DUSK
Norman Gortsby sat on a bench in the Park, with his back to a strip ofbush-planted sward, fenced by the park railings, and the Row fronting himacross a wide stretch of carriage drive. Hyde Park Corner, with itsrattle and hoot of traffic, lay immediately to his right. It was somethirty minutes past six on an early March evening, and dusk had fallenheavily over the scene, dusk mitigated by some faint moonlight and manystreet lamps. There was a wide emptiness over road and sidewalk, and yetthere were many unconsidered figures moving silently through thehalf-light, or dotted unobtrusively on bench and chair, scarcely to bedistinguished from the shadowed gloom in which they sat.
The scene pleased Gortsby and harmonised with his present mood. Dusk, tohis mind, was the hour of the defeated. Men and women, who had foughtand lost, who hid their fallen fortunes and dead hopes as far as possiblefrom the scrutiny of the curious, came forth in this hour of gloaming,when their shabby clothes and bowed shoulders and unhappy eyes might passunnoticed, or, at any rate, unrecognised.
A king that is conquered must see strange looks, So bitter a thing is the heart of man.
The wanderers in the dusk did not choose to have strange looks fasten onthem, therefore they came out in this bat-fashion, taking their pleasuresadly in a pleasure-ground that had emptied of its rightful occupants.Beyond the sheltering screen of bushes and palings came a realm ofbrilliant lights and noisy, rushing traffic. A blazing, many-tieredstretch of windows shone through the dusk and almost dispersed it,marking the haunts of those other people, who held their own in life’sstruggle, or at any rate had not had to admit failure. So Gortsby’simagination pictured things as he sat on his bench in the almost desertedwalk. He was in the mood to count himself among the defeated. Moneytroubles did not press on him; had he so wished he could have strolledinto the thoroughfares of light and noise, and taken his place among thejostling ranks of those who enjoyed prosperity or struggled for it. Hehad failed in a more subtle ambition, and for the moment he was heartsoreand disillusionised, and not disinclined to take a certain cynicalpleasure in observing and labelling his fellow wanderers as they wenttheir ways in the dark stretches between the lamp-lights.
On the bench by his side sat an elderly gentleman with a drooping air ofdefiance that was probably the remaining vestige of self-respect in anindividual who had ceased to defy successfully anybody or anything. Hisclothes could scarcely be called shabby, at least they passed muster inthe half-light, but one’s imagination could not have pictured the wearerembarking on the purchase of a half-crown box of chocolates or laying outninepence on a carnation buttonhole. He belonged unmistakably to thatforlorn orchestra to whose piping no one dances; he was one of theworld’s lamenters who induce no responsive weeping. As he rose to goGortsby imagined him returning to a home circle where he was snubbed andof no account, or to some bleak lodging where his ability to pay a weeklybill was the beginning and end of the interest he inspired. Hisretreating figure vanished slowly into the shadows, and his place on thebench was taken almost immediately by a young man, fairly well dressedbut scarcely more cheerful of mien than his predecessor. As if toemphasise the fact that the world went badly with him the new-cornerunburdened himself of an angry and very audible expletive as he flunghimself into the seat.
“You don’t seem in a very good temper,” said Gortsby, judging that he wasexpected to take due notice of the demonstration.
The young man turned to him with a look of disarming frankness which puthim instantly on his guard.
“You wouldn’t be in a good temper if you were in the fix I’m in,” hesaid; “I’ve done the silliest thing I’ve ever done in my life.”
“Yes?” said Gortsby dispassionately.
“Came up this afternoon, meaning to stay at the Patagonian Hotel inBerkshire Square,” continued the young man; “when I got there I found ithad been pulled down some weeks ago and a cinema theatre run up on thesite. The taxi driver recommended me to another hotel some way off and Iwent there. I just sent a letter to my people, giving them the address,and then I went out to buy some soap—I’d forgotten to pack any and I hateusing hotel soap. Then I strolled about a bit, had a drink at a bar andlooked at the shops, and when I came to turn my steps back to the hotel Isuddenly realised that I didn’t remember its name or even what street itwas in. There’s a nice predicament for a fellow who hasn’t any friendsor connections in London! Of course I can wire to my people for theaddress, but they won’t have got my letter till to-morrow; meantime I’mwithout any money, came out with about a shilling on me, which went inbuying the soap and getting the drink, and here I am, wandering aboutwith twopence in my pocket and nowhere to go for the night.”
There was an eloquent pause after the story had been told. “I supposeyou think I’ve spun you rather an impossible yarn,” said the young manpresently, with a suggestion of resentment in his voice.
“Not at all impossible,” said Gortsby judicially; “I remember doingexactly the same thing once in a foreign capital, and on that occasionthere were two of us, which made it more remarkable. Luckily weremembered that the hotel was on a sort of canal, and when we struck thecanal we were able to find our way back to the hotel.”
The youth brightened at the reminiscence. “In a foreign city I wouldn’tmind so much,” he said; “one could go to one’s Consul and get therequisite help from him. Here in one’s own land one is far more derelictif one gets into a fix. Unless I can find some decent chap to swallow mystory and lend me some money I seem likely to spend the night on theEmbankment. I’m glad, anyhow, that you don’t think the storyoutrageously improbable.”
He threw a good deal of warmth into the last remark, as though perhaps toindicate his hope that Gortsby did not fall far short of the requisitedecency.
“Of course,” said Gortsby slowly, “the weak point of your story is thatyou can’t produce the soap.”
The young man sat forward hurriedly, felt rapidly in the pockets of hisovercoat, and then jumped to his feet.
“I must have lost it,” he muttered angrily.
“To lose an hotel and a cake of soap on one afternoon suggests wilfulcarelessness,” said Gortsby, but the young man scarcely waited to hearthe end of the remark. He flitted away down the path, his head heldhigh, with an air of somewhat jaded jauntiness.
“It was a pity,” mused Gortsby; “the going out to get one’s own soap wasthe one convincing touch in the whole story, and yet it was just thatlittle detail that brought him to grief. If he had had the brilliantforethought to provide himself with a cake of soap, wrapped and sealedwith all the solicitude of the chemist’s counter, he would have been agenius in his particular line. In his particular line genius certainlyconsists of an infinite capacity for taking precautions.”
With that reflection Gortsby rose to go; as he did so an exclamation ofconcern escaped him. Lying on the ground by the side of the bench was asmall oval packet, wrapped and sealed with the solicitude of a chemist’scounter. It could be nothing else but a cake of soap, and it hadevidently fallen out of the youth’s overcoat pocket when he flung himselfdown on the seat. In another moment Gortsby was scudding along thedusk-shrouded path in anxious quest for a youthful figure in a lightovercoat. He had nearly given up the search when he caught sight of theobject of his pursuit standing irresolutely on the border of the carriagedrive, evidently uncertain whether to strike across the Park or make forthe bustling pavements of Knightsbridge. He turned round sharply with anair of defensive hostility when he found Gortsby hailing him.
“The important witness to the genuineness of your story has turned up,”said Gortsby, holding out the cake of soap; “it must have slid out ofyour overcoat pocket when you sat down on the seat. I saw it on theground after you left. You must excuse my disbelief, but appearanceswere really rather against you, and now, as I appealed to the testimonyof the soap I think I ought to abide by its verdict. If the loan of asovereign is any good to you—”
The young man hastil
y removed all doubt on the subject by pocketing thecoin.
“Here is my card with my address,” continued Gortsby; “any day this weekwill do for returning the money, and here is the soap—don’t lose it againit’s been a good friend to you.”
“Lucky thing your finding it,” said the youth, and then, with a catch inhis voice, he blurted out a word or two of thanks and fled headlong inthe direction of Knightsbridge.
“Poor boy, he as nearly as possible broke down,” said Gortsby to himself.“I don’t wonder either; the relief from his quandary must have beenacute. It’s a lesson to me not to be too clever in judging bycircumstances.”
As Gortsby retraced his steps past the seat where the little drama hadtaken place he saw an elderly gentleman poking and peering beneath it andon all sides of it, and recognised his earlier fellow occupant.
“Have you lost anything, sir?” he asked.
“Yes, sir, a cake of soap.”