The Tale of Mr. Peter Brown - Chelsea Justice | Page 3

here before last week?"
He shot me a quick look, and said, "I haven't been in London."
"Travelling, perhaps?" I hazarded negligently.
He gave a harsh shout of laughter, succeeded by the same abrupt
silence. Would all our conversation, I wondered, be conducted on this
spasmodic system? He certainly didn't second my efforts at small-talk.
Was what he had to say too vital, too oppressive?
"I say," I resumed, leaning forward, "have I seen you anywhere else? I
think your face is familiar...." It was a lie; I knew perfectly well that I
had never seen him anywhere; his was not an appearance to be lightly
forgotten.

"And yet," I added, as he stared at me without speaking, "I am sure I
should remember; one would remember this contrast"--and I touched
first my face and then my hair.
"It has only been like that for a fortnight."
He brought out the words, scowling and lowering at me, and then the
fierce look died away, to be replaced by a look of apology and pain; a
cowed look, like that of a dog who has been ill-treated. "That is what
made you notice me," he exclaimed; "it brands me, doesn't it? Yes. A
freak. One might as well be piebald." He spoke with extraordinary
vehemence, and, taking a handful of his hair, he tugged at it in a rage of
despair; then sinking his face between his hands, he sat shaking his
head mournfully from side to side.
"Listen," I said, "have you any friends?"
He raised his head.
"I had a few stray acquaintances. Nothing would tempt me to go near
them now."
"Anyone to talk to?"
"Not a soul. I haven't spoken to a soul since--since I came back."
"Fire ahead, then," I said, "talk to me. You don't know my name, I don't
know yours. You're quite safe. Say whatever you like. Go on. I'm
waiting."
He began, talking in a voice low, rapid, and restrained. He spoke so
fluently that I knew he must often have rehearsed the phrases over to
himself, muttering them, against the day when he should be granted
expression. "I had two friends. They were very good to me. I was
homeless, and they told me to look on their home as my own. I hope I
didn't trespass too much on their hospitality, but I fell into the habit of
wandering into their house every evening after dinner, and staying there
till it was time to go to bed. I really don't know which I cared for most,

in those early days, the man or the woman. It had been with him that I
first made acquaintance; we were both engaged on journalistic work,
reporting, you know, on different papers--and we came across each
other once or twice in that way. He was a saturnine, queer-tempered
fellow, taciturn at times, and at other times possessed by a wry sense of
humour which made him excellent company, though it kept one in a
state of alert disquiet. He would say things with that particular twist to
them which made one look up, startled, wondering whether his remark
was really intended to be facetious or obscurely sinister. Thanks to this
ambiguity he had gained quite a reputation in Fleet Street. You can
imagine, therefore, that I was flattered when he singled me out; I
listened to all his remarks with a respect I was too proud to betray;
although I adopted an off-hand manner towards him, I didn't lose many
opportunities of letting the other fellows know, in a casual way, that I
had been practically given the run of his house; and I was never sorry
to be seen when we strolled off with his arm in mine.
"They lived, he and his wife, in a tiny house at the end of Cheyne Walk.
On misty evenings we used to sit, all three, on the sill of the
bow-window, watching the big barges float by, while our legs swung
dangling from the high sill, and we talked of many things in the
desultory way born of easy intimacy, and I used silently to marvel at
the sharpness of his mind and the gentleness of hers. She was very
gentle. It even irritated me, faintly, to observe her complete submission
to him. Not that he bullied her, not exactly. But he had a way of taking
submission for granted, and so, I suppose, most people accorded it to
him. It irritated me to see how his wife had subdued her personality to
his, she who was of so tender and delicate a fibre, and who more than
anyone wanted cherishing, instead of being ridden down, in that
debonair, rough-shod way of his, that, although often exasperating, still
had something attractive about it. She and I used