“What did they warn you of?”
“They said you’d been blown up in the War, and you’d been queer at times ever since. I’m not reproaching you – I know it was nothing you could help – and Heaven knows I hate talking like this… Oh, I’ll go. It’s all frightful and sickening, but I must go. I gave my word.”
“To Lo-Tsen?”
“Yes, if you want to know.”
Conway got up and held out his hand. “Good-by, Mallinson.”
“For the last time, you’re not coming?”
“I can’t.”
“Good-by, then.”
They shook hands, and Mallinson left.
Conway sat alone in the lantern-light. It seemed to him, in a phrase engraved on memory, that all the loveliest things were transient and perishable, that the two worlds were finally beyond reconciliation, and that one of them hung, as always, by a thread. After he had pondered for some time he looked at his watch; it was ten minutes to three.
He was still at the table, smoking the last of his cigarettes, when Mallinson returned. The youth entered with some commotion, and on seeing him, stood back in the shadows as if to gather his wits. He was silent, and Conway began, after waiting a moment: “Hullo, what’s happened? Why are you back?”
The complete naturalness of the question fetched Mallinson forward; he pulled off his heavy sheepskins and sat down. His face was ashen and his whole body trembled. “I hadn’t the nerve,” he cried, half sobbing. “That place where we were all roped – you remember? I got as far as that… I couldn’t manage it. I’ve no head for heights, and in moonlight it looked fearful. Silly, isn’t it?” He broke down completely and was hysterical until Conway pacified him. Then he added: “They needn’t worry, these fellows here – nobody will ever threaten them by land. But, my God, I’d give a good deal to fly over with a load of bombs!”
“Why would you like to do that, Mallinson?”
“Because the place wants smashing up, whatever it is. It’s unhealthy and unclean – and for that matter, if your impossible yarn were true, it would be more hateful still! A lot of wizened old men crouching here like spiders for anyone who comes near… it’s filthy… who’d want to live to an age like that, anyhow? And as for your precious High Lama, if he’s half as old as you say he is, it’s time someone put him out of his misery… Oh, why won’t you come away with me, Conway? I hate imploring you for my own sake, but damn it all, I’m young and we’ve been pretty good friends together – does my whole life mean nothing to you compared with the lies of these awful creatures? And Lo-Tsen, too – she’s young – doesn’t she count at all?”
“Lo-Tsen is not young,” said Conway.
Mallinson looked up and began to titter hysterically. “Oh, no, not young – not young at all, of course. She looks about seventeen, but I suppose you’ll tell me she’s really a well-preserved ninety.”
“Mallinson, she came here in 1884.”
“You’re raving, man!”
“Her beauty, Mallinson, like all other beauty in the world, lies at the mercy of those who do not know how to value it. It is a fragile thing that can only live where fragile things are loved. Take it away from this valley and you will see it fade like an echo.”
Mallinson laughed harshly, as if his own thoughts gave him confidence. “I’m not afraid of that. It’s here that she’s only an echo, if she’s one anywhere at all.” He added after a pause: “Not that this sort of talk gets us anywhere. We’d better cut out all the poetic stuff and come down to realities. Conway, I want to help you – it’s all the sheerest nonsense, I know, but I’ll argue it out if it’ll do you any good. I’ll pretend it’s something possible that you’ve told me, and that it really does need examining. Now tell me, seriously, what evidence have you for this story of yours?”
Conway was silent.
“Merely that someone spun you a fantastic rigmarole. Even from a thoroughly reliable person whom you’d known all your life, you wouldn’t accept that sort of thing without proof. And what proofs have you in this case? None at all, so far as I can see. Has Lo-Tsen ever told you her history?”
“No, but – ”
“Then why believe it from someone else? And all this longevity business – can you point to a single outside fact in support of it?”
Conway thought a moment and then mentioned the unknown Chopin works that Briac had played.
“Well, that’s a matter that means nothing to me – I’m not a musician. But even if they’re genuine, isn’t it possible that he could have got hold of them in some way without his story being true?”