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.