""Yes, dear," he would say, "you were speaking about Jane, and the way I kept looking at her during lunch."
"It"s extraordinary," concluded my friend, lighting a fresh cigar, "what creatures of habit we are."
"Very," I replied. "I knew a man who told tall stories till when he told a true one n.o.body believed it."
"Ah, that was a very sad case," said my friend.
"Speaking of habit," said the un.o.btrusive man in the corner, "I can tell you a true story that I"ll bet my bottom dollar you won"t believe."
"Haven"t got a bottom dollar, but I"ll bet you half a sovereign I do,"
replied my friend, who was of a sporting turn. "Who shall be judge?"
"I"ll take your word for it," said the un.o.btrusive man, and started straight away.
"He was a Jefferson man, this man I"m going to tell you of," he begun.
"He was born in the town, and for forty-seven years he never slept a night outside it. He was a most respectable man--a drysalter from nine to four, and a Presbyterian in his leisure moments. He said that a good life merely meant good habits. He rose at seven, had family prayer at seven-thirty, breakfasted at eight, got to his business at nine, had his horse brought round to the office at four, and rode for an hour, reached home at five, had a bath and a cup of tea, played with and read to the children (he was a domesticated man) till half-past six, dressed and dined at seven, went round to the club and played whist till quarter after ten, home again to evening prayer at ten-thirty, and bed at eleven.
For five-and-twenty years he lived that life with never a variation. It worked into his system and became mechanical. The church clocks were set by him. He was used by the local astronomers to check the sun.
"One day a distant connection of his in London, an East Indian Merchant and an ex-Lord Mayor died, leaving him sole legatee and executor. The business was a complicated one and needed management. He determined to leave his son by his first wife, now a young man of twenty-four, in charge at Jefferson, and to establish himself with his second family in England, and look after the East Indian business.
"He set out from Jefferson City on October the fourth, and arrived in London on the seventeenth. He had been ill during the whole of the voyage, and he reached the furnished house he had hired in Bayswater somewhat of a wreck. A couple of days in bed, however, pulled him round, and on the Wednesday evening he announced his intention of going into the City the next day to see to his affairs.
"On the Thursday morning he awoke at one o"clock. His wife told him she had not disturbed him, thinking the sleep would do him good. He admitted that perhaps it had. Anyhow, he felt very well, and he got up and dressed himself. He said he did not like the idea of beginning his first day by neglecting a religious duty, and his wife agreeing with him, they a.s.sembled the servants and the children in the dining-room, and had family prayer at half-past one. After which he breakfasted and set off, reaching the City about three.
"His reputation for punctuality had preceded him, and surprise was everywhere expressed at his late arrival. He explained the circ.u.mstances, however, and made his appointments for the following day to commence from nine-thirty.
"He remained at the office until late, and then went home. For dinner, usually the chief meal of the day, he could manage to eat only a biscuit and some fruit. He attributed his loss of appet.i.te to want of his customary ride. He was strangely unsettled all the evening. He said he supposed he missed his game of whist, and determined to look about him without loss of time for some quiet, respectable club. At eleven he retired with his wife to bed, but could not sleep. He tossed and turned, and turned and tossed, but grew only more and more wakeful and energetic.
A little after midnight an overpowering desire seized him to go and wish the children good-night. He slipped on a dressing-gown and stole into the nursery. He did not intend it, but the opening of the door awoke them, and he was glad. He wrapped them up in the quilt, and, sitting on the edge of the bed, told them moral stories till one o"clock.
"Then he kissed them, bidding them be good and go to sleep; and finding himself painfully hungry, crept downstairs, where in the back kitchen he made a hearty meal off cold game pie and cuc.u.mber.
"He retired to bed feeling more peaceful, yet still could not sleep, so lay thinking about his business affairs till five, when he dropped off.
"At one o"clock to the minute he awoke. His wife told him she had made every endeavour to rouse him, but in vain. The man was vexed and irritated. If he had not been a very good man indeed, I believe he would have sworn. The same programme was repeated as on the Thursday, and again he reached the City at three.
"This state of things went on for a month. The man fought against himself, but was unable to alter himself. Every morning, or rather every afternoon at one he awoke. Every night at one he crept down into the kitchen and foraged for food. Every morning at five he fell asleep.
"He could not understand it, n.o.body could understand it. The doctor treated him for water on the brain, hypnotic irresponsibility and hereditary lunacy. Meanwhile his business suffered, and his health grew worse. He seemed to be living upside down. His days seemed to have neither beginning nor end, but to be all middle. There was no time for exercise or recreation. When he began to feel cheerful and sociable everybody else was asleep.
"One day by chance the explanation came. His eldest daughter was preparing her home studies after dinner.
""What time is it now in New York?" she asked, looking up from her geography book.
""New York," said her father, glancing at his watch, "let me see. It"s just ten now, and there"s a little over four and a half hours"
difference. Oh, about half-past five in the afternoon."
""Then in Jefferson," said the mother, "it would be still earlier, wouldn"t it?"
""Yes," replied the girl, examining the map, "Jefferson is nearly two degrees further west."
""Two degrees," mused the father, "and there"s forty minutes to a degree.
That would make it now, at the present moment in Jefferson--"
"He leaped to his feet with a cry:
""I"ve got it!" he shouted, "I see it."
""See what?" asked his wife, alarmed.
""Why, it"s four o"clock in Jefferson, and just time for my ride. That"s what I"m wanting."
"There could be no doubt about it. For five-and-twenty years he had lived by clockwork. But it was by Jefferson clockwork, not London clockwork. He had changed his longitude, but not himself. The habits of a quarter of a century were not to be shifted at the bidding of the sun.
"He examined the problem in all its bearings, and decided that the only solution was for him to return to the order of his old life. He saw the difficulties in his way, but they were less than those he was at present encountering. He was too formed by habit to adapt himself to circ.u.mstances. Circ.u.mstances must adapt themselves to him.
"He fixed his office hours from three till ten, leaving himself at half- past nine. At ten he mounted his horse and went for a canter in the Row, and on very dark nights he carried a lantern. News of it got abroad, and crowds would a.s.semble to see him ride past.
"He dined at one o"clock in the morning, and afterwards strolled down to his club. He had tried to discover a quiet, respectable club where the members were willing to play whist till four in the morning, but failing, had been compelled to join a small Soho gambling-h.e.l.l, where they taught him poker. The place was occasionally raided by the police, but thanks to his respectable appearance, he generally managed to escape.
"At half-past four he returned home, and woke up the family for evening prayers. At five he went to bed and slept like a top.
"The City chaffed him, and Bayswater shook its head over him, but that he did not mind. The only thing that really troubled him was loss of spiritual communion. At five o"clock on Sunday afternoons he felt he wanted chapel, but had to do without it. At seven he ate his simple mid- day meal. At eleven he had tea and m.u.f.fins, and at midnight he began to crave again for hymns and sermons. At three he had a bread-and-cheese supper, and retired early at four a.m., feeling sad and unsatisfied.
"He was essentially a man of habit."
The un.o.btrusive stranger ceased, and we sat gazing in silence at the ceiling.
At length my friend rose, and taking half-a-sovereign from his pocket, laid it upon the table, and linking his arm in mine went out with me upon the deck.
THE ABSENT-MINDED MAN
You ask him to dine with you on Thursday to meet a few people who are anxious to know him.
"Now don"t make a muddle of it," you say, recollectful of former mishaps, "and come on the Wednesday."
He laughs good-naturedly as he hunts through the room for his diary.
"Shan"t be able to come Wednesday," he says, "shall be at the Mansion House, sketching dresses, and on Friday I start for Scotland, so as to be at the opening of the Exhibition on Sat.u.r.day. It"s bound to be all right this time. Where the deuce is that diary! Never mind, I"ll make a note of it on this--you can see me do it."
You stand over him while he writes the appointment down on a sheet of foolscap, and watch him pin it up over his desk. Then you come away contented.