XIV
TRANSITION
John Mudbury was on his way home from the shops, his arms full ofChristmas presents. It was after six o'clock and the streets werevery crowded. He was an ordinary man, lived in an ordinary suburbanflat, with an ordinary wife and four ordinary children. _He_ did notthink them ordinary, but everybody else did. He had ordinary presentsfor each one, a cheap blotter for his wife, a cheap air-gun for theeldest boy, and so forth. He was over fifty, bald, in an office,decent in mind and habits, of uncertain opinions, uncertain politics,and uncertain religion. Yet he considered himself a decided, positivegentleman, quite unaware that the morning newspaper determined hisopinions for the day. He just lived--from day to day. Physically, hewas fit enough, except for a weak heart (which never troubled him);and his summer holiday was bad golf, while the children bathed and hiswife read "Garvice" on the sands. Like the majority of men, he dreamedidly of the past, muddled away the present, and guessed vaguely--afterimaginative reading on occasions--at the future.
"I'd like to survive all right," he said, "provided it's better thanthis," surveying his wife and children, and thinking of his daily toil."Otherwise----!" and he shrugged his shoulders as a brave man should.
He went to church regularly. But nothing in church _convinced_ himthat he did survive, just as nothing in church enticed him into hopingthat he would. On the other hand, nothing in life persuaded him that hedidn't, wouldn't, couldn't. "I'm an Evolutionist," he loved to say tothoughtful cronies (over a glass), having never heard that Darwinismhad been questioned....
And so he came home gaily, happily, with his bunch of Christmaspresents "for the wife and little ones," stroking himself upon theirkeen enjoyment and excitement. The night before he had taken "the wife"to see _Magic_ at a select London theatre where the Intellectualswent--and had been extraordinarily stirred. He had gone questioningly,yet expecting something out of the common. "It's _not_ musical," hewarned her, "nor farce, nor comedy, so to speak"; and in answer to herquestion as to what the Critics had said, he had wriggled, sighed, andput his gaudy necktie straight four times in quick succession. For no"Man in the Street," with any claim to self-respect, could be expectedto understand what the Critics had said, even if he understood thePlay. And John had answered truthfully: "Oh, they just said things. Butthe theatre's always full--and that's the only test."
And just now, as he crossed the crowded Circus to catch his 'bus, itchanced that his mind (having glimpsed an advertisement) was full ofthis particular Play, or, rather, of the effect it had produced uponhim at the time. For it had _thrilled_ him--inexplicably: with itsmarvellous speculative hint, its big audacity, its alert and spiritualbeauty.... Thought plunged to find something--plunged after thisbizarre suggestion of a bigger universe, after this quasi-jocularsuggestion that man is not the only--then dashed full-tilt againsta sentence that memory thrust beneath his nose: "Science does _not_exhaust the Universe"--and at the same time dashed full-tilt againstdestruction of another kind as well...!
How it happened, he never exactly knew. He saw a Monster glaringat him with eyes of blazing fire. It was horrible! It rushed uponhim. He dodged.... Another Monster met him round the corner. Bothcame at him simultaneously.... He dodged again--a leap that mighthave cleared a hurdle easily, but was too late. Between the pair ofthem--his heart literally in his gullet--he was mercilessly caught....Bones crunched.... There was a soft sensation, icy cold and hot asfire. Horns and voices roared. Battering-rams he saw, and a carapaceof iron.... Then dazzling light.... "Always _face_ the traffic!" heremembered with a frantic yell--and, by some extraordinary luck,escaped miraculously on to the opposite pavement....
There was no doubt about it. By the skin of his teeth he had dodgeda rather ugly death. First ... he felt for his presents--all weresafe. And then, instead of congratulating himself and taking breath,he hurried homewards--_on foot_, which proved that his mind had lostcontrol a bit!--thinking only how disappointed the wife and childrenwould have been if--if anything had happened.... Another thing herealised, oddly enough, was that he no longer really _loved_ his wife,but had only great affection for her. What made him think of that,Heaven only knows, but he _did_ think of it. He was an honest manwithout pretence. This came as a discovery somehow. He turned a moment,and saw the crowd gathered about the entangled taxicabs, policemen'shelmets gleaming in the lights of the shop windows ... then hurried onagain, his thoughts full of the joy his presents would give ... of thescampering children ... and of his wife--bless her silly heart!--eyeingthe mysterious parcels....
And, though he never could explain _how_, he presently stood at thedoor of the jail-like building that contained his flat, having walkedthe whole three miles! His thoughts had been so busy and absorbed thathe had hardly noticed the length of weary trudge.... "Besides," hereflected, thinking of the narrow escape, "I've had a nasty shock.It was a d----d near thing, now I come to think of it...." He didfeel a bit shaky and bewildered.... Yet, at the same time, he feltextraordinarily jolly and light-hearted....
He counted his Christmas parcels ... hugged himself in anticipatoryjoy ... and let himself in swiftly with his latchkey. "I'm late," herealised, "but when she sees the brown-paper parcels, she'll forgetto say a word. God bless the old faithful soul." And he softly usedthe key a second time and entered his flat on tiptoe.... In his mindwas the master impulse of that afternoon--the pleasure these Christmaspresents would give his wife and children....
He heard a noise. He hung up hat and coat in the pokey vestibule (theynever called it "hall") and moved softly towards the parlour door,holding the packages behind him. Only of them he thought, not ofhimself--of his family, that is, not of the packages. Pushing the doorcunningly ajar, he peeped in slyly. To his amazement, the room was fullof people! He withdrew quickly, wondering what it meant. A party? Andwithout his knowing about it! Extraordinary!... Keen disappointmentcame over him. But, as he stepped back, the vestibule, he saw, was fullof people too.
He was uncommonly surprised, yet somehow not surprised at all. Peoplewere congratulating him. There was a perfect mob of them. Moreover, heknew them all--vaguely remembered them, at least. And they all knew him.
"Isn't it a game?" laughed some one, patting him on the back. "_They_haven't the least idea...!"
And the speaker--it was old John Palmer, the bookkeeper at theoffice--emphasised the "they."
"Not the least idea," he answered with a smile, saying something hedidn't understand, yet knew was right.
His face, apparently, showed the utter bewilderment he felt. The shockof the collision had been greater than he realised evidently. His mindwas wandering.... Possibly! Only the odd thing was--he had never feltso clear-headed in his life. Ten thousand things grew simple suddenly.But, how thickly these people pressed about him, and how--familiarly!
"My parcels," he said, joyously pushing his way across the throng."These are Christmas presents I've bought for them." He nodded towardthe room. "I've saved for weeks--stopped cigars and billiards and--andseveral other good things--to buy them."
"Good man!" said Palmer with a happy laugh. "It's the heart thatcounts."
Mudbury looked at him. Palmer had said an amazing truth, only--peoplewould hardly understand and believe him.... Would they?
"Eh?" he asked, feeling stuffed and stupid, muddled somewhere betweentwo meanings, one of which was gorgeous and the other stupid beyondbelief.
"If you _please_, Mr. Mudbury, step inside. They are expecting you,"said a kindly, pompous voice. And, turning sharply, he met the gentle,foolish eyes of Sir James Epiphany, a director of the Bank where heworked.
The effect of the voice was instantaneous from long habit.
"They are?" he smiled from his heart, and advanced as from the customof many years. Oh, how happy and gay he felt! His affection for hiswife was real. Romance, indeed, had gone, but he needed her--and sheneeded him. And the children--Milly, Bill, and Jean--he deeply lovedthem. Life _was_ worth living indeed!
In the room was a crowd, but--an ast
ounding silence. John Mudburylooked round him. He advanced towards his wife, who sat in the cornerarm-chair with Milly on her knee. A lot of people talked and movedabout. Momentarily the crowd increased. He stood in front of them--infront of Milly and his wife. And he spoke--holding out his packages."It's Christmas Eve," he whispered shyly, "and I've--brought yousomething--something for everybody. Look!" He held the packages beforetheir eyes.
"Of course, of course," said a voice behind him, "but you may hold themout like that for a century. They'll _never_ see them!"
"Of course they won't. But I love to do the old, sweet thing," repliedJohn Mudbury--then wondered with a gasp of stark amazement why he saidit.
"_I_ think----" whispered Milly, staring round her.
"Well, _what_ do you think?" her mother asked sharply. "You're alwaysthinking something queer."
"I think," the child continued dreamily, "that Daddy's already here."She paused, then added with a child's impossible conviction, "I'm surehe is. I _feel_ him."
There was an extraordinary laugh. Sir James Epiphany laughed. Theothers--the whole crowd of them--also turned their heads and smiled.But the mother, thrusting the child away from her, rose up suddenlywith a violent start. Her face had turned to chalk. She stretched herarms out--into the air before her. She gasped and shivered. There wasan awful anguish in her eyes.
"Look!" repeated John, "these are the presents that I brought."
But his voice apparently was soundless. And, with a spasm of icy pain,he remembered that Palmer and Sir James--some years ago--had died.
"It's magic," he cried, "but--I love you, Jinny--I love you--and--and Ihave always been true to you--as true as steel. We need each other--oh,can't you see--we go on together--you and I--for ever and ever----"
"_Think_," interrupted an exquisitely tender voice, "don't shout!_They_ can't hear you--now." And, turning, John Mudbury met the eyes ofEverard Minturn, their President of the year before. Minturn had gonedown with the _Titanic_.
He dropped his parcels then. His heart gave an enormous leap of joy.
He saw her face--the face of his wife--look through him.
But the child gazed straight into his eyes. She _saw_ him.
The next thing he knew was that he heard something tinkling ... far,far away. It sounded miles below him--inside him--he was soundinghimself--all utterly bewildering--like a bell. It _was_ a bell.
Milly stooped down and picked the parcels up. Her face shone withhappiness and laughter....
But a man came in soon after, a man with a ridiculous, solemn face, apencil, and a notebook. He wore a dark blue helmet. Behind him came astring of other men. They carried something ... something ... he couldnot see exactly what it was. But when he pressed forward through thelaughing throng to gaze upon it, he dimly made out two eyes, a nose, achin, a deep red smear, and a pair of folded hands upon an overcoat. Awoman's form fell down upon them then, and ... he heard ... soft soundsof children weeping strangely ... and other sounds ... sounds as offamiliar voices ... laughing ... laughing gaily.
"They'll join us presently. It goes like a flash...."
And, turning with great happiness in his heart, he saw that Sir Jameshad said it, holding Palmer by the arm as with some natural yetunexpected love of sympathetic friendship.
"Come on," said Palmer, smiling like a man who accepts a gift inuniversal fellowship, "let's help 'em. They'll never understand....Still, we can always try."
The entire throng moved up with laughter and amusement. It was amoment of hearty, genuine life at last. Delight and Joy and Peace wereeverywhere.
Then John Mudbury realised the truth--that he was _dead_.