Turnbull and MacIan looked at him for one moment with
a sort of notion that perhaps he was not too old to
be merely playing the fool. But after staring
steadily for an instant Turnbull saw the hard and
horrible earnestness in the man’s eyes behind
all his empty animation. Then Turnbull looked
very gravely at the strict gravel walls and the gay
flower-beds and the long rectangular red-brick building,
which the mist had left evident beyond them.
Then he looked at MacIan.
Almost at the same moment another man came walking
quickly round the regal clump of rhododendrons.
He had the look of a prosperous banker, wore a good
tall silk hat, was almost stout enough to burst the
buttons of a fine frock-coat; but he was talking to
himself, and one of his elbows had a singular outward
jerk as he went by.
The man with the good hat and the jumping elbow went
by very quickly; yet the man with the bad hat, who
thought he was God, overtook him. He ran after
him and jumped over a bed of geraniums to catch him.
“I beg your Majesty’s pardon,” he
said, with mock humility, “but here is a quarrel
which you ought really to judge.”
Then as he led the heavy, silk-hatted man back towards
the group, he caught MacIan’s ear in order to
whisper: “This poor gentleman is mad; he
thinks he is Edward VII.” At this the self-appointed
Creator slightly winked. “Of course you
won’t trust him much; come to me for everything.
But in my position one has to meet so many people.
One has to be broadminded.”
The big banker in the black frock-coat and hat was
standing quite grave and dignified on the lawn, save
for his slight twitch of one limb, and he did not
seem by any means unworthy of the part which the other
promptly forced upon him.
“My dear fellow,” said the man in the
straw hat, “these two gentlemen are going to
fight a duel of the utmost importance. Your own
royal position and my much humbler one surely indicate
us as the proper seconds. Seconds—yes,
seconds——” and here the speaker
was once more shaken with his old malady of laughter.
“Yes, you and I are both seconds—and
these two gentlemen can obviously fight in front of
us. You, he-he, are the king. I am God;
really, they could hardly have better supporters.
They have come to the right place.”
Then Turnbull, who had been staring with a frown at
the fresh turf, burst out with a rather bitter laugh
and cried, throwing his red head in the air:
“Yes, by God, MacIan, I think we have come to
the right place!” And MacIan answered, with
an adamantine stupidity:
“Any place is the right place where they will
let us do it.”
There was a long stillness, and their eyes involuntarily
took in the landscape, as they had taken in all the
landscapes of their everlasting combat; the bright,
square garden behind the shop; the whole lift and
leaning of the side of Hampstead Heath; the little
garden of the decadent choked with flowers; the square
of sand beside the sea at sunrise. They both
felt at the same moment all the breadth and blossoming
beauty of that paradise, the coloured trees, the natural
and restful nooks and also the great wall of stone—more
awful than the wall of China—from which
no flesh could flee.
