreme effort that he kept himselffrom raging like a madman. Dyson found something curious and a littleterrible in the spectacle of an occult emotion thus striving for themastery, and threatening to break out at every instant with violence,and they had gone some distance before the person whom he had met by soodd a hazard was able to speak quietly.
"You are really very good," he said. "I apologize again; my rudeness wasreally most unjustifiable. I feel my conduct demands an explanation, andI shall be happy to give it you. Do you happen to know of any place nearhere where one could sit down? I should really be very glad."
"My dear sir," said Dyson, solemnly, "the only cafe in London is closeby. Pray do not consider yourself as bound to offer me any explanation,but at the same time I should be most happy to listen to you. Let usturn down here."
They walked down a sober street and turned into what seemed a narrowpassage past an iron-barred gate thrown back. The passage was paved withflagstones, and decorated with handsome shrubs in pots on either side,and the shadow of the high walls made a coolness which was veryagreeable after the hot breath of the sunny street. Presently thepassage opened out into a tiny square, a charming place, a morsel ofFrance transplanted into the heart of London. High walls rose on eitherside, covered with glossy creepers, flower-beds beneath were gay withnasturtiums, geraniums, and marigolds, and odorous with mignonette, andin the centre of the square a fountain hidden by greenery sent a coolshower continually plashing into the basin beneath, and the very noisemade this retreat delightful. Chairs and tables were disposed atconvenient intervals, and at the other end of the court broad doors hadbeen thrown back; beyond was a long, dark room, and the turmoil oftraffic had become a distant murmur. Within the room one or two men weresitting at the tables, writing and sipping, but the courtyard was empty.
"You see, we shall be quiet," said Dyson. "Pray sit down here, Mr.--?"
"Wilkins. My name is Henry Wilkins."
"Sit here, Mr. Wilkins. I think you will find that a comfortable seat. Isuppose you have not been here before? This is the quiet time; the placewill be like a hive at six o'clock, and the chairs and tables willoverflow into that little alley there."
A waiter came in response to the bell; and after Dyson had politelyinquired after the health of M. Annibault, the proprietor, he ordered abottle of the wine of Champigny.
"The wine of Champigny," he observed to Mr. Wilkins, who was evidently agood deal composed by the influence of the place, "is a Tourainian wineof great merit. Ah, here it is; let me fill your glass. How do you findit?"
"Indeed," said Mr. Wilkins, "I should have pronounced it a fineBurgundy. The bouquet is very exquisite. I am fortunate in lighting uponsuch a good Samaritan as yourself. I wonder you did not think me mad.But if you knew the terrors that assailed me, I am sure you would nolonger be surprised at conduct which was certainly most unjustifiable."
He sipped his wine, and leant back in his chair, relishing the drip andtrickle of the fountain, and the cool greenness that hedged in thislittle port of refuge.
"Yes," he said at last, "that is indeed an admirable wine. Thank you;you will allow me to offer you another bottle?"
The waiter was summoned, and descended through a trap-door in the floorof the dark apartment, and brought up the wine. Mr. Wilkins lit acigarette, and Dyson pulled out his pipe.
"Now," said Mr. Wilkins, "I promised to give you an explanation of mystrange behavior. It is rather a long story, but I see, sir, that youare no mere cold observer of the ebb and flow of life. You take, Ithink, a warm and an intelligent interest in the chances of yourfellow-creatures, and I believe you will find what I have to tell notdevoid of interest."
Mr. Dyson signified his assent to these propositions, and though hethought Mr. Wilkins's diction a little pompous, prepared to interesthimself in his tale. The other, who had so raged with passion half anhour before, was now perfectly cool, and when he had smoked out hiscigarette, he began in an even voice to relate the