‘Eheu! fugaces, Postume, Postume’ (The years fly by, and are lost to me, lost to me), I had said to myself all the morning, as I wandered about the old college haunts of my far-away youth; and if my perception of that sad fact needed quickening, that skull certainly brought it home to me with a vengeance! Clearly, my successor was a bit of a ‘mystic.’ Weird prints on the walls; curious German literature on the shelves and tables; outlandish ornaments everywhere: these and such as these spoke for their absent owner, and I felt that I could conjecture the man by his various kickshaws. I pictured him to myself reading for ‘a class’ by the midnight oil, and occasionally stimulating his flagging interest in the classics by casting a philosophic glance at the skull, to bethink him of the flight of time and man’s ‘little day’ for work. Or, again, I could see him as he refreshed himself on the sofa with a grim legend or two of the Rhine, and meditated upon the fate of some medieval fool wandering about to sell his soul, si emptorem invenerit, until he met and did fatal business with the dread merchant of the nether world. At such times, no doubt, his death’s head would have a specially attractive charm for him, and elicit some such sigh as ‘Alas! poor Yorick,’ in reference to the deluded Rhinelander. Two more clues to the character of my young friend were obvious, and right glad I was to obtain them. In the first place, he was not, as are too many of his university generation, so ‘mad,’ through much ‘learning,’ as to deny or ignore his God. Witness a well-worn Bible and Prayer-book; and even an illuminated text opposite his bed—the gift, perhaps, of a pious mother, or handiwork of a pious sister, whose holy influence he did not despise. And, again, he was not one of our unhealthy ascetics of modern society, secular ascetics, I mean—if I may coin such an expression—whose artificial merits are purely negative. Witness his rack of grotesquely shaped and well-cleaned pipes, no less than that three-handled jorum, with the shrivelled peel of the previous evening still therein!
Having taken notice of such apparent trifles on every side, and not liking to trespass longer, I prepared to leave. But if the ‘man’ who occupies my Old Rooms is brought as safely to his journey’s end as I have now well nigh been brought to mine, my last half-minute alone in that ancient ‘upper chamber’ was not spent there in vain.
MY FELLOW-PASSENGER.
IN TWO CHAPTERS.—CHAPTER II.
The next afternoon, I landed at Southampton; and having left my luggage with Raynor’s at the railway station, and exchanged my twenty-five sovereigns for their equivalent in Bank of England notes, I started off to see some relatives living a short way out of the town. After a few pleasant hours at Hambledon Hall, I drove back to Southampton, took an evening train to London, and by half-past nine was comfortably installed in my old quarters, No. 91 Savile Street, W.
In the morning arrived a telegram from Raynor: ‘Heard of a good thing in Dublin. Going there at once. May be a long business. Better countermand my rooms. Will write.’ Here without doubt was an end, at least for the present, of our partnership. Whether Paul intended me to gather that the ‘good thing’ was to involve my presence in Ireland, I knew not; but having already come to a very distinct understanding with him that the venue of any future operations must, as far as I was concerned, be laid in or near London, I was able to decide at once that even the claims of friendship did not demand my expatriation to the other side of the Irish Channel.
London was hot, airless, and uninviting this 21st of July. Two days had elapsed, during which I had heard nothing more from Raynor; and as I loitered down to my club, there came into my mind the recollection of Keymer, a breezy little homestead among the Sussex downs, where lived a middle-aged bachelor cousin of mine, and of his cordial invitation to repeat a visit I had paid him the previous summer. Half an hour later I had posted my letter to Henry Rodd, whose reply by return post was all I could wish: On and after the 24th, he would be delighted to see me for as long as I cared to stay.
On the morning of the 26th, the day upon which I was to leave for Keymer, my landlady presented herself in my sitting-room, and with an expression as of one who has intelligence to convey, opened upon me with: ‘Oh, I beg your pardon, sir, but there was a gentleman called yesterday, askin’ whether we had any one lodgin’ here as was jest back from furrin parts, because he’d got a friend who he thought was goin’ to some lodgin’s in this street, and he couldn’t find him out—not the gentleman, couldn’t, that is, sir. I’m sure he knew you, sir, because he said, when I called you Mr Rodd, “Ah! is that Mr P. Rodd?” says he. “Yes,” says I to the gent; “it’s Mr Peter Rodd.” “O yes,” says he, careless-like, “I know Mr Peter Rodd by name.” Then he give me five shillin’s, sir, and told me be sure and not trouble you about his ’avin’ been, seein’ as ’ow you wouldn’t know who he was—he didn’t give no name, sir—but I thought I’d best tell you, sir, because it didn’t seem right-like his givin’ me five shillin’s to say nothin’ about it. Excuse me for mentionin’ it, sir; but it’s what I call ’ush-money, and it’s burnin’ ’oles in my pocket ever since.’
Here the worthy woman paused for breath; and wondering much who this lavish unknown might be, and how he came to know so obscure an individual as myself by name, I, perhaps indiscreetly, asked for a description of his appearance, being then unaware of the curious fact, that people in good Mrs Morton’s station of life are wholly incapable of conveying to a third person the faintest impression of a stranger’s exterior. Thus she could not say whether he was dark or fair, tall or short, young or old, stout or thin. Upon one point only did her memory serve her: ‘His necktie was a speckly, twisted up in a sailorses’ knot.’ Having triumphantly furnished me with this useful clue to the visitor’s identity, Mrs Morton took herself down-stairs.
A sudden thought struck me, and I ran to the window. No; there was not a soul to be seen in the quiet little street save a very ordinary looking person in a gray dustcoat, sunning himself against the pillar-box at the corner some fifty yards away; evidently a groom waiting for orders, I thought. An hour later, I went out to make some purchases, lunched at Blanchard’s, and drove back to Savile Street to prepare for my journey to Sussex. There, in friendly converse with a policeman at the same corner, was Citizen Gray-coat. I looked sharply at him as my cab passed. His tie was not ‘speckly,’ nor had he any outward pretensions to the title of ‘gentleman.’