by Sax Rohmer
Lying back in the cab he lighted a cigarette and resigned himself to those pleasant reflections which belong to the holiday mood. For the Capital of a threatened empire, London looked disappointingly ordinary, he thought. There seemed to be thousands of pretty women, exquisitely dressed, thronging the West End thoroughfares; but Don had learned from experience that this delusion was a symptom associated with leave. Long absence from feminine society blunts a man’s critical faculties, and Robinson Crusoe must have thought all women beautiful.
There were not so many posters on the hoardings, which deprived the streets of a characteristic note of colour, but there were conspicuous encomiums of economy displayed at Oxford Circus which the shopping crowds along Oxford Street and Regent Street seemed nevertheless to have overlooked. A large majority of the male population appeared to be in khaki. The negligible minority not in khaki appeared to be in extremis or second childhood. Don had heard much of “slackers” but the spectacle afforded by the street of shops set him wondering where they were all hiding. With the exception of a number of octogenarians and cripples, the men in Regent Street wore uniform. They were all accompanied by lovely women; it was extraordinary, but Don knew that it would wear off. At Piccadilly Circus he found the usual congestion of traffic and more than the usual gala atmosphere for which this spot is peculiar.
People at Piccadilly Circus never appear to be there on business. They are either au rendezvous or bound for a restaurant or going shopping or booking theatre seats; and although Don had every reason for believing that a war was in progress, Piccadilly Circus brazenly refused to care. The doors of the London Pavilion were opened hospitably and even at that early hour the tables in Scott’s windows were occupied by lobster fanciers. A newsboy armed with copies of an evening paper (which oddly enough came out in the morning) was shouting at the top of his voice that there had been a naval engagement in the Channel, but he did not succeed in attracting anything like the same attention as that freely bestowed upon a well known actress who was standing outside the Criterion and not shouting at all. It was very restful after the worry at the front. In Derbyshire, too, people had talked about nothing but the war.
There were attractive posters upon the plinth of Nelson’s Monument, and the Square seemed to be full of Colonial troops. The reputation of Trafalgar Square ranks next to that of the Strand in the British Colonies. A party of Grenadier Guards, led by a band and accompanied by policemen and small boys, marched along the Mall. A phrase of the march haunted Don all the way to Chelsea.
* * * * * *
Yvonne Mario in white décolleté blouse and simple blue skirt, made a very charming picture indeed. Her beauty was that of exquisite colouring and freshness; her hair seemed to have captured and retained the summer sunlight, and her eyes were of that violet hue which so rarely survives childhood. Patrician languor revealed itself in every movement of her slim figure. Don’s smile betrayed his admiration.
“Do you know, Yvonne,” he said, “I have been thinking coming along that there were thousands of pretty girls in London. I see now that I was wrong.”
“You are making me blush!” said Yvonne, which was not true, for her graceful composure seldom deserted her. “I shall tell Paul that you have been paying me compliments.”
“I wish you would. I don’t believe he thinks I appreciate you as highly as I do.”
“He does,” replied Yvonne naively; “he regards you as a connoisseur of good looks!”
“Oh!” cried Don. “Oh! listen to her! Yvonne, you are growing vain.”
“A woman without vanity is not appreciated.”
“A woman without vanity is not human.”
“If you are going to say cynical things I won’t talk to you. You want a whisky-and-soda.”
“I don’t.”
“You do. The first thing to offer a man on leave is whisky-and-soda.”
“It is a ritual, then?”
“It is the law. Sit down there and resign yourself to it. Do you really mean to tell me that you did not know Paul was in France?”
“It must be a dreadful blow to your self-esteem, Yvonne, but I really came here expecting to see him. When does he return?”
Yvonne rose as a maid entered with a tray bearing decanter and syphon. “On Tuesday morning if the Channel is clear. Will you help yourself or shall I pour out until you say ‘When’?”
“Please help me. You cannot imagine how delightful it is to be waited upon by a nice girl after grubbing over there.”
“When do you have to go back, Don?”
“I have a clear week yet. When! How is Paul progressing with the book, Yvonne?”
“He has been collecting material for months, and of course his present visit to France is for material, too. I think he has practically completed the first part, but I have no idea what form it is finally to take.”
“His article in the Review made a stir.”
“Wasn’t it extraordinary!” cried Yvonne, seating herself beside Don on the low window-seat and pressing the cushions with her hands. “We were simply snowed under with letters from all sorts of people, and quite a number of them called in person, even after Paul had left London.”
“Did you let them in?”
“No; some of them quite frightened me. There was one old clergyman who seemed very suspicious when Eustace told him that Paul was abroad. He stood outside the house for quite a long time, banging his stick on the pavement and coughing in a nasty barking fashion. I was watching him through the curtains of an upstairs window. He left a tract behind called The Path is Straight but Narrow.”
“Did he wear whiskers?”
“Yes; long ones.”
“A soft black hat, a polo collar and a ready-for-use black tie?”
“I believe he did.”
“I am glad you did not let him in.”
Through the narrow-panelled windows of the charming morning-room Don could see the old sundial. He remembered that in the summer the miniature rock-garden endued a mantle of simple flowers, and that sweet scents were borne into the room by every passing breeze. A great Victorian painter had lived in this house, which now was destined to figure again in history as the home of the greater Paul Mario. He glanced around the cosy room, in which there were many bowls and vases holding tulips, those chalices of tears beloved of Hafiz, and he suppressed a little sigh.
“May I light a pipe before I go, Yvonne?” he asked. “I am one of those depraved beings who promenade the streets smoking huge briars, to the delight of Continental comic artists.”
“I know you are. But you are not going to promenade the streets until you have had lunch.”
“Really, Yvonne, thanks all the same, but I must go. Honestly, I have an appointment.”
Yvonne smiled in his face and her violet eyes held a query.
“No,” replied Don— “no such luck. The Pauls are the lucky dogs. All the nice girls are married. I am going to lunch with a solicitor!”
“Oh, how unromantic! And you are on leave!”
“Painful, I admit, but I am a stodgy old fogey. When the war is over I am going to buy a velvet coat and a little red pork-pie cap, with a green tassel. Is that old Odin I can hear barking?”
“Yes. He has heard your voice.”
“I must really say ‘How d’you do’ to Odin. When I have lighted my pipe may I go out?”
“Of course. Odin would never forgive you if you didn’t. Let me strike a match for you.”
“You are spoiling me, Yvonne.”
Don, his pipe well alight, stood up and went out into the garden where a wolf-hound was making an excited demonstration in the little yard before the door of his kennel.
“Hullo, Odin!” cried Don, as the great hound leapt at him joyfully, resting both paws upon his shoulders. “How is old Odin? Not looking forward to compulsory rationing, I dare swear.”
He pulled the dog’s ears affectionately and scratched his shapely head in that manner which is so gratifying to the canine spec
ies. Then from the pocket of his “British-warm” he produced a large sweet biscuit, whereupon Odin immediately assumed a correct mendicant posture and sat with drooping forepaws and upraised eyes. Don balanced the big biscuit upon the dog’s nose. “When I say ‘Three,’ Odin. One!” Odin did not stir. “Two!” Odin remained still as a dog of stone. “Three!” The biscuit disappeared, and Don laughed as loudly as though the familiar performance had been an entire novelty. “Good morning, old fellow,” he said, and returned to the house.
Yvonne was awaiting him in the hall. “What time shall you come on Tuesday?” she asked. “Paul should be home to lunch.”
“You will want Paul all to yourself for awhile, Yvonne. I shall look in later in the afternoon.” He shook hands with his pretty hostess, put on his cap and set off for the offices of Messrs. Nevin & Nevin.
* * * * * *
The offices of Messrs. Nevin & Nevin were of that dusty, gloomy and obsolete fashion which inspires such confidence in the would-be litigant. Large and raggedly bound volumes, which apparently had been acquired from the twopenny boxes outside second-hand bookshops, lined the shelves of the outer office, and the chairs were of an early-Victorian horsehair variety. Respectability had run to seed in those chambers. Mr. Jacob Nevin, the senior partner, to whose decorous sanctum Don presently penetrated, also had a second-hand appearance. Don had always suspected him of secret snuff-taking.
“Ah, Captain Courtier,” he said; “very sad about Miss Duveen’s second bereavement, very sad.”
“Yes. Fate has dealt unkindly with the poor girl. I understand that Mrs. Duveen died more than two months ago; but I only learned of her death quite recently. I wrote to Miss Duveen directly I knew that I was coming to England, and I was horrified to hear of her mother’s death. You have got the affairs well in hand now?”
“Since receiving your instructions, Captain Courtier, I have pushed the matter on with every possible expedition — every expedition possible. The absence of Mr. Paul Mario in France had somewhat tied my hands, you see.”
“I will consult Mrs. Chumley, my aunt, and arrange, if possible, for Miss Duveen to live at The Hostel. I have already written to her upon the subject. If it can be managed I shall ‘phone you later to-day, and perhaps you would be good enough to wire to Miss Duveen requesting her to come to London immediately. Don’t mention my name, you understand? But let me know at the Club by what train she is arriving and I shall endeavour to meet her. We cannot expect Mario to attend to these details; he has a duty to the world, which only a man of his genius could perform.”
Mr. Nevin adjusted his pince-nez. “Very remarkable, Captain Courtier,” he said gravely; “a very strange and strong personality — Mr. Paul Mario. As my client his wishes are mine, but as a staunch churchman I find myself in disagreement with much of his paper, Le Bateleur — in disagreement, but remarkable, very.”
Don laughed. “You are not alone in this respect, Mr. Nevin. He is destined to divide the civilised world into two camps, and already I, who encouraged him to the task, begin to tremble for its outcome.”
II
Flamby arrived at London Bridge Station in a profoundly dejected condition. However happy one may be, London Bridge Station possesses the qualities of a sovereign joy-killer, and would have inclined the thoughts of Mark Tapley toward the darker things of life; but to Flamby, alone in a world which she did not expect to find sympathetic, it seemed a particularly hopeless place. She was dressed in black, and black did not suit her, and all the wisdom of your old philosophers must fail to solace a woman who knows that she is not looking her best.
Her worldly belongings were contained in a split-cane grip and the wraith of a cabin-trunk, whose substance had belonged to her father; her available capital was stuffed in a small leather purse. When the train with a final weary snort ceased its struggles and rested beside the platform, that murk so characteristic of London draped the grimy structure of the station, and a fine drizzle was falling. London had endued no holiday garments to greet Flamby, but, homely fashion, had elected to receive her in its everyday winter guise. A pathetic little figure, she stepped out of the carriage. Something in the contrast between this joyless gloom and the sun-gay hills she had known and loved brought a sudden mist before Flamby’s eyes, so that she remained unaware of the presence of a certain genial officer until a voice which was vaguely familiar said: “Your train was late, Miss Duveen.”
Flamby started, stared, and found Donald Courtier standing smiling at her. Although she had seen him only once before she knew him immediately because she had often studied the photograph which was inside the famous silver cigarette-case. The mistiness of vision troubled her anew as she held out her black-gloved hand. “Oh,” she said huskily, “how good of you.”
The last word was almost inaudible, and whilst Don grasped her hand between both his own and pressed it reassuringly, Flamby stared through the mist at three golden stars on the left shoulder of his topcoat.
“Now,” cried Don cheerily, “what about our baggage?”
“There’s only one old trunk,” said Flamby, “except this funny thing.”
“Give me the funny thing,” replied Don briskly, “and here is a comic porter who will dig out the trunk. Porter!”
Linking his left arm in Flamby’s right, Don, taking up the cane grip, moved along the platform in the direction of the guard’s van, which was apparently laden with an incredible number of empty and resonant milk cans. The porter whom he had hailed, a morbid spirit who might suitably have posed for Coleridge’s Ancient Mariner, approached regretfully.
“‘Ow many?” he inquired. “Got the ticket?”
He did not disguise his hopes that it might prove to be lost, but they were shattered when the luggage ticket was produced from Flamby’s black glove, and in due course the antique cabin-trunk made its appearance. That it was an authentic relic of Duveen’s earlier days was testified by the faded labels, which still clung to it and which presented an illustrated itinerary of travels extending from Paris to New Orleans, Moscow to Shanghai. The new label, “London Bridge,” offered a shocking anti-climax. Trundled by the regretful porter the grip and the trunk were borne out into the drizzle, Don and Flamby following; a taxi-cab was found, and Don gave the address of The Hostel. Then, allowing Flamby no time for comment, he began talking at once about the place for which they were bound.
“Mr. Nevin selected The Hostel as an ideal spot,” he said, “where you would be free from interference and able to live your own life. He was influenced, too, by the fact that I have an aunt living there, a Mrs. Chumley, one of the most delightful old souls you could wish to meet.”
Flamby was watching him all the time, and presently she spoke. “Are you quite sure, Captain Courtier, that the money from the War Office will be enough to pay for all this?”
Don waved his hand carelessly. “Ample,” he declared. “The idea of The Hostel, which was founded by Lady Something-or-other, is to afford a residence for folks placed just as you are; not overburdened with means — you see? Of course, some of the tenants are queer fish, and as respectable as those dear old ladies who live amongst the ghosts at Hampton Court. But there are a number of women writers and students, and so forth: you will be quite at home in no time.”
Flamby glanced down at the black dress, which she had made, and had made tastefully and well, but which to its critical creator looked painfully unfinished. “I feel a freak,” she said. “Dad didn’t believe in mourning, but they would have burned me alive at Lower Charleswood if I hadn’t gone into black. Do you believe in mourning?”
“Well,” replied Don, “to me it seems essentially a concession to popular opinion. I must admit that it strikes me as an advertisement of grief and about on a par with the wailing of the East. I don’t see why we should go about inviting the world to weep. Our sorrows are our own affairs, after all, like our joys. We might quite as reasonably dress in white when a son and heir is born to us.”
“Oh, I’m so glad
you think so,” said Flamby, and her voice was rather tremulous. “I loved mother more than anything in the world, but I hate to be reminded that she is dead by everybody who looks at me.”
Don grasped her hand and tucked it confidently under his arm. “Your father was a wise man. Never be ashamed of following his advice, Flamby. May I call you Flamby? You seem so very grown-up, with your hair all tucked away under that black hat.”
“I’m nearly eighteen, but I should hate you to call me Miss Duveen. Nobody ever calls me Miss Duveen, except people who don’t like me.”
“They must be very few.”
“Not so few,” said Flamby thoughtfully. “I think it’s my hair that does it.”
“That makes people dislike you?”
“Yes. Other women hate my hair.”
“That is a compliment, Flamby.”
“But isn’t it horrible? Women are nasty. I wish I were a man.”
Don laughed loudly, squeezing Flamby’s hand more firmly under his arm. “You would have made a deuce of a boy,” he said. “I wonder if we should have been friends.”
“I don’t think so,” replied Flamby pensively.
“Eh!” cried Don, turning to her— “why not?”
“Well you treat women so kindly, and if I were a man I should treat them so differently.”
“How do you know that I treat women kindly?”
“You are very kind to me.”
“Ha!” laughed Don. “You call yourself a woman? Why you are only a kid!”
“But I’m a wise kid,” replied Flamby saucily, the old elfin light in her eyes. “I know what beasts women are to one another, and I often hate myself because I’m a little beast, too.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“That’s because you are one of those nice men who deserve to know better.”
Don leaned back in the cab and laughed until tears came to his eyes. He had encouraged this conversation with the purpose of diverting Flamby’s mind from her sorrow, and he was glad to have succeeded so well. “Do men hate you, too,” he asked.