The Watchers: A Novel

  CHAPTER III

  OF THE MAGICAL INFLUENCE OF A MAP

  I did not, however, find Lieutenant Clutterbuck that night. He was outof reach, and likely to remain so for some while to come. He had lefthis lodgings at mid-day and taken his body-servant with him, and hislandlady had no knowledge of his whereabouts. I thought it probable,however, that some of his friends might have that knowledge, and Ithereupon hurried to those haunts where of an evening he was anhabitual visitor. The "Hercules Pillars" in Piccadilly, the "CocoaTree" in St. James's Street, the "Spring Gardens" at Vauxhall,"Barton's" in King Street, the "Spread Eagle" in Covent Garden,--Ihurried from one to the other of these places, and though I came uponmany of Clutterbuck's intimates, not one of them was a whit betterinformed than myself. I returned to my lodging late and moredisheartened than I could have believed possible in a matter wherein Ihad no particular concern. And, indeed, it was not so much anyconjecture as to what strange tragical events might be happening aboutthat watched and solitary house in Tresco which troubled me, or evenpity for the girl maddened by her fears, or regret that I had not beenable to do Clutterbuck that slight service which I purposed. But Itook out the map of the Great West Road, and thought of the ladParmiter trudging along it, doing a day's work here among the fields,begging a lift there upon a waggon and slowly working his way downinto the West. I had a very clear picture of him before my eyes. Theday was breaking, I remember, and I blew out the candles and lookedout of the window down the street. The pavement was more silent atthat hour than those country roads on which he might now be walking,or that hedge under which he might be shaking the dew from off hisclothes. For there the thrush would be calling to the blackbird withan infinite bustle and noise, and the fields of corn would bewhispering to the fields of wheat.

  I came back again to my map, and while the light broadened, followedParmiter from the outset of his journey, through Knightsbridge, alongthe Thames, between the pine-trees of Hampshire, past Whitchurch, andinto the county of Devon. The road was unwound before my eyes like atape. I saw it slant upwards to the brow of a hill, and dip into thecup of a valley; here through a boskage of green I saw a flash ofsilver where the river ran; there between flat green fields it lay, abroad white line geometrically straight to the gate of a city; itcurved amongst the churches and houses, but never lost itself in thatlabyrinth, aiming with every wind and turn at that other gate, fromwhich it leaped free at last to the hills. And always on the road Isaw Dick Parmiter, drunk with fatigue, tottering and stumbling down tothe West.

  For awhile he occupied that road alone; but in the end I saw anothertraveller a long way behind--a man on horseback, who spurred out fromLondon and rode with the speed of the wind. For a little I watchedthat rider, curious only to discern how far he travelled, and whetherhe would pass Dick Parmiter; then, as I saw him drawing nearer andnearer, devouring the miles which lay between, it came upon me slowlythat he was riding not to pass but to overtake; and at once the fancyflashed across me that this was Clutterbuck. I gazed at my map uponthe table as one might gaze into a magician's globe. It was no longera map; it was the road itself imprisoned in hedges, sunlit, andchequered with the shadows of trees. I could see the horseman, I couldsee the dust spirting up from beneath his horse's hoofs like smokefrom a gun-barrel. Only his hat was pushed down upon his brows becauseof the wind made by the speed of his galloping, so that I could notsee his face. But it was Clutterbuck I had no doubt. Whither had hegone from his lodging? Now I was convinced that I knew. There had beenno need of my night's wanderings from tavern to tavern, had I butlooked at my map before. It was Clutterbuck without a doubt. At somebend of the road he would turn in his saddle to look backwards, and Ishould recognise his face. It was Lieutenant Clutterbuck, taking thegood air into his lungs with a vengeance. He vanished into a forest,but beyond the forest the road dipped down a bank of grass and layopen to the eye. I should see him in a second race out, his body bentover his horse's neck to save him from the swinging boughs. I couldhave clapped my hands with sheer pleasure. I wished that my voicecould have reached out to Parmiter, tramping wearily so far beyond; inmy excitement, I believed that it would, and before I knew what I did,I cried out aloud:

  "Parmiter! Parmiter!" and a voice behind me answered:

  "You must be mad, Berkeley! What in the world has come to you?"

  I sat upright in my chair. The excitement died out of me and left mechilly. I looked about me; I was in my own lodging at the corner of StJames's Street, outside in the streets the world was beginning towake, and the voice which had spoken to me and the hand which was nowlaid upon my shoulder were the voice and the hand of LieutenantClutterbuck.

  "What's this?" said he, leaning over my shoulder. "It is a map."

  "Yes," I answered, "it is a mere map, the map of the Great West Road;"and in my eyes it was no longer any more than a map.

  Clutterbuck, who was holding it in his hand, dropped it with amovement and an exclamation of anger. Then he looked curiously at me,stepped over to the sideboard and took up a glass or two which stoodthere. The glasses were clean and dry. He looked at me again, hiscuriosity had grown into uneasiness; he walked to the opposite side ofthe table, and drawing up a chair seated himself face to face with me.

  "I hoped you were drunk," said he. "But it seems you are as sober as abishop. Are you daft, then? Has it come to a strait-waistcoat? I comeback late from Twickenham. I stopped at the 'Hercules Pillars.' There Iheard that you had rushed in two hours before in a great flurry anddisorder, crying out that you must speak to me on the instant. Thesame story was told to me at the 'Cocoa Trees.' My landlady repeatedit. I conjectured that it must needs be some little affair to besettled with sharps at six in the morning; and so that you might notsay your friends neglect you, I turn from my bed, and hurry to you atthree o'clock of the morning. I find that you have left yourfront-door unlatched for any thief that wills to make his profit ofthe house. I come into your room and find you bending over a map in agreat excitement and crying out aloud that damned boy's name. Is he totrouble my peace until the Judgment Day? Are you daft, eh, Steve?" andhe reached his hand across the table not unkindly, and laid it on mysleeve. "Are you daft?"

  I was staring again at the map, and did not answer him. He shifted hishand from my sleeve and took it up and away from my eyes. He looked atit himself, and then spoke slowly, and in quite a different voice:

  "It is a curious, suggestive thing, the map of a road, when all'ssaid," he observed slowly. "I'll not deny but what it seizes one'sfancies. Its simple lines and curves call up I know not what picturesof flowering hedgerows; a little black blot means a village of stonecottages, very likely overhung with ivy and climbed upon with roses."He suddenly thrust the map again under my nose, "What do you see uponthe road?" said he.

  "Parmiter," I answered.

  "Of course," he interrupted sharply. "Well, where is Parmiter?" and Ilaid a finger on the map.

  "Between Fenny Bridges and Exeter," said he, leaning forward. "He hasmade great haste."

  He spoke quite seriously, not questioning my conjecture, but acceptingit as a mere statement of fact.

  "That is a heath?" he asked, pointing to an inch or so where the mapwas shaded on each side of the high-road. "Yes, a heath t'other sideof Hartley Row; I know it. There should be a mail-coach there, and thehorses out of the shafts, and one or two men in crape masks and a ladyin a swoon, and the driver stretched in the middle of the road with abullet through his crop."

  "I do not see that," I returned. "But here, beyond Axminster----"

  "Well?"

  He leaned yet further forward.

  "There is a forest here."

  "Yes."

  "I saw a man on horseback ride into it between the trees. He has notas yet emerged from it."

  "Who was he? Did you know him?"

  "I thought I did. But I could not see his face."

  Clutterbuck watched that forest eagerly, and with a queer suspense inhis attitude
and even in his breathing. Every now and then he raisedhis eyes to mine with a question in them. Each time I shook my head,and answered:

  "Not yet," and we both again stared at the map.

  Then Clutterbuck whispered quickly:

  "What if his horse had stumbled? What if he is lying there at theroadside beneath the tree?" He tore himself away from thecontemplation of the map. "The thing's magical!" he cried. "It hasbewitched you, Steve, and by the Lord it has come near to bewitchingme!"

  "I thought the horseman was yourself. Why don't you go?" said I,pointing to the map.

  Lieutenant Clutterbuck rose impatiently from his chair.

  "There must be an end of this. Once for all I will not go. There is noreason I should. There is reason why I should not. You do not know inwhat you are meddling. You are taken like a schoolboy by an old wife'stale of a lonely girl trapped in a net. You are too old for suchfollies."

  "I was too old a fortnight ago," I returned, "but, by the Lord, theselast days I have grown young again--so young that----"

  I stopped suddenly. Not until this instant had the notion occurred tome, but it came now, it thrilled through me with a veritable shock. Ileaned back in my chair and stared at Clutterbuck. He understood, forhe in his turn stared at me.

  "The rider!" said he breathlessly, tapping the map with hisforefinger, "the man whose face you did not see!"

  I nodded at him.

  "What if the face were mine?" said I.

  "You could never believe it."

  "I believe that I have even enough youth for that," I cried, and Ibent over the map, trying again to fashion from its plain black andwhite my picture of the great high-road, climbing and winding througha country-side rich with all the colours of the summer. But it wasonly a map of lines and curves, nor could I any longer discover thehorseman who spurred along it--though I had now a particular reason towish for a view of his face,--or the wood into which he disappeared.

  "Well, has your cavalier galloped into the open yet?" askedClutterbuck.

  He spoke with sarcasm, but the sarcasm was forced. It was but a cloakto cover and excuse the question.

  I shook my head.

  "No, and he will not," said Clutterbuck.

  "Is that so sure?" I asked. "What if the face were mine?"

  "You are serious!" he cried. "You would go a stranger and offer yourunsought aid? It would be an impertinence."

  "Suppose life and death are in the balance, would they weighimpertinence?"

  "It might be _your_ life and _your_ death!"

  And as he spoke, it seemed to me that all my last seven years rose upin their shrouds and laughed at him.

  "And what then?" I cried. "Would the world shiver if I died? Wouldeven a tavern-keeper draw down his blinds? Perhaps some drunkard inhis cups would wish I lived, that he might take my measure in adrinking-bout. There's my epitaph for you! Good Lord, Clutterbuck, butI would dearly love to die a clean death! There's that boy Parmitertramping down his road. He does a far better thing than I have everdone. You know! Why talk of it? You know the life I have lived, andsince that boy flung his example in my eyes, upon my word I sicken tothink of it. Twelve years ago, Clutterbuck, I came to London, a cadetwith a cadet's poor portion, but what a wealth of dreams! A fortunefirst, if I slaved till I was forty, and then I would set free my souland live! The fortune came, and I slaved but six years for it. Thetreaty of Aix and a rise of stocks, and there was my fortune. You knowhow I have lived since."

  Clutterbuck looked at me curiously. I had never said so much to him orto any man in this strain. Nor should I have said so much now, but Iwas fairly shaken out of my discretion. For a little Clutterbuck satsilent and motionless. Then he said gently:

  "Shall I tell you why I will not go? Yes, I will tell you," and hetold me the history of that Sunday, two years ago, when Cullen Maylesat in the stocks, or at least as much of it as had come within hisknowledge. The events of that day were the beginning of all thetrouble, indeed, but Lieutenant Clutterbuck never knew more of it thanwhat concerned himself, and as I sat over against him on that Julymorning and listened to his story while the world awoke, I had nosuspicion of what the passage of that Sunday hid, or of theextraordinary consequences which it brought about.