A GIRL WITH BROWN HAIR
III
Waterloo station is one of the things which no fellow can understand.Thousands come to it, thousands go from it. Porters grow gray-headedbeneath its roof. Buns, once fresh and tender, become hard andmisanthropic in its refreshment rooms, and look as if they had seenthe littleness of existence and were disillusioned. But there thestation stands, year after year, wrapped in a discreet gloom, alwaysthe same, always baffling and inscrutable. Not even the portersunderstand it. "I couldn't say, sir," is the civil but unsatisfyingreply with which research is met. Now and then one, more gifted thanhis colleagues, will inform the traveler that his train starts from"No. 3 or No. 7," but a moment's reflection and he hedges with No. 12.
Waterloo is the home of imperfect knowledge. The booking clerks cannotstate in a few words where tickets may be bought for any station. Theyare only certain that they themselves cannot sell them.
* * * * *
The gloom of the station was lightened on the following morning at tenminutes to eleven when Mr. Garnet arrived to catch the train toAxminster, by several gleams of sunshine and a great deal of bustleand movement on the various platforms. A cheery activity pervaded theplace. Porters on every hand were giving their celebrated imitationsof the car of Juggernaut, throwing as a sop to the wounded a crisp "byyour leave." Agitated ladies were pouring forth questions with therapidity of machine guns. Long queues surged at the mouths of thebooking offices, inside which soured clerks, sending lost sheep emptyaway, were learning once more their lesson of the innate folly ofmankind. Other crowds collected at the bookstalls, and the bookstallkeeper was eying with dislike men who were under the impression thatthey were in a free library.
An optimistic porter had relieved Garnet of his portmanteau and golfclubs as he stepped out of his cab, and had arranged to meet him onNo. 6 platform, from which, he asserted, with the quiet confidencewhich has made Englishmen what they are, the eleven-twenty would starton its journey to Axminster. Unless, he added, it went from No. 4.
Garnet, having bought a ticket, after drawing blank at two bookingoffices, made his way to the bookstall. Here he inquired, in a loud,penetrating voice, if they had got "Mr. Jeremy Garnet's last novel,'The Maneuvers of Arthur.'" Being informed that they had not, heclicked his tongue cynically, advised the man in charge to order thatwork, as the demand for it might be expected shortly to be large, andspent a shilling on a magazine and some weekly papers. Then, with tenminutes to spare, he went off in search of Ukridge.
He found him on platform No. 6. The porter's first choice was, itseemed, correct. The eleven-twenty was already alongside the platform,and presently Garnet observed his porter cleaving a path toward himwith the portmanteau and golf clubs.
"Here you are!" shouted Ukridge. "Good for you. Thought you were goingto miss it."
Garnet shook hands with the smiling Mrs. Ukridge.
"I've got a carriage," said Ukridge, "and collared two corner seats.My wife goes down in another. She dislikes the smell of smoke whenshe's traveling. Let's pray that we get the carriage to ourselves. Butall London seems to be here this morning. Get in, old horse. I'll justsee her ladyship into her carriage and come back to you."
Garnet entered the compartment, and stood at the door, looking out inorder, after the friendly manner of the traveling Briton, to thwart aninvasion of fellow-travelers. Then he withdrew his head suddenly andsat down. An elderly gentleman, accompanied by a girl, was comingtoward him. It was not this type of fellow-traveler whom he hoped tokeep out. He had noticed the girl at the booking office. She hadwaited by the side of the line, while the elderly gentleman struggledgamely for the tickets, and he had plenty of opportunity of observingher appearance. For five minutes he had debated with himself as towhether her hair should rightly be described as brown or golden. Hehad decided finally on brown. It then became imperative that he shouldascertain the color of her eyes. Once only had he met them, and thenonly for a second. They might be blue. They might be gray. He couldnot be certain. The elderly gentleman came to the door of thecompartment and looked in.
"This seems tolerably empty, my dear Phyllis," he said.
Garnet, his glance fixed on his magazine, made a note of the name. Itharmonized admirably with the hair and the eyes of elusive color.
"You are sure you do not object to a smoking carriage, my dear?"
"Oh, no, father. Not at all."
Garnet told himself that the voice was just the right sort of voice togo with the hair, the eyes, and the name.
"Then I think--" said the elderly gentleman, getting in. Theinflection of his voice suggested the Irishman. It was not a brogue.There were no strange words. But the general effect was Irish. Garnetcongratulated himself. Irishmen are generally good company. AnIrishman with a pretty daughter should be unusually good company.
The bustle on the platform had increased momently, until now, when,from the snorting of the engine, it seemed likely that the train mightstart at any minute, the crowd's excitement was extreme. Shrill criesechoed down the platform. Lost sheep, singly and in companies, rushedto and fro, peering eagerly into carriages in the search for seats.Piercing cries ordered unknown "Tommies" and "Ernies" to "keep byaunty, now." Just as Ukridge returned, the dreaded "Get in anywhere"began to be heard, and the next moment an avalanche of warm humanitypoured into the carriage. A silent but bitter curse framed itself onGarnet's lips. His chance of pleasant conversation with the lady ofthe brown hair and the eyes that were either gray or blue was at anend.
The newcomers consisted of a middle-aged lady, addressed as aunty; ayouth called Albert, subsequently described by Garnet as the rudestboy on earth--a proud title, honestly won; lastly, a niece of sometwenty years, stolid and seemingly without interest in life.
Ukridge slipped into his corner, adroitly foiling Albert, who had madea dive in that direction. Albert regarded him fixedly for a space,then sank into the seat beside Garnet and began to chew somethinggrewsome that smelled of aniseed.
Aunty, meanwhile, was distributing her weight evenly between the toesof the Irish gentleman and those of his daughter, as she leaned out ofthe window to converse with a lady friend in a straw hat and haircurlers. Phyllis, he noticed, was bearing it with angelic calm. Herprofile, when he caught sight of it round aunty, struck him as alittle cold, even haughty. That, however, might be due to what she wassuffering. It is unfair to judge a lady's character from her face, ata moment when she is in a position of physical discomfort. The trainmoved off with a jerk in the middle of a request on the part of thestraw-hatted lady that her friend would "remember that, you know,about _him_," and aunty, staggering back, sat down on a bag of foodwhich Albert had placed on the seat beside him.
"Clumsy!" observed Albert tersely.
"Al_bert_, you mustn't speak to aunty so."
"Wodyer want sit on my bag for, then?" inquired Albert.
They argued the point.
Garnet, who should have been busy studying character for a novel ofthe lower classes, took up his magazine and began to read. The odor ofaniseed became more and more painful. Ukridge had lighted a cigar, andGarnet understood why Mrs. Ukridge preferred to travel in anothercompartment. For "in his hand he bore the brand which none but hemight smoke."
Garnet looked stealthily across the carriage to see how his lady ofthe hair and eyes was enduring this combination of evils, and noticedthat she, too, had begun to read. And as she put down the book to lookout of the window at the last view of London, he saw with a thrillthat it was "The Maneuvers of Arthur." Never before had he come upon astranger reading his work. And if "The Maneuvers of Arthur" could makethe reader oblivious to surroundings such as these, then, felt Garnet,it was no common book--a fact which he had long since suspected.
The train raced on toward the sea. It was a warm day, and a torpidpeace began to settle down on the carriage.
Soon only Garnet, the Irishman, and the lady were awake.
"What's your book, me dear?" asked the I
rishman.
"'The Maneuvers of Arthur,' father," said Phyllis. "By Jeremy Garnet."
Garnet would not have believed without the evidence of his ears thathis name could possibly have sounded so well.
"Dolly Strange gave it to me when I left the abbey," continuedPhyllis. "She keeps a shelf of books for her guests when they aregoing away. Books that she considers rubbish and doesn't want, youknow."
Garnet hated Dolly Strange without further evidence.
"And what do you think of it, me dear?"
"I like it," said Phyllis decidedly. The carriage swam beforeGarnet's eyes. "I think it is very clever. I shall keep it."
"Bless you," thought Garnet, "and I will write my precious autographon every page, if you want it."
"I wonder who Jeremy Garnet is?" said Phyllis. "I imagine him ratheran old young man, probably with an eyeglass and conceited. He must beconceited. I can tell that from the style. And I should think hedidn't know many girls. At least, if he thinks Pamela Grant anordinary sort of girl."
"Is she not?" asked her father.
"She's a cr-r-reature," said Phyllis emphatically.
This was a blow to Garnet, and demolished the self-satisfaction whichher earlier criticisms had caused to grow within him. He had alwayslooked on Pamela as something very much out of the ordinary run offeminine character studies. That scene between her and the curate inthe conservatory.... And when she finds Arthur at the meet of theBlankshire.... He was sorry she did not like Pamela. Somehow itlowered Pamela in his estimation.
"But I like Arthur," said Phyllis, and she smiled--the first timeGarnet had seen her do so.
Garnet also smiled to himself. Arthur was the hero. He was a youngwriter. Ergo, Arthur was himself.
The train was beginning to slow down. Signs of returning animationbegan to be noticeable among the sleepers. A whistle from the engine,and the train drew up in a station. Looking out of the window, Garnetsaw that it was Yeovil. There was a general exodus. Aunty becameinstantly a thing of dash and electricity, collected parcels, shookAlbert, replied to his thrusts with repartee, and finally headed astampede out of the door.
To Garnet's chagrin the Irish gentleman and his daughter also rose.Apparently this was to be the end of their brief acquaintanceship.They alighted and walked down the platform.
"Where are we?" said Ukridge sleepily, opening his eyes. "Yeovil? Notfar now, old horse."
With which remark he closed his eyes again and returned to hisslumbers.
Garnet's eye, roving disconsolately over the carriage, was caught bysomething lying in the far corner. It was the criticized "Maneuvers ofArthur." The girl had left it behind.
What follows shows the vanity that obsesses our young and risingauthors. It did not enter into his mind that the book might have beenleft behind of set purpose, as being of no further use to the owner.It only occurred to him that if he did not act swiftly the lady of thehair and eyes would suffer a loss beside which the loss of a purse ora hand bag were trivial.
He acted swiftly.
Five seconds later he was at the end of the platform, flushed butcourteous.
"Excuse me," he said, "I think--"
"Thank you," said the girl.
Garnet made his way back to his carriage.
"They are blue," he said.
Love Among the Chickens Page 3