The Short Stories of Warwick Deeping

by Warwick Deeping

  He became aware of a subtle change in the atmosphere of Jerrys. He found himself being observed over the tops of books and newspapers. He was a case, a suspect. The attitude of the club towards him was one of kind but silent suspicion. He more than suspected that the absence of Isherwood’s tie was discussed at the meetings of the house committee.

  Yet he had not changed. He was the same Isherwood. All that had happened centred itself about a minor deficiency in his toilet. And yet, absurd though it seemed, his whole life and its atmosphere was being altered by the absence of a tie.

  Men avoided him. Insensibly he became isolated. And then, one day at lunch, Sir Morton Prince came and seated himself at the table where Isherwood sat solitary in his corner by one of the windows.

  Sir Morton smiled at him. He had the head of a sagacious and a kindly satyr, and he was one of the most noted of alienists. Isherwood could claim him as a club acquaintance.

  “Very dark in here these days. I don’t wonder that you prefer a window.”

  He gave Isherwood a look of veiled shrewdness.

  “Yes, Sir Morton, like Goethe my cry is for more light.”

  Sir Morton reached for the menu card, and while he was evolving his lunch, Isherwood indulged in silent comments.

  “I’ll bet that he has been asked by the committee to come and tactfully investigate my mental state. I’m a case!”

  Sir Morton, having ordered his lunch, beamed upon Isherwood and engaged him in conversation. Sir Morton was an amusing conversationalist, and Isherwood played up to him. They discussed bobbed heads and Wembley, and the language of Labour, and Sir Morton got nothing out of Isherwood. The fellow was as sound and as rosy as a well-ripened apple.

  Afterwards, Sir Morton met the secretary and one or two paternal committee men in a corner of the deserted library.

  “The fellow seems as sane as I am. But—then—of course—one has to remember that some of these cases begin in this way. Just a faint crack in a man’s sanity, some seemingly trivial lapse——”

  “But what are we to do about it?”

  “What can you do about it? You can’t ask a member of Isherwood’s standing to resign because he omits to wear a tie. Of course—had it been trousers——”

  It was agreed that the case was one for observation.

  Nevertheless, some officious friend communicated with Isherwood’s relatives, and on returning to Clarges Street one afternoon he found Grace Lambrick—his married sister—sitting in his drawing-room. She lived in Devonshire. Her first glance betrayed to Isherwood the esoteric significance of her visit.

  “Hallo, Gracie, I didn’t know you were in town!”

  “Oh, just up for some shopping!”

  “Well, you can pour out my tea.”

  She never referred to the absence of his tie, though she had been putting Verity through a careful cross-examination. She talked about the children, and how Jack had got into the Eton boat, and about Lambrick’s bronchitis, and how horribly difficult it was to get servants. And she went away puzzled. She refused to dine with him at Claridges. She had a bit of a head, “shopping, you know,” and she was catching the Exeter express on the morrow.

  “Poor old Gracie,” thought Isherwood; “she couldn’t face Claridges with a man without a tie. Well, I don’t blame her.”

  A moment later, old Isumbras Isherwood—his uncle—dropped down out of the sky. Isumbras was a rather abrupt person; he lived in Sussex, and believed in calling a dung-heap exactly what it was.

  “Look here, my boy, what’s all this about your not wearing a tie?”

  “So you have heard about it?”

  “I should think I have! Well, what about it?”

  “Exactly,” said Isherwood, “what about it?”

  Their conversation developed towards an extreme frankness, and Uncle Isumbras left Clarges Street with the air of a man who has had a difference of opinion with his solicitor.

  “Damned rot!”

  His philosophy of life could carry him no farther.

  The experiment had proved both uncomfortable and interesting, and Isherwood had discovered that when once you had shocked your fellow-men boldly and conscientiously, the worst was over. It resembled the taking of a cold plunge. You came out greatly invigorated. But the result depended upon your boldness. There had to be no self-conscious flinching, and society stared boldly in the face and defied like a fussy old woman, would proceed to cover the rebel’s nakedness with seemly excuses. “The eccentric Mr. Isherwood.” To label a man eccentric will still allow him to leave a card on your hall table.

  But Isherwood discovered more than this. He discovered loneliness. It was all very well to have a jest against your class fellows, but the jest needed sharing, and preferably by a woman.

  Deplorable bachelor that he was! Even the phlegmatic Verity treated him as a potential lunatic.

  Conversely, it was necessary for him to remain consistent, for, having proved his courage in going tieless through London, he could share the jest only with a woman who could show equal courage.

  And Isherwood was sure that such a woman did not exist.

  None the less, some six months ago he had contemplated the possibility of a second marriage, but he had not moved beyond contemplation, perhaps because the one most possible woman had gone to Malta for the winter. There were at least half a dozen other women who had been ready to oblige him, but he had no doubt that his tieless collar had cured them of their complacency. He was suspect.

  But Sanchia—Sanchia Mordaunt?

  He had always credited her with a sense of humour, and his newly discovered loneliness emphasized Sanchia’s aloofness. One of those tall, dark, supple and rather silent women. Her silences had rendered the ordinary social babblers inarticulate. A man can be a very shy bird at forty-seven, and Isherwood had been very shy of eager women.

  But what would Sanchia think of his quixotry? Would it matter to her that he had discarded his tie? Would she understand the inwardness of his puckish protest?

  Their meeting was sudden and unheralded. It happened at the corner of New Bond Street, and for the first time since the beginning of his experiment Isherwood was false to his ideal. He regretted the absence of a tie.

  “Hallo! So you are back again?”

  She smiled at him, and he had a sudden feeling that he had nothing to fear from her deep eyes.

  “I have been back for a month. And what have you been doing?”

  “Oh, playing the fool!” he said.

  She seemed quite unaware of the absence of his tie. She did not look at him with the diagnostic eyes of a doctor. In fact, he detected a little glimmer of sympathetic mischief somewhere beneath the polished surface of her serenity.

  “It does one good,” she observed.

  “You think so?”

  “Some of it. Provided——”

  “Provided one knows where to stop?”

  “Exactly.”

  Isherwood faced the crisis.

  “Which way are you going?”

  “Park Lane way.”

  “May I——?”

  She gave him a glance of subtly expressed surprise.

  “Of course,” it said. “Why be so formal?”

  They turned and walked along Piccadilly, and Isherwood began to repent of his momentary falseness. He had had a moment of illumination. The seal of his seeming eccentricity might prove a secret sign, a Masonic symbol. Sanchia had accepted it and had said nothing. She sailed along beside him like a tranquil young goddess, and when her eyes met his he felt that she was laughing with him at the world’s conventions.

  “Heavens!” he thought, “she’s enjoying it! She’s not afraid.”

  They entered the park, and wandering through it with the leisureliness of two people who were mutually appreciative they sat down on two chairs overlooking the water. And Isherwood smiled. He prepared for the final ordeal.

  “Doing anything to-night?”

  “No.”

  “I want to as
k you to dine with me somewhere. Will you?”

  “I should love it.”

  “Even with the eccentric Martin Isherwood?”

  “Yes,” she said; and her glance was a laughing acceptance of the challenge.

  “Splendid,” he said; “I have a sort of feeling that Diogenes can come out of his tub.”

  They had been observed, and without their having noticed the observer; but, about half-past three that afternoon, an old friend called upon Sanchia Mordaunt at her flat in Ashley Gardens. The visitor was one of those eagerly affectionate persons, and a very modern type, with an effusive manner and a cold eye.

  “My dear, I should have been here before, but I have been down in the country. And I suppose you have had a gorgeous time. Yes, of course. And I want to hear all about it.”

  From women who “my deared” you Sanchia always expected the Judas kiss. Also, Molly Courthope was widow, ingenious, absurdly youthful, with a ginger coloured and shingled head. And Sanchia remained expectant. She gave the snake a cigarette and made it curl itself up on the sofa.

  “Well, what’s the news?”

  “Our news? Oh, nothing very startling. Vi Carver has run off with a jockey; and poor Marie has twins.”

  “What a lapse!”

  “And Martin Isherwood. I suppose you have heard about poor old Martin?”

  “No. What is Martin’s trouble?”

  “Clean off his nut, you know—goes about without a tie, and doesn’t know people. His relations are awfully worried.”

  “How sad,” said Sanchia serenely; “poor old Martin. Does it run in the family?”

  “No. That is why they are so annoyed. I believe some of his people want to get him certified.”

  “Quite harmless, I suppose?”

  Mrs. Courthope was not quite sure.

  “I hear he has awful rages.”

  Having planted the poison Mrs. Courthope threw away the stump of her third cigarette, carefully powdered her nose, and then passed breezily on to her next social duty.

  “So long, old dear. I’ve got to dance at the Miskins. Fed up with dancing.”

  Sanchia followed her to the door.

  “Yes, it does get a bit boring. I’m thinking of returning to the country and taking up gardening.”

  She smiled, and her smile should have suggested to Molly Courthope that Sanchia had discovered the antidote to the particular social poison that the brisk widow always carried under her tongue.

  Sanchia dressed herself with particular care, and if her mirror was a candid friend, at least it was a kind one. Punctually at 7.45 her taxi deposited her at the doorway of the St. Cloud. Isherwood was waiting for her in the foyer. He wore no tie.

  Her level eyes met his, and did not drop below his collar, and in Isherwood’s eyes there was a new homage.

  “I make my obeisance,” he said.

  She smiled.

  “To me?”

  “To a brave woman.”

  They stood considering each other for a moment in the crowded and conventionally fashionable foyer. Then Isherwoood offered her his arm.

  “You said brave.”

  “I did.”

  “Might it not be designing?”

  He glanced down at her.

  “I think not. Courage and a sense of humour—what!”

  The head-waiter met them, and with discreet composure bowed them to the table that Isherwood had reserved.

  “The wine list, sir?”

  “Please.”

  * * *

  The great Howarth was sorting letters behind his glass screen when Mr. Martin Isherwood made his next appearance at Jerrys.

  “ ’Morning, Howarth, any letters for me?”

  Howarth was never guilty of staring, but he could not help being interested in the fact that Mr. Isherwood was wearing a tie, and the particular sort of tie that well-dressed men considered it necessary for them to wear at the moment.

  “One letter, sir.”

  “Thank you, Howarth.”

  Mr. Isherwood ascended the steps leaving Howarth to reflect upon the phenomenon.

  “Never seen him better dressed, or looking fitter. Now, what’s Mr. Isherwood been at?”

  Jerrys asked the same question, but the club was never honoured with a satisfactory answer, unless of course it could be expected to disentangle an answer from a subsequent announcement in the Morning Post that a marriage had been arranged between Mr. Martin Isherwood and Miss Sanchia Mordaunt.

  THE GREAT SAABA BRIDGE

  There is in man a ferocity that turns to stand at bay with bared teeth when Nature balks it—the old Ajax spirit—ready to give blow for blow and curse for curse, but in the man of highly civilized contrivings the struggle is driven inwards. Therefore, indeed, it may be more grim and protracted, more full of wanton and casual interference on Nature’s part, more stiff with hatred and defiance for the man.

  The looker-on may be deeply involved in the struggle, or merely mischievously curious, but in the matter of the Saaba Bridge, Grace Ramsden was sunk in it to the lips and eyes, silently perhaps, for the woman’s part may be a silent one.

  She had learnt to smile and to keep quiet, and to show a courage that is all the greater because it has to support in silence the courage of another. She passed the days and nights in that scorched and simmering tin bungalow on the dusty hillside, worn thin with the summer heat, waiting upon the gruff and fiercely combative moods of a man who once had loved her.

  In a way, she supposed, he loved her still, but like a man in a delirium, or like one half dazed and all bloody with giving blows and taking them.

  “I’m his shield-bearer,” was all that she could say to herself. “If I fail him he will fail too.”

  She sat in a deck-chair on the stoep of their bungalow, watching the tawniness of the landscape turn to orange, with the mountains tinted blue. Below her lay the Saaba River, muddy and sluggish, oiling its way sulkily in its central and circuitous channel, with all the strong flood-flats beside it looking scorched and hateful.

  She saw the grey sweep of her husband’s bridge, the huts and workshops, the dumps of stone and timber, the ant-like swarming of men, the railway line, a little puffing engine—fussy and self-assertive. She hated the scene and loved it; it was both hell and a dimly divined heaven.

  She heard a whistle blowing. The little black figures began to swarm in one direction, pouring over the scorched soil, or moving like dots along the threaded girders of the bridge. The work of the day was over. Ramsden would be coming back, tired, fierce, absorbed, to feed upon her patience and her courage, to wallow in it, to suck it up with dry and thirsty lips. Not knowing——Yes, he did not seem to know.

  She saw him coming up the slope, carrying his sun-helmet, his jacket slung over his left shoulder, the lean length of him bent a little. His eyes were on the ground, moodily, as though searching for something that he had lost and did not hope to find. He looked all brown, save his teeth, and the whites of his eyes, and even they had a muddy tinge.

  Tired, yes, fiercely tired, and vaguely resentful. That was how he came home to her day by day, a sort of unhappy and morose caricature of the man whom she had married.

  She smothered a sigh, and forced aside a sudden sense of depression, conscious while she did it of a moment of impatience. Was she never to be allowed to be irritable or depressed, but always to be ready with the unsoured milk of her kindness?

  He came up to her through the patch of soil where she had struggled to make a garden, and had fought with the sun and the drought, and had given up. She had to fight Ramsden’s nature without making a war of her own. It was sufficient.

  “Your bath’s ready, Jack.”

  He looked at her feet as though he did not see them, but was still in a tense world of strains and stresses.

  “Right.”

  She did not ask him any questions. He had come to be in that state when a man resents questions.

  “A perfectly wretched day.”

  S
he made a movement in her chair as though preparing herself to meet something, to support a weight, and to do it with an assumption of ease. Sympathy. That was the woman’s milk, and he drained her of it each day.

  “I’m sorry. The men—again?”

  “Those infernal riveters. A deputation—threats. Well—I settled them——If the fools will only get on with the job.”

  He flung his coat into a chair, and stood looking down over the parched hill-side to the bridge—his bridge.

  “Only another month—before we break our contract. It’s damnable——”

  She seemed to steady herself with her two hands on the arms of the chair. She too was tired, desperately tired, but Ramsden was never aware of it.

  “You’ll do it,” she said.

  She watched his face, gaunt and brown and moody, with its hollow chin and the bony nose that seemed to be pushing through the skin. There was something in his eyes that always made her courage rise on a surge of compassion.

  “If I had a decent second. Moody’s a cad. Of course he wants to see me crash——”

  “But you won’t,” she said in her gentle voice; “go and have your bath. Ching will have dinner ready by the time you have changed.”

  It is said that women are less just than men, but Grace Ramsden was more than just to her husband. She allowed him his provocations, for Ramsden had had to deal with interferences that would have maddened a much more level-tempered man.

  At Saaba they had had epidemics of sickness, strikes, an exasperating mishandling of the transport of the material for the bridge, a sky like a glowing metal dome, flies, mosquitoes, and Heaven knows what. As Ramsden put it: “An offended Jehovah might have emptied all the plagues of Egypt on the place.”

  And he had to carry on, to meet and overcome all the various interferences, to smother his own rages, to speak reasonably to unceasing fools, to placate the fussiness of people nearer home. His good temper was less potent than his pride.

  For the Saaba Bridge was to be his collar of honour or a chain of failure. He had done the lesser things, working steadily upwards towards that big moment in a man’s life when all that is in him and all that he has learnt are gathered and thrown into the effort that will make him master. The Saaba Bridge was the edge of Ramsden’s plateau; there were other men who would rejoice to see him go slithering down from it.