The Turning

Ladies' Mirror, Volume I, Issue 1, 1 July 1922, Page 12

The Turning

by OWEN OLIVER

"Well," she asked, "ivhat's troubling you, dear old man?"

THE man's name was Charles Bennet. He was forty-one years old, and he was managing clerk in the office of a firm of solicitors. There was nothing much out of the ordinary about him. He was not very tall and not very short, not very stout and not very thin. His wage was four pounds a week, and he was most respectable. - The thing which struck people most was that he "ought to have done better." Anything else that matters about him is in the story. He was going home from his office one afternoon in early February, and he took the fancy to get out of his train at the Junction and walk the remaining four miles across country. His reason for delay was not an unkind one; only that he had bad news to tell his wife. A payment upon which he had confidently reckoned had failed; and he saw no prospect of ever securing it. For three months he had promised his wife to appropriate the money to buy a sideboard, which they admired every Saturday in the window of the Universal Furnishing Emporium. They always said how nicely it would fill the bare wall in their dining-room, which had vexed her for years. "Bert" wife's proper name was Bertha — be so upset," he kept thinking. "I like a place to look well; and the wall is as bare as a fence, as she says. She had such a fancy for the sideboard. Cheap food, cheap clothes, cheap everything. I'm a cheap man, i Suppose! just mcK, oi course; uui

it's not fair that a chap's whole life should turn on luck. Five minutes later, or five minutes sooner, and you meet someone, and something leads to something, and you make a fortune—or lose it. Well, I'm safe from doing that!" Mr. Bennet laughed at the idea of losing what he did not possess. He was naturally a cheerful man, and the fresh air was gradually cheering him. He felt "more himself," and paced on whistling till, in the dusk, he reached the crossroads. He didn't come this way often, and when he did his oldest boy generally piloted him. So he wasn't bUIC VVIIILU \JL LUC CvvO ic».»lv,o »»~ LU take. He consulted the sign-post; but rain and storm had almost washed out the rough lettering, and he could not read it. "If 1 were a lucky man," he reflected, "I'd chance the one to the left; but I'm always unlucky. So I'd better Lake the one I think wrong! But I don't know which I do think wrong. That's the trouble!" tt_ S fp„->H whistling and starins - at the

blank sign-post for a full minute, and then he noticed that he was watched by a tall, grey-haired, grave-faced gentleman. "Do you know the roads?" Bennet asked. "I'm in a dilemma." "The dilemma of life," said the gentleman, in a full deep voice. "The turnings are never posted." "There's a difference," Bennet remarked. "In life you can never turn back." "You can never turn back," the gentleman agreed; " but there is often a crosspath to the other road; the one you might have chosen." "That also is unposted," Bennet complained. "I wish I could find one leading to the road of prosperity." "Prosperity and other things," the gentleman corrected. "You must take what you find on life's road as a whole, friend. Even the road to prosperity has rough places; but you need not choose in ignorance. I can show you the road, and put you on it, if you will come to my house." "The road to prosperity?" Bennet asked. "Prosperity and other things," the stranger told him. "All that is on a road which you might have chosen many years ago." Bennet looked at the stranger rather doubtfully; but his appearance somehow compelled confidence. "If you are prepared to offer me a chance of bettering myself, sir—" he began;, but the stranger cut him off with a wave of his hand.

»■ "I spoke literally,*' he asserted. "I can show you your life, as it might have been, as clearly as if you saw yourself in a mirror." Bennet rubbed his eyes, and, satisfied that he was awake, went with the stranger to a large house standing in its own grounds, some fifty yards up a slope on the righthand side of the right-hand lane of the two he had to choose between. He can identify the exact spot to-day, but the house is not there and the grounds are a bare field. There was nothing abnormal about the house, so he says. The stranger conducted him to a large room at the back, furnished in green velvet, like a large and comfortable study. The only peculiar feature was a big armchair, covered with a canopy, at one end of a stand. At the other end there stood a plain gateway. The door was of ivory, with silver pillars at the sides, and a silver shield on top inscribed in mystic characters. In the centre of the door there was a round handle. Bennet thinks there was a mechanism at the back of the door, but he did not see it. The stranger waved him to an ordinary armchair first. "There have been side-ways which you have missed, that would have improved your circumstances," the stranger remarked, but you passed the main road full sixteen years ago. Perhaps you remember "You mean," Bennet suggested, "when I declined that post abroad? With Johnson and Richborough ?" He had always felt that he "missed his chance" then. "Yes," the stranger agreed. "You see," Bennet explained, "I had just taken a great fancy to Berthal mean my wife. Chichester was in the field first, and it seemed no use asking her at once. I'd only known her a few days. I was a young ass, of course, because she says she liked me from the very first; but I thought I'd lose her if I went away." The stranger nodded assent. "People choose their roads for reasons . like that," he said. "They may be good reasons, or they may be bad ones. They do not alter the external result, once the road is chosen; but they alter the man. That is a point which you must bear in mind. Now' take that chair, and you will find the road which you might have chosen; not the past —I cannot remake —but the present That is to say that for half an hour you will live exactly as you would have lived at this time to-day, if you had taken the appointment in the firm you mention. If you wish, after your trial, I can make the change permanent." He sat in the chair, and he stared at the ivory door, and wondered what the stranger was doing behind it, just as you wonder what the dentist is doing behind you. He heard a jingle very like the clatter of steel instruments; and suddenly the door and the room were gone, and he sat at a large spick-and-span roll-top desk in a beautifully appointed office, far superior to the private room of the head of his firm. He was dressed in brand new clothes, and had an extraordinarily comfortable feeling of exact lit and silk underwear. He returned to the grand desk, and found that he was signing a letter acknowledging a cheque for fifteen thousand pounds. Next he read an offer to place with his firm a contract for seventy thousand pounds, on certain conditions. He noticed that it was addressed to Sir Charles Bennet and Co. There were some private notes. One was

an invitation to dine with a duke. Another was from an earl—-"My dear Bennet." He was a very important man. : • \ z He signed a cheque for Lady Bennet carelessly, a couple of thousand or so was quite immaterial to him, he knew; and he had an idea that it was as immaterial -to Lady Bennet. Yes, she was rich in her own right: He recollected that; but he did not remember her very well. He would go home and see what she was like. " A magnificent motor conveyed him to his house, and a footman took his coat. "Is her ladyship in?" he asked. "Yes, Sir Charles; in the drawing-room." He strolled into the drawing-room. At the far —some forty feet from the door —he saw a large, handsome woman; too much jewellery, but carrying it well. "Good gracious she ejaculated. "What brought you home at this time?" "Motor," he said, standing with his back to the fire. "And I wanted to talk to you. They're badgering me again to stand' for Parliament." She shook her head. "You can't burn the candle at both ends," she pronounced decidedly. "Burn it at the end which makes money. It gives you more power than making speeches and" she paused. "You're right," lie owned. "We've got the Billiter contract, by the way. I'd rather like Parliament. Sort of feeling that I'm a candle with another end to burn." "You'd better burn it at home, then," she said sharply. "The children hardly know you. I suppose you wouldn't know them if you met them in the street!" He smiled. "You might have them down now." She waved her hand to the bell, and he pressed the knob. "Tell Miss Richardson to bring the children," his wife commanded, and presently they came. A boy of twelve, he was Charlie; a girl of ten, who answered to "Beck"; and a shy little creature of five, who was "Maidie." They hung round their big mother and stared at him. He talked to them awkwardly. He felt relieved when they were gone. He woke up facing the ivory door with the diamond handle. The stranger took his arm and helped him off the platform. "Well ?" he asked. "Do you wish you had taken the other turning?" ■ "Wish Bennet cried. "Wish! Why, I'd have been worth—"A million and a half sterling," the stranger told him; "and your wife another half million, and more when her father dies. She was Miss Rachel Levy, you know; only daughter of the millionaire." "She seemed precious clever," Bennet said, " and not bad-looking. What sort of a wife would she be?" "As good as you'd let her be," the stranger answered. "A very good mother. You wouldn't have cared much for her or for your children. You see, Mr. Bennet, you are a man with considerable limitations. If your energies had flowed in the direction of prosperity, you wouldn't have had much left." . • "I work hard," Bennet claimed.' "I make more money for the firm than the partners do, though you might not think so." tt "I don't think" so," the stranger stated. "You put in a quantity of work, but thev put in the quality. Your heart and the best of you are at home, my friend!" "I see," Bennet said slowly. "I don't look out for the firm as I look out for my family. That's true, but still, isn't there a cross-path

to a moderate prosperity, with my present family? *T like them much better than the others." > Trie others would have been just as likable, if you had liked them as much," the stranger told him. "They are really very nice people. Your wife-that-might-have-been is an exceptionally good woman, in spite of some human drawbacks. She is naturally affectionate. So are the children. Anyhow, you must have them, ,if you elect to be put on the main road to prosperity." "My domestic energies don't seem to do much for my family," he remarked savagely. "My wife has to be a household drudge. We can't even afford a maid. I don't see how I can give the boys a decent start in life, and we haven't been able to afford music lessons for my eldest girl. Perhaps they'd be better off if I'd chose the other turning. Would Bertl mean Mrs. Bennet have married Chichester? And would my children—' real children— existed, if I had taken the other turning, sixteen years ago?" , , "I don't know," the stranger said; '"but the apparatus will show you. You can see them on the ivory screen, as they would be to-day, if you had chosen the other turning. "Look at the knob," the stranger commanded. Bennet stared at the huge, manyiaced diamond ; and gradually a picture grew upon the great door. At first it was misty. Then the mist cleared, and;he saw his.wife, sitting in a very comfortable middle-class dining-room. There was a sideboard, he noticed, like the one at the Universal Furnishing Emporium, _ magnified and glorified. Bertha was well dressed and rather plumper and younger looking than at present, but yet in a way she seemed older. The lines upon her face were fewer; but the missing lines had been pleasant lines, graven in by cares borne for. love. , A woman well cared for, but not happy. ""f- - His four eldest children were gathered round her. He v missed Baby May. They were well dressedbetter than in their present Sunday bests, the renewal of which? was such a tax upon him—and little altered in appearance. At first he did not detect any alteration, but gradually he detected a difference in expression—an uneasy way of looking round, as if they expected to be accused of wrong-doing. That was what struck him. The eldest boy, sharp and mischievous, but well-meaning Dick, listened to something, and held up his hand. "Hang it all!" he grumbled. "That's father come home early. Just when we were enjoying ourselves!" "Hush, dear," his wife reproved the boy. "You shouldn't speak like that of your father." They all looked toward the door, and Chichester walked in; the same lanky, quick, querulous man as Bennet had known him. "Hello!" he greeted them. His wife just nodded, and the children said "Good afternoon, father," in a "company" manner. It was so different from the way they greeted Bennet when he returned. All five, and perhaps the baby, met him at the door, or on the steps outside. The boys almost tore his coat from him, and his wife and the girls hugged him... "You're home early,'"' his wife 7 remarked to Chichester. She also spoke in a company manner. When Bennet was early she always said "How nice And then she rattled -off the. events of the day, and her face looked quite girlish in spite of the little care-worn lines left after her smile had absorbed the other lines. '

HVTOTHING doing," said ChiChester. "I've got a liver. You'd better run away and play, children. No noise, mind. You haven t told the gardener about those weeds, Bertha." "I did tell him," his wife, said shortly. Bennet scarcely knew her "short" with him. "Then why didn't you see that he did what he was told?" "I don't profess to manage the. garden," she retorted. "It seems to me that you are looking for something to grumble about. Your liver is only an excuse for " At this point the ear-flaps began to buzz. Bennet only caught a word here and there for the next few minutes. He could see from the picture on the screen that a quarrel worked up. He wasn't surprised to see Chicester look disagreeable, and stamp up and down the fine dining-room; but he was astounded to see the anger on his wife's charming face, and the way that she bit her lips and tossed her head. He caught a few words of the dispute indistinctly now and then. "Neglect everything but" "Kill joy." "If I had married a woman who—" "I'd have been happier if "A poverty-stricken beggar!" (Did that refer to him?) "Anyhow he cares for his—bur-ur-ur-ur." The machine kept on buzzing from this point. Finally his wife swept out of the room, turning at the door for a last angry word. Bennet really hadn't realised that she could look so furious, and then the picture changed to the hall. It was a large hall, with a fireplaceßertha always wanted that—and a wide stairway with a rich pile carpet and great triangular rods—she longed for them also —and his wife- went up it wringing her hands. "My baby!" she cried. Bennet lost the picture, and found himself staring at the stranger. "The baby," he demanded hoarsely. "What has become of little May? I haven't seen her. She was always delicate; and once she was ill, andwhere's my baby child?" The stranger went behind the ivory door, and something clanked, as if he were setting the apparatus, which Bennet observed to be there. He always regrets that he did not ask to see it. "Look at the knob," he directed, "and perhaps you will see the little girl of whom you speak." Bennet stared at the knob till he felt dazed; and a mist grew and cleared, and he found a distinct picture; but no Baby May. The picture which came was only a little tombstone with a marble cross, in a green churchyard. "Mabel Winifred Chichester Born 2nd May, 1910 Died 7th July, 1913." Bennet found himself crying after the picture had gone. He wiped his eyes, staggered from the platform, and gripped the stranger's arm.

"She didn't die," he asserted fiercely. "We. pulled her through the fever. Bert and I sat up with her all night. It was the morning of the 7th July when she opened her eyes, and we " "In the life that might have been," the stranger interrupted very quietly, "that good woman who is now your wife sat up alone. She hadn't quite strength enough without her husband's support. She fainted, and the little one died." "And you think," Bennet said, "that I'd take a million and let her bear things alone!' And suddenly Bennet missed the stranger and his house; rubbed his eyes and looked and missed them still. After a time he pressed his hat down on his head and trudged on home, thinking that he had dreamed a dream, and saying in his heart that a marvel had happened to him, and vowing in his soul to find a cross-way to some small road of prosperity that his family could tread with him. "If ever I tell Bertha about it," he muttered, "I shall call it a dream; but I'm afraid she'll think I make it up to comfort her about the sideboard! I sha'n't tell her about that till the children have gone to bed. I'll laugh and talk, and she won't guess that there's anything wrong. Nobody could have laughed and talked more merrily than Mr. Bennet when he returned home and told his family how he had lost his way at the turning. He imagined that he had completely disguised his distress; but his wife followed him into the bathroom when he went to wash his hands. She put her elbow on his shoulder and pulled the towel from his face. Really Bert was just a childish sweetheart sometimes. "Well," she asked, "what's troubling you, dear old man?" Will you believe it! He put his wet face down on her soft shoulder and cried. "Markham has broken, Bert," he stated,, "and I—l—sha'n't get the money for your sideboard." "Well, old stupid!" she whispered in his ear, "what does it matter? You wanted to give it to me. That's the important thing." There is the story, and you can say that it was a dream, or you can say that it wasn't a dream; but you know as well as I do that it is very nearly true. What happened afterward? You tiresome, kind people who won't let a poor author finish when his story is done, I'll tell you a secret. The author finds it as hard as you do to leave his story-people, and has to have another peep at them. I don't know exactly what happened afterward; but I do know that whenever I gaze at the ivory door— all have one in our minds —and see the Bennets' diningroom, there is always a brand new sideboard against the long wall; and it is twice as good as the one in the window of the Universal Furnishing Emporium.