Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (62 page)

"I
went,"
he
said
in
a
lowered
voice,
"to
an
evening
party,
an At
Home
of
sorts,
and
as
usual
I
ran
into
all
kinds
of
people
who knew
me,
but
whose
names—and
where
I
had
met
them—I
could not
for
the
life
of
me
remember.
Among
them
was
a
young
chap whose
face
I
certainly
knew,
knew
it
as
well
as
I
know
yours.
But
his name,
or
where
we
had
met
before,
escaped
me
utterly.
He
seemed uncommonly
pleased
to
run
across
me.
It
was
quite
awkward.
He didn't
say
much,
but
what
he
did
say
was
to
the
point.
'You've forgotten
me,'
he
said,
'but
I've
been
waiting
for
this
chance.
I've got
a
debt
I
want
to
repay.'
Having
forgotten
who
he
was,
yet
ashamed to
let
him
see
it,
I
murmured
something
vague
about
dining
together some
night.
To
my
great
embarrassment,
he
jumped
at
it.
I
was
in
a fix,
you
see.
He
was
so
determined,
so
intense.
No
memory
of
any
debt occurred
to
me.
I
gave
him
my
restaurant
address,
an
Italian
place near
Leicester
Square,
and
when
he
asked
for
a
date,
I
rashly
said
that I was there most nights and that he would be very welcome . . .
and then, as I was edging off, hoping to escape him, I found instead
that he had somehow escaped me. He just melted away. The crowd
was pretty thick, a regular crush, and how he managed it so quickly
and cleverly puzzled me. One minute he was at my side, touching
actually, the next—he wasn't
             
"

"He
didn't say any more, you mean? Not even good-bye?" My interest was caught
and held increasingly now.

Mantravers
shook his head. "Just that he'd be there—and he was gone," came the
reply. "And would you believe it," he went on, his eyes fixed hard on
mine, "the very next night in my Italian restaurant, who should walk in
but this very fellow. He came straight to my table too—and there I was, not
knowing his name, or where we had met before, or what I could say to him, or
what he wanted. It was a hell of a fix, eh? I felt an acute discomfort. This
talk of a debt he had to settle was part of it, for I had a horrid feeling that
I ought to remember something."

I
watched my cousin more and more closely as my interest deepened, and the
legend about his having somehow beaten time by twenty-five years came back to
me sharply. Very forcibly, unpleasantly too, it struck me, not that he could
have passed for forty instead of sixty, but that he literally was forty instead
of sixty—as though decay had been arrested. I cannot say why this conviction
came over me so overwhelmingly just at this particular moment, nor can I
explain why the roots of my hair began to crawl again. I only knew that I was
vividly aware of it, and that a faint, unpleasant touch of chill came with it.

"You know," he went on, "how
one.is sometimes aware of things,
little, trivial things, I mean, without actually noticing them? Well,"
he explained, "I noticed in this way one or two odd little details.
Not important things, mind you. The important thing was to re-
member his name, where we had met, under what circumstances, but
instead of that I noticed his old-fashioned dinner-jacket, the crease
down the side of his trousers, his pumps—all of them details of dress
no longer used. They had passed away—before your time, of course
-but
-------
"

"He
dined with you? You dined together, I mean?" I brought him back. I was
impatient. The cold I felt increased.

Mantravers
shrugged his shoulders: his face seemed to grow paler '.llll.

"He sat at my table," he replied,
"for I couldn't help myself." Mis voice went lower than ever, and he
looked over his shoulder. "I told the waiter to lay another place, and
while that was being done we talked. He talked, rather."

"Of course, you remembered then
gradually? The talk brought I
■
i 111 back?"

Again he shook his head. "That's the odd
part of it. The feeling
(if
familiarity,
of knowing him quite well, grew stronger and stronger, vcl never fulfilled
itself. It got no further. Something in my mind deliberately concealed him from
me. Kept him hidden. You have guessed, of course, already. But I didn't—till
the end." A perceptible shiver ran through his body. "All I knew was
that while he talked I was longing and longing to get rid of him, hoping he would
go, wondering what I could do to bring this about, but listening all the I ime
to what he said—as though I couldn't help myself and had to listen."

He stopped and took a gulp of his whisky. I
asked what kind of things the unwelcome, half-recognised guest talked about.
What did he say? It was plain that my cousin wanted to keep this back, while
eager at the same time to tell it. He betrayed a touch of embarrassment, of
awkwardness, almost of shyness.

"Well,
sort of personal things," he brought it out at length hesitatingly,
"said no one gave better advice than I did, it was a privilege to talk to
me, that I had helped him once, and that now he could clo the same for me—and
owed it to me. That was what I disliked so —owed it to me—because—because our
troubles were similar. That, he repeated more than once, was why he was able to
come at all."

He raised his glass again,
but did not drink.

"It
was then," he whispered almost, "that was the first time, I mean, I
began to feel jumpy."

"Jumpy!" To tell
the truth, I felt jumpy myself as I listened.

The
strange maturity, the sudden growth in myself already referred to, began to
work in me, bringing a sharper, deeper insight with it, so that I knew, as with
a flash of clairvoyance, that Mantravers himself was in some kind of personal
trouble. Abruptly, this revelation came, a sense of discomfort with it, for I
understood that he was both
anxious
to
tell
it
and
not
to
tell
it.
I
waited.
In
the
end,
of
course,
he told
it,
and
it
involved
a
woman,
money,
honour,
and
all
in
a
distinctly
unpleasant
way
that
heaped
appearances—though
he
had
done no
dishonourable
act—against
him.
Only
the
bare
outline
was
given to
me,
the
outline
of
a
very
nasty
fix.

"To
my
utter
astonishment,"
Mantravers
went
on,
"the
fellow referred
to
this,
as
though
he
knew
all
about
it.
He
did
know
all
about it.
It
amazed
me;
I
was
flabbergasted.
I
felt
as
if
hypnotised,
for
he had
a
dreadfully
insistent
way
with
him,
so
that
I
had
to
listen.
And my
eyes
kept
wandering
to
a
dull
red
mark
he
had
in
his
right
temple. I
had
not
noticed
it
before.
It
seemed
to
glow.
It
fascinated
me,
that mark,
and
from
time
to
time
the
fellow's
hand,
as
he
passed
it
across his
forehead,
let
his
fingers
trail
and
linger
over
it,
deliberately,
I
could have
sworn.
He
saw
my
eye
on
it.
'I've
been
waiting
a
long
time
for this,'
he
said.
'It
was
difficult
to
arrange,
but
now
you're
in
much
the same
boat
I
was
in
once;
now
I
can
give
you
advice
so
that
you'll understand.'
A
sort
of
icy
smile
ran
over
his
face.
'You
see,'
he
added, 'by
rights
I
ought
to
have
stayed
here
another
twenty-five
years.
My life
would
have
run
to
fifty-one.'
And
with
that
he
abruptly
stood
up to
go.
The
red
mark
on
his
temple
glowed
and
spread
a
little.
I
got up
too.
'Meet
me
in
my
house
to-morrow,'
he
said,
'meet
me
at
six o'clock,'
a
strange
compelling
power
in
his
voice
and
fixed
staring
eyes. 'I
shall
be
there
waiting
for
you.'
With
that
he
turned,
I
saw
the
red mark
flame
out
and
die
away,
I
saw
him
walk
across
the
floor
between the
tables
and
go
out
of
the
restaurant."