The Chequers | Page 7

of rage and despair:--
And is it then the End of all? O, Father! What a doom is mine-- An
unreturning prodigal, Who feeds on husks and herds with swine!
After many ravings the torn soul seems to grow calm, and we have this
pensive and tender fragment of music:--
The dreams that fill the thoughtful night, All holy dreams are in the sky,
They stoop to me with viewless flight, And bid me wave my care
good-bye.
Spread your dim wings, O sacred friends, Fleet softly to your starry
place; I'll meet you as my journey ends, When I shall crave our
Master's grace.
Till I may join your shadowy band I'll think of things that are to be--
The far-off joy, the Unseen Land, The Lover I shall never see.
After this our man plunges into the slums, and we have no more poetry.
One who loved him asked me to go through his journals, and nearly all
I know of him is derived from them. By chance I have heard that he
was passionately fond of children, but avoided women. One who knew
him said that he was witty, and often strung off epigrams by the hour
together, but he was always subject to fits of blind frenzy, during which
his wit and his genuine sagacity left him. No one followed him to his
grave; but he was visited in hospital by a tall, fair lady, who gazed on
him with stern composure. He sneered even while dying. "I'm a pretty
object, am I not? I was going to shake the world. Will you kiss me
once?"

The tall lady stooped and kissed him; he gasped, "Thank you. It was
more than I deserved. And now for the Dark."
The lady sighed a little and went away, and I think that a bunch of
heather which lay on the coffin must have come from her. Anyway,
that is all I know about the Loafer, and he may now tell his story of the
Pink Tom Cat in his own way. You observe how drily circumstantial he
is.
* * * * *
I shall not be able to go on with Billy Devine's story for some time. We
have had an ugly business here, and it is now two months since I wrote
a line. It was only by making special inquiry that I found how time had
gone, for I have been living in a nightmare.
One fine morning I put on smart flannels and went for a scull on the
river. If ever you drink too much it is best to force yourself into violent
exercise at any cost, and for that reason I determined to row until the
effects of a very bad night had worn off. Usually I keep myself clear of
after consequences, but I had been with a keen set, and we did not go to
bed at all. When we contrived to separate at 7 a.m., some of my
companions began on a fresh day's drinking, but I chose to take a rest.
It was a lovely morning, and I felt like a bad sort of criminal amid the
clear, splendid beauty. When the light wind struck across the surface of
the river it seemed as if the water were pelted with falling jewels; the
osiers bowed and sighed as the breeze ran along their tops; and, here
and there, a spirt of shaken dewdrops described a flashing arc, and fell
poppling into the stream. Ah! how solemnly glad and pure and radiant
the great trees looked! The larks had gone wild with the joy of living,
and their delicious rivalry, their ceaseless gurgle of liquid melody,
seemed somehow to match the multitudinous glitter of the mighty
clouds of foliage. For a man with pure palate and healthy eye the sights
and sounds would have made a heaven; but my mouth was like a
furnace, and my eye was fevered. Nevertheless, I managed to enjoy the
sweet panorama more and more as my muscles grew tense, and I pulled
on doggedly for full three hours, until I had not a dry stitch on me; then

a funny little waterside inn drew my eye, and I went ashore. Bob
Darbishire met me with a shout of welcome, and I wondered what
brought him there. Bob did not often visit The Chequers, for he was a
wealthy fellow, and he liked best to fool his time away in flash
billiard-rooms; but he knew me well enough, and I was on as easy
terms with him as with the costers and Rommany chals. I say was when
I speak of him. Ah me!
Bob succeeded to a great deal of ready money and a good business
when he was barely twenty-one, and he broke out