The Thirteen Travellers

by Hugh Walpole

"Indeed, I will," said Harry fervently. "You two are the first real friends I've ever had. I'm grateful, I can tell you."

Now, strangely enough, the more Mr. Nix thought of his wife, the more seriously and earnestly he puzzled as to the right way to bring her close to him, and make her happy, the less he seemed to realise her. There comes, perhaps, that moment in most married lives when the intimacy of years has thickened the personalities of man and wife so deeply with custom and habit that the real individualities can no longer be discerned. Something of the kind came now to Mr. Nix. The more he attempted to draw closer to Nancy, the more he realised that he was hearing a voice, watching a physical form, having physical contact, but dealing with shadows. He knew so precisely her every movement, her laugh, the way that she caught her breath when she was agitated, the touch of her step on the carpet, that she was no longer a person at all. She was part of himself, perhaps, but a part of himself that he could not treat with his imagination. He had not known before that he had an imagination. The war had given it birth and now it was growing, demanding food, living, thrusting, experiencing, leading its master into many queer places—but neglecting altogether Mrs. Nix.

He found himself, as he sat in his little office downstairs, positively trying to force himself to realise what his wife was like. She had bright yellow hair, a rosy face, a plump figure; she wore two rings, one with a ruby stone, another a pearl. She was marvellously young for her age.... She....

Then, when with a start of surprise he realised what he was doing, he wondered positively whether he were not going mad. He buried himself more and more in the work of the place, of the office, fighting to keep everything straight and proper, realising, although he was frightened to admit it, that Hortons was more vivid to him than anything or anybody else.

Except Harry! "Thank God that boy's here," he thought. "I don't know what we'd do without him. That was a piece of luck for us."

He lay on his bed staring up into the dark ceiling; he heard his wife's regular breathing at his side, and he saw, there in the living dusk above him, the golden balls dancing, rising and falling, multiplying, diminishing, tumbling faster and faster and faster.

Then, with the months of June and July, Mr. Nix was given very little more time in which to speculate about life, women, and his wife. Everything in his business affairs became so complicated that his life extended into a real struggle for existence. He had the sense that Hortons, which had hitherto shown him a kindly, friendly face, was suddenly hostile, as though it said to him: "Well, I've stood your hanky-panky long enough. I'll have no more of it. I'm finished with your management of me!"

Strange how a building suddenly decides to fall to pieces! Hortons so decided. Every window, every door, every pipe, every chimney misbehaved; tenants appeared from all sides bitterly complaining. Servants rioted; the discontent that was already flooding the world poured through the arteries of the building, sweeping it, deluging.

Mr. Nix showed them the character that he had. He took off his coat and set to work. He was no longer the round ball-like little man with the cherubic countenance and the amiable smile. He was stern, autocratic, unbending. He argued, persuaded, advised. He wrote, to his own surprise, a very stiff letter to the Board of Directors, telling them that they must understand that times were difficult. Rome wasn't built in a day, and that if they were dissatisfied with him they must find someone else in his place. To his amazement, he received a very polite letter from the Secretary of the Board, saying that the Directors were thoroughly satisfied with him and had no complaints.

He went on during that month from struggle to struggle. He forgot Harry; he puzzled no longer about Mrs. Nix. He was so tired when night came that he slept the sleep of a drugged man. He no longer saw the dancing balls. He was invigorated, uplifted, desperately excited. He found in himself a capacity for organisation that he had never suspected. He discovered that it delighted him to meet and to conquer his servants. He saw in their eyes, and he was delighted to see it, their own astonishment at this new character that he was developing. He browbeat them, told them to go, showed them that they had better stay, held them together and forced them to content. They were afraid of him. By Jove!—They were afraid of him! He looked at himself in the glass. He blessed the crisis that had shown him in his true colours. He contemplated the life of Napoleon....