V
Inigo Jumps Out of a Train and Finds Himself in Love
I
‚ÄúNow this,‚Äù said Mrs.¬ÝJoe impressively, taking up the last little heap of cards, ‚Äúis what‚Äôs sure to come true.‚Äù
“What was all the rest then?” Inigo asked.
“Look here, Inigo,” cried Susie, “whose fortune is this, mine or yours? You’re not a bit funny. Go on, my dear. Don’t take any notice of him.”
Mrs.¬ÝJoe was examining the cards with sibylline gravity. ‚ÄúI see here great success for you, my dear. Money, admiration, power, everything‚ÅÝ‚Äîa really great success. And it‚Äôll come quite unexpectedly in a Five.‚Äù
“Five what? Can’t you tell?”
“No, it’s just a Five. And it’ll all come through a dark man, a very dark man.”
“Perhaps it’s a nigger,” suggested Jimmy Nunn.
“Oh, shut up, Jimmy!” cried Susie. “You’re old enough to know better. How am I going to meet this man? That’s what I want to know.”
‚ÄúTalking of niggers,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham to nobody in particular, ‚ÄúI was in New Orleans one time and there was an old nigger mammy there who could tell fortunes. She did it with melon seeds. She told me I was going to break my arm within a week. ‚ÄòDon‚Äôt you go to de North or de West, sah,‚Äô she said to me. But I did, though. And just a week after that, in Nashville‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù He paused and looked from one to another of them.
Joe took his pipe out of his mouth. “You broke your arm, like she said,” he prompted.
‚ÄúNo, I didn‚Äôt do just that,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝMitcham solemnly, ‚Äúand I won‚Äôt pretend I did. But just one week after that I was with a fellow‚ÅÝ‚Äîand I‚Äôll tell you who he was; he was old Horace Carson who used to go round with the Woman in a Barrel illusion‚ÅÝ‚Äîand he broke his leg. Queer, wasn‚Äôt it? And another time, out East, there was an old Chink‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
‚ÄúWell, Susie, you can‚Äôt want a better fortune than that, my dear,‚Äù said Mrs.¬ÝJoe. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôll have a lot of worries and trouble in a Two, as I said, but after that everything‚Äôs going to be bright for you, and I‚Äôm sure I wish I could say the same for us all.‚Äù
“Don’t you think you could if you tried hard enough?” asked Inigo, looking innocent.
“There he goes again!” cried Susie. “Pretending he thinks it’s all nonsense, and all the time he’s dying to have a good fortune himself and is furious because he can’t have one.”
‚ÄúDon‚Äôt be a scoffer, Mr.¬ÝJollifant,‚Äù said Mrs.¬ÝJoe earnestly. ‚ÄúI‚Äôve known people to scoff at these things once too often, like that young fellow who came to the Rawston Repertory when we were there. What was his name, Joe?‚Äù she called across to him.
“What was whose name?” asked Joe.
“That young fellow who came to the Rawston and who’d once been in a lawyer’s office or somewhere and didn’t believe in bad luck and good luck and all that.”
“Oh, that chap,” said Joe. “I remember him well. Best solo whist player I ever struck, he was. Knew every card in your hand. I remember him all right.”
“What was his name?” screamed his wife. “Don’t keep telling me you remember him. All I want is his name.”
Joe thought for a moment. “I’ve forgotten his name,” he confessed.
“Just like you, Joe,” and she dismissed him with affectionate scorn. “That’s Joe all over,” she explained to the others at her end of the compartment. “He’d keep on for an hour telling me he remembered him, if I’d let him, and then he doesn’t even remember the man’s name. Well, as I was saying, this young fellow came to the company and told us all there was too much of this superstition on the stage and he didn’t believe in it, and to show us he didn’t believe in it, he went out of his way to do all the things that bring bad luck, and put things in the dressing-room, spoke the tag at rehearsals, and everything. He’d show us it was all rubbish, he said. Well, what came of it?” She asked this in a low thrilling voice and fixed her gaze upon Inigo.
“Well, did anything come of it?” asked Inigo, who felt that he was capable of following this young man’s example himself.
‚ÄúI should think it did,‚Äù cried Mrs.¬ÝJoe triumphantly. ‚ÄúHe had his notice in less than a month.‚Äù
“Served him right, too,” said Susie very severely. “But how did it happen?”
‚ÄúOh, we all complained to the management about him,‚Äù replied Mrs.¬ÝJoe. ‚ÄúEither he goes or we do, we said, and so he had to go.‚Äù She stared at Inigo, who had suddenly burst out laughing. ‚ÄúFunny to you it may be, Mr.¬ÝJollifant, but it wasn‚Äôt funny to us and it went to our hearts to have to do it but we couldn‚Äôt have him deliberately ruining the luck for everybody. And he brought on his own bad luck, didn‚Äôt he?‚Äù
‚ÄúBut don‚Äôt you see‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù Inigo began, but then stopped because it was obvious that she did not see. Moreover, Susie was telling him to be quiet and not to talk about things he did not understand.
‚ÄúAi don‚Äôt believe mech in these things,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝJerry Jerningham announced, fluttering his long eyelashes at the company.
‚ÄúYou don‚Äôt believe in anything,‚Äù said Miss Longstaff, who appeared to have wakened up specially to make this remark. ‚ÄúAll you believe in is yourself and White‚Äôs dancing shoes and that stuff that says handsome men are slightly sunburnt.‚Äù It was clear that Mr.¬ÝJerningham could not be numbered among Elsie‚Äôs gentlemen friends.
‚ÄúDewn‚Äôt you be so personal,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝJerningham, permitting his exquisite features to register indignation. ‚ÄúYou‚Äôre always passing remawks. And Ai know whai. Oh yes, Ai know whai.‚Äù There was‚ÅÝ‚Äîas the ladies told one another afterwards‚ÅÝ‚Äîbouquet written all over him.
Susie began chanting a little composition of her own:
“Pretty Mister Jerningham
Came from Birmingham,
Where he’d been learning ’em,
And some say turning ’em
Up up up.”
“Now then, you girls,” said Jimmy, “leave the boy alone. You’re only jealous. If there’s no more fortune-telling going on at that end, we’ll have the cards back, please. What about another game of solo, Joe?”
‚ÄúIt‚Äôs getting quite warm in here,‚Äù Mr.¬ÝMitcham observed, and began taking off his overcoat.
‚ÄúExit the Silver King,‚Äù murmured Susie. This was the name they had given Mr.¬ÝMitcham‚Äôs overcoat, which was no ordinary garment. It had first made its appearance at Haxby (where Mr.¬ÝMitcham had bought it in a secondhand clothier‚Äôs for twenty-eight shillings), and immediately it had seemed as if another person had joined the party. Mr.¬ÝMitcham was now described as ‚Äútravelling an overcoat,‚Äù just as some players are said to ‚Äútravel‚Äù a mother or other relative. It was a gigantic plaid ulster and its collar was decorated with a few inches of fur from some mysterious and long extinct species. It had the air of having been round the world far more times than Mr.¬ÝMitcham himself, and of having seen places that its owner would never be permitted to see. At any moment (as Inigo had remarked), you felt that this astounding overcoat might begin to supplement Mr.¬ÝMitcham‚Äôs travel reminiscences or set him right in a loud voice. And Jimmy Nunn swore that he had to take out an extra railway ticket for it and that every time it was taken into a third-class carriage its fur stood on end. Such was the Silver King, which Mr.¬ÝMitcham now folded and, after some difficulty, found a place for on the rack.
After Haxby the Good Companions had had several three-night and two-night stands in the same neighbourhood, and it was now the middle of November. This Sunday journey to Middleford was the longest they had undertaken so far, for Middleford, as everybody ought to know, is one of those grim coal-and-iron towns of the Northeast. Miss Trant had taken Mr.¬ÝOakroyd with her in the car, on which he now kept a knowing eye, but all the other eight of them, as we have seen, were travelling in this train and they filled the compartment. They had been there for the last three hours, exchanging stories, playing cards, telling fortunes, eating sandwiches and chocolate, reading, smoking, yawning, dozing, staring out of the windows at the vague grey places that went wobbling past. It was a raw day‚ÅÝ‚Äîand, as usual, seemed all the more raw because it was Sunday‚ÅÝ‚Äîand at first the railway carriage had been miserably cold, but now it was not merely snug but downright stuffy. Jimmy Nunn, Joe, Mitcham, and Jerningham played a few more languid hands of solo whist; Mrs.¬ÝJoe knitted; Elsie closed her eyes again; Susie read a few more pages of The Pianola Mystery; and Inigo wrestled with several large Sunday newspapers.
“Hello!” said Jimmy, wiping the window and peering out. “This looks like Hicklefield. We’re running to time today.”
“Don’t we change here?” said Inigo.
“We do,” Jimmy replied. “And we’ve just twenty minutes. Time to get a drink.”
‚ÄúEverybody changes here,‚Äù said Mrs.¬ÝJoe, putting away her knitting. ‚ÄúI seem to have spent half my life in this station. Every time I‚Äôve ever gone North, they‚Äôve run me into Hicklefield, to change trains.‚Äù
The others agreed that Hicklefield was inevitable, and told one another how often they had met people they knew in the refreshment-room. They were now running slowly into the gloomy cavern of the station itself. Then a curious thing happened. Jimmy Nunn, who had let down the window and was looking out, gave a little cry and then suddenly sat down in his corner.
“Well, I’ll be damned!” he gasped, staring before him. All the colour had drained out of his queer puckered face. He looked ill.
“Jimmy! Jimmy! What’s the matter?” they were all crying.
He was pressing his hand now on his heart. His lips were blue. ‚ÄúAll right. It‚Äôs nothing,‚Äù he groaned. ‚ÄúJust a bit of‚ÅÝ‚Äîof‚ÅÝ‚Äîan attack, that‚Äôs all. Get me‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat bag down‚ÅÝ‚Äîol‚Äô man‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou‚Äôll find a flask in it. That‚Äôs it. Ah‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat‚Äôs better!‚Äù The colour returned to his face, beginning with his nose, so that for a moment or two he looked as if he had his comic makeup on and there seemed a horrible touch of drollery in his still chattering teeth.
“Jimmy, my dear!” said Susie, her hand on his shoulder. “What’s happened? You did give me a fright. Don’t do it again, will you?”
There was no time for more. The train had stopped now. Inigo and Morton Mitcham said they would see the baggage into the next train, which was already waiting at a neighbouring platform. The others were going off at once to the refreshment-room, but Jimmy, who was still shaky, refused to accompany them, so Susie insisted upon taking him over to the Middleford train. But when Inigo had finished with the baggage, he found Jimmy sitting there alone.
“Where’s Susie?” he asked.
“I packed her off to get a cup o’ tea for herself,” Jimmy replied. “Is Mitcham trying for a quick one?”
“He is,” said Inigo, helping the porter with the smaller things, which they were spreading on the seats. “There’s still ten minutes, but I’m not going to bother. I don’t like these lightning drinks.”
After a few minutes, Joe and his wife came along, announcing they had seen and spoken with Tommy Verney and Mabel Ross, late of the Merry Mascots. ‚ÄúThey‚Äôre resting now,‚Äù panted Mrs.¬ÝJoe, ‚Äúthen opening at Warrington in Cinderella‚ÅÝ‚ÄîBaron Hardup and Dandini.‚Äù Then Elsie and Jerry Jerningham disengaged themselves from a group of people (the Money for Dust! Company on the Broadhead Tour) at the end of the platform, and came hurrying along, chanting the names of all the acquaintances they had seen. Then Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham, magnificent in the Silver King, stalked up, to point out that he had had two while some fellows, there before he was, had not been able to secure a single drink. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs an art as much as anything else,‚Äù he concluded triumphantly, and Jimmy and Joe acknowledged that he was undoubtedly a fast worker.
“Where’s Susie?” asked Inigo.
Mr.¬ÝMitcham thought he had seen her in the refreshment-room, talking to some people. ‚ÄúThere‚Äôs three minutes yet,‚Äù he added. ‚ÄúShe can make it‚ÅÝ‚Äîeasy. Did I ever tell you how I once caught the Twentieth-Century Limited?‚Äù
At this moment, however, a porter slammed the door. Jimmy and Mrs.¬ÝJoe both tried to look out of the window at the same time. ‚ÄúBy jingo!‚Äù cried Jimmy anxiously, ‚Äúbut she‚Äôll have to hurry up. I can‚Äôt see her, and they‚Äôre getting their flags and whistles ready.‚Äù
“Just a minute!” said Inigo. “Do let me have a look.”
“Can’t see her anywhere,” said Jimmy.
A whistle sounded.
‚ÄúThere she is!‚Äù cried Jimmy. ‚ÄúEh, what‚Äôs your name, guard?‚ÅÝ‚Äîhalf a minute! Oh, the silly devils! Gosh, we‚Äôre off! She‚Äôs missed it!‚Äù
“Then so have I,” roared Inigo. “Get back, Jimmy. I’m getting out.” The train was actually moving now, though very slowly. He opened the door, dropped out, and fell flat on his back on the platform.
Jimmy fumbled desperately in his pocket while the others were shouting. “Here!” he cried. “Tickets!” He threw out two tickets which fell on the platform and were picked up by a porter, whose attention was then directed to Inigo by the frantic gesticulations of Jimmy. The next moment they were out of the station.
‚ÄúWell I‚Äôll be‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù Joe did not say what he would be, but simply blew out his breath. The others, however, appeared to agree with him. ‚ÄúFor the minute,‚Äù said Mrs.¬ÝJoe, ‚ÄúI didn‚Äôt know I‚Äôd a heart in my body.‚Äù
“Well, I’ve thought for some time he was sweet on Susie,” said Elsie, “but I didn’t know it was as bad as that.”
‚ÄúI‚Äôve seen it all along,‚Äù said Mrs.¬ÝJoe, with a huge sentimental sigh. ‚ÄúThat‚Äôs what I call love, that is.‚Äù
“Oh, he’s gone on her, is he?” said Joe, staring innocently at his wife. “Is that why he went and jumped out?”
“Of course it is, Joe. Don’t be silly,” said his wife sharply. “And you needn’t look so surprised about it. He hasn’t gone wrong in his head. If I was stranded like that, you’d jump out of a train, wouldn’t you?”
Joe rubbed his chin and looked bewildered. “I suppose so,” he said finally.
“You don’t seem very sure about it.”
“All right then, I would,” said Joe. “You try me and see.”
“And then go and break your neck, I suppose,” said his wife, still sharply. “And then we’d be in a fine mess, wouldn’t we? I’ve never heard a man talk in such a silly way as you do sometimes, Joe,” she concluded severely.
Joe looked at her in despair. Then he looked at Mr.¬ÝMorton Mitcham, who in his turn was looking at Jimmy. All three gentlemen exchanged glances, and they were glances of a deep philosophical significance, such as may be exchanged among members of a sex not entirely devoid of reason, not wholly given over to whims and fancies and irrational outbursts.
II
“And did you really jump out just to keep me company?” said Susie. “I think it’s sweet of you, Inigo.”
Inigo himself, though he did not say so, thought it was rather sweet of him too. He had just been admonished by the Northeastern Railway, had still a good deal of that railway’s dust on his clothes, and had not quite recovered from his encounter with that railway’s platform. The porter had handed over the two tickets that Jimmy had thrown out, but Inigo had neither overcoat nor hat, and felt chilly, shaken up and somewhat ridiculous.
“The very first thing we must do now,” said Susie rather sternly, just as if he had proposed a few games of chess, “is to find out when the next train goes to Middleford.”
“Yes, I’d thought of that myself,” said Inigo meekly.
Together, they examined the indicator, which informed them that the next train to Middleford would leave No.¬Ý2 Platform at 7:45¬Ýp.m.
“Over four hours to wait here,” said Inigo.
“And when will it arrive at Middleford?” asked Susie. “That’s what it doesn’t say. About the crack of dawn, I suppose.”
“The timetable over there will tell us that,” said Inigo, and led her towards it. After much pointing and running up and down of fingers, they discovered that the 7:45 arrived in Middleford at 11 o’clock.
“That’ll be all right,” said Susie. “Jimmy or one of the others will be sure to meet us. They’ll look up the train too, and they’ll have got us some digs. This isn’t the first time this has happened to me, as Jimmy will tell you.”
Here she was stopped by a cough. It came from a middle-aged woman dressed in black who had been glancing at the timetable next to theirs. She had a long angular face, and her lips were tightly compressed. Inigo had noticed her when they first came up, for she was looking at the timetable as if there might be something wildly indecent in it. And now she coughed, not apologetically but peremptorily; it was like a tap on the shoulder. They looked at her, and she looked steadily from one to the other of them.
“Maybe you’re theatricals?” she asked at last.
Yes, they were.
“Changing trains here?” she asked.
Changing and losing trains, they told her, and then exchanged quick, glances. “Busybody?” Inigo’s glance asked. “Probably looking for lodgers,” Susie’s replied.
‚ÄúAnd when did you come in?‚Äù she inquired. After they had told her that too, and had even indicated the direction of the train, she looked at them more fixedly than ever, and finally said: ‚ÄúYou don‚Äôt happen to have been travelling with a Mr.¬ÝNunn?‚Äù
“What, Jimmy Nunn!” cried Susie.
“James Nunn,” she replied firmly.
“I should think we were,” said Susie. “We’re all in the same show, the Good Companions. And Jimmy’s an old friend of mine. D’you know him?”
The angular woman paid no attention to this question. “Pierrot troupe, is it?” she said. “And where are you going to now?”
Middleford, they told her.
“And where to next week?” she asked.
This was very puzzling. Susie looked at Inigo and hesitated. “Well, if you want to know,” said Inigo, in that special no-concern-of-yours voice we always employ with that opening phrase, “we’re going to a place called Tewborough.”
“Not far from here,” said the woman.
“We’re playing at the Theatre Royal there,” said Susie, not without pride.
‚ÄúHumph. Not much good‚Äôll come o‚Äô that,‚Äù she said grimly, looking still more angular. ‚ÄúWhat is it you call yourselves? Good Companions? And you‚Äôre sure Mr.¬ÝNunn‚Äôs with you, are you?‚Äù
“Of course we are,” replied Susie, rather indignantly. “We shall see him tonight or tomorrow morning. D’you know him? Can we give him a message?”
“James Nunn’ll want no message from me. I saw him on that train, and if I’m not mistaken he saw me.” She looked hard at them both, then gave herself a little shake. “I’m his wife,” she said quietly, and began walking away.
Inigo stared. Susie gasped, then ran forward. ‚ÄúI say though,‚Äù she cried, stopping the woman, ‚Äúhow extraordinary! I‚Äôve known Jimmy for ages and never knew‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“He’d a wife. No, I’ll be bound you didn’t.”
“But listen! I’m Susie Dean, and Jimmy used to know my father very well.”
‚ÄúAnd I knew him too,‚Äù said this astonishing Mrs.¬ÝNunn quite calmly. ‚ÄúI might have known you were Charlie Dean‚Äôs girl, for you‚Äôve the look of him.‚Äù
“But how wonderful!” cried Susie. She was almost dancing with excitement.
“Is it?”
“Of course it is.”
‚ÄúWhy?‚Äù said Mrs.¬ÝNunn, without the least flicker of interest. ‚ÄúI don‚Äôt call it wonderful. It takes more than that to surprise me. Good afternoon.‚Äù
“But surely you’re not going away just like that,” said Susie. “I mean, not saying anything at all. You simply can’t go like that.”
Mrs.¬ÝNunn gave her a long level stare. ‚ÄúWhat is it you want to know?‚Äù she demanded.
‚ÄúWell, it isn‚Äôt exactly that I want to know anything,‚Äù Susie explained, ‚Äúbut you see‚ÅÝ‚Äîmeeting you like this‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
‚ÄúWithout any intention of being rude and while thanking you for answering any questions I might have asked,‚Äù said Mrs.¬ÝNunn, in a very angular voice, ‚ÄúI must tell you that you‚Äôre a good deal too excitable. You get out of the habit of working yourself up about nothing or it‚Äôll grow on you, Miss. And that‚Äôs all there is to it. Good afternoon.‚Äù And she marched off without another word.
“Well, of all the dried-up, bony, beastly women!” cried Susie, rejoining Inigo, who had hung back. “Did you hear her?”
“Jimmy saw her,” Inigo announced. “He saw her on the platform when he was looking out of the window. Don’t you remember how queer he went?”
“And no wonder!” said Susie. “But isn’t it strange? I never knew he had a wife.” And for several minutes she exclaimed at this discovery and then sketched in various accounts of Jimmy’s past, in all of which no blame was attached to him.
“We’ve heard of the skeleton in the cupboard,” said Inigo meditatively.
“And she’s it,” Susie put in quickly. “And now we won’t talk any more about her. The point is, where are we going?” They were now out of the station and had wandered into what was presumably one of the main streets of the town.
“So this is Hicklefield,” said Inigo, looking about him with distaste and shivering a little. “Methinks the air doth not smell wooingly here, my Sue. In fact the place gives me the hump, absolutely.”
There was a light fog over the town. The shuttered shops and banks and warehouses were vague shapes and like the scenery of some dismal dream. Cars came sliding from nowhere, twisted this way and that, hooted like wounded monsters, then slipped away into nothingness. Ponderous trams loomed up, creaking and groaning, stopped to swallow a few morsels of humanity, and lumbered off to unimaginable places. A policeman, an antique taxicab, a man with newspapers, a woman in an imitation sealskin coat, and a few other persons and things, were standing there, apparently waiting for Doomsday to break. Nothing broke the grey monotony but the pavement itself, which was startlingly black in its grime. There was no colour, no sparkle of life, anywhere.
“My God!” cried Inigo. “Let’s get out of this, Susie. Another minute of this and I give up hope.”
“We’ll jump on that tram,” she said, pointing, “and see what happens. Come on.” They raced down the street and boarded the tram just as it was moving off, to the delight of the conductor, who plainly had not expected anything at all to happen that afternoon. The top of the tram was covered, and they climbed up there and sat in a curved little place in front.
“Now this is much better,” said Susie, peeping out at a moving Hicklefield.
“Isn’t it?” he replied. “Like being on a galleon.”
But he was not looking at Hicklefield but at Susie herself, who seemed more vivid and radiant than ever, and as he looked at her he found himself possessed by a most curious feeling, a kind of ache, made up of wild happiness and sickly excitement. He realized at once that this place, the front of this tram in Hicklefield, was the only place in the world for him, and when he thought of other places, where there was no Susie, from the Savoy Grill to the sunlit beaches of Hawaii, they appeared to be nothing but desolations. He realized in a flash that it would be better even to be miserable with her than to be anywhere else, for so long as she was there the world would still be enchanted, whereas if she were not there it would be a mere dark huddle of things. He knew now he was in love with her, and would go on being in love with her forever and ever. This was it, there could be no mistake. He had jumped out of the train simply because he could not bear being without her; he had jumped and had fallen, head over heels over head over heels, in love.
“Susie,” he said, “I say, Susie.” And then he stopped. His voice sounded ridiculous, like the bleating of a sheep.
“Well, Inigo?” Her dark eyes were fixed upon his for a moment, then suddenly their expression changed. She was looking at the conductor, who was now standing at Inigo’s elbow. They asked him where they could go, if there was any chance of getting tea at the journey’s end, and he told them that about half a mile or so beyond the terminus there was a fine big hotel, standing on a main road and largely patronized by “motterists.” It was, they gathered, a most sumptuous establishment, and Inigo decided at once that they must go there and have tea. As it was nearly an hour’s ride to the terminus, they would neatly dispose of the time before the evening train.
After the conductor had gone, Inigo had no further opportunity of telling Susie what had happened. It was she who began talking now. He smoked his pipe, watched the delightful play of her features, and listened half-dreamily to what she had to say. Now and again her voice was completely drowned by the groaning of the tram as it mounted a hill. It was all as odd and queerly moving as a dream: the mysterious stretches of Hicklefield darkening below them; the little place, so cosily their own, on the tram; Susie, with her eyes deepening into reverie, lost in remembrance; the tale of her past that progressed as they progressed, a dream within a dream: it was all so strange. He has never forgotten it.
‚ÄúYou‚Äôre in for an awful time, Inigo,‚Äù she began, smiling vaguely at him. ‚ÄúI‚Äôm going to tell you the story of my life. No, I‚Äôm not really, but I can‚Äôt help thinking about everything in the past. It‚Äôs all going jumbling away in my head. Meeting that woman, I suppose. I keep thinking about my father. Did you hear her mention him? He was on the stage, and so was mother. They were both in musical comedy. He was a baritone lead in touring companies, and she used to do soubrette parts. French maids as a rule. She was half-French and she‚Äôd an awfully good accent. They used to play in those funny old jiggety-joggety things, The Country Girl and The Geisha and The Circus Girl. They were both playing in Florodora when they got married, in Manchester. I can remember a dressing-case thing Dad always had with him and it was a wedding present and had something on it, you know: ‚ÄòWith the Best Wishes of the Florodora Company, Manchester,‚Äô and all the rest of it. It‚Äôs silly but I just want to cry when I think of that. I don‚Äôt know why, exactly, but I can sort of see them there in Manchester and their Florodora and ‚ÄòTell me, Pretty Maiden‚Äô and everything‚ÅÝ‚Äîlittle, little figures, all very excited and happy, and when I think of them, these little figures are all in a bright light, but they‚Äôre ever so tiny and all round them is a huge blackness, and it‚Äôs back there in nineteen hundred and two and not one of them knows what‚Äôs going to happen. Do you see, Inigo? I‚Äôm sure you don‚Äôt, and I simply can‚Äôt begin to make you understand how I see it. But it‚Äôs just‚ÅÝ‚Äîsort of‚ÅÝ‚Äîlife, the real thing, and either you‚Äôve got to laugh at it, or cry, a bit when you see it like that, really you have. Now say I‚Äôm silly.‚Äù
He shook his head, and the look he fastened upon her offered her everything he had. But she was not thinking about him. She was still groping among her memories. When she began again, it was in a very subdued voice, and he could only catch an occasional word here and there. It was something about her mother, who had died only a year or two after Susie was born. He gathered that she had been looked after then by an aunt for several years. Then he heard more, for the tram was quiet and she was raising her voice a little.
‚ÄúThat‚Äôs the queerest part and the one I remember best,‚Äù she was saying, ‚Äúwhen Father decided to take me round with him on tour. I was about five or six when that began, and it went on for several years. It‚Äôs all such a funny muddle, though bits of it are frightfully clear. Going round dozens of towns, but they all seemed alike. Only sometimes the landladies called me ‚Äòpoor little dearie‚Äô and sometimes ‚Äòpuir wee lassie‚Äô and sometimes ‚Äòdoy‚Äô and sometimes ‚Äòhinny‚Äô‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI remember that awfully well. And often when there was a matin√©e, Dad would take me with him, and when he was on I‚Äôd be held up in the wings and sit in the dressing-rooms, sitting on comedians‚Äô knees or in chorus girls‚Äô laps, and I‚Äôd be given chocolates, and everything was always so queer and smelly‚ÅÝ‚Äîgrease paint and powder and gas, you know‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut I‚Äôd hear the band playing and people laughing and clapping, and I loved all that. It was horrible sometimes at night, though, when I had to go to bed before Dad went down to the theatre, and sometimes the landladies were horrible, with huge red faces and smelling of whisky. And the rooms too. I can see one now‚ÅÝ‚Äîit seemed enormous, with giant pieces of furniture and awful dark cupboards with Things in them waiting to spring but on you‚ÅÝ‚Äîand the blinds weren‚Äôt down properly and the horrible greeny light of the lamp outside in the street shone in, and I‚Äôd shiver and shiver there every night, creeping down under the clothes and just waiting for something to come‚ÅÝ‚Äîbump! But then sometimes when Father came back, I‚Äôd wake up and go downstairs and he would be having his supper and perhaps he‚Äôd give me some. He adored cow-heels, done in milk and with onions‚ÅÝ‚Äîand so do I. We had scores and scores of little jokes we used to repeat over and over again. Dad said that bringing out these jokes was the only way he had of furnishing the home. He didn‚Äôt drink much, not then anyhow, but I always knew when he‚Äôd had one too many because he always came and cried over me and said I must promise never to go near the stage, and always ended by giving me what he called elocution and ear-tests and telling me I had only to work hard to get to the top one day because it was born in me. But he was a darling, very handsome and with a jolly good voice, and all the landladies adored him and so did most of the women in the companies he was with; even I could see that. But then he decided it wasn‚Äôt good for me any more, and I had to live with another aunt near Clapham Common and go to school‚ÅÝ‚Äîoh, hateful!‚Äù
By the time he had learned how she fought against the dull horrors of life near Clapham Common, how she returned to her father when she was fifteen, went into concert-party work with him when she was sixteen, saw him taken to hospital, to die there, when she was seventeen, how she had struggled on her own ever since, they were at the terminus. The town had long been left behind. There was nothing to be seen but a tiny shelter and the road that wandered into the gathering darkness. But half a mile down that road, the conductor told them once again, was the grand hotel on the main road going north, the hotel patronized by “motterists.” Off they went, at a brisk pace. “Hope you don’t mind stepping out, Susie,” said Inigo, “but the fact is, I’m finding it rather cold now without a coat.”
“I’ll run all the way if you like,” said Susie. Then she put a hand on his sleeve. “Poor Inigo! I never thanked you properly, did I, for leaving the train just to keep me company?”
Inigo stopped and seized the hand that had just touched his sleeve. He was trembling a little. ‚ÄúSusie,‚Äù he began, ‚ÄúI must tell you now. I‚Äôve made a tremendous discovery. I‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI‚ÅÝ‚Äîadore you.‚Äù
“But, Inigo,” she cried, “how nice! I thought you did, though. Do keep on, won’t you?” She made a little movement that suggested she was ready now to walk on again.
He had hold of both her hands now. “Yes, but it’s much more serious than that. It’s not just friendliness. It’s everything, every mortal blessed thing and forever and ever.”
Her hands slipped away. “You sound as if you were about to propose,” she said lightly. “It’s not as bad as that, is it?”
“Of course it is,” he cried. “And I am proposing and anything else you like. I’m in love with you, absolutely, frantically. It’s marvellous. It’s terrible.” The next minute he would have taken her in his arms but she was not there to take. And then they were walking briskly down the road again.
“I’m sorry,” she said at last, and said it quite gravely.
“I don’t see what you’re sorry about.”
“Well, you’re rather a darling, aren’t you?”
‚ÄúI don‚Äôt suppose I am,‚Äù he replied rather gloomily. Then he brightened up, and said eagerly: ‚ÄúBut if you think that now, it will probably be all right, won‚Äôt it? I mean, I‚Äôm ready to give you a little time, though it‚Äôs frightfully hard‚ÅÝ‚Äîor will be frightfully hard‚ÅÝ‚Äîjust sort of aching about you.‚Äù
“Don’t be absurd, Inigo.”
‚ÄúI‚Äôm not. That‚Äôs how I feel. All the time you were talking in that tram, I was just dying to kiss you. I am now. I don‚Äôt know why I don‚Äôt, except that‚ÅÝ‚Äîwell, this is the kind of love‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“Well, what kind is it? Do go on, Inigo.”
“I won’t go on,” he said gruffly. “I’ll tell you some other time. You’re simply laughing at me.”
“My dear, I’m not,” she protested. “And to show you how serious I am, I’ll tell you a secret. I’ve rehearsed this conversation heaps of times.”
“What! With me?”
‚ÄúNo, not with you, stupid, with nobody in particular, just a rather vague but frightfully attractive young man who was in love with me. And he would say a lot of the things you‚Äôve just said‚ÅÝ‚Äîthough he usually went into detail far more‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou know, said what it was about me that made him fall in love‚ÅÝ‚Äîand then I‚Äôd reply and say how sorry I was‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
“Just as you told me how sorry you were.” Inigo put in, a trifle grimly.
‚ÄúAnd then I‚Äôd tell him we‚Äôd always be the dearest friends but that I‚Äôd made up my mind I‚Äôd never, never marry. I would tell him that I‚Äôm wedded‚ÅÝ‚Äîas they say in the books of words‚ÅÝ‚Äîto my Art. And then very, very gently I would tell him to go away and fall in love with someone else, someone who could love him back, but usually he said he would do nothing of the kind, all other girls having lost their charm for him forever. I liked that part,‚Äù she confessed, ‚Äúand usually left it at that!‚Äù
“There’s only one thing you’ve forgotten, Susie,” said Inigo reproachfully. “I’m a real person, not a vague, but attractive young man you’ve just imagined. Doesn’t that make any difference? It ought to, you know.”
“It does. Now I’m really glad, really excited.”
“Well, there you are then,” he cried triumphantly.
“And I’m really, really sorry. That’s the difference, but that’s the only difference. And now let’s talk about something else. Shall we?”
“There’s nothing else in the world to talk about, absolutely,” said Inigo gloomily.
“There is. There’s the hotel to talk about, and I can see it. It looks like a big one, doesn’t it, really ‘motteristy’? Let’s have an enormous tea. It must be my tea because this is all my fault.”
So these two infants arrived at the hotel, which was evidently used as a halt by motorists going north and south on this main road. A number of cars were standing before the entrance. Big as it was, the place looked cosy and inviting.
Inigo looked at his watch in the lighted doorway. “We can just manage an hour here,” he said, trying to sound as if the conversation along the road had never taken place.
“Then that’s just right,” said Susie, “and I think you’re very clever to have planned it so nicely. But then you are clever, aren’t you, Inigo? And I like you.”
“I’m cold, hungry, and an ass,” that young gentleman replied, and made a desperate attempt to smooth his hair before a waiter caught sight of him.
III
Tea would be served, they were told, in the lounge. There was a large bright fire in the lounge, and there was also a large bright woman. She stood out from the other guests, the assorted “motterists,” like a cockatoo among thrushes. Indeed, she was not unlike a cockatoo. A tiny curved beak of a nose jutted out of her purply-red face; she had big staring eyes and a little round mouth, daubed a fearsome vermilion; her clothes were gaudy and expensive; every time she moved there was a glitter of jewellery; and she seemed to have enough flashing odds and ends of handbags and little boxes to stock a small shop. She sat alone, not far from their table, and was easily the most conspicuous person or object in the room. Susie and Inigo, however, had a further reason for remarking her gorgeous presence, for from the moment they entered she stared at them. At first she gave them a puzzled stare, but that soon changed into a plain stare, which went on and on and did not appear to mean anything.
“Why does she do it?” Inigo whispered. “There isn’t anything wrong with us, is there?”
“That’s what I’ve been wondering,” Susie replied softly. “I’ve been trying to go over myself and I seem all right. You looked a bit blue at first, but now you’re thawing out nicely,” She handed him his cup. “She must be wondering if she knows us.”
‚ÄúShe doesn‚Äôt know me‚ÅÝ‚Äîthank God!‚Äù he muttered.
“No, but she may have seen me somewhere,” Susie went on with a flash of pride. “When you think of it, I’ve played to thousands and thousands of people all over the country, and I must see somebody who had seen me sometimes, mustn’t I?” And then she became very gay, very sparkling, and was so prettily attentive to Inigo that he began to think she must be in love with him a little, after all.
“Unless,” he told himself, as he gloomily devoured a piece of shortbread, “she is doing it out of kindness, just to make up for not caring about me.” By this time he could no long bother his head about the woman who stared. He did not even know if she was still there, for he had gradually moved round his chair until at last he had his back to her. When he had finished his shortbread, however, he noticed that Susie was looking up, with a rather puzzled expression on her face.
“What’s the matter?” he inquired. “Is the starey bird going?”
“Now I know I’m intruding,” said a voice just above his head.
Inigo jumped with surprise, and as he jumped he sent his fat armchair rolling back. It bumped heavily against something, and Inigo, turning round, discovered to his horror that the something was the flashing bosom of the staring woman. She gave the chair a push. He gave it a frantic tug. The result was that the chair shot forward and hurled Inigo against the tea-table. One of his hands knocked over the hot-water jug, and the other flattened itself against a plate.
“I’m sure I must be intruding,” cried the staring woman.
“Not at all,” said Susie, trying to smile sweetly at her and at the same time keep an eye on the hot water, which was now creeping about the table. “Won’t you sit down?”
‚ÄúNot at all! Rather! Absolutely!‚Äù roared Irigo, who did not know what he was saying. He waved a hand towards a chair‚ÅÝ‚Äîit was the hand that had just been flattened against the plate and there was a piece of bread-and-butter sticking to it. ‚ÄúSit here‚ÅÝ‚Äîthere‚ÅÝ‚Äîwon‚Äôt you?‚Äù he went on. He waved his hand again, and most of the bread-and-butter went on the chair.
“I ought to introduce myself, oughtn’t I?” the woman was saying.
“Do be careful of the hot water,” Susie cried to her.
“No, don’t sit there,” Inigo roared again. “It’s all bread-and-butter.”
Having said this, Inigo could say no more. He suddenly lost control of himself. The woman herself, with her staring eyes and little beak of a nose and her magnificent finery, her unexpected arrival, his jump and subsequent antics with the chairs and bread-and-butter, the watery ruin of the tea-table‚ÅÝ‚Äîall these things made a combined assault upon him. The next moment, everything in the lounge, everything in the whole world, seemed wildly absurd. He flung himself down in his chair and gave a yell of laughter.
“I’m Lady Partlit,” their visitor announced, sitting down.
This was quite enough for Inigo, who went off into another fit of laughter. It would have been the same if she had been Mrs.¬ÝJones, if she had merely remarked that the weather was cold. He was helpless now. Whatever happened, whatever was said, would be screamingly funny.
Susie gave Lady Partlit their names, but she only just managed to get them out in time. Her eyes were very bright and she was biting her lips. The next minute she too had fallen helplessly into the giggles.
Lady Partlit smiled at them both a trifle vaguely. Her voice, however, was triumphant. “I thought I knew you,” she said. “You’re in a concert party called ‘The Good Companions,’ aren’t you? Of course you are. I saw you at Sandybay a few weeks ago.”
“Yes, we were there,” Inigo spluttered. He looked hard at the teapot in the hope that he would somehow be able to control himself, but it was hopeless. He pulled out his handkerchief, tried to wipe his eyes, and exploded again into silly laughter.
“I saw you three times,” said Lady Partlit. “So good, I thought you were. Such a change!”
‚ÄúI‚Äôm glad!‚Äù Susie faltered, trying not to look at Inigo. ‚ÄúIt‚Äôs nice to think‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù But then she went off again. ‚ÄúOh, do stop it, Inigo. You are a fool.‚Äù With an effort, she got her face straight, turned to Lady Partlit and said apologetically: ‚ÄúYou must think we‚Äôre awfully rude, but it‚Äôs just his silliness, and now‚ÅÝ‚Äînow‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe‚Äôs started me off.‚Äù And she giggled again.
‚ÄúNot in the least,‚Äù said Lady Partlit, still smiling. ‚ÄúAnd‚ÅÝ‚Äîer‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhere are you people going to now, if you don‚Äôt mind my asking?‚Äù
“Middleford,” replied Susie, and brought out the name as if it were the greatest joke in the world.
“That’s it. Ha-ha,” roared Inigo. “Middleford. Ha-ha-ha-ha. Sorry, but I really have to laugh when I think of Middleford.” And he buried his head in his hands and yelled with laughter. This torrent swept away any tiny reserve remaining with Susie, who promptly joined him. Lady Partlit looked from one to the other of them; her eyes opened wider and wider; her little round mouth gradually widened; her rather heavy cheeks began quivering; then finally she burst into laughter too, a queer soprano sobbing that made the other two want to go on and on forever. And there were the three of them, shaking, watery-eyed, helpless.
“Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!” cried Lady Partlit, dabbing at her eyes. “I don’t know what it’s all about, but I haven’t laughed so much this long time. I like a good laugh too.” Her speech was far homelier now than it had been before, and any suggestion of the great lady had completely vanished. They saw before them a kindly, rather silly, rich woman in her early forties, who waved away their apologies for their astonishing behaviour.
“I’m sure it’s done me good,” she told them. “I wasn’t expecting to have such a good laugh in this place. My word! Now won’t you let me order you some more tea? Are you sure? Well, what about some cocktails if the bar is open? Or some chocolates? Have a cigarette?” She produced a gold case, and the three of them lit cigarettes and settled down to talk.
“Don’t forget our train, Inigo,” said Susie. “You know how long it took us to get here, over an hour and a half.”
“What’s this?” asked Lady Partlit, and when they told her, said eagerly: “Now you mustn’t think of going to the station that way. I’ve my car here, and Lawley will take you down there in no time, and all nice and comfortable, and you’ll be able to stay here all the longer. And that’ll be nicer for me too. I was going through to Yorkshire tonight, and just stopped here for tea, and then I thought I wouldn’t go any farther tonight because Lawley says there’ll be fog farther up later on, and so I said I’d stay here and go to bed early after dinner with a nice book. Now what do you say to that? Let Lawley take you to the station.”
Susie accepted at once, and though Inigo would rather have returned as they came because he could then have had Susie to himself, he could not offer any objection.
‚ÄúYou mustn‚Äôt think it strange, my coming up like this and talking to you,‚Äù Lady Partlit continued, ‚Äúbecause for one thing you must count me among your admirers. I‚Äôve never seen such a good show at the seaside before, and I‚Äôve told all sorts of people about you. Such an original name too! And then, another thing is, I‚Äôm almost in the business myself in a way of speaking. My late husband‚ÅÝ‚Äîhe was Sir Joseph Partlit‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou may have heard of him‚ÅÝ‚Äîwas very interested in the theatre business himself just as a sideline, you know, and he left me a controlling interest in two West End theatres and some productions.‚Äù
Susie’s eyes lit up at once and flashed a message to Inigo. “Here,” they said, “is the Fairy Queen.”
“What’s the matter?” asked Lady Partlit.
“Nothing at all,” said Susie, “except that you’re the person we dream about every night. Two West End theatres! Productions! Not musical comedy or revue, by any chance?”
“As a rule, yes. I’m glad too, because I like them best, though I like a good romantic play too.”
“I can hardly believe you’re real,” cried Susie smiling at her.
“But you mustn’t think I’ve really anything to do with this business,” Lady Partlit explained amiably. “I’m just a little nobody in the background. All I do is sign things now and again, though I like to keep popping up and seeing what they’re doing. Helps to keep me busy, you know, and a widow without children like me hasn’t much to do. But don’t run away with the idea that I’ve much say in it.”
‚ÄúYou‚Äôve enough say in it to take my breath away. Lady Partlit,‚Äù said Susie sturdily. ‚ÄúMr.¬ÝJollifant there‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou can call him Inigo; he likes it‚ÅÝ‚Äîmay not care, because he‚Äôs only an amateur slightly disguised, but as for me‚ÅÝ‚Äî! And if Jerry Jerningham were here, I wouldn‚Äôt be answerable for him. He‚Äôd probably want to kidnap you.‚Äù
The effect of these last two remarks was astonishing. Lady Partlit’s ruddy cheeks were now like two mounds of pickled beetroot; her eyes were soft and bright; her bosom heaved and flashed.
“You remember him, don’t you?” asked Susie, who had observed these significant symptoms. “Our light comedian and dancer.”
‚ÄúOh, yes, I do. I thought he was‚ÅÝ‚Äîwonderful,‚Äù Lady Partlit faltered.
“He is,” said Susie. “Isn’t he, Inigo?”
‚ÄúAbsolutely. Jerningham himself may be a terrible‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù But here he stopped because he received a kick on the shin from Susie.
“A terribly good dancer,” that young lady prompted.
“Exactly!” cried Inigo. “I must say he’s the best step dancer I’ve ever seen.”
“And so marvellously good-looking of course,” said Susie.
“Yes,” said Lady Partlit faintly.
Susie gave a little laugh that struck Inigo as being the most unreal he had ever heard. “It’s funny,” she said, “the way Jerry attracts all the women in the audience. They’d run after him if they could, but they can’t. He’s never to be found.”
‚ÄúIs‚ÅÝ‚Äîis he married?‚Äù Lady Partlit brought out this question in a tiny stifled voice.
‚ÄúWho on earth‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù Inigo began, but was immediately kicked into silence again.
‚ÄúOh no, he‚Äôs not married,‚Äù replied Susie brightly. ‚ÄúHe‚Äôs not even thinking of it. He thinks about nothing but his work. He‚Äôs very hardworking and frightfully ambitious‚ÅÝ‚Äîlike me.‚Äù
After this, the talk that followed seemed merely casual, but it had a trick of working round to Mr.¬ÝJerry Jerningham. Susie gave Lady Partlit a list of all their future dates she could remember. When at last the car came round for them, Lady Partlit slipped away and returned with a large box of chocolates for Susie and a box of cigarettes for Inigo, and was almost tearfully affectionate in her farewell, though her regret at their departure did not compel her, they noticed, to accompany them to the station.
“Well,” said Inigo, when they had seated themselves in the big limousine, “I must say I don’t understand that old girl. I think she’s a bit mad.”
“Idiot! Don’t you see,” Susie hissed, “she’s the person who sent Jerry that bouquet at Sandybay. She adores him.”
“Gosh!” was Inigo’s comment. But he listened patiently while Susie discussed various aspects of this strange affair. They sat there in comfort, while the limousine rolled through the murk of Hicklefield. When it came to a stop at the station, Susie sighed luxuriously. “People can say what they like,” she said wistfully, “but it must be marvellous to have a lot of money.”
And anybody who saw her getting out of that limousine must have thought she had a lot of money. Her sketch of a very rich and bored young creature, the spoilt darling of fortune, was only offered to an audience of two porters, a taxi-driver, and a nondescript, but nevertheless it was superbly done. Her hatless and overcoatless companion who came out shivering slightly, was left somewhere in the air; he was there, but not in the picture; it was not until he opened the door of an empty third-class carriage for her that he returned to the picture and she was Susie Dean again.
IV
“Figure or no figure,” said Susie, “I must have some.” She was examining the box of chocolates that Lady Partlit had given her. They were very large aristocratic chocolates, and by the time they had eaten two or three, the last glimmer of Hicklefield had left their flying windows. Once again Susie pointed out that it would be marvellous to have a lot of money. She dwelt rather wistfully on the subject of riches.
England is preeminently the country in which it is difficult for two to agree: if one turns realist, the other turns idealist; a cynic instantly creates a sentimentalist. Inigo stoutly denied that money, beyond a necessary competence, was important; he denounced the life of luxury, even going to the length of refusing a third chocolate; and he declared that Susie’s attitude pained him. In a very short time, however, the lover overcame the philosopher in him.
“If that’s what you think,” he said, rather gloomily, “I’ll make a lot of money. I don’t want it, but I’ll do it just for your sake. Didn’t you say I could probably make something out of songs?”
“Heaps and heaps,” she told him. “If the right people hear them, I’m sure your fortune’s made, Inigo. I really mean that. You’ve got a gift that could easily be a goldmine.”
“Well, there you are then. I’ll make a lot of money for you.”
“But I don’t want your money, you absurd creature. I want to be rich myself, all by myself.”
“I don’t believe you know what you want,” he declared, seeing that it was obvious she did not want him.
‚ÄúThat only shows you don‚Äôt know anything about me,‚Äù she said. Then she thought a moment. ‚ÄúI want to be a star. I want to be Susie Dean‚ÅÝ‚Äîbang!‚ÅÝ‚Äîlike that. Enter Susie Dean‚ÅÝ‚Äîbang! ‚ÄòHere she is!‚Äô I want them to say. Not just for myself, either, but for my mother‚Äôs sake and my father‚Äôs sake‚ÅÝ‚Äîto make up for all their dreary journeys and digs and hard work and rotten pay and no chances. I know it won‚Äôt make up for all that, yet I feel it will in a way if I go right to the top. Not that I don‚Äôt want it myself, of course,‚Äù she added.
“Of course,” he said.
“I believe you’re being sarcastic.”
“No, I’m not. Go on.”
‚ÄúWell,‚Äù she said, looking at him but not seeing him, ‚ÄúI don‚Äôt care about having my photographs in papers and little paragraphs about me and my name up in electric lights‚ÅÝ‚Äînot that it wouldn‚Äôt be rather nice, you know‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut that‚Äôs not what I think about. I‚Äôd like to have a nice little flat‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhere managers rang me up and asked me to look at parts‚ÅÝ‚Äîand a dresser who adored me and perhaps a very cosy car, small but frightfully posh; and enough money to spare to give all sorts of people delightful surprises, holidays, and presents; and now and then I‚Äôd like to run away from it all; go on a voyage perhaps under some other name, and not let anybody know who I was, and then somebody would come up and say, ‚ÄòYou do remind me of Susie Dean,‚Äô and then I might admit I was Susie Dean, and everybody on the boat would say, ‚ÄòThat‚Äôs Susie Dean,‚Äô and they‚Äôd probably get up an entertainment specially so that I could appear in it, and‚ÅÝ‚Äîoh‚ÅÝ‚Äîall kinds of things.‚Äù She ended breathlessly.
“It sounds a lonely sort of life to me,” said Inigo cheerlessly.
“Oh, but I’d have heaps and heaps of friends,” she cried. “I couldn’t exist without ’em. You’d be one, wouldn’t you, Inigo?”
“I suppose so.” He saw himself somewhere dodging in the background, holding her cloak, while all manner of important and handsome males held her attention.
“You do sound miserable about it. I don’t believe you want me to be successful. I believe you’re one of those men who can only be friendly if they’re allowed to patronize.” She looked haughtily out of a window through which there was nothing to be seen. He tried to look out of the window on his side too, but found it impossible to avoid glancing at her. After a minute or two, however, he noticed she was peeping at him. He smiled, and instantly she jumped round and faced him.
‚ÄúAren‚Äôt we absurd?‚Äù she smiled. ‚ÄúWe‚Äôre nearly as bad as Joe and Mrs.¬ÝJoe. Last summer they bought a ticket for the Calcutta Sweep, and one day, just before the draw was announced, they began to talk about their chances. Then when they‚Äôd awarded themselves a favourite, they began to wonder what they would do with the money. Joe said he would buy an hotel at one of the big seaside places. Mrs.¬ÝJoe said she would invest all the money and live on the income from it. No hotel for her, she told him. He insisted on his hotel. They argued for hours and got crosser and crosser and crosser until it ended in a quarrel and they never spoke to one another for two days, the poor darlings. Now come and sit on this side and then you won‚Äôt have to stare at me and make me think I‚Äôve done something dreadful to you.‚Äù
Inigo rose and stood for a moment looking down on her and listening to the rhythmical rattle of the train. “It’s melancholy, you know,” he said slowly. “I ought to be happy here alone with you, Susie. I believe it’s been my idea of happiness for some time.”
“Why, Inigo?”
“I’m not going to tell you again. What I was going to say is that it’s rather melancholy. But then there’s always been something melancholy to me about Sunday night, something a bit heartbreaking, absolutely.”
“I know,” she replied softly. Then she looked fierce. “No, I don’t,” she said in a loud voice. “Sit down here, Master Jollifant, Master Inigo Absolutely, and if you don’t cheer up, I’ll shake you. Unless, of course,” she added, peeping at him, “you’re sad about me.”
So they sat side by side and talked idly as the train went clanking through mysterious regions of night towards the still distant Middleford. As time went on, Susie said less and less, began to yawn, and drooped away from him, into her corner. She had just nodded off to sleep when a ticket collector came in and wakened her. Then she yawned and drooped again, and this time her head sank in his direction until finally it rested against his shoulder, where it remained, to his delight. There was perhaps a certain bitter flavour of irony in this delight, for she had made it plain that he had little to hope from her and this was only the surrender of sleep. But it had something trusting in it, and his hopes revived under the slight pressure of that head against his upper arm. The very cramp that soon invaded his limbs took on a romantic beauty.
Where it was the train stopped, shortly after ten, Inigo never knew. It seemed a fairly large station. Susie opened her eyes, sighed then went to sleep again, leaving Inigo praying that nobody would disturb them. At the very last moment, however, when the whistle sounded, the door was flung open to admit some raw November night and a large man. Inigo looked at the man in despair. The man looked at Inigo with cheerful interest. He sat in the middle of the opposite seat, removed his hat, mopped his brow, relit the stump of a cigar, put a fat hairy hand on each knee, and blew little benevolent clouds of smoke at Inigo and the sleeping Susie. He was a well-developed specimen of a type of large man seen at all race meetings, boxing matches, football matches, in all sporting clubs and music-hall bars. His head was pear-shaped, beginning with an immense spread of jaw and ending at a narrow and retreating forehead, decorated by two little loops of hair, parted in the middle. His eyes protruded; his nose shone; his little moustache was ferociously waxed. There was a suggestion that innumerable double whiskies were hard at work illuminating his vast interior. All these details Inigo noted with distaste.
The man removed the stump of cigar and winked slowly, ponderously, at Inigo. “Just caught it,” he said companionably. “In the bar of the White Horse at ten, and here I am. That’s moving, y’know, that is.”
Inigo merely nodded, but that seemed quite enough to establish a firm friendship with this genial intruder.
“Here,” he said, producing a flask as unexpectedly as a conjurer, “have a drink of this. Go on, there’s plenty for all. No? Well, will your wife have one? No, she’s not your wife, is she? She’s your sweetheart. Our wives and sweethearts,” he proclaimed, holding up the flask, “and may they never meet.” He drank this toast with enthusiasm.
‚ÄúMind you,‚Äù he said sternly, ‚Äúthat‚Äôs just my fun, that about wives and sweethearts never meeting. If I say that to the missis, she just laughs. She knows me well enough to know that that‚Äôs my fun. My wife is my sweetheart, and we‚Äôve been married twelve years at that. Twelve years and always the best of pals‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe best,‚Äù he added fiercely, as if Inigo had just contradicted him. ‚ÄúThe very best,‚Äù he went on, ‚Äúthe very, very best. Here‚Äôs to her.‚Äù And he took another pull at the flask.
‚ÄúAnything she wants,‚Äù he observed, ‚Äúshe can have‚ÅÝ‚Äîin reason. There‚Äôs reason in ev‚Äôrything, isn‚Äôt there? All right then. She‚Äôs only gotta ask, that‚Äôs all. She knows it. Her mother knows it. ‚ÄòYou‚Äôre lucky,‚Äô she says to my wife. ‚ÄòYou‚Äôre lucky.‚Äô She wasn‚Äôt lucky‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat‚Äôs my missis‚Äôs mother I‚Äôm talking about now‚ÅÝ‚Äîand I say she wasn‚Äôt lucky. She got nothing. The old man wouldn‚Äôt part. But that‚Äôs not me. Get on the right side of me, and there‚Äôs nothing I‚Äôve got you can‚Äôt have. My missis knows that. She‚Äôs on the right side of me. We‚Äôre the best of pals, the very best. And the same with the wife‚Äôs mother‚ÅÝ‚Äîjust the same‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe very best. Here‚Äôs luck to the old lady.‚Äù This toast apparently emptied the flask, which was now laid down on the seat, while its owner, after breathing hard, looked at Inigo, looked at the unconscious Susie, and slowly and sentimentally wagged his head.
At any other time, Inigo might have enjoyed this gentleman’s society, but now he found it difficult even to tolerate him. Somehow that railway carriage was not the place it had been an hour before.
‚ÄúPretty!‚Äù said the stranger, still wagging his head at them. ‚ÄúVery pretty! As good as a picksher to me.‚Äù He sighed hugely as he stared at Susie. The last draught from the flask appeared to have washed away any lingering reserve, and now he was very tender and mellow indeed. ‚ÄúI know what it is. I‚Äôve done my courting, holding her up half the day and half the night, the same as you now. Happy times‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou can‚Äôt beat ‚Äôem. Look at her now, just dreamin‚Äô there, happy and trustin‚Äô. And a nice little girl you‚Äôve got hold of too, young feller, I can see that. Look after her, and then you‚Äôll be one of the lucky ones, like me.‚Äù
“It’s been a rotten cold day,” said Inigo desperately.
‚ÄúWhat‚Äôs a cold day to a warm heart?‚Äù cried the other reproachfully. ‚ÄúDon‚Äôt tell me you‚Äôve noticed it‚Äôs a cold day. I‚Äôll bet your little sweetheart there doesn‚Äôt know it‚Äôs a cold day. Ah, I wish I was your age, young feller. Put your arm round her properly. Cuddle up to her. Don‚Äôt mind me. I‚Äôve been young. I‚Äôm young yet. I know what makes the world go round. It isn‚Äôt money. It‚Äôs love. It‚Äôs two hearts beating as one, as the song says.‚Äù He leaned back, tried to fix a goggling stare on Inigo, and sang softly, beating time with one hand: ‚ÄúMy swee‚Äëeet-heart when a boy‚Äëyer‚ÅÝ‚Äîin days of long ago-er.‚Äù
Inigo closed his eyes and pretended to go to sleep. It was all he could do. The wretched song went droning on for some time then gradually died away, to be succeeded finally by a snore. Inigo moved his cramped limbs cautiously, and let his thoughts go jog-jogging with the train through the night.
“Mid-ford! Mid-ford!”
Immediately the stranger opened his eyes, sprang up, grabbed flask, hat, bag, and vanished.
“Are we there?” cried Susie. “I must have been asleep. Who was that?”
“That,” said Inigo with deliberation, “was our fellow-passenger, a large and rather tight gentleman with a mind like a cheap Christmas card. And most of the way he’s been calling you my little sweetheart.”
“Poor Inigo, how disgusting!” she said coolly. “Do look out and see if you can see Jimmy or anybody there.”
He crept out, very stiff and feeling rather cold. “I can see Jimmy farther up the platform,” he announced at the door. Then he stood there looking up at her. Their day was all over now. “Well, that’s that,” he said, a trifle mournfully. “Come along, Susie.”
She looked at him curiously. “Help me down,” she said. “I’m rather stiff.” Then when she had got down and her hand still rested in his, she cried softly: “Cheer up. And thank you for looking after me, Inigo. There!” And it came and went so swiftly, that kiss, that he hardly knew if it had really existed.
“Susie!” he cried.
“There’s Jimmy.” And she hurried away, waving a hand.
We catch a last glimpse of him following her down the platform.