Appleby's End Read Free Page B

booksy journey. The idiot boy, of course, was straight out of Wordsworth. And it was Mr Raven’s doing. In Mr Raven’s presence everything turned booksy. It was very likely that the priest was really the late G K Chesterton’s Father Brown.
    â€œThe Ravens,” said Mr Raven suddenly – and much as if Appleby had been speaking this fantasy aloud – “have been literary folk for generations. As you probably know.”
    â€œOh, yes,” said Appleby. “Of course.”
    â€œWhich means that this sort of labour” – and Mr Raven tapped his suitcase – “is less burdensome than it would be to a person without a tradition of letters.”
    â€œAh,” said Appleby. “Tradition counts for a great deal, doesn’t it?”
    â€œQuite so. Only I must confess that I sometimes regret having undertaken these commissions. A systematic scholar, whose life is of necessity arduous, likes to have the satisfaction of feeling that his labours are on the frontiers of knowledge. But on what am I engaged here, Mr Appleby?” And Mr Raven tapped the suitcase once more. “ A rifacciamento , sir; little more than a rifacciamento .”
    â€œConsolidation,” said Appleby. “Yours must be regarded as a labour of consolidation. And of diffusion. Both, surely, very important functions of the scholar today.” Anthony Hope, he was thinking, would be far far better than this. For it was one of Appleby’s weaknesses that he was apt, out of an amiable desire to give pleasure, to involve himself in conversations of just such a ghastly insincerity as the present. “The frontiers of knowledge,” he added, going the whole hog, “are important, of course. But we must not forget the welfare of the interior. The provincial cities, Mr Raven, and the country towns. A good, popular encyclopaedia–”
    Mr Raven, much gratified, was fishing in his pockets once more. “Really,” he said, “your image is so striking that I must be permitted to make a note of it. In moments of discouragement–”
    The train, with a faint wheeze of escaping steam suggestive of more discouragement than a human being could express, drew to a halt. The slatternly woman woke up, grasped the idiot boy, and disappeared into the night as abruptly as a parachutist or a witch. The priest followed with an equal haste, as if he had some attempt at exorcism in mind. Appleby and Mr Raven were left alone. “Yatter,” said Mr Raven.
    â€œI beg your pardon?”
    â€œYatter. A ghastly little place. Yatter, Abbot’s Yatter and King’s Yatter. Then we come to Drool… I think you said you hoped to change at Linger?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œUm.” Mr Raven peered into the darkness which was again jolting leisurely by. “Inclement,” he said gloomily; “really very inclement indeed.”
    â€œYou think there may be some difficulty about changing at Linger?”
    â€œBut presently” – Mr Raven spoke briskly and inconsequently, as one who avoids the premature disclosure of discomfiting intelligence – “but presently we shall be filling up.” He closed Stuttaford and began to sweep crumbs, papers and peanut shells from the empty seats. “I suppose it was your aim to get to Sneak or Snarl?”
    â€œI’ve booked a room at the inn at Snarl. And I certainly hope to get there tonight.”
    Mr Raven shook his bead. “I am very sorry to have to tell you that it can’t be done. The train for Snarl never waits to make this connection.”
    Appleby stared at his companion aghast. “But,” he said feebly, “the timetable–”
    Again Mr Raven shook his head – in commiseration, and also perhaps in some amusement at the extravagant expectations of the urban mind. “My dear sir, the timetable was printed long before Gregory Grope’s grandmother fell down the