CHAPTER XXVII.
Mr. Scogan had been accommodated in a little canvas hut. Dressed in ablack skirt and a red bodice, with a yellow-and-red bandana handkerchieftied round his black wig, he looked--sharp-nosed, brown, andwrinkled--like the Bohemian Hag of Frith's Derby Day. A placard pinnedto the curtain of the doorway announced the presence within the tent of"Sesostris, the Sorceress of Ecbatana." Seated at a table, Mr. Scoganreceived his clients in mysterious silence, indicating with a movementof the finger that they were to sit down opposite him and to extendtheir hands for his inspection. He then examined the palm that waspresented him, using a magnifying glass and a pair of horn spectacles.He had a terrifying way of shaking his head, frowning and clicking withhis tongue as he looked at the lines. Sometimes he would whisper, asthough to himself, "Terrible, terrible!" or "God preserve us!" sketchingout the sign of the cross as he uttered the words. The clients who camein laughing grew suddenly grave; they began to take the witch seriously.She was a formidable-looking woman; could it be, was it possible, thatthere was something in this sort of thing after all? After all, theythought, as the hag shook her head over their hands, after all...Andthey waited, with an uncomfortably beating heart, for the oracle tospeak. After a long and silent inspection, Mr. Scogan would suddenlylook up and ask, in a hoarse whisper, some horrifying question, such as,"Have you ever been hit on the head with a hammer by a young man withred hair?" When the answer was in the negative, which it could hardlyfail to be, Mr. Scogan would nod several times, saying, "I was afraidso. Everything is still to come, still to come, though it can't bevery far off now." Sometimes, after a long examination, he would justwhisper, "Where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise," and refuseto divulge any details of a future too appalling to be envisaged withoutdespair. Sesostris had a success of horror. People stood in a queueoutside the witch's booth waiting for the privilege of hearing sentencepronounced upon them.
Denis, in the course of his round, looked with curiosity at this crowdof suppliants before the shrine of the oracle. He had a great desireto see how Mr. Scogan played his part. The canvas booth was a rickety,ill-made structure. Between its walls and its sagging roof were longgaping chinks and crannies. Denis went to the tea-tent and borrowed awooden bench and a small Union Jack. With these he hurried back to thebooth of Sesostris. Setting down the bench at the back of the booth,he climbed up, and with a great air of busy efficiency began to tie theUnion Jack to the top of one of the tent-poles. Through the crannies inthe canvas he could see almost the whole of the interior of the tent.Mr. Scogan's bandana-covered head was just below him; his terrifyingwhispers came clearly up. Denis looked and listened while the witchprophesied financial losses, death by apoplexy, destruction by air-raidsin the next war.
"Is there going to be another war?" asked the old lady to whom he hadpredicted this end.
"Very soon," said Mr. Scogan, with an air of quiet confidence.
The old lady was succeeded by a girl dressed in white muslin, garnishedwith pink ribbons. She was wearing a broad hat, so that Denis could notsee her face; but from her figure and the roundness of her bare armshe judged her young and pleasing. Mr. Scogan looked at her hand, thenwhispered, "You are still virtuous."
The young lady giggled and exclaimed, "Oh, lor'!"
"But you will not remain so for long," added Mr. Scogan sepulchrally.The young lady giggled again. "Destiny, which interests itself in smallthings no less than in great, has announced the fact upon your hand."Mr. Scogan took up the magnifying-glass and began once more to examinethe white palm. "Very interesting," he said, as though to himself--"veryinteresting. It's as clear as day." He was silent.
"What's clear?" asked the girl.
"I don't think I ought to tell you." Mr. Scogan shook his head; thependulous brass ear-rings which he had screwed on to his ears tinkled.
"Please, please!" she implored.
The witch seemed to ignore her remark. "Afterwards, it's not at allclear. The fates don't say whether you will settle down to married lifeand have four children or whether you will try to go on the cinemaand have none. They are only specific about this one rather crucialincident."
"What is it? What is it? Oh, do tell me!"
The white muslin figure leant eagerly forward.
Mr. Scogan sighed. "Very well," he said, "if you must know, youmust know. But if anything untoward happens you must blame yourown curiosity. Listen. Listen." He lifted up a sharp, claw-nailedforefinger. "This is what the fates have written. Next Sunday afternoonat six o'clock you will be sitting on the second stile on the footpaththat leads from the church to the lower road. At that moment a man willappear walking along the footpath." Mr. Scogan looked at her hand againas though to refresh his memory of the details of the scene. "A man," herepeated--"a small man with a sharp nose, not exactly good looking norprecisely young, but fascinating." He lingered hissingly over the word."He will ask you, 'Can you tell me the way to Paradise?' and you willanswer, 'Yes, I'll show you,' and walk with him down towards the littlehazel copse. I cannot read what will happen after that." There was asilence.
"Is it really true?" asked white muslin.
The witch gave a shrug of the shoulders. "I merely tell you what I readin your hand. Good afternoon. That will be sixpence. Yes, I have change.Thank you. Good afternoon."
Denis stepped down from the bench; tied insecurely and crookedly to thetentpole, the Union Jack hung limp on the windless air. "If only I coulddo things like that!" he thought, as he carried the bench back to thetea-tent.
Anne was sitting behind a long table filling thick white cups from anurn. A neat pile of printed sheets lay before her on the table. Denistook one of them and looked at it affectionately. It was his poem. Theyhad printed five hundred copies, and very nice the quarto broadsheetslooked.
"Have you sold many?" he asked in a casual tone.
Anne put her head on one side deprecatingly. "Only three so far, I'mafraid. But I'm giving a free copy to everyone who spends more than ashilling on his tea. So in any case it's having a circulation."
Denis made no reply, but walked slowly away. He looked at the broadsheetin his hand and read the lines to himself relishingly as he walkedalong:
"This day of roundabouts and swings, Struck weights, shied cocoa-nuts,tossed rings, Switchbacks, Aunt Sallies, and all such small Highjinks--you call it ferial? A holiday? But paper noses Sniffed theartificial roses Of round Venetian cheeks through half Each carnivalyear, and masks might laugh At things the naked face for shame Wouldblush at--laugh and think no blame. A holiday? But Galba showedElephants on an airy road; Jumbo trod the tightrope then, And in thecircus armed men Stabbed home for sport and died to break Those dullimperatives that make A prison of every working day, Where all mustdrudge and all obey. Sing Holiday! You do not know How to be free. TheRussian snow flowered with bright blood whose roses spread Petals offading, fading red That died into the snow again, Into the virgin snow;and men From all ancient bonds were freed. Old law, old custom, and oldcreed, Old right and wrong there bled to death; The frozen air receivedtheir breath, A little smoke that died away; And round about them wherethey lay The snow bloomed roses. Blood was there A red gay flower andonly fair. Sing Holiday! Beneath the Tree Of Innocence and Liberty,Paper Nose and Red Cockade Dance within the magic shade That makes themdrunken, merry, and strong To laugh and sing their ferial song: 'Free,free...!' But Echo answers Faintly to the laughing dancers, 'Free'--andfaintly laughs, and still, Within the hollows of the hill, Faintlierlaughs and whispers, 'Free,' Fadingly, diminishingly: 'Free,' andlaughter faints away... Sing Holiday! Sing Holiday!"
He folded the sheet carefully and put it in his pocket. The thing hadits merits. Oh, decidedly, decidedly! But how unpleasant the crowdsmelt! He lit a cigarette. The smell of cows was preferable. He passedthrough the gate in the park wall into the garden. The swimming-pool wasa centre of noise and activity.
"Second Heat in the Young Ladies' Championship." It was the politevoice of Henry Wimbush. A crowd of sleek, seal-like
figures in blackbathing-dresses surrounded him. His grey bowler hat, smooth, round, andmotionless in the midst of a moving sea, was an island of aristocraticcalm.
Holding his tortoise-shell-rimmed pince-nez an inch or two in front ofhis eyes, he read out names from a list.
"Miss Dolly Miles, Miss Rebecca Balister, Miss Doris Gabell..."
Five young persons ranged themselves on the brink. From their seats ofhonour at the other end of the pool, old Lord Moleyn and Mr. Callamaylooked on with eager interest.
Henry Wimbush raised his hand. There was an expectant silence. "When Isay 'Go,' go. Go!" he said. There was an almost simultaneous splash.
Denis pushed his way through the spectators. Somebody plucked him by thesleeve; he looked down. It was old Mrs. Budge.
"Delighted to see you again, Mr. Stone," she said in her rich, huskyvoice. She panted a little as she spoke, like a short-winded lap-dog.It was Mrs. Budge who, having read in the "Daily Mirror" that theGovernment needed peach stones--what they needed them for she neverknew--had made the collection of peach stones her peculiar "bit" of warwork. She had thirty-six peach trees in her walled garden, as well asfour hot-houses in which trees could be forced, so that she was ableto eat peaches practically the whole year round. In 1916 she ate 4200peaches, and sent the stones to the Government. In 1917 the militaryauthorities called up three of her gardeners, and what with this and thefact that it was a bad year for wall fruit, she only managed to eat 2900peaches during that crucial period of the national destinies. In 1918she did rather better, for between January 1st and the date of theArmistice she ate 3300 peaches. Since the Armistice she had relaxed herefforts; now she did not eat more than two or three peaches a day. Herconstitution, she complained, had suffered; but it had suffered for agood cause.
Denis answered her greeting by a vague and polite noise.
"So nice to see the young people enjoying themselves," Mrs. Budge wenton. "And the old people too, for that matter. Look at old Lord Moleynand dear Mr. Callamay. Isn't it delightful to see the way they enjoythemselves?"
Denis looked. He wasn't sure whether it was so very delightful afterall. Why didn't they go and watch the sack races? The two old gentlemenwere engaged at the moment in congratulating the winner of the race; itseemed an act of supererogatory graciousness; for, after all, she hadonly won a heat.
"Pretty little thing, isn't she?" said Mrs. Budge huskily, and pantedtwo or three times.
"Yes," Denis nodded agreement. Sixteen, slender, but nubile, he said tohimself, and laid up the phrase in his memory as a happy one. Old Mr.Callamay had put on his spectacles to congratulate the victor, and LordMoleyn, leaning forward over his walking-stick, showed his long ivoryteeth, hungrily smiling.
"Capital performance, capital," Mr. Callamay was saying in his deepvoice.
The victor wriggled with embarrassment. She stood with her hands behindher back, rubbing one foot nervously on the other. Her wet bathing-dressshone, a torso of black polished marble.
"Very good indeed," said Lord Moleyn. His voice seemed to come from justbehind his teeth, a toothy voice. It was as though a dog should suddenlybegin to speak. He smiled again, Mr. Callamay readjusted his spectacles.
"When I say 'Go,' go. Go!"
Splash! The third heat had started.
"Do you know, I never could learn to swim," said Mrs. Budge.
"Really?"
"But I used to be able to float."
Denis imagined her floating--up and down, up and down on a great greenswell. A blown black bladder; no, that wasn't good, that wasn't good atall. A new winner was being congratulated. She was atrociously stubbyand fat. The last one, long and harmoniously, continuously curved fromknee to breast, had been an Eve by Cranach; but this, this one was a badRubens.
"...go--go--go!" Henry Wimbush's polite level voice once more pronouncedthe formula. Another batch of young ladies dived in.
Grown a little weary of sustaining a conversation with Mrs. Budge,Denis conveniently remembered that his duties as a steward called himelsewhere. He pushed out through the lines of spectators and made hisway along the path left clear behind them. He was thinking again thathis soul was a pale, tenuous membrane, when he was startled by hearinga thin, sibilant voice, speaking apparently from just above his head,pronounce the single word "Disgusting!"
He looked up sharply. The path along which he was walking passed underthe lee of a wall of clipped yew. Behind the hedge the ground slopedsteeply up towards the foot of the terrace and the house; for onestanding on the higher ground it was easy to look over the dark barrier.Looking up, Denis saw two heads overtopping the hedge immediately abovehim. He recognised the iron mask of Mr. Bodiham and the pale, colourlessface of his wife. They were looking over his head, over the heads of thespectators, at the swimmers in the pond.
"Disgusting!" Mrs. Bodiham repeated, hissing softly.
The rector turned up his iron mask towards the solid cobalt of the sky."How long?" he said, as though to himself; "how long?" He lowered hiseyes again, and they fell on Denis's upturned curious face. There was anabrupt movement, and Mr. and Mrs. Bodiham popped out of sight behind thehedge.
Denis continued his promenade. He wandered past the merry-go-round,through the thronged streets of the canvas village; the membrane ofhis soul flapped tumultuously in the noise and laughter. In a roped-offspace beyond, Mary was directing the children's sports. Little creaturesseethed round about her, making a shrill, tinny clamour; othersclustered about the skirts and trousers of their parents. Mary's facewas shining in the heat; with an immense output of energy she started athree-legged race. Denis looked on in admiration.
"You're wonderful," he said, coming up behind her and touching her onthe arm. "I've never seen such energy."
She turned towards him a face, round, red, and honest as the settingsun; the golden bell of her hair swung silently as she moved her headand quivered to rest.
"Do you know, Denis," she said, in a low, serious voice, gasping alittle as she spoke--"do you know that there's a woman here who has hadthree children in thirty-one months?"
"Really," said Denis, making rapid mental calculations.
"It's appalling. I've been telling her about the Malthusian League. Onereally ought..."
But a sudden violent renewal of the metallic yelling announced the factthat somebody had won the race. Mary became once more the centre of adangerous vortex. It was time, Denis thought, to move on; he might beasked to do something if he stayed too long.
He turned back towards the canvas village. The thought of tea wasmaking itself insistent in his mind. Tea, tea, tea. But the tea-tent washorribly thronged. Anne, with an unusual expression of grimness on herflushed face, was furiously working the handle of the urn; the brownliquid spurted incessantly into the proffered cups. Portentous, inthe farther corner of the tent, Priscilla, in her royal toque, wasencouraging the villagers. In a momentary lull Denis could hear herdeep, jovial laughter and her manly voice. Clearly, he told himself,this was no place for one who wanted tea. He stood irresolute at theentrance to the tent. A beautiful thought suddenly came to him; if hewent back to the house, went unobtrusively, without being observed, ifhe tiptoed into the dining-room and noiselessly opened the little doorsof the sideboard--ah, then! In the cool recess within he would findbottles and a siphon; a bottle of crystal gin and a quart of soda water,and then for the cups that inebriate as well as cheer...
A minute later he was walking briskly up the shady yew-tree walk. Withinthe house it was deliciously quiet and cool. Carrying his well-filledtumbler with care, he went into the library. There, the glass on thecorner of the table beside him, he settled into a chair with a volume ofSainte-Beuve. There was nothing, he found, like a Causerie du Lundi forsettling and soothing the troubled spirits. That tenuous membrane of hishad been too rudely buffeted by the afternoon's emotions; it required arest.