Short Stories 1927-1956 (47 page)

And so she returned at last to her compartment again, shaken, but safe and triumphant, bringing tidings of comfort and joy, and yet somehow
astonished
to find her patron still there in his corner. Was it mere fancy, or did he actually look less raddled and anxious, smoother, more his own man? She had hardly time to tell, for at sight of her he had at once all but jumped in his seat, and had shouted up at her in a whisper as it were, ‘Oh, it's you? And
did
you?'

The sheer intensity of the question, when it was nothing after all but a horrible something between two human beings, however extreme, that was at issue, was appalling. Still, he had not exaggerated. If ‘newspaper facts' give you only the faintest hint of the signification of certain words, writers of detective stories give you even less. She knew now – as if the retching flavour of the hot black draught was all over her mouth – what blackmail actually meant. And with a gesture not in the least intended to resemble that of a tombstone angel in Parian marble, she had flung up her hand,
withdrawn
the green silk shade from the lamp, and had given her answer: ‘I
did.
So far as
he
is concerned, you are safe. There's not a sign of him. Not at least in the front part of the train; and the back? – well, I gathered from you, that
isn't
so. Anyhow, he's not there. Unless, of course, he has hidden himself under the turkeys in the guard's van!' With this she had almost beamed on her Levite; but the little jest fell flat. Good Samaritans
apparently
should keep only to wine and oil. He merely blinked at her.

‘Hiding,' he echoed, in a muffled, peevish voice. ‘And who's to tell, I'd like to know, that he isn't? He
can
!'

At this she was refreshed by a positive jet of righteous indignation. ‘Well,' she said, as she sat down again, ‘if I had asked
you
to do the same thing for me, to search, as I have, for – for a disagreeable acquaintance, because I was …Well, I might at least have said, Thank you.'

He stared stupidly on as if now incapable of following her. ‘What I mean is,' he said, ‘you can't tell; not with that kind. And the closer you wait and watch, the more … It's snowing now, isn't it – hard?'

Good heavens, would the creature never be satisfied? Why couldn't he have looked for himself? She petulantly flung down her window and peered out through the cold rushing air into the night. At first it was impossible to see anything through the whirling flakes and the blaze of the train, but in a moment a stealthy hand behind her had drawn the sage-green shade over the lamp again. And presently with the aid of a faint gibbous moon above the clouds of the night, Lavinia discerned a landscape as still and
miraculous
as that of a dream – vague undulations, wooded hollows,
smooth-scooped
fallowland and meadow, utterly calm, numbing, swooning to its cold Christmas slumbers beneath the multitudinous bewildering whispered lully of the snow. ‘Yes,' she called back to him over her shoulder, ‘Hard.' She drew up the window again. ‘We shall have a white Christmas.'

But the old man in the corner made no reply. He was merely shuddering in his thick coat at the cold of the air, had drawn up its wide collar, and seemed to be composing himself to sleep. And whether or not it was due perhaps to this glimpse of the flying night or to some inward misgiving that had hitherto been only lurking in the back of her mind, a vague gnawing anxiety had taken possession of her. Misery, fear, blackmail, yes. But what
else? She too was shivering a little. She drew her chin closer into the fur of her coat, pulled down the pretty narrow veil from her hat, and opened her book again.

‘When all is done, human life is, at the greatest and the best, but like a froward child …'

No, it was impossible to concentrate. Her eyes roved to and fro over the print, but with no result. As for her detective story, she had never seen a book that looked less inviting. So for a few moments she closed her eyes; partly because it was soothing to do so, and partly because it is hardly fair to scrutinize even happy faces when their owners are taking no care of them – are asleep. But the lids continued to flicker; she was confused; and presently she opened them again – to shut them no more. Her neighbour was
not
asleep. Even in this dim light it was plain that he was merely
pretending
to be. Eyes of themselves shut not so tightly as that. Nor was he even at rest. Far from it; again and again there came an involuntary jerk of head or hand, as of a puppet gifted with life; or his whole body swayed
suddenly
to one side, even against the gentle swing of the carriage on its wheels. Once in a low, thick, whining voice he began talking as if he were hotly pleading or arguing with someone – or with himself, and then sank again into silence.

And as she covertly watched him, fascinated as if by the contortions of some animal unaware of human company, there came into her mind the recollection that on her coming back into the compartment again,
something
had been wrong with it – different. There are layers of observation, and on occasion some trophy of a lower one may rise to the surface of
consciousness
, long after, as if unnoticed, it has sunk out of sight. Something was changed. What? Her eyes roved in vain over floor, seat, walls and roof. What – what – what? Why, yes, of course – of course. The rack over the old man's head was empty now. The dank-looking shapeless roped-up
carpetbag
was gone. She craned round, peered up into the other corner: nothing there either. Her lips closed firmly, almost primly for one comparatively young. She was clenching her teeth, too, for the merest intuition had assured her that the bag was not under either seat. Anything in, or even
beyond
, reason; but she hated being deceived. If this poor horrible terrified creature had wanted to dispose of his bag, and of its contents, what
necessity
had there been with such stupid cunning to send her off on a wild goose chase in search of someone who he knew perfectly well was
not
on the train? What gratitude
there
,
might she ask! And why …?

And as she sat emptily looking, vainly pondering, there sounded from a distance a clangour of opening and shutting doors, and a voice calling, though she could detect no individual words. It was the ticket-collector, no doubt, or, better still, the dining-car attendant.
His
invitation would be like
manna in the wilderness, though at sound of it her fellow-passenger, as motionless as a cat, had merely opened his eyes to stare – as if staring could be of any help.

A plaintive wailing, as of some lost banshee, from the engine followed. The rhythm of sound and motion of which she had become almost
oblivious
was now changing its pattern. The train was slackening up, though there was no sign of any station. The signal must be against them. The
distant
slamming ceased. Motionlessly she continued to gaze out through her obscuring veil at her fellow-passenger, who in exquisite deliberation had now turned to look at her, with a long, peering, intent scrutiny. Whereupon, as if satisfied, his eyes had wandered up to the rack above his head, and then – for there was an inch or two between the soles of his shoes and the floor of the carriage – he had slid down, and with turned head still in watch of her, was by noiseless fractions of an inch drawing further and further open the carriage door.

The train had jarred to a standstill; and a dead silence had followed. Not a sound – not even the crowing of Gabriel's cock from the country fields. An intolerable foreboding and something little short of terror had taken possession of Lavinia, a terror perhaps not wholly her own. The last anguished look on that engrossed awful face had filled her also with an overwhelming compassion. In life's journey, she knew a little where
she
was going to. But what fate was awaiting this old man in the dark solitudes of the snow beyond the window? He too had once been a child, and, like
herself
, had come to this moment pace by pace. Who – what – might he be meeting out there – and without one word of farewell? She,
too
,
an enemy? – who had at least tried to be a friend.

And even as, having succeeded in soundlessly opening and shutting the outer door behind him, he vanished, she realized that it was no creature of flesh and blood, foulest of all pursuers, whom she had been sent out in search of, but one who had ‘gone on' – as she would herself, some day; and, for purposes of his own, it seemed, or, the mere creation of terrified fantasy, had come back. And there was nothing, absolutely nothing, left behind of pursuer or pursued except a dingy scrap of cardboard, which by mischance must have fallen out of the old man's great-coat pocket, and now lay on the further seat. She watched it awhile; then stole across, and lifting it into the hard white light of the lamp, read its ornate inscription: ‘Mr James Glyde, Wardrobe Dealer, 918
B
, Old Kent Road'. She continued to read the words, and with far more concentration than she had given to Sir William Temple. Then she stuffed the smudged little card into her bag and sat down again. Life may admit of many pregnant pauses, though only of one conclusion.

With a brief reassuring blast from the engine, the train had begun to move again. A dark, smooth-faced young man in a blue Eton jacket looked
in, shouted his summons and withdrew. And still she sat on, unable to stir.

It was stupid of her. Had she dined
then
,
and dined boldly, with half a bottle of wine for company, she might have faced the guard and the stranger – who appeared at her carriage door immediately after the train had left its first stopping place – with cooler brains and a nimbler tongue.

She might have. But in any case, quite apart from any question of decency, of public morals, even of common-sense, had it been discreet or even
helpful
to deny flatly that she had had any company at all in her carriage, and certainly not that of a squat little ageing man, whom her interrogator, straight-nosed, heavy-chinned, and cold-blue-eyed under his bowler hat, had described from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet, button by button, as if he were reading the particulars from the pocket-book in his hand? Yes, and while the guard, with lean cheekbones and a trace of paternal whisker, watched steadily on. The ‘individual' in question had been seen to enter the train in that last frantic scramble – this end of the train, too. ‘But surely,' she expostulated, ‘I should have noticed such a man, even if he hadn't come in here? Still,' she raised her gentle eyelids, ‘I was
reading
, and perhaps —' she shrugged a narrow shoulder towards the books on the seat, and the other two had followed her gesture, as if in prophetic mimicry of one of their titles –
Faint
but
Pursuing.
Indeed, yes,
there
it was,– in black on red – proof positive! And a curious drop of the underlip of the man in the hard hat showed that he had taken it in. But he hadn't stayed to ask the name of its author. He was explaining that the individual he had mentioned was wanted, wanted very badly, and was carrying a carpet bag. And she had realized perfectly well, and even perfectly calmly, that neither of her questioners was being in the least convinced by her replies.

‘I'm sorry to trouble you, miss,' the spokesman had assured her again, ‘but this is a serious business, you see; a very serious business, as you'd realize' – he had glanced an instant with lifted eyebrow at the guard – ‘if you had the full particulars.' At this her tongue had moved gently in her closed mouth.

‘Yes, I suppose so,' she had answered. ‘But, of course! Still, what – what has he
done
?
Why?'

Not that she was pining for any
exact
answer to these questions. So that, if anything, it was a relief to be assured that her
what
was neither here nor there. And at last with a slight frown of impatience she had been asked to oblige her questioner with her own name and address.

‘Oh, yes – my address.' She had at once opened her bag, and, still
looking 
at the speaker and not at her fumbling fingers, had presented him
forthwith
with a card. The fair-skinned face had not only frowned then, but hardened, as even the austerest can.

‘What's this, miss?' he said. ‘I asked you for
your
name and address.' At which it seemed as though her whole body had evaporated; that it had become nothing but a vacancy with eyes whereby to look out of it. It was all over. The Fiend had betrayed her.
Traditore
,
unhappy! She had rendered up the old man's card. Still, even in this predicament, thank God, she had merely stayed looking, and waiting.

Then, ‘“Mr Charles Ashby”,' the other had begun reciting throatily, ‘“The Old Mill, Mieklesham”' – though he refrained from adding the
pencilled
scribble on it:
So
very
sorry
–
and
disappointed
–
dearest,
I
couldn't
wait.
Business.

‘That's Devon,' said the guard, ‘Mieklesham' – the only words he had uttered. ‘There's another in Wiltshire.' And Lavinia's heart, it seemed, had begun to beat again, though it was not exactly a love-bird's, even if in a cage.

‘Mr Ashby, oh yes.' She held out her fingers. ‘How very silly of me! That's where I'm going
to.
You,' and her face positively lit up with intelligence, ‘you want where I have come
from
.'
And now she all but buried her small nose inside her gaping bag. ‘There,' she said, ‘that's not
another
friend of mine, I hope?'