Fool Errant (12 page)

He felt her tremble and relax.

“How did you get there? Tell me—tell me from the beginning. I don't know anything at all, and it makes me feel like when you wake up in the dark and don't know which side of the room the window is or—anything. It's
horrid
.”

“But I want
you
to tell me things. You said you had things to tell me.”

“Oh yes, I have. But you must begin. We can't escape out of here until everyone is asleep in the house—can we? So begin right at the very beginning and tell me.”

It came over Hugo how crass it was of Cissie to think that anyone who had ever heard Loveday speak could forget the quick, tripping way that the words came tumbling out, like a lot of breathless children at play; she had a soft, eager way with her even when she whispered. He wrote Cissie down as a fool, and he wondered what he should tell Loveday and where he should begin.

“Oh, you're wasting time!” said the soft whispering voice. “Do begin!”

Hugo went back to Meade House.

“There's such a lot of it. But—you remember you telephoned to me.”

“Yes, I did, and—”

“Something happened—someone interrupted you, didn't they? Was it Cissie?”

“Yes, it
was
. But I don't see how you knew. It was in a shop. It was the only chance I ever got. She was trying things on. And then she came in and pulled the receiver out of my hand and she was frightfully angry. And afterwards she cried and said I'd get her into dreadful trouble if I met you. And she said you were just leaving Meade House anyhow—she knew all about it because of Mr. Hacker being a friend of hers—so I promised I wouldn't.”

“She was telling you lies. I'm not leaving. I'm up in town because Minstrel's away and doesn't want me. And—I kept that appointment, Loveday.”

“Oh—did you wait long?”

“No,” said Hugo dryly, “I didn't wait long. Miss Cissie met me and pretended to be you.”

“Oh, she
didn't!
”

“Oh, she
did
. She's got a nerve. She pretended she'd got a bad cold, and she actually thought I was mug enough to believe she was you.” He laughed a little. “I suppose I must look like a mug, because they all seem to think I'm one.”

“Go on,” said Loveday. She pressed up against him like an eager child. “Go on. Tell me how you got here—tell me everything.”

He did not tell her everything; but he told her how he had met Cissie that evening, and how he had come to the house and found it dark, and how he had followed a man he did not know up the unlighted stair.

“Now it's your turn,” he said. “Tell me why I wasn't to go to Meade House. You said it three times, and I want to know why you said it.”

She said, “Three times, did I?”

“Yes, you did—in the lane, and in your letter, and when you telephoned.
Now
I want to know why.”

She drew away a little.

“I'll tell you. I've wanted to tell you frightfully badly. It was just before I met you in the lane—I told you about running away so as not to wake up and find I was married to James or anything like that. I did tell you that.”

“Yes.”

“Well, I ran away. And I just missed the train I wanted to catch, and there I was with hours to wait. So I just put my bag in the hedge, and I began to walk up and down. And then there was a horrible beery tramp. And he was between me and the station, so I had to run the other way. And when I got to Meade House I ran inside the gate because it felt safer. And then I heard people coming, and I crouched right down behind a hedge. And there were two men, and they were talking.”

“Yes—go on.”

“They came from the direction of the house, and they were talking about a secretary who had gone, and they said he was a good riddance—they said he knew too much. And I thought that was funny, because I should think you'd want your secretary to know things. They stood there just inside the gate, and they talked. And this is the bit about you. One of them said, ‘Manning's boy sounds just what we want—no relations, no connections.' And the other one laughed, and
he
said, ‘He sounds almost too good to be true—the disinherited nephew touch is a real stroke of genius.' And then they walked a little way and came back. And when they came back, the one who laughed was saying, ‘He'll be as easy as mud. Everyone'll believe he took them. There'll be no one to kick up a fuss.' Then they walked a little way again, and when they came back one of them said, ‘Well, he'll be for it'; and the other said, ‘Poor devil!' And then they went right away. That's what I heard.”

“I see,” said Hugo. He spoke slowly. “They knew I was coming—it was all a plant. Manning—no, I swear Manning's straight—he didn't know—I swear he didn't know—he thought he was doing me a good turn—but it was all a plant from the beginning. I say, what swabs! And, I say—I haven't thanked you—but I do thank you most awfully. I knew some of it, but you've cleared up a bit I didn't know.”

“You knew some of it? Oh!”

“Yes—some—” He gave a low, sudden laugh. “I say, they do think me a mug—a prize, first-class mug! It's not flattering, because I suppose I
must
look like one.”

Loveday laughed too, just in a whisper; but even in a whisper her laugh was pretty, like a trickle of water.

“I don't know what you look like. Isn't that
funny?
I haven't seen you, and you haven't seen me, and—why, didn't you think Cissie was me?”

“I'm not such a mug as I look,” said Hugo.

Loveday laughed again.

“I want to see you. It's so silly not to know what you look like.”

“G-guess!” said Hugo. His stammer had returned suddenly, but he did not feel embarrassed by it. He felt an eager excitement.

“Guessing's silly. I want to see you. Haven't you got a match? Do you think that horrid lurking man would find us if you struck a match?”

“He m-might.”

“I don't believe he would—I believe he's gone away. Besides, if he tried to get in here, I could scream, and the people in the house would come and help us.”

“No, you mustn't. Nobody's got to see me—nobody's got to know that I've been here, or that I know anything.”

“Why?”

“Because they've got to go on thinking I'm a mug. I can't tell you any more than that. I've got to go on at Meade House; and they've got to go on thinking I don't know anything. It's most awfully important.”

She came quite close.

“Well,
I
may see you. Do strike a match—I do want to see you so badly.”

“I want to s-see you, Loveday.”

Hugo liked saying her name. It was a very easy name to say; it said itself when he thought about her.

Loveday drew back.

“I'm all on end like a hedgehog, and I expect my face is all slatey—my hands are, and I'm sure it's got on to my nose—things do.”

Hugo took out of his pocket the matches which he had bought from the friendly damsel in the tobacconist's. It seemed a long time ago. He struck a match and saw it flare up, a little yellow tongue of flame on a tiny stick. He held it up, and by its light he and Loveday saw each other for the first time.

They both saw the match, with its yellow light rising up into a pointed tongue of flame, and they both saw Hugo's hand holding it. Loveday saw Hugo's face, very eager and earnest, his fair hair all ruffled, his eyes very blue and intent. Hugo saw brown short hair, pushed back, wide-set eyes which he thought were grey, a soft little nose, and a wide mouth that trembled and laughed. There was a smudge on her chin and another high up a her left cheek. Under the smudges the chin was very white and the cheek was rather pale. Each saw the other, and then both of them saw the same thing happen, because at one and the same moment the colour ran up to the roots of the fair hair and the brown. Loveday blushed, and Hugo blushed; each saw the scarlet colour rise and felt it burn.

The match dropped because Hugo's finger burned too. The flame touched it. The match dropped.

Loveday gave a little gasp. They drew away, and were glad of the darkness.

CHAPTER XVIII

Loveday was the first to recover. She drew a long unsteady breath and said,

“Have I got a smut on my nose?”

“N-not on your nose,” said Hugo.

“Where? Oh! How horrid of you!”

“There's one on your chin, and one up near your eyelashes.”

He could hear her rubbing vigorously.

“You'll only m-make it w-worse,” he said.

“I always get smudges,” said Loveday. “Some people never do; but if there's one single smut in a whole town, it gets on to my nose.”

“It wasn't on your nose.”

“Why don't you get smuts? You were simply
horribly
clean.”

“I know.” He spoke despondently. “It's one of the things that make people think I'm a m-mug.”

Loveday nodded in the dark.

“And you blushed,” she added most unfairly.

Hugo blushed again.

“S-so did you.”

“Lots of people can't blush,” said Loveday—“
lots
of them. I think it's rather dull to be the same colour always. James was always exactly the same colour—rather like soap, you know—and I got awfully bored with it.”

Hugo felt a certain impatience of James. He looked at the dial of his watch and saw that it was nearly eleven. He wondered how soon it would be safe to try and get away, and he wondered, quite suddenly he wondered, what on earth he was to do with Loveday. The thought rushed into words:

“Loveday—do stop talking about James.”

“Why?”

“Why do you w-want to talk about him? I w-want to talk about you. I w-want to talk about what we're going to do with you.”

“With me?”

“Yes. It's eleven o'clock. By the time we get anywhere it'll be about midnight. What are we going to do with you?”

“I don't know.” She did not sound seriously concerned.

“Have you got any f-friends in London?”

“Only Cissie.”

“Cissie's not a f-friend. Look here, Loveday, I don't want to f-frighten you—but you mustn't make f-friends with girls like Cissie.”

“She wasn't as nice as I thought she was,” said Loveday mournfully.

“I c-can't think how you ever thought she was nice.”

“It was James.”

“J-James?”

“Yes—because he was so dull. That's the awful part of James. It's like being driven to drink—he's so deadly that anyone who isn't deadly seems to be most frightfully nice. That's why I thought Cissie was nice.”

“What am I going to do with you?” said Hugo.

He felt her come a little nearer.

“You won't let them!” Her hand touched his and clung to it.

“Of c-course not.”

She came closer still, her shoulder touched his shoulder.

“It sounds silly, but I got frightened of Cissie. She said such odd things, and she wouldn't let me go out alone, and she gave me such a horrid feeling sometimes”—he felt her hand tremble—“the sort of feeling you get when horrid things are going to happen. I've really only had it in dreams before—the horrid sort where quite nice things suddenly turn into something frightening. I used to get that sort of feeling with Cissie, and it was
horrid
.”

Hugo put his arm round her.

“I shouldn't think about it. I'll find somewhere safe for you,” he said.

They stayed like that quite silently for a time. Loveday felt very safe, and Hugo very sure that he could keep her safe. The silence and the peace of the sleeping house seemed to rise up around them. The attic was a friendly place. They sat quite still.

At last Hugo said, “Loveday—” and then, “Are you awake?”

“Is it time to go?”

“I think so.” He lit a match. The light showed a sloping roof, a packing-case or two, the corner of a cistern, and rows of pots, some just bare earth, and others pierced with the green shoots of growing bulbs. A second match discovered a trap-door a yard or two from where they sat.

“What shall we do if it's bolted?” said Loveday in a whisper.

Hugo had no idea. He could only hope that it would not be bolted, and found his hope rewarded; the trap came up and showed a ladder running down to a bathroom below.

They crawled down the ladder and opened the bathroom door. It was like opening the door into a new adventure. Here was a strange house full of strange people—people who were not really there at all, because their thoughts were wandering in some far-off dream.

Hugo struck one match, and made out the staircase; after which they went down in the dark, step by step, waiting with held breath to hear if any of those dreaming people had been called back through the ivory gate.

No one moved but themselves; no one waked or stirred. The house had a sleepy, peaceful, friendly feeling. They went down, and down, and down to the foot of the stairs and along a yard or two of passage to the bolted and locked front-door. The bolt creaked once, and they stood there with a most dreadful sense of guilt until the silence had settled again.

The key turned easily in the lock, and the door swung open and let in the warm wet air.

CHAPTER XIX

Hugo shut the door behind them. It made a little sound like a farewell. The house that it guarded slept on.

They came into a dark street where nothing moved. Everything was still and dim. They crossed the road. There was no light in any window of No. 50, and the taxi that had ticked before the door was gone. The way was clear.

Morrington Road was not quite so deserted. When they came to it, there were still people abroad and a taxi or two plying. Here each lamp as they passed it showed them to each other. Hugo saw that Loveday wore a grey jumper and skirt. She was coatless and hatless. Two of the people they met turned and stared as the light fell on the brown tumbled hair. She caught his arm.