Others had been before him—indeed he had a curious sense of companionship. Little votive offerings to the presiding Power were fastened on to the bark—tiny arms and legs and eyes in tin, grotesque models of the brain or the heart—all tokens of some recovery of strength or wisdom or love. There was no such thing as the solitude of nature, for the sorrows and joys of humanity had pressed even into the bosom of a tree. He spread out his arms and steadied himself against the soft charred wood, and then slowly leant back, till his body was resting on the trunk behind. His eyes closed, and he had the strange feeling of one who is moving, yet at peace—the feeling of the swimmer, who, after long struggling with chopping seas, finds that after all the tide will sweep him to his goal.
So he lay motionless, conscious only of the stream below his feet, and that all things were a stream, in which he was moving.
He was aroused at last by a shock—the shock of an arrival perhaps, for when he opened his eyes, something unimagined, indefinable, had passed over all things, and made them intelligible and good.
There was meaning in the stoop of the old woman over her work, and in the quick motions of the little pig, and in her diminishing globe of wool. A young man came singing over the streams on a mule, and there was beauty in his pose and sincerity in his greeting. The sun made no accidental patterns upon the spreading roots of the trees, and there was intention in the nodding clumps of asphodel, and in the music of the water. To Mr Lucas, who, in a brief space of time, had discovered not only Greece, but England and all the world and life, there seemed nothing ludicrous in the desire to hang within the tree another votive offering—a little model of an entire man.
‘Why, here’s papa, playing at being Merlin.’
All unnoticed they had arrived—Ethel, Mrs Forman, Mr Graham, and the English-speaking dragoman. Mr Lucas peered out at them suspiciously. They had suddenly become unfamiliar, and all that they did seemed strained and coarse.
‘Allow me to give you a hand,’ said Mr Graham, a young man who was always polite to his elders.
Mr Lucas felt annoyed. ‘Thank you, I can manage perfectly well by myself,’ he replied. His foot slipped as he stepped out of the tree, and went into the spring.
‘Oh, papa, my papa!’ said Ethel, ‘what are you doing? Thank goodness I have got a change for you on the mule.’
She tended him carefully, giving him clean socks and dry boots, and then sat him down on the rug beside the lunch basket, while she went with the others to explore the grove.
They came back in ecstasies, in which Mr Lucas tried to join. But he found them intolerable. Their enthusiasm was superficial, commonplace, and spasmodic. They had no perception of the coherent beauty that was flowering around them. He tried at least to explain his feelings, and what he said was:
‘I am altogether pleased with the appearance of this place. It impresses me very favourably. The trees are fine, remarkably fine for Greece, and there is something very poetic in the spring of clear running water. The people too seem kindly and civil. It is decidedly an attractive place.’
Mrs Forman upbraided him for his tepid praise.
‘Oh, it is a place in a thousand!’ she cried. ‘I could live and die here! I really would stop if I had not to be back at Athens! It reminds me of the Colonus of Sophocles.’
‘Well, I must stop,’ said Ethel. ‘I positively must.’
‘Yes, do! You and your father! Antigone and Oedipus. Of course you must stop at Colonus!’
Mr Lucas was almost breathless with excitement. When he stood within the tree, he had believed that his happiness would be independent of locality. But these few minutes’ conversation had undeceived him. He no longer trusted himself to journey through the world, for old thoughts, old wearinesses might be waiting to rejoin him as soon as he left the shade of the planes and the music of the virgin water. To sleep in the Khan with the gracious, kind-eyed country people, to watch the bats flit about within the globe of shade, and see the moon turn the golden patterns into silver—one such night would place him beyond relapse, and confirm him for ever in the kingdom he had regained. But all his lips could say was: ‘I should be willing to put in a night here.’
‘You mean a week, papa! It would be sacrilege to put in less.’
‘A week then, a week,’ said his lips, irritated at being corrected, while his heart was leaping with joy. All through lunch he spoke to them no more, but watched the place he should know so well, and the people who would so soon be his companions and friends. The inmates of the Khan only consisted of an old woman, a middle-aged woman, a young man and two children, and to none of them had he spoken, yet he loved them as he loved everything that moved or breathed or existed beneath the benedictory shade of the planes.
‘En route!’ said the shrill voice of Mrs Forman. ‘Ethel! Mr Graham! The best of things must end.’
‘To-night,’ thought Mr Lucas, ‘they will light the little lamp by the shrine. And when we all sit together on the balcony, perhaps they will tell me which offerings they put up.’
‘I beg your pardon, Mr Lucas,’ said Graham, ‘but they want to fold up the rug you are sitting on.’
Mr Lucas got up, saying to himself: ‘Ethel shall go to bed first, and then I will try to tell them about my offering too—for it is a thing I must do. I think they will understand if I am left with them alone.’
Ethel touched him on the cheek. ‘Papa! I’ve called you three times. All the mules are here.’
‘Mules? What mules?’
‘Our mules. We’re all waiting. Oh, Mr Graham, do help my father on.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ethel.’
‘My dearest papa, we must start. You know we have to get to Olympia to-night.’
Mr Lucas in pompous, confident tones replied: ‘I always did wish, Ethel, that you had a better head for plans. You know perfectly well that we are putting in a week here. It is your own suggestion.’
Ethel was startled into impoliteness. ‘What a perfectly ridiculous idea. You must have known I was joking. Of course I meant I wished we could.’
‘Ah! if we could only do what we wished!’ sighed Mrs Forman, already seated on her mule.
‘Surely,’ Ethel continued in calmer tones, ‘you didn’t think I meant it.’
‘Most certainly I did. I have made all my plans on the supposition that we are stopping here, and it will be extremely inconvenient, indeed, impossible for me to start.’
He delivered this remark with an air of great conviction, and Mrs Forman and Mr Graham had to turn away to hide their smiles.
‘I am sorry I spoke so carelessly; it was wrong of me. But, you know, we can’t break up our party, and even one night here would make us miss the boat at Patras.’
Mrs Forman, in an aside, called Mr Graham’s attention to the excellent way in which Ethel managed her father.
‘I don’t mind about the Patras boat. You said that we should stop here, and we are stopping.’
It seemed as if the inhabitants of the Khan had divined in some mysterious way that the altercation touched them. The old woman stopped her spinning, while the young man and the two children stood behind Mr Lucas, as if supporting him.
Neither arguments nor entreaties moved him. He said little, but he was absolutely determined, because for the first time he saw his daily life aright. What need had he to return to England? Who would miss him? His friends were dead or cold. Ethel loved him in a way, but, as was right, she had other interests. His other children he seldom saw. He had only one other relative, his sister Julia, whom he both feared and hated. It was no effort to struggle. He would be a fool as well as a coward if he stirred from the place which brought him happiness and peace.
At last Ethel, to humour him, and not disinclined to air her modern Greek, went into the Khan with the astonished dragoman to look at the rooms. The woman inside received them with loud welcomes, and the young man, when no one was looking, began to lead Mr Lucas’ mule to the stable.
‘
Drop it, you brigand!’ shouted Graham, who always declared that foreigners could understand English if they chose. He was right, for the man obeyed, and they all stood waiting for Ethel’s return.
She emerged at last, with close-gathered skirts, followed by the dragoman bearing the little pig, which he had bought at a bargain.
‘My dear papa, I will do all I can for you, but stop in that Khan—no.’
‘Are there—fleas?’ asked Mrs Forman.
Ethel intimated that ‘fleas’ was not the word.
‘Well, I am afraid that settles it,’ said Mrs Forman, ‘I know how particular Mr Lucas is.’
‘It does not settle it,’ said Mr Lucas. ‘Ethel, you go on. I do not want you. I don’t know why I ever consulted you. I shall stop here alone.’
‘That is absolute nonsense,’ said Ethel, losing her temper. ‘How can you be left alone at your age? How would you get your meals or your bath? All your letters are waiting for you at Patras. You’ll miss the boat. That means missing the London operas, and upsetting all your engagements for the month. And as if you could travel by yourself!’
‘They might knife you,’ was Mr Graham’s contribution.
The Greeks said nothing; but whenever Mr Lucas looked their way, they beckoned him towards the Khan. The children would even have drawn him by the coat, and the old woman on the balcony stopped her almost completed spinning, and fixed him with mysterious appealing eyes. As he fought, the issue assumed gigantic proportions, and he believed that he was not merely stopping because he had regained youth or seen beauty or found happiness, but because in that place and with those people a supreme event was awaiting him which would transfigure the face of the world. The moment was so tremendous that he abandoned words and arguments as useless, and rested on the strength of his mighty unrevealed allies: silent men, murmuring water, and whispering trees. For the whole place called with one voice, articulate to him, and his garrulous opponents became every minute more meaningless and absurd. Soon they would be tired and go chattering away into the sun, leaving him to the cool grove and the moonlight and the destiny he foresaw.
Mrs Forman and the dragoman had indeed already started, amid the piercing screams of the little pig, and the struggle might have gone on indefinitely if Ethel had not called in Mr Graham.
‘Can you help me?’ she whispered. ‘He is absolutely unmanageable.’
‘I’m no good at arguing—but if I could help you in any other way—’ and he looked down complacently at his well-made figure.
Ethel hesitated. Then she said: ‘Help me in any way you can. After all, it is for his good that we do it.’
‘Then have his mule led up behind him.’
So when Mr Lucas thought he had gained the day, he suddenly felt himself lifted off the ground, and sat sideways on the saddle, and at the same time the mule started off at a trot. He said nothing, for he had nothing to say, and even his face showed little emotion as he felt the shade pass and heard the sound of the water cease. Mr Graham was running at his side, hat in hand, apologizing.
‘I know I had no business to do it, and I do beg your pardon awfully. But I do hope that some day you too will feel that I was—damn!’
A stone had caught him in the middle of the back. It was thrown by the little boy, who was pursuing them along the mule track. He was followed by his sister, also throwing stones.
Ethel screamed to the dragoman, who was some way ahead with Mrs Forman, but before he could rejoin them, another adversary appeared. It was the young Greek, who had cut them off in front, and now dashed down at Mr Lucas’ bridle. Fortunately Graham was an expert boxer, and it did not take him a moment to beat down the youth’s feeble defence, and to send him sprawling with a bleeding mouth into the asphodel. By this time the dragoman had arrived, the children, alarmed at the fate of their brother, had desisted, and the rescue party, if such it is to be considered, retired in disorder to the trees.
‘Little devils!’ said Graham, laughing with triumph. ‘That’s the modern Greek all over. Your father meant money if he stopped, and they consider we were taking it out of their pocket.’
‘Oh, they are terrible—simple savages! I don’t know how I shall ever thank you. You’ve saved my father.’
‘I only hope you didn’t think me brutal.’
‘No,’ replied Ethel with a little sigh. ‘I admire strength.’
Meanwhile the cavalcade reformed, and Mr Lucas, who, as Mrs Forman said, bore his disappointment wonderfully well, was put comfortably on to his mule. They hurried up the opposite hillside, fearful of another attack, and it was not until they had left the eventful place far behind that Ethel found an opportunity to speak to her father and ask his pardon for the way she had treated him.
‘You seemed so different, dear father, and you quite frightened me. Now I feel that you are your old self again.’
He did not answer, and she concluded that he was not unnaturally offended at her behaviour.
By one of those curious tricks of mountain scenery, the place they had left an hour before suddenly reappeared far below them. The Khan was hidden under the green dome, but in the open there still stood three figures, and through the pure air rose up a faint cry of defiance or farewell.
Mr Lucas stopped irresolutely, and let the reins fall from his hand.
‘Come, father dear,’ said Ethel gently.
He obeyed, and in another moment a spur of the hill hid the dangerous scene for ever.
II
It was breakfast time, but the gas was alight, owing to the fog. Mr Lucas was in the middle of an account of a bad night he had spent. Ethel, who was to be married in a few weeks, had her arms on the table, listening.
‘First the door bell rang, then you came back from the theatre. Then the dog started, and after the dog the cat. And at three in the morning a young hooligan passed by singing. Oh yes: then there was the water gurgling in the pipe above my head.’
‘I think that was only the bath water running away,’ said Ethel, looking rather worn.
‘Well, there’s nothing I dislike more than running water. It’s perfectly impossible to sleep in the house. I shall give it up. I shall give notice next quarter. I shall tell the landlord plainly, “The reason I am giving up the house is this: it is perfectly impossible to sleep in it.” If he says—says—well, what has he got to say?’
‘Some more toast, father?’
‘Thank you, my dear.’ He took it, and there was an interval of peace.
But he soon recommenced. ‘I’m not going to submit to the practising next door as tamely as they think. I wrote and told them so—didn’t I?’
‘Yes,’ said Ethel, who had taken care that the letter should not reach. ‘I have seen the governess, and she has promised to arrange it differently. And Aunt Julia hates noise. It will be sure to be all right.’
Her aunt, being the only unattached member of the family, was coming to keep house for her father when she left him. The reference was not a happy one, and Mr Lucas commenced a series of half articulate sighs, which was only stopped by the arrival of the post.
‘Oh, what a parcel!’ cried Ethel. ‘For me! What can it be! Greek stamps. This is most exciting!’
It proved to be some asphodel bulbs, sent by Mrs Forman from Athens for planting in the conservatory.
‘Doesn’t it bring it all back! You remember the asphodels, father. And all wrapped up in Greek newspapers. I wonder if I can read them still. I used to be able to, you know.’
She rattled on, hoping to conceal the laughter of the children next door—a favourite source of querulousness at breakfast time.
‘Listen to me! “A rural disaster.” Oh, I’ve hit on something sad. But never mind. “Last Tuesday at Plataniste, in the province of Messenia, a shocking tragedy occurred. A large tree”—aren’t I getting on well?—“blew down in the night and”—wait a minute—oh dear! “crushed to death the five occupants of the little Khan there, who had apparently been sitting in the balcony. The bodies of Mari
a Rhomaides, the aged proprietress, and of her daughter, aged forty-six, were easily recognizable, whereas that of her grandson”—oh, the rest is really too horrid; I wish I had never tried it, and what’s more I feel to have heard the name Plataniste before. We didn’t stop there, did we, in the spring?’
‘We had lunch,’ said Mr Lucas, with a faint expression of trouble on his vacant face. ‘Perhaps it was where the dragoman bought the pig.’
‘Of course,’ said Ethel in a nervous voice. ‘Where the dragoman bought the little pig. How terrible!’
‘Very terrible!’ said her father, whose attention was wandering to the noisy children next door. Ethel suddenly started to her feet with genuine interest.
‘Good gracious!’ she exclaimed. ‘This is an old paper. It happened not lately but in April—the night of Tuesday the eighteenth—and we—we must have been there in the afternoon.’
‘So we were,’ said Mr Lucas. She put her hand to her heart, scarcely able to speak.
‘Father, dear father, I must say it: you wanted to stop there. All those people, those poor half savage people, tried to keep you, and they’re dead. The whole place, it says, is in ruins, and even the stream has changed its course. Father dear, if it had not been for me, and if Arthur had not helped me, you must have been killed.’
Mr Lucas waved his hand irritably. ‘It is not a bit of good speaking to the governess, I shall write to the landlord and say, “The reason I am giving up the house is this: the dog barks, the children next door are intolerable, and I cannot stand the noise of running water.” ’
Ethel did not check his babbling. She was aghast at the narrowness of the escape, and for a long time kept silence. At last she said: ‘Such a marvellous deliverance does make one believe in Providence.’
Mr Lucas, who was still composing his letter to the landlord, did not reply.
The Machine Stops