Indiscretion
I wonder how many people’s lives are ruined by a moment’s indiscretion. The wrong word at the wrong time—and then finish to all their dreams. They have to go on living with their tongues bitten a second too late. No use calling back the spoken word. What is said is said.
I know three people who have been made to suffer because of a chance sentence flung into the air. One of them was myself. I lost my job through it. The other fellow lost his ideals; and the woman … well, I guess she did not have much left to lose, anyway. Maybe she lost her one chance of security. I have not seen either of them since. The curt typewritten letter came from him a week later. I packed up then and cleared away from London, leaving the shreds of my career in the wastepaper basket. In less than three months I read an announcement in a weekly rag that he was claiming a divorce. The whole thing was so needless, too. A word from me—and a word from her. And all through that sordid little street that runs between Shaftesbury Avenue and Leicester Square.
We stood at the door of the office, he and I. It was cold, it was December. I had a cold in the head, and I did not want to think about Christmas. He came out of his private office and gave me a genial clap on the shoulder.
“You’re no advertisement for the time of the year,” he said, “come out and have a bite of lunch.”
I thanked him. It is not every day, or every Christmas for that matter, that one’s chief broadcasts his invitations. We went to his favourite restaurant in the Strand. I felt better once I had a plateful of beef before me, but even so his own exuberance irritated me, his easy laugh, his familiarity with the waiter. He had the audacity to place a sprig of holly in his buttonhole.
“Look here, Chief,” I said. “What’s the big idea? Are you going to play Santa Claus at a kids’ party?”
He laughed loudly, a spot of gravy at the corner of his mouth.
“No,” he said, “I’m going to be married.” I made the usual retort.
“I’m not joking,” he went on. “I’m telling you the truth. They all know at the office. Told ’em before I left this morning, Kept it secret up till now because I didn’t want a scene. Aren’t you going to congratulate me?”
I watched his smug, self-satisfied expression.
“Hell!” I said. “You don’t know what I think about women.”
He laughed again. His mood was ridiculous.
“This is different,” he told me, “this is the real thing. I’ve found her at last—the only girl. You know, I’m fond of you, my dear fellow, I’m glad you came along to lunch.”
I made some sort of noise of sympathy.
“It’s all very sudden, of course,” he said, “but I believe in that. I like everything cut and dried. None of your hanging about. We’re going to Paris this evening, while this afternoon there will be a short ceremony at a registry office.” He pulled out his watch. “In exactly an hour’s time,” he said, “I shall be a married man.”
“Where’s your bride?” I asked.
“Packing,” he smiled foolishly. “I only decided this trip yesterday evening. You’ll have a tremendous amount of work at the office, I’m afraid, before the Christmas rush.”
He leant forward, patronising, confidential. “I have a great deal of faith in you,” he said, “I’ve watched you these last few months. You’re going to do big things. I don’t mind saying …” he lowered his voice as though people listened and cared … “I don’t mind saying I shall depend on you in the future to work like blazes. You’d like a rise, wouldn’t you? Might think of getting married yourself?”
I saw his friendly beam without emotion, and remembered with cynicism a proverb about “a little something makes the whole world kin.” I thought of a word that would fit. “That’s extremely good of you,” I said, “but I shan’t marry.”
“You’re a cynic,” he said. “You’ve no illusions. You see all women in the same pattern. I’m twice your age and look at me—the happiest man alive.”
“Perhaps I’ve been unlucky,” I said. “Maybe I’ve struck the wrong type.”
“Ah!” he said, “a bad picker. That’s fatal. I flatter myself,” he opened his mouth to admit a fork-load of food, “that I have chosen well. You young men are so bitter about life,” he went on, “no romance.”
Romance! The word conjured a vision in my mind of a dark night with the rain falling, and a small face turned to me, weeping, her hat pulled low over her eyes. The last taxi driving away from the Empire Cinema; men and women in evening dress, hurrying, bent under umbrellas.
“Romance!” I said. “That’s funny.” Funnier still the way I caught hold of that one word. It would have been so easy to let it go.
I thought for a moment, turning it over in my head.
“The last time I heard that word,” I said, “was from the lips of a girl. I’m not likely to forget it in a hurry.”
He glanced at me enquiringly, surprised at the note in my voice.
“More bitterness?” he suggested. “Why don’t you tell me about it? You’re such a silent fellow you never give yourself away.”
“Oh! It’s a dull story,” I said, “scarcely worth listening to! Besides, you’re going to be married in an hour’s time.”
“Come on,” he laughed, “out with it.”
I shrugged my shoulders, yawning slightly, and reached for a cigarette.
“I ran up against her in Wardour Street,” I said. “Queer sort of place for an adventure, if you come to think of it. Almost too obvious, perhaps. It’s scarcely a beat of mine, anyway. I’m a retiring sort of chap, as you know, don’t go out much. Hate meeting people, and that kind of thing. Never go to theatres, never go to parties. Can’t afford it, for that matter. My life is spent between the office down in the City and my rooms in Kensington. I read a lot, hang around museums on Saturdays. Let’s admit it, I’m damn dull! But the point is that I scarcely know the West End at all. So that this particular Wardour Street was unfamiliar to me. About six months ago I came back from the office one evening feeling fed to the world. You know how one gets—nervy, irritable, thoroughly dissatisfied with life in general.
“I hated my rooms suddenly, and I felt that any minute my landlady would come in and tell me about her sister who was ‘expecting’ again. It occurred to me out of the blue then, this idea to go up West. I took the Tube to Leicester Square. When I came into the street I had a glance at the photographs hanging outside the Hippodrome, but I saw by the boards that the show had already begun. So I walked a little farther, and I came to the Empire. I loathe cinemas, never go inside ’em as a rule, but I was feeling so down and depressed that [ said to myself, “Why not?” and I went inside, paying my humble two and fourpence, with a slight sensation of shame. Have you ever been to the Empire? In the old days, naturally, but since they’ve turned it into a cinema? Well, let me tell you that the chap who owns that place is a genius. He caters for fools like me who are fed up with the office, and their lodgings, and their loneliness. There are seats especially made for tired backs and the lighting arrangements are sufficiently intriguing, and the darkness is even more intriguing.
“There’s an organ that throbs a sentimental tune, and when you’re soaked with this and rubbing knees with your next-door neighbour, they fling a picture on to the screen calculated to send you soft inside. That night I was in the right mood. Ready to absorb the utmost trash and be diluted with it. They kept on giving closeups of the blonde heroine; she seemed to be staring right at me. The usual theme, of course. Lovely innocent girl in love with handsome hero, and the dark blackguard stepping in and trying to ruin her. You’re kept on tenterhooks as to whether he ruins her or whether he doesn’t. He doesn’t, of course, and she finishes with the handsome hero. But even then it leaves you unsatisfied. No real love scenes for your money—only a caption saying, ‘Then Came the Dawn!’ The show at the Empire goes on until midnight. I sat through it twice, and stumbled out of my seat at twelve o’clock, still living in a land of make-believe.
“When I got outside it was raining. Through a haze I saw people crouching under umbrellas, whisking into taxis. I saw all this as a dream, in my mind I was watching the blonde heroine shut the opening of that tent in the desert. … ‘Then Came the Dawn.’ ‘B⸺ rot,’ I said to myself, and turning up my collar I began to walk, my head low, hating the rain.
“So I found myself in Wardour Street. I remember glancing up at the name on the corner. A few minutes later somebody bumped into me. It was a girl. Thinly dressed, I noticed, not carrying an umbrella.
“ ‘I beg your pardon,’ I said. She looked up at me, a little white face under a hat pulled low over her brow. Then to my horror she burst into tears.
“ ‘I’m most frightfully sorry,’ I began, ‘have I hurt you? Is there anything I can do?’ She made as if to brush past me, and put her hands to her eyes.
“ ‘It’s nothing,’ she said, choking over her words, ‘it was stupid of me.’ She looked to the right and left, standing on the edge of the pavement, apparently in some hesitation as to which way she should go. The rain was streaming down, and her little black coat was clinging to her. Half-consciously I remembered the blonde heroine of the picture I had seen.
“The tears were still running on her cheeks. I saw her make some attempt to brush them away.
“ ‘Gosh! How pathetic,’ I thought, ‘how utterly rotten. And here am I dissatisfied with my life for no reason.’ Acting on an impulse I touched her arm. ‘Look here,’ I said, ‘I know it’s no business of mine. I’ve no right to speak to you at all. But—is anything the matter? Can I help you? It’s such a filthy night. …’ She pulled out a wretched little end of handkerchief, and began to blow her nose. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ she said, ‘I don’t know what to do.’ She was crying again. ‘I’ve never been in London before,’ she said, ‘I’ve come up from Shropshire. I was to be married—and there’s no address, there’s nothing—he’s left me. I don’t know where to go.’
“ ‘There’s a man been following me,’ she said timidly, glancing over her shoulder, ‘he tried to speak to me twice. He was horrid. I didn’t understand. …’
“Good heavens! I thought, she was scarcely more than child.
“ ‘You can’t stand here,’ I said. ‘Don’t you know of anywhere? Have you no friends? Isn’t there a Home you could go to?’ She shook her head, her mouth worked queerly at the corners.
“ ‘It’s all right,’ she said, ‘don’t bother.’ It was no use, I couldn’t let her go, not with that frightened gleam in her eyes, in the pouring rain.
“ ‘Listen,’ I said. ‘Will you trust me to look after you—just for the moment? Will you come and have something to eat? Then we’ll find a place for you to go.’ She looked up at me for a moment, straight in my eyes, and then she nodded her head gravely. ‘I think I can trust you,’ she said. She said this in such a way—I don’t know, it seemed to go straight to my heart. I felt very old and very wise, and she was such a child.
“She put her hand on my arm, still a little scared, a little doubting. I smiled at her. ‘That’s the way,’ I said. We turned back again down Wardour Street. There was a crowd of people in Lyons. She clung tight to my arm, bewildered by them. ‘Don’t you be afraid,’ I said. We sat down at a marble-topped table. She chose eggs and bacon and coffee. She ate as though she were starving.
“ ‘Is this your first meal today?’ I asked. She flushed and bit her lips, ashamed.
“ ‘Yes,’ she said. I could have cut my tongue out.
“ ‘Supposing you tell me,’ I said, ‘just what it is that has happened.’
“The food had pulled her together, she had lost some of her shyness; she was no longer tearful, hysterical.
“ ‘I was to be married,’ she told me. ‘Back in Shropshire he seemed so fond of me, so attentive to me and mother. Why, he was quite a gentleman. We live on a little farm, mother and I, and my sister. It’s quiet, you know, away from the big towns. I used to take the produce into Tonsbury on market days. That’s where I met him. He was a traveller from a firm in London. He had a little car, too. Nothing poor or shabby about him—constantly with his hand in his pocket. He was always coming to Tonsbury for his firm, and then he would visit us. Then he started courting me—he was ever so handsome. It was all so proper, too. He asked mother for her consent, and the date and everything was arranged.
“ ’Last Sunday he was up home as usual, laughing and teasing, saying how soon we would have a house of our own. He was to give up travelling, and get a settled job at the firm, and we were to live in London. He insisted on the wedding being in London, too, which was the one upsetting thing, as my mother and sister couldn’t leave home.
“ ‘Yesterday was to have been my wedding day.’ I saw she was ready to burst into tears again. I leant across the table and patted her hand.
“ ‘There, there,’ I said stupidly.
“ ‘We motored up Tuesday in his little car,’ she went on, ‘and we came to London yesterday. He had taken rooms at some hotel.’ Her words trailed off; I saw that she was looking at her plate.
“ ‘And the blackguard’s left you,’ I said gently.
“ ‘He said we were to be married,’ she whispered. ‘I thought it was all right. I didn’t understand.’ The tears sprang in her eyes. ‘He went this morning, early, before I was awake. The people at the hotel were cruel—I found out then it was a bad place.’ She fumbled for her handkerchief, but I gave her mine.
“ ‘I couldn’t go back there, I daren’t ask them for a thing,’ she told me, ‘and I’ve been looking for him all day, but I know it’s no use now. How can I go home? What will they say? What will they think?’ She buried her face in her hands. Poor little thing! she couldn’t have been more than eighteen. I tried to keep my voice as gentle as possible.
“ ‘Have you any money?’ I said.
“ ‘I’ve seven-and-eightpence,’ she said. ‘He told me I wouldn’t need anything much.’
“I felt that this was the most impossible situation that had happened to anyone at any time. And there she sat looking at me, the tears in her eyes, waiting for me to suggest something.
“Suddenly I became very matter-of-fact. ‘You had better make shift at my lodgings for tonight,’ I said, ‘and in the morning I’ll buy you a ticket and pack you off to Shropshire.’
“ ‘Oh, I couldn’t,’ she said awkwardly, ‘I don’t know you.
“ ‘Nonsense,’ I said firmly. ‘You will be perfectly safe with me.’
“We had some slight argument, of course, but finally I persuaded her.
“She was tired, too. I took her home in a taxi—she nearly fell asleep with her head on my shoulder. My landlady had gone to bed; nobody saw us come in. There was a bit of a fire left in the grate. The girl crouched in front of it, spreading her hands to the feeble flame. I remember looking down at her and wondering how I should explain her presence to the landlady in the morning.
“It was then that she looked up at me from the fire, and she smiled without fear for the first time. ‘If I wasn’t so unhappy,’ she said, ‘this would be like a romance, wouldn’t it?’
“Romance! Funny. It was you saying the word romance just now, chief, that brought this story back to me.”
I squashed my cigarette in the ashtray.
“Well, go on,” he said, “it’s not finished yet, is it?”
“That was the finish of the romance,” I said.
“How d’you mean?” he said. “Did she go back to Shropshire?”
I laughed. “That girl never saw Shropshire in her life,” I told him. “I woke late the next morning and she had gone, of course. So had my pocketbook with all my worldly goods.”
He stared at me in amazement.
“Good Lord!” He whistled, blowing out his cheeks. “Then you mean to say she was deceiving you the whole time? There wasn’t a word of truth in her story?”
“Not a word!”
“But didn’t you put the police on her track; didn’t you do something; make some effort?”
I shook my head. “Even if they had found her, I doubt if I could have legitimately retrieved my worldly goods.”
“You mean you suspected her story before you left Lyons?” he asked.
“No,” I said, “I didn’t suspect her once.”
“I don’t understand,” he said; “if she was nothing but a common swindler, why not inform the police?”
I sighed wearily. “You see, chief, the point is I didn’t walk the streets all night like a little gentleman, nor did I sleep on the sitting-room sofa. …”
For a few minutes we sat in silence. He looked thoughtful, he stroked his chin. “You were a damn fool, and that’s all there is to it,” he said. “Ever go back to Wardour Street?”
“No,” I answered, “never before and never again. My only visit.”
“Extraordinary how you were so easily mistaken,” he said. “I can spot that type of girl a mile off. Of course, it’s the sort of thing to make you steer clear of women, I agree.
“But they’re not all like that, my dear fellow—not all.” He smiled.
“Sometimes you find a really genuine case of a young unsophisticated girl, with no money, let down by some blackguard.”
“For instance?” I enquired.
“As a matter of fact, | was thinking of my own girl,” he confessed, “the girl who has consented to become my wife this afternoon. When I met her six weeks ago she was quite new to London. Left an orphan suddenly, poor kid, without a bean. Very good family—she’s shown me letters and photos and things. She was making a wretched living as a typist in Birmingham, and her swine of an employer made love to her. She ran away, scared to death. Thank God I came along. Someone would have got hold of her. First time I met her she had twisted her ankle going down that filthy moving stairway on the Piccadilly tube. However, that’s not the point.” He broke off in the middle of his speech and called for the bill. “If you could see her,” he began again. “She’s the loviest thing.”
Into his eyes crept that blue suffused haze of the man who has not yet loved but will have loved by midnight.
“I guess I’m the happiest man alive,” he said, “she’s far too good for me.” The bill was paid, we rose and walked from the room.
“Tell you what,” he said, “come and see us off by the four o’clock train at Victoria. The good old Christmas spirit, eh?”
And because I was idle, because I was bored, because there was no reason to do it at all, I consented.
“I’ll be there,” I said.
I remember taking the tube to Victoria, and, not finding a seat, swaying from side to side, clinging to a strap.
I remember standing in a queue to buy a platform ticket, and being jostled by a crowd of pushing, feverish people. I remember walking senselessly up and down a platform peering into the windows of first class carriages, yelled at by porters. I remember wondering why I had come at all. Then suddenly I saw him, his big, red, cheerful face smiling at me from behind the closed window of a Pullman car. He put up his hand and waved, shouting something through the glass I could not hear. He turned and moved down the car, coming to the open door, at the entrance.
“Thought you’d given us the miss,” he shouted, “good boy—turned up after all.”
He pulled the girl forward, laughing self-consciously, scarlet with pride and satisfaction.
“Here’s the bride,” he said, “I want you two to be great friends. Show yourself, my darling.” I stood motionless with my hat in my hands.
“A happy Christmas to you,” I said. She leant from the window staring at me. Her husband gazed at us both with a quick, puzzled frown.
“I say, have you two met before?” he said. Then she laughed affectionately, and putting her arms round his neck she flung into the air her silly little gesture of bravado, mistress of the situation, but speaking without forethought, reckless, a shade too soon. The guard waved his little green flag.
“But, of course, I know your face,” she said, didn’t we run up against each other once in Wardour Street?