Presently, then, as we came to the lake at the foot of the sloping lawns, where water lilies were growing and quite a number of swans had their habitation, I detected the fact that I had ceased to exist so far as Harley was concerned. Knowing this mood of old, I pursued my way alone, pressing on across the valley and making for a swing gate which seemed to open upon a public footpath9. Coming to this gate I turned and looked back.
Paul Harley was standing10 where I had left him by the edge of the lake, staring as if hypnotized at the slowly moving swans. But I would have been prepared to wager11 that he saw neither swans nor lake, but mentally was far from the spot, deep in some complex maze12 of reflection through which no ordinary mind could hope to follow him.
I glanced at my watch and found that it was but little after two o’clock. Luncheon13 at Cray’s Folly14 was early. I therefore had some time upon my hands and I determined15 to employ it in exploring part of the neighbourhood. Accordingly I filled and lighted my pipe and strolled leisurely16 along the footpath, enjoying the beauty of the afternoon, and admiring the magnificent timber which grew upon the southerly slopes of the valley.
Larks17 sang high above me and the air was fragrant18 with those wonderful earthy scents19 which belong to an English countryside. A herd20 of very fine Jersey21 cattle presently claimed inspection22, and a little farther on I found myself upon a high road where a brown-faced fellow seated aloft upon a hay-cart cheerily gave me good-day as I passed.
Quite at random23 I turned to the left and followed the road, so that presently I found myself in a very small village, the principal building of which was a very small inn called the “Lavender Arms.”
Colonel Menendez’s curaçao, combined with the heat of the day, had made me thirsty; for which reason I stepped into the bar-parlour determined to sample the local ale. I wars served by the landlady24, a neat, round, red little person, and as she retired25, having placed a foam-capped mug upon the counter, her glance rested for a moment upon the only other occupant of the room, a man seated in an armchair immediately to the right of the door. A glass of whisky stood on the window ledge26 at his elbow, and that it was by no means the first which he had imbibed27, his appearance seemed to indicate.
Having tasted the cool contents of my mug, I leaned back against the counter and looked at this person curiously28.
He was apparently29 of about medium height, but of a somewhat fragile appearance. He was dressed like a country gentleman, and a stick and soft hat lay upon the ledge near his glass. But the thing about him which had immediately arrested my attention was his really extraordinary resemblance to Paul Harley’s engraving30 of Edgar Allan Poe.
I wondered at first if Harley’s frequent references to the eccentric American genius, to whom he accorded a sort of hero-worship, were responsible for my imagining a close resemblance where only a slight one existed. But inspection of that strange, dark face convinced me of the fact that my first impression had been a true one. Perhaps, in my curiosity, I stared rather rudely.
“You will pardon me, sir,” said the stranger, and I was startled to note that he spoke2 with a faint American accent, “but are you a literary man?”
As I had judged to be the case, he was slightly bemused, but by no means drunk, and although his question was abrupt31 it was spoken civilly enough.
“Journalism is one of the several occupations in which I have failed,” I replied, lightly.
“You are not a fiction writer?”
“I lack the imagination necessary for that craft, sir.”
The other wagged his head slowly and took a drink of whisky. “Nevertheless,” he said, and raised his finger solemnly, “you were thinking that I resembled Edgar Allan Poe!”
“Good heavens!” I exclaimed, for the man had really amazed me. “You clearly resemble him in more ways than one. I must really ask you to inform me how you deduced such a fact from a mere3 glance of mine.”
“I will tell you, sir,” he replied. “But, first, I must replenish32 my glass, and I should be honoured if you would permit me to replenish yours.”
“Thanks very much,” I said, “but I would rather you excused me.”
“As you wish, sir,” replied the American with grave courtesy, “as you wish.”
He stepped up to the counter and rapped upon it with half a crown, until the landlady appeared. She treated me to a pathetic glance, but refilled the empty glass.
My American acquaintance having returned to his seat and having added a very little water to the whisky went on:
“Now, sir,” said he, “my name is Colin Camber, formerly33 of Richmond, Virginia, United States of America, but now of the Guest House, Surrey, England, at your service.”
Taking my cue from Mr. Camber’s gloomy but lofty manner, I bowed formally and mentioned my name.
“I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr. Knox,” he assured me; “and now, sir, to answer your question. When you came in a few moments ago you glanced at me. Your eyes did not open widely as is the case when one recognizes, or thinks one recognizes, an acquaintance, they narrowed. This indicated retrospection. For a moment they turned aside. You were focussing a fugitive34 idea, a memory. You captured it. You looked at me again, and your successive glances read as follows: The hair worn uncommonly35 long, the mathematical brow, the eyes of a poet, the slight moustache, small mouth, weak chin; the glass at his elbow. The resemblance is complete. Knowing how complete it is myself, sir, I ventured to test my theory, and it proved to be sound.”
Now, as Mr. Colin Camber had thus spoken in the serious manner of a slightly drunken man, I had formed the opinion that I stood in the presence of a very singular character. Here was that seeming mésalliance which not infrequently begets36 genius: a powerful and original mind allied37 to a weak will. I wondered what Mr. Colin Camber’s occupation might be, and somewhat, too, I wondered why his name was unfamiliar38 to me. For that the possessor of that brow and those eyes could fail to make his mark in any profession which he might take up I was unwilling39 to believe.
“Your exposition has been very interesting, Mr. Camber,” I said. “You are a singularly close observer, I perceive.”
“Yes,” he replied, “I have passed my life in observing the ways of my fellowmen, a study which I have pursued in various parts of the world without appreciable40 benefit to myself. I refer to financial benefit.”
He contemplated41 me with a look which had grown suddenly pathetic.
“I would not have you think, sir,” he added, “that I am an habitual42 toper. I have latterly been much upset by—domestic worries, and—er—” He emptied his glass at a draught43. “Surely, Mr. Knox, you are going to replenish? Whilst you are doing so, would you kindly44 request Mrs. Wootton to extend the same favour to myself?”
But at that moment Mrs. Wootton in person appeared behind the counter. “Time, please, gentlemen,” she said; “it is gone half-past two.”
“What!” exclaimed Mr. Camber, rising. “What is that? You decline to serve me, Mrs. Wootton?”
“Why, not at all, Mr. Camber,” answered the landlady, “but I can serve no one now; it’s after time.”
“You decline to serve me,” he muttered, his speech becoming slurred45. “Am I, then, to be insulted?”
I caught a glance of entreaty46 from the landlady. “My dear sir,” I said, genially47, “we must bow to the law, I suppose. At least we are better off here than in America.”
“Ah, that is true,” agreed Mr. Camber, throwing his head back and speaking the words as though they possessed48 some deep dramatic significance. “Yes, but such laws are an insult to every intelligent man.”
He sat down again rather heavily, and I stood looking from him to the
me, however, in a way which I could never have foreseen. For, hearing
a light footfall upon the step which led up to the bar-parlour, I
turned—and there almost beside me stood a wrinkled little Chinaman!
He wore a blue suit and a tweed cap, he wore queer, thick-soled
ivory. I could scarcely credit the evidence of my senses, since the
Lavender Arms was one of the last places in which I should have looked
for a native of China.
Mr. Colin Camber rose again, and fixing his melancholy51 eyes upon the newcomer:
“Ah Tsong,” he said in a tone of cold anger, “what are you doing here?”
Quite unmoved the Chinaman replied:
“Blingee you chit, sir, vellee soon go back.”
“What do you mean?” demanded Mr. Camber. “Answer me, Ah Tsong: who sent you?”
“Lilly missee,” crooned the Chinaman, smiling up into the other’s face with a sort of childish entreaty. “Lilly missee.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Camber in a changed voice. “Oh.”
He stood very upright for a moment, his gaze set upon the wrinkled Chinese face. Then he looked at Mrs. Wootton and bowed, and looked at me and bowed, very stiffly.
“I must excuse myself, sir,” he announced. “My wife desires my presence at home.”
I returned his bow, and as he walked quite steadily52 toward the door, followed by Ah Tsong, he paused, turned, and said: “Mr. Knox, I should esteem53 it a friendly action if you would spare me an hour of your company before you leave Surrey. My visitors are few. Any one, any one, will direct you to the Guest House. I am persuaded that we have much in common. Good-day, sir.”
He went down the steps, disappearing in company with the Chinaman, and having watched them go, I turned to Mrs. Wootton, the landlady, in silent astonishment54.
She nodded her head and sighed.
“The same every day and every evening for months past,” she said. “I am afraid it’s going to be the death of him.”
“Do you mean that Mr. Camber comes here every day and is always fetched by the Chinaman?”
“Twice every day,” corrected the landlady, “and his poor wife sends here regularly.”
“What a tragedy,” I muttered, “and such a brilliant man.”
“Ah,” said she, busily removing jugs55 and glasses from the counter, “it does seem a terrible thing.”
“Has Mr. Camber lived for long in this neighbourhood?” I ventured to inquire.
“It was about three years ago, sir, that he took the old Guest House at Mid-Hatton. I remember the time well enough because of all the trouble there was about him bringing a Chinaman down here.”
“I can imagine it must have created something of a sensation,” I murmured. “Is the Guest House a large property?”
“Oh, no, sir, only ten rooms and a garden, and it had been vacant for a long time. It belongs to what is called the Crayland Park Estate.”
“Mr. Camber, I take it, is a literary man?”
“So I believe, sir.”
Mrs. Wootton, having cleared the counter, glanced up at the clock and then at me with a cheery but significant smile.
“I see that it is after time,” I said, returning the smile, “but the queer people who seem to live hereabouts interest me very much.”
“I can’t wonder at that, sir!” said the landlady, laughing outright56. “Chinamen and Spanish men and what-not. If some of the old gentry57 that lived here before the war could see it, they wouldn’t recognize the place, of that I am sure.”
“Ah, well,” said I, pausing at the step, “I shall hope to see more of Mr. Camber, and of yourself too, madam, for your ale is excellent.”
“Thank you, sir, I’m sure,” said the landlady much gratified, “but as to Mr. Camber, I really doubt if he would know you if you met him again. Not if he was sober, I mean.”
“Really?”
“Oh, it’s a fact, believe me. Just in the last six months or so he has started on the rampage like, but some of the people he has met in here and asked to call upon him have done it, thinking he meant it.”
“And they have not been well received?” said I, lingering.
“They have had the door shut in their faces!” declared Mrs. Wootton with a certain indignation. “He either does not remember what he says or does when he is in drink, or he pretends he doesn’t. Oh, dear, it’s a funny world. Well, good-day, sir.”
“Good-day,” said I, and came out of the Lavender Arms full of sympathy with the views of the “old gentry,” as outlined by Mrs. Wootton; for certainly it would seem that this quiet spot in the Surrey Hills had become a rallying ground for peculiar58 people.
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1
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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3
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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hustle
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| v.推搡；竭力兜售或获取；催促；n.奔忙(碌) | |
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8
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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footpath
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| n.小路，人行道 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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12
maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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13
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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16
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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17
larks
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| n.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的名词复数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了v.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的第三人称单数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了 | |
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18
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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scents
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| n.香水( scent的名词复数 )；气味；（动物的）臭迹；（尤指狗的）嗅觉 | |
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herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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jersey
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| n.运动衫 | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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27
imbibed
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| v.吸收( imbibe的过去式和过去分词 )；喝；吸取；吸气 | |
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28
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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29
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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30
engraving
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| n.版画；雕刻（作品）；雕刻艺术；镌版术v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的现在分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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31
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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32
replenish
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| vt.补充；(把…)装满；(再)填满 | |
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33
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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34
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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36
begets
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| v.为…之生父( beget的第三人称单数 )；产生，引起 | |
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37
allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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38
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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39
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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40
appreciable
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| adj.明显的，可见的，可估量的，可觉察的 | |
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41
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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42
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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43
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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44
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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45
slurred
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| 含糊地说出( slur的过去式和过去分词 )； 含糊地发…的声； 侮辱； 连唱 | |
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46
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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47
genially
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| adv.亲切地，和蔼地；快活地 | |
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48
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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49
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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50
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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51
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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52
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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53
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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54
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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55
jugs
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| （有柄及小口的）水壶( jug的名词复数 ) | |
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56
outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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57
gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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58
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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