The idea of leaving England had occurred to Tyson more than once before.
In Stanistreet's rooms it took its first vague shape. But Louis's parting
words had a sting in them; they were at once a shock to his feelings and
a challenge to his will.
Stanistreet had read him thoroughly. In plain language he had entertained
serious thoughts of deserting Mrs. Nevill Tyson. Desertion? It was an
ugly word. He dismissed his idea. He would dree his weird. He wasn't
going to funk the thing--not he! The New Life had been found impossible.
No matter. Certum quia impossibile. Nothing like a big thumping paradox
when you were about it. Impossibility had the smile and lure of haunting
deity, the glamor of the arcana. That night he dedicated himself with
more promises and vows.
He was in that state of mind when men look out for miracles to save them.
There was no reason why miracles should not happen, here and now. Those
fellows must have been in a bad way who had to go out into deserts and
places to find God and their unconquerable souls. No doubt queer things
have happened in Africa, in Asia, things which the Western mind--Pending
the miracle, his Western mind would seek peace in an office. He would try
anything, from a Government appointment to a clerkship in the Bank. After
all they do not manage things so very differently in the East. If you
come to think of it, there is not much to choose between bending yourself
double over a desk and sitting with your head in the pit of your stomach,
meditating on Brahma. The effect on the liver must be pretty much the
same.
He went to bed thinking of Upanishads, with the result that he dreamed of
tiger-shooting in the jungle.
Ah, yes, in the cold light of intellect, between doing and not doing a
thing there is but the difference of a word. That colorless negative does
nothing to alter the salient image of the thing. The fervency of his
resolve not to leave England called up as in a calenture the lands that
he was not to travel, the freedom that was not to be his.
The idea he had dismissed came back to him. He flew and it followed; he
veered and it waylaid him at every turn. An intolerable restlessness took
possession of him. He spent his days and a great part of his nights in
furious walking about the streets. The idea hounded him on; it stared at
him now from newspaper placards, it was whispered and murmured and
shrieked into his ears.
There was war in the Soudan.
He saw his idea illuminated, transfigured. It was Glory, a stern wingless
Victory, beckoning him across a continent. It no longer pursued him. It
had changed its tactics. It was coming to meet him; there was no
escaping.