The Man Within · Part II · Chapter 6 (2/2)

The shadows had fallen over the town and he could no longer see the castle, save as an indistinct hump or a shrugged shoulder. He began to walk down by a path longer than it had seemed in the silver light. By the time he had reached the first straggling houses, darkness was complete, pierced here and there by the yellow flicker of oil lamps, crowned by dingy pinnacles of smoke from the lengthening wicks. Cautiously he made his way into the High Street, and stood for a while in the shadow of a doorway, probing his mind for the position of the various inns. There were few persons about in the street, which was like the deck of a sleeping ship lit by two lamps, fore and aft, and on each side a sudden fall into a dark sea. Opposite him two old houses leant crazily towards each other, almost touching above the narrow lane called Keerie Street, which dived chaotically into the night⁠—a few confused squares and oblongs of inn signs, six steep feet of cobbles and then vacancy. Out beyond, but he could not see, was Newhaven and the Channel, France. Even there lay no complete freedom for him. Along the coasts were scrubby little men, with squinting eyes, hard wrists and a sharp mispronounced knowledge of the English coinage who knew his face well and Carlyon’s better.

His shoulder falling from force of habit into a self-pitying droop, Andrews moved further down the street. Here and there shops were still open, and their lit windows showed old white-bearded men peering at their ledgers with little lines of content around their eyes. Never, not even at school nor under the pain of the smugglers’ hardly veiled contempt, had Andrews felt so alone. He passed on. Two voices speaking softly in a doorway made him pause. He could not see the speakers. “Come tonight.” “Shall I? I oughtn’t to.” “I love you, love you, love you.”

Andrews, to his own surprise, smote the wall against which he stood with his fist and said aloud with a crazy fury, “You damned lechers,” walked on weeping with anger and loneliness. “I’ll be drunk if I can’t be content in any other way,” he thought. “I’ve still enough money for that, thank God.”

With sudden resolve he dived down a side street, stumbling at its unexpected steepness, and came to rest with unerring instinct at the door of an inn. Two windows were cracked and stuffed with rags, the sign was long past the possibility of repair. Of the goat, which was the inn’s name, remained only the two horns, as though a mocking warning to husbands not to enter. Loneliness and the desire to forget his loneliness drove away even the instincts of fear and caution, and Andrews flung the door carelessly open and stumbled, eyes red and blind with childish tears, within. The air was thick with smoke, and a roar of human voices, each trying to drown the others and make its opinions heard, smote him in the face like a wave. A tall thin man with small eyes and a red flabby mouth, who was standing by the door, caught his elbow. “What do you want, son?” he asked and immediately began to shoulder his way through the throng, calling out to an invisible potman, “Two double brandies for a gentleman here,” and presently re-emerged with what he sought, and vanished again with his own quota leaving Andrews to pay. His brandy drunk, Andrews looked round the room with a clearer mind. He chose a small, respectable man, who stood alone, and asked him to join him in a drink. Looking deprecatingly at the empty glass in Andrews’s hand, the stranger replied that he would not mind a glass of sherry.

Andrews fetched it and himself revived by fresh brandy began to question his new acquaintance.

“I’m looking for a night’s lodging,” he said. “I suppose that won’t be easy now. The town will be full for the Assizes?”

“I can’t tell that,” the man replied, eyeing him a little askance as though he feared that Andrews was about to ask him for money. “I’m more or less a stranger here myself.”

“And these Assizes,” Andrews considered, “what are they for anyway? To bring money to the tradespeople. There’s no need for such a fuss to hang a few poor skunks.”

“I don’t agree with you at all⁠—not at all,” said the little man sipping his sherry and eyeing Andrews suspiciously. “Justice must be done in the proper order.”

“Yes, but what is the proper order?” Andrews asked, raising his voice so as to be heard above the din and at the same time signalling to the potman that his glass was empty. “Surely the crime and then retribution.”

“You must prove the guilt,” the stranger said, turning the sherry gently on his tongue.

“Isn’t it proved well enough without a judge and jury?” Andrews’s caution vanished still further out of sight at the stinging touch of a third glass. “They were caught by the revenue in the act and you can’t dispose of a dead body.”

The stranger put down his glass of sherry carefully on the edge of the table and eyed Andrews even more curiously. “You are referring to the smugglers and the alleged murder?” he asked.

Andrews laughed. “Alleged!” he cried. “Why, it’s patent.”

“No man is guilty until he is proved so,” the little man commented as though he were repeating a well-learnt lesson.

“Then you must wait till Doomsday in this case,” Andrews murmured, with a sudden bitter sense of divine injustice. He who was innocent suffered persecution, while they⁠ ⁠…

“You could not form a jury in Lewes which would convict them.” He waved his hand round the inn parlour. “They are all in it,” he said, “for fear or profit. If you searched the crypt of Southover Church you’d find barrels there, and the parson winks an eye. Do you think he wants to lose his whole congregation or perhaps be whipped at one of his own pillars? If you want to stamp out smuggling you must do away with the idea of justice. Have another drink.”

“I will wait a little if I may,” the stranger moved his position, so that the full light of the oil lamp fell on Andrews’s face. The act thrust suspicion into the other’s mind. “I must be careful,” he thought. “I must have no more to drink.” And yet he was certainly not drunk. He saw his surroundings with perfect clarity, and his thoughts were more than usually vivid. He had longed for human companionship and now he had it, and the desire to fling his arm round the shoulder of the little man opposite him was nearly overmastering. He had so longed to talk to someone, who knew nothing of his past, who would treat him with neither kindness nor contempt, and consider his words with the same respect as he would show to those of any other man.

“You will take another glass?” the stranger said stiffly and shyly, as though unaccustomed to the procedure of standing drinks.

“What is your name?” Andrews said quickly, with a feeling of pride at his own cunning.

“Mr. Farne,” the other replied without hesitation.

“Farne,” Andrews said slowly. He pondered the name. That it was an honest one he could not doubt. “Thank you,” he said, “I will.”

When he had drunk, the world seemed a fairer place than it had seemed for a long while. There was companionship in it and Mr. Farne, who listened to him without mockery and never once reminded him of his father.

“Perhaps you did not know my father?” he asked hopefully.

“I had not that pleasure,” said Mr. Farne.

Andrews laughed. Mr. Farne was an ideal companion, for he was a wit. “Pleasure!” he grimaced. “You can’t have known him.”

“What was his name?” Mr. Farne asked.

“The same as mine,” Andrews retorted, with a laugh. It seemed to him that he had combined in a sentence of four words the quintessence of a witty retort and of caution. For clearly he must not disclose his name to Mr. Farne.

“And what is that?” asked Mr. Farne.

“Absolom,” Andrews mocked.

“I am sorry, but I am a little deaf⁠ ⁠…”

“Absolom,” Andrews repeated. Mr. Farne, the sweet simpleton, was taking him seriously. To prolong the excellent joke he searched his pockets for a scrap of paper and a pencil, but could find neither. Mr. Farne, however, supplied both. “I will write my name down,” Andrews said. He wrote “Absolom, son of King David.”

Mr. Farne’s laugh suddenly ceased. He stared at the scrap of paper in front of him. “You make very curious capital letters,” he said.

“Long tails to them,” Andrews answered. “I was always fond of women.” He stared round him. “Isn’t there a woman in this place that’s worth looking at?” he called angrily. “There’s no one here, Mr. Farne,” he said, “let’s go into the town.”

“Women do not attract me,” Mr. Farne said coldly.

“There’s one that would,” Andrews stared at him with serious melancholy eyes. “Have you ever seen a saint surrounded with white birds? And yet a woman you know that could give a man pleasure. But she’s too good for that. You mustn’t laugh. I mean it. I call her Gretel. I don’t believe that any man will ever touch her.”

“You are a very strange young man,” Mr. Farne said deprecatingly. Andrews was arousing attention. They were being stared at. A few men were pressing close, while a fat woman began to laugh shrilly and continuously.

“You don’t believe me,” Andrews said. “You would if you saw her. I’ll show you though. Give me that pencil and paper and I’ll draw her.”

A tall loose-jointed man with a scrubby beard began to clear a circle on a table. “Look, folks,” he said, “here’s an artist. He’s going to draw us a woman, a peach of a woman.”

“Where’s the paper and the pencil?” Andrews asked.

Mr. Farne shook his head. “Here is the pencil,” he said. “I can’t find the paper. It must have fallen on the floor.”

“Never mind, dearie,” the fat woman called. “Here George, get us some paper,” she implored the potman.

“Any paper will do,” Andrews cried, exhilarated by the attention he had aroused.

They found him an old envelope and crowded close; Mr. Farne, however, stood a little apart. Andrews knelt down at the table and tried to steady his hand. “Now, nothing indecent, mind,” the potman called across with a laugh.

“Here, give the boy a whisky on me,” said the fat woman. “There, that will clear you, dearie. Now, show us your little friend.”

Andrews drained the glass and picked up the pencil. Clearly in front of him he saw Elizabeth’s face, white, set and proud, as he had seen it first, when she pointed the gun at his breast. He knew that they were mocking him, but he had only to show them that face for them to fall quiet and understand. He held the pencil awkwardly in his fingers. How should he begin? He had never drawn a picture in his life, but when he could see her there so clearly, it must be easy. He would draw the candles first with their yellow flames.

“She’s a bit of a stick, isn’t she, dearie,” said the fat woman, “where are her arms?”

“She wants more than arms,” the loose jointed man winked and grinned over Andrews’s head and made obscene gestures with his fingers. “Give him another drink.”

“That’s not her,” Andrews said, “those are candles. I’m going to start her now.” He made a few strokes with the pencil and then, putting his head upon his hands, burst into tears. “I can’t,” he said, “I can’t. She won’t come here.” Her face was going away from him very far off. Soon only the glow of the candles would be left. “Don’t go,” he implored aloud.

He heard them laughing round him, but with his head bowed and eyes shut, he tried to bring back that vanishing image. Good God, he thought, I can’t even remember how her hair curls. I must be drunk.

“Never mind, I’ll stay, dearie,” said the fat woman, bending over him with a giggle, her whisky-laden breath driving like a fume of smoke between his eyes and what he sought.

Andrews jumped to his feet. “I don’t know what’s the matter with me,” he said unsteadily. “Haven’t had anything to eat today,” he swayed a little on his feet. “Bring me some sandwiches.” He felt in his pockets and found nothing there. He had spent his last penny. “No, don’t,” he said and moved towards the door. A vague feeling of shame suffused his mind. He had tried to bring Elizabeth into this company and he had been fittingly punished. This laughter soiled the thought of her. “Be quiet, damn you,” he cried.

The cool air of the streets went to his head as though it were another glass of spirits. The pavement surged under his feet and he leant back against a wall, feeling sick and tired and ashamed. He closed his eyes and shut out the vision of the rolling street.

Mr. Farne’s quiet, sedate voice spoke through the dark. “You are a very foolish young man,” he said, “to drink on an empty stomach.”

“O leave me alone,” Andrews flung out his hand in the direction of the voice.

“You had better go and have some food,” Mr. Farne said.

“All right, but leave me.”

“Have you any money?” Mr. Farne persisted.

“No, damn you. Mind your own business.” Andrews opened his eyes and scowled at Mr. Farne, who stood watching him with a puzzled face.

“I meant no harm,” said Mr. Farne. “Will you dine with me, Mr. Absolom?”

Against his own inclination Andrews laughed. The gullible fool really believes, he thought, that I am Absolom. “I’ll come,” he said, “if you don’t mind holding my arm, my legs are weak. Hunger takes me like that.”

He found himself walking down the High Street, held upright by a steady arm. Outside a public house three Bow-street runners in red waistcoats watched their passage with superior contempt. “This town’s full of robin redbreasts,” he commented with a grimace.

“The Assizes,” said Mr. Farne. They stayed for a moment outside a square building above the window of which a fat female justice held the inevitable scales. “Here,” Mr. Farne said, “is where your friends the smugglers will be dealt with.”

Andrews shook off his arm and turned to face him. “What in hell do you mean,” he said, “by my friends? They are no friends of mine.”

“A figure of speech only,” Mr. Farne protested.

“You may hang the lot for me,” Andrews exclaimed, sobered for the moment by suspicion.

“We hope to,” said Mr. Farne gently. He put his arm round Andrews’s shoulder. “I am lodging just opposite at The White Hart,” he said. “Will you dine with me there?”

Andrews looked down at his muddy clothes. “Drunk and dirty,” he said, and added with a laugh a little self-consciously forlorn, “and damnably hungry.”

“I have a private room,” Mr. Farne encouraged him. “They do a good steak,” he added softly.

“Take me to it,” Andrews said. He put his hand to his head in a sudden longing to clear it. What was he doing dining with this Mr. Farne? Who was Mr. Farne? What had he said to him? “I must be careful,” he thought, and at the sound of that word, which seemed to have haunted him for weeks, his desperate longing for peace returned, a peace which would be empty of caution and deception and in which he could draw back to him that image which drink had obscured. “I’m tired,” he said aloud.

“You can sleep here,” Mr. Farne said, nodding towards the inn on the other side of the road.

In a despairing dream Andrews was led across the road and into a dimly lighted hall. “If they’ll let me sleep here tonight,” he thought, “tomorrow I’ll return over the downs.” He remembered the afternoon sun and the blue dew-pond at which he drank watched by the lazy cows and on the other side of the downs Elizabeth sat alone before a fire mending a dead man’s stocking. Mr. Farne was leading him up a dark staircase, and in the ancient mirror at its head he saw a dirty, bedraggled youth stagger towards him. “What charity to shelter that,” he thought.

Mr. Farne gently turned the handle of a door and ushered Andrews in. The door closed behind him. “Forgive my disturbing you, Sir Henry,” Mr. Farne said.