Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (111 page)

He
was
back
once
more
in
the
twentieth
century,
his
heart
full of
a
girl
who
was
a
hundred
and
fifty
years
away.
He
was
like
a
boy after
his
first
kiss
under
a
moonlit
hedge.
To-morrow
night,
he promised
himself,
if
he
could
get
back
to
the
eighteenth
century,
he would
remain
in
it,
marry
Marjory
and
live
out
his
life,
secure
in
the knowledge
that
Time
was
standing
still
and
awaiting
his
return.

4

Next
morning
the
change
in
Charles
Trimmer
was
still
more marked.
There
was
a
far-off
look
in
his
eyes
and
a
strange
smile
on his
lips.

"If
I
didn't
know
ole
Charlie,"
said
Mr.
Bunce,
the
butcher,
to
a friend,
over
the
midday
glass,
"I
should
think
he
was
in
love."

Trimmer
cared
little
about
what
his
neighbours
thought
of
him, nor
had
he
any
longer
a
regard
for
his
business.
His
whole
mind was
centred
upon
the
coming
of
midnight
when,
perhaps,
he
could step
out
across
the
years
and
take
Marjory
into
his
arms.
He
had
no thought
for
anything
else.
Not
having
heard
of
La
Belle
Dame
Sans Merci
he
saw
no
danger
in
his
obsession.
If
he
had
it
would
have
been the
same.

Strangely
enough
he
did
not
trouble
himself
greatly
as
to
how
he had
come
by
this
strange
gift.
He
gave
little
thought
to
the
old
crosseyed
woman
who
had
bestowed
it
upon
him,
nor
did
he
speculate much
as
to
what
strange
powers
she
possessed.
Enough
that
the
gift was
his.

It
was
a
world
of
dazzling
white
which
Trimmer
saw
when
he peeped
through
the
blind
that
night.
It
startled
him
a
little,
for
he had
not
thought
of
seeing
snow.
There
was
no
saying
now
what period
he
would
step
into
outside
his
shop.
Snow
was
like
a
mask on
the
face
of
Nature.

For
a
thinking
space
he
was
doubtful
if
he
should
venture
out, but
the
fear
of
missing
Marjory
compelled
him.
His
teeth
chattered as
he
plunged
knee-deep
into
a
drift,
but
he
scrambled
up
over
a small
mound,
on
which
the
snow
was
only
ankle-deep,
and
beneath him
the
surface
was
hard,
possibly
that
of
a
road.
He
turned
his
face towards
London,
wondering
whether
the
snow
concealed
the
friendly pastures
of
the
eighteenth
century
or
the
wilderness
of
some
un-guessed-at
period
of
time.

Away
to
his
left,
looking
in
a
straight
line
midway
between
Harrow Hill
and
London,
he
could
see
a
forest
holding
aloft
a
canopy
of
snow. He
had
forgotten
if
he
had
seen
a
wood
in
that
direction
on
the occasion
when
he
had
met
Marjory.
He
tried
to
rack
his
brains
as
he trudged
on,
shivering,
hands
deep
in
pockets.