Darcourt wanted time to come to terms with his discovery, surely the most extraordinary piece of luck that had ever come his way, so he travelled back to Toronto by train, and the journey, which would have taken just under an hour by air, filled the greater part of a day. It was just what he needed. The train was not crowded, and its alternation of simoom-like heat and bitter November draughts was vastly preferable to the “pressurized” atmosphere of a plane. What the train lacked in food—there were sandwiches of the usual railway variety—he made good with a large bar of chocolate and nuts. He had a book in his lap, for he was the kind of man who must always have a book near as a protective talisman, but did not look at it. He thought about his find. He gloated. He looked out at the sere, desolate landscape of Eastern Ontario in November, and the bleak towns, so charmless, so humble; to his gaze it might have been the Garden of Eden and all the chilled passers-by so many Adams and Eves. Sentences formed in his mind; he fastidiously chose adjectives; he rejected tempting flights into literary extravagance; he thought of several modest ways of presenting his great discovery, which wholly changed the idea the world was to receive of the late Francis Cornish. His journey passed in something as near to bliss as he had ever known.
Bliss ended with the journey. When he arrived back at his college the porter gave him a telephone message; he was to call Arthur as soon as possible.
“Simon, I’ve rather an important favour to ask. I know you’re busy, but will you drop everything and go to Stratford at once? To see Powell.”
“What about?”
“Don’t you know? Don’t you read the papers? He’s in hospital, rather badly banged up.”
“What happened?”
“Car accident last night. Apparently he was driving recklessly. In fact he was driving through the park, next to the Festival Theatre, at great speed, and ran into a tree.”
“Skidded off the road?”
“He wasn’t on the road. He was in the park itself, zigzagging among the trees and yelling like a wild man. Very drunk, they say. He’s all smashed up. We’re terribly worried about him.”
“Naturally. But why don’t you go yourself?”
“Bit delicate. Complications. Apparently he raved a lot under anaesthetic, and the surgeon called me to explain—and see if I had anything to say. He babbled a lot about Maria and me, and if we rush down there to see him it lends colour to a lot of speculation among the theatre people. You know what they are. But somebody must go. Indecent not to. Will you? Hire a car, of course, it’s Foundation business as much as it’s anything. Do go, Simon. Please.”
“Of course I’ll go if it’s necessary. But do you mean he’s spilled the beans?”
“Quite a few beans. The surgeon said that of course people fantasize under anaesthetic, and nobody takes it seriously.”
“Except that he took it seriously enough to tip you off.”
“There were assistants and nurses around when he was patching Geraint up—and you know how hospital people talk.”
“I know how all people talk, when they think they’ve got hold of a juicy morsel.”
“So you’ll go? Simon, you are a good friend! And you’ll call us as soon as you get back?”
“Is Maria worried?”
“We’re both worried.”
That was a good thing, thought Darcourt, as he sped toward Stratford in his hired limousine. If they were both worried about the same thing, and that thing was the mess they were in with Powell, it might bring them together, and put an end to all that polite conversation about nothing. Darcourt was in a somewhat cynical frame of mind, for he had gobbled a snack while waiting for the car, and it was not sitting well with all the chocolate he had eaten in the train.
Indigestion is a great begetter of cynicism. In the back seat of the car, dashing through the November darkness, he had lost the happy mood of the daytime; here he was again, good old Simon, the abbé at the court of the Cornish Foundation, the reliable old fire-engine sent off to quench a blaze of gossip that Arthur and Maria took seriously.
We live in an age of sexual liberation, he thought, when people are not supposed to take marital fidelity seriously, and when adultery, and fornication, and all uncleanness are perfectly okay—except when they come near home. When that happens, there may be uproars that awaken the gossip columnists, alert the divorce lawyers, and sometimes end in the criminal courts. Especially so among prominent people, and Arthur, and Maria, and Geraint Powell were all, in their various ways, prominent, and just as touchy as everybody else. Darcourt was of Old Ontario stock, descendant of United Empire Loyalists, and from time to time an Old Ontario saw seemed to him to sum up a situation: “It all depends whose ox is gored”. The Cornish ox had been gored, and it was probably impossible to conceal the wound.
Still, he must rush to stick a Band-Aid on the bleeding place.
Powell was in one of those hospital rooms which are described as “semi-private”; this meant that he lay in the part of the room nearest the door, and on the other side of the white curtain that split the room down the middle lay somebody who had hired one of the hospital television sets; he was listening to a hockey game, apparently of the first importance, with the volume turned well up. The commentators were describing the play and discussing its significance, in a high state of excitement.
“Oh, Sim bach, you darling man! How good of you to come! Would you ask that bugger to turn down his bloody machine?”
Geraints head was heavily bandaged, though his face could be seen; it was bruised, but no wounds were visible. One arm was in plaster, and his left leg, swathed in some medical wrapping, was hoisted upward in a sling that hung from a metal brace attached to the bed.
“Would you please turn down the volume of your set? My friend is very ill and we want to talk.”
“Hey? What did you say? You’ll have to speak up; I’m a bit deaf. Great game, eh? The Hatters have got the Soviet team on the run. My pet team. The Medicine Hatters. Best in the League. If they win this one, we might get the Cup yet. Big night, eh?”
“Yes, but could you turn it down a bit? My friend is very ill.”
“Is he? This’ll cheer him up. Would you like to pull back the curtain so he can see?”
“Thank you, a very kind offer. But he really is suffering.”
“This’ll fix him. Hey—did you see that? Just missed it! Donniker is in great shape tonight. He’s showing those Russkies what defence work is. Hey—look at that! Wowie!”
It appeared that nothing could be done. The man in the other bed was gripped by the ruling passion, and it was hopeless to talk to him.
“Well, old man, how are you?” said Darcourt.
“I am at the head of the Valley of Grief in the Uplands of Hell,” Geraint replied.
He’s had that one ready, thought Darcourt, This may be heavy going.
“I came as soon as I knew. What on earth has happened to you?”
“Retribution, Sim bach. I have made an utter balls of everything! My life is in tatters and I have nobody to blame but myself. This is punishment for sin, and I have nothing to do but accept it, swallow it, suffer it, take up my cross, prostrate myself before the Throne, and die! It runs in my family; my great-grandfather and my Uncle David both died of disgrace and despair. Turned their faces to the wall. I am trying to die. It’s the least I can do under the circumstances. Oh God, my head!”
Darcourt sought out a nurse; she was down the hall at the nursing-station, where she and a clutch of nurses and interns were huddled around a tiny television screen, watching the great game. But she came long enough to go to the other side of the white curtain and turn down the set of the enthusiast who shared the semi-private, who protested that his deafness required greater volume. She also, at his urgent request, brought Darcourt a glass of Alka-Seltzer to assuage his raging stomach. In the somewhat less uproarious atmosphere, he tried to soothe Powell.