The Place of the Lion (10 page)

But what? He could, he would, go and see her. But what could he do to ensure her safety? Could he get her to London? It would be difficult to persuade her, and if he put it to the touch by attempting to compel her and failed—that would be worse than all. Damaris was still keeping herself at a distance; her feeling for him was stilled and directed by her feeling for herself. He had the irresistible force all right, but honesty compelled him to admit that she, as an immovable object, was out of its direct line. Besides—London? If this kind of thing was going on, supposing (just for one split second) that Foster's fantastic hypotheses was right, what would be the good of London? Sooner or later London too would slip in and be subject to great animals—the fierceness of the wolf would threaten it from Hampstead, the patience of the tortoise would wait beyond Streatham and Richmond; and between them the elk and the bear would stalk and lumber, drawing the qualities out of mankind, terrifying, hunting down, destroying. He did not know how swiftly the process of absorption was going on—a week might see that golden mane shaken over London from Kensal Rise. London was no good, his thought raced on, no, nor any other place then; no seas or mountains could avail. Still, if he could persuade her to move for a few days—that would give him time to do something. And at that he came up against the renewed memory of Foster's scornful question. Was he really proposing to govern the principles of creation? to attempt to turn back, for the sake of one half-educated woman's personal safety, the movement of the vast originals of all life? How was he, he thought despairingly, to close the breach, he who had that very afternoon been swept almost into death by the effluence from but one visioned greatness? It was hopeless, it was insane, and yet the attempt had to be made.

Besides, there was Quentin. He had small expectation of being of any use to Quentin, but somewhere in this neighbourhood his unhappy friend—if he lived yet—was wandering, and Anthony disliked going off himself while the other's doom remained unknown. And there might be some way—this Berringer now; perhaps something more could be found out about him. If he had opened, might he not close? Or his friends—this infernal group? Some of them might help: they couldn't all want Archetypes coming down on them, not if they were like most of the religious people he had met. They also probably liked their religion taken mild—a pious hope, a devout ejaculation, a general sympathetic sense of a kindly universe—but nothing upsetting or bewildering, no agony, no darkness, no uncreated light. Perhaps he had better go and see some of them—Foster again, or even this Miss Wilmot, or the doctor who was attending Berringer, and whose wife had got Damaris (so she had told him) into this infernal mess. Yes, and then to persuade Damaris to go to London; and to look for Quentin …

And all the while to be quiet and steady, to remember that man was meant to control, to be lord of his own nature, to accept the authority that had been given to Adam over all manner of beasts, as the antique fables reported, and to exercise that authority over the giants and gods which were threatening the world.

Anthony sighed a little and stood up. “Adam,” he said, “Adam. Well, I am as much a child of Adam as any. The Red Earth is a little pale perhaps. Let's go and walk in the garden among the beasts of the field which the Lord God hath made. I feel a trifle microcosmic, but if the proportion is in me let these others know it. Let me take the dominion over them—I wish I had any prospect of exercising dominion over Damaris.”

Chapter Seven

INVESTIGATIONS INTO A RELIGION

Dr. Rockbotham leaned back and looked at his watch. Mrs. Rockbotham looked at him. Dinner was just over; in a quarter of an hour he had to be in his surgery. The maid entered the room with a card on a salver. Dr. Rockbotham took it.

“Anthony Durrant,” he read out and looked over at his wife enquiringly. She thought and shook her head.

“No,” she began, and then “O wait a minute! Yes, I believe I do remember. He's one of my cousin's people on
The Two Camps
. I met him there once.”

“He's very anxious to see you, sir,” the maid said.

“But what can he want?” Dr. Rockbotham asked his wife. “If you know him, Elise, you'd better come along and see him too. I can't give him very long now, and I've had a tiring day. Really, people do come at the most inconvenient times.”

His protest however was only half-serious, and he turned a benign face on Anthony in the drawing-room. “Mr. Durrant? My wife thinks she remembers you, Mr. Durrant. You're on
The Two Camps
, aren't you? Yes, yes. Well, as you've met there's no need for introductions. Sit down, do. And what can we do for you, Mr. Durrant?”

“I've really only called to ask—if I may—a question about Mr. Berringer,” Anthony said. “We heard in London that he was very ill, and as he's a person of some importance” (this, he thought guiltily, is the Archetypal Lie) “I thought I'd run down and enquire. As a matter of fact, there was some sort of idea that he should do a series of articles for us on … on the symbolism of the cosmic myths.”

Mrs. Rockbotham nodded in pleasure. “I mentioned something of the sort to my cousin once,” she said. “I'm delighted to find that he followed it up. An excellent idea.”

Anthony's heart sank a little; he foresaw, if the world were not swallowed up, some difficulty in the future. “We were,” he said, “so sorry to hear he was ill. The housekeeper didn't seem to know much, and as Mr. Tighe—whom you know, I think—mentioned that you were attending him, I ventured …”

“Certainly, certainly,” Dr. Rockbotham said. “These notorieties, eh? Famous men, and so on. Well, yes. I'm afraid he is ill.”

“Seriously?” Anthony asked.

“O well, seriously——” The doctor paused. “An affection of the brain, I very much fear. He's more or less in a state of unconsciousness, and of course in such cases it's a little difficult to explain in non-technical language. A nurse has been installed, and I'm keeping a careful watch. If necessary I shall take the responsibility of getting another opinion. You don't, I suppose, know the name or address of any of his friends or his solicitor, do you?”

“I'm afraid not,” Anthony said.

“It's a little difficult position,” Dr. Rockbotham went on. “His housekeeper knows of no one; of course I haven't looked at his papers yet … if I could get in touch with anyone …”

“If I can do anything——” Anthony offered. “But I've no personal acquaintance with Mr. Berringer; only a general knowledge of his name.” And that, he thought, only since the day before yesterday. But he wasn't going to stick at trifles now.

“My dear,” said Mrs. Rockbotham, “perhaps Mr. Durrant would like to see Mr. Berringer.”

“I don't see that Mr. Durrant would gain much by that,” the doctor answered. “He's lying perfectly still and unconscious. But if,” he went on to the young man, “I may take it that you represent a widespread concern …”

“I represent,” Anthony said, “what I believe may be a very widespread concern.” It seemed to him utterly ridiculous to be talking like this, but he couldn't burst out on these two people with his supernatural menagerie. And yet this woman ought to have realized something.

“… don't know that I wouldn't welcome your association,” Dr. Rockbotham concluded. “We professional men have to be so careful. If you'd care to come out with me to-morrow morning—about twelve——?”

“I should be”—no, Anthony felt he couldn't say delighted or pleased at going back to that house—“honoured.” Honoured! “What's honour?… Who hath it? he that died o' Wednesday.” “I shouldn't be a bit surprised if I ended by being he that died o' Wednesday,” he thought grimly.

“Why, that will be capital,” the doctor said, “and we can see what's best to do. You'll excuse me, won't you? I have to get to the surgery.”

“Don't go, Mr. Durrant,” Mrs. Rockbotham said, as Anthony rose. “Sit down and tell me how things are with
The Two Camps.
”

Anthony obediently sat down, and told his hostess as much as he thought good for her about the present state of the periodical. He persevered at the same time in bringing the conversation as close as possible to the collapse of Mr. Berringer and the last monthly meeting of the Group. Mrs. Rockbotham was very willing to talk about it.

“Most disconcerting for Miss Tighe,” she said, “though I must say she behaved very charmingly about it. So good-natured. Of course no one had any idea that Dora Wilmot would go off like that.”

“Miss Wilmot is a friend of yours?” Anthony threw in casually.

“We've been connected in a number of things,” Mrs. Rockbotham admitted, “the social fêtes every summer and this Study Group and the Conservative Committee. I remember she was a great deal of use with the correspondence at the time of the first Winter Lectures we got up to amuse the poorer people. I believe she went to some of them—a good simple soul. But this——!”

“She's belonged to the town for a good while?” Anthony asked.

“Born here,” Mrs. Rockbotham said. “Lives in the white house at the upper corner of the market-place—you must have seen it. Just beyond Martin the bookseller's—his assistant was one of our Group too. I suppose Mr. Berringer invited him, though of course he was hardly of the same social class as most of us.”

“Perhaps Mr. Berringer thought that the study of the world of principles——” Anthony allowed a gesture to complete his sentence.

“No doubt,” Mrs. Rockbotham answered. “Though personally I always think it better and simpler if like sticks to like. It simply distracts one's attention if the man next you rattles his false teeth or can't get up from his chair easily.”

“That,” Anthony said, feeling that the confession was due to truth, “is undeniably so. Perhaps it means that we haven't got very far.”

Mrs. Rockbotham shook her head. “It's always been so,” she said, “and I shouldn't myself find I could concentrate nearly so well if Mr. Berringer hadn't shaved for a week. I don't see the smallest use in pretending that it isn't so.”

“Didn't this young man—what did you say his name was?—shave then?” Anthony asked.

“Richardson—yes, of course—I was only illustrating,” the lady said. “Well, if you must go——” as Anthony stood up firmly. “If you see Miss Tighe do tell her that I'm still ashamed.”

“I'm sure Miss Tighe wouldn't wish you to be anything of the sort,” Anthony lied with brazen politeness; and, treasuring his two pieces of information, departed. It was at least a small piece of luck that the two places were near together.

From outside the bookseller's he peered cautiously in. A nice-looking old gentleman was showing children's books to two ladies; a tall gaunt young man was putting other books into shelves. Anthony hoped that the first gentleman was Mr. Martin and the other Mr. Richardson. He went in with a quick determined step, and straight up to the young man, who turned to meet him.

“Have you by any chance an edition of St. Ignatius's treatise against the Gnostics?” he asked in a low clear voice.

The young assistant looked gravely back. “Not for sale, I'm afraid,” he said. “Nor, if it comes to that, the Gnostic treatises against St. Ignatius.”

“Quite,” Anthony answered. “Are you Mr. Richardson?”

“Yes,” the other said.

“Then I apologize and all that, but I should very much like to talk to you about modern Gnosticism or what appear to be its equivalents,” Anthony said rapidly. “If you don't mind. I assure you I'm perfectly serious—though I do come from Mrs. Rockbotham. Would you, could you, spare me a little time?”

“Not here very well,” Richardson said. “But if you could come round to my rooms about half-past nine, I should be glad to discuss anything with you—anything possible.”

“So many things seem to be possible,” Anthony murmured. “At half-past nine, then? And thank you. I'm not really being silly.” He liked the other's equable reception of the intrusion, and the reserved watchfulness of his manner.

“17 Bypath Villas,” Richardson said. “It's not more than ten minutes away. Along that street, down the second on the right, and then it's the third to the left. No, I'm afraid we haven't it”—this as Mr. Martin, having disposed of his own customers, was drawing near.

“Then,” said Anthony, looking hastily round, with a vague sense of owing a return to the bookseller for the use he had made of the shop, “I'll have that.” He picked up from a chance shelf of reduced library copies a volume with the title:
Mistresse of Majesty; the lives of seven beautiful women from Agnes Sorel to Mrs. Fitzherbert
. “But it's not very up-to-date, is it?” he added rather gloomily, as he took his change.

“The morality of the House of Windsor——” Richardson said, and bowed him out.

Tucking the book under his arm in some irritation, Anthony set out for Miss Wilmot's, and found it within a few steps. He rang the bell, and looked despairingly round to see if there were any way of disposing of
Mistresses of Majesty
, but the street-lamps were too bright and the passers-by too many. He was therefore still clutching it when he gave his name to the maid, and asked if Miss Wilmot could see him—“About Mr. Berringer,” he added, thinking that would be as likely as anything to gain her attention.

The maid came back with instructions to show him in at once. He entered a small, neatly furnished room, and found not only a lady whom he assumed to be Miss Wilmot sitting by the window, but also a gentleman whom he knew to be Mr. Foster standing by her. He bowed gravely to them both.

“Do sit down, Mr. Durrant,” the lady said.

Anthony obeyed, and looked rather thoughtfully at Mr. Foster, whose unexpected presence he felt might hamper his style. It was no use coming as an ignorant inquirer, nor even as a perplexed seeker; he hastily re-arranged his opening.