Two in a Train

by Warwick Deeping

  He laughed self-consciously.

  “Just like man and wife.”

  “How cynical of you!”

  “I’m not at all cynical—really. I say, I wish they’d turn off that wretched loud-speaker.”

  “Rather beastly things, aren’t they.”

  “Like the voice of a barman blurred with beer. Kids don’t mind noise.”

  “Some do.”

  He flicked ash from his cigarette, and the gesture was nervous and self-conscious.

  “Did you?”

  “I can remember a man who used to come and play the cornet in our street. It filled me with a most frightful melancholy.”

  “How old were you then?”

  “O, about six, I suppose.”

  Deliberately she went on with the arranging of the flowers, and he watched her as though her calmness embarrassed him and held him at bay.

  “Yes, you are sensitive. I know all about that. You must have been an awfully——”

  Her voice was casual and gently discouraging.

  “I was a temperamental little beast, if that is what you mean.”

  He looked confused.

  “No, I didn’t mean that at all. You couldn’t have been. You’re too good with the kids here.”

  “Perhaps that’s why. I’m not sentimental about children. I was a thoroughly greedy and healthy child.”

  He attempted a boyish swagger.

  “Well, so was I.”

  Her smile was whimsical.

  “I’m sure you were a little angel.”

  He flushed up. He was piqued.

  “I assure you I wasn’t. I was an absolute little devil, an absolute plague-spot of a kid.”

  “How did you become transfigured?”

  He threw the end of the cigarette through the open window.

  “Look here, you’re laughing at me. It’s rather hard luck to be stuck in a sort of silver frame.”

  “On the drawing-room mantelpiece.”

  “I say, that’s rather rough, it is—really.”

  She had finished arranging the flowers, and she looked at the clock. His ardour was becoming embarrassing.

  “Dr. Morrow will be here at four. He hates being fussed.”

  “Yes, I know. He never fusses other people. But I wanted to tell you——”

  “We’re deserters, aren’t we? Poor Nurse Part is getting all the work. Don’t you think Elsie looked charming as a bride?”

  “O, quite surprising. Women have levelled up, haven’t they? But I was going to say——”

  Confused and eager he had put himself between her and the door, and she realized that she was confronted with a crisis.

  “Nurse Carthew, I’m not just an easy sort of ass. I’m not really. I’ve been meaning——”

  “Please, you are not going to——”

  “Yes, I’m most awfully touched.”

  “Dr. Standish, please. It’s quite impossible.”

  He blocked the doorway.

  “But you haven’t heard. Do give me a chance. I know I am doing the thing like an ass, but I’m most awfully——”

  She stood rigid, yet distressed, listening.

  “If you knew, Dr. Standish, you wouldn’t hurt me like this.”

  “Hurt you! Good God, why——”

  “It’s all quite impossible. You see, I’m married.”

  “Married!” and his confusion became extreme—“I heard you were—— O, I say, I’m most awfully sorry. It’s all my silly fault.”

  His obvious sincerity touched her.

  “O, no, no. Only—you didn’t know. And you don’t know what sort of life I’ve lived.”

  “It wouldn’t make any difference. I’ll swear you——”

  She looked at him appealingly.

  “Please don’t let us hurt each other any more. All that part of me is finished. But I do thank you for the way you’ve spoken.”

  He drew back and out of her way.

  “Well, how else could I have spoken? It’s real——”

  “Please.”

  “O, I won’t worry you any more. Forget it.”

  He escaped, closing the door after him, and Nurse Carthew sat down on the sofa and stared at the flowers. A man in love with her, but not the man she——! She sat very still for half a minute, and then rose, and going to the table, put her face to the flowers, and Mrs. Part, looking very hot and carrying a tea-tray, surprised her in this attitude.

  “Hallo! I’m deputizing for Elsie. That new girl’s an utter fool. Phew, I’m hot and sticky.”

  Nurse Carthew seemed glad of the relaxation, and of the vigorous reality of Mrs. Part.

  “Yes, we shall miss Elsie. I’ll go and look after the children.”

  Mrs. Part sat down.

  “Yes, give me five minutes. I’m perspiring with kids. And Old Ugly will be here in two ticks.”

  Nurse Carthew gave a little laugh.

  “Well, he shall catch you and not me.”

  “O, wait a moment, we’ve got to rig up that contraption in the barn, Elsie’s tableau. Yes, you know all about it, frightful waste of flowers and cotton wool, but the kids are mad on it. They must have their joke with Elsie, the little devils. We’ve decided to dress up Betty.”

  “We shall have to be careful with the lanterns.”

  “O, that’ll be all right. I’m waiting to see Frederick’s face. Never knew a woman so easily shocked. You’ll have to dance with Old Ugly. Yes, and the barley-headed boy.”

  “I don’t think Dr. Standish will be there.”

  “O, won’t he, my dear!”

  Nurse Carthew walked to the door.

  “No, I think not. I’ll go on duty now.”

  And she left Nurse Part perspiring and puzzled on the sofa.

  VIII

  Dusk. Morrow, as he walked through the garden to the cottage, saw the last of the sunset making the old fruit trees and the holly hedge look very black. An amateur orchestra was dispensing strange discords in the distance, and as Morrow entered the cottage he heard the voices of children cheering.

  “I think that’s about our record, Tranter, six hours from Welbeck Street to Pit Hill.”

  He switched on the lights, and Tranter followed him in with a couple of suit-cases, a sobered and rather sulky Tranter with a dab of black grease on his chin.

  “I’ve said I’m sorry, sir. I’ve never had that sort of thing happen before.”

  “Our day of destiny, Tranter.”

  Tranter carried the suit-cases to the door closing the cottage stairs, and to open the door he had to relieve himself of a suit-case.

  “I don’t know nothing about destiny, sir, but I do know that I had the darned thing down yesterday, and that it was O.K.”

  “The darned thing being the autovac. Curiosity, Tranter, probably, on your part. In the future let well alone.”

  Tranter could be heard grumbling at the foot of the dark stairs.

  “The damned thing had a leak in it. I’ve had autovacs to pieces before. O—Christ——!”

  From the thud and the exclamation it was obvious that Tranter had hit his head against a certain treacherous beam. These cottage stairs were as complex as the interior of an autovac.

  “Hit your head, Tranter?”

  “Not ’alf. The chap who built this sanguinary——”

  “Wait a bit. I’ll switch a light on. How’s that?”

  The suit-cases and Tranter’s legs toiled upwards. Morrow could hear him deposit the baggage with emphasis upon the bedroom floor. He came clumbering down the stairs, and as he ducked to elude the beam, he addressed it.

  “Sucks. Not this time.”

  He looked hot and dishevelled.

  “Do you want me to tell ’em you’re ’ere, sir?”

  “Don’t bother. I expect the show is nearly over. I’ll have a wash and go up to the Home.”

  “Anything I can do, sir.”

  “No, go and get some supper, Tranter.”

  The tea tray had bee
n left on the table, and Morrow poured the milk into a cup and drank it, and cleared the dish of bread and butter. He had not dined, for the car had broken down in the open country, and all through his fiddlings Tranter had remained obstinately optimistic. “I’ll have her going in a minute, sir.” Morrow picked up a pipe from the mantelpiece, and rubbing the bowl with the palm of a hand, supposed that he had missed all Elsie’s celebrations. He was filling the pipe when he heard someone hurrying up the path.

  Without leave or ceremony Mrs. Part burst in upon him.

  “O, you’re here, sir! Please come. We’ve had an accident.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “In the barn. Something got alight, and one of the children—— Nurse Carthew put it out. She’s burnt.”

  “Good God! Badly?”

  “Face and hands.”

  Morrow had pushed past the breathless nurse, and was at the door.

  “Mrs. Part, go to the dispensary and bring all that is necessary down here, oil, lint, bandages.”

  “Down here, sir?”

  “Yes, I shall bring Nurse Carthew here. Yes, I said here. Hurry.”

  He rushed out, and Mrs. Part, astonished, but moved by the urgency of the occasion, hurried out after him.

  Morrow ran. He remembered noticing how sharply the roof of the old barn stood out against the afterglow. He was aware of a smell of burning, of children grouped by the door, of the Matron and another woman kneeling. They made way for him. Nurse Carthew’s apron was turned over her head, and her hands wrapped in another apron, and Morrow bent down and lifted her up.

  “Matron, Nurse Part has gone for the dressings. Please see that she finds everything——”

  He walked past them and out, conscious of the mute and shocked faces of the children. He did not speak to his wife until he was alone with her in the lane.

  “Kitty, it must be hurting you pretty damnable. No, just keep still.”

  He carried her through the garden and into the cottage, and laid her on the sofa with a cushion under her head. He drew the curtains and closed the door. She was aware of him bending over her.

  “Let me look—now.”

  She shuddered.

  “Must you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I expect I’m—I’m horrible.”

  “Dear, I must look.”

  He turned back the apron and examined her face, and she lay with eyes closed, and without a sound. That he should have to see her like this—just when she had begun to care so terribly——! And then she heard his voice.

  “Thank heaven——! They are superficial.”

  “Does that mean I shan’t be——?”

  “Hair and eyelashes singed, skin just scorched. Your eyes? Let me see them.”

  She opened her eyes, and they met his. She was aware of his compassion and concern, and perhaps of something else.

  “Yes, all right, thank the Lord.”

  “Do I look very—horrible, Arnold?”

  He understood.

  “Hardly that. What were you doing? Rescuing a child?”

  “A lantern fell, and Betty’s dress got alight, and I managed to smother it. She was more frightened than hurt.”

  She closed her eyes again.

  “Why did you bring me here? I shall have to pretend——”

  He was looking at her intently, and with peculiar tenderness.

  “Pretend? Perhaps—not. That’s my affair. Now—I must look at your hands.”

  He unwrapped them, and she flinched slightly.

  “Sorry, sorry, that hurts?”

  “They burn so—Arnold.”

  “We’ll soon soothe that. Yes, a little worse than your face, I’m afraid, but not too serious. I’m—rather proud of your hands.”

  She opened her eyes for a moment.

  “Something useful—for once—Arnold.”

  “My dear.”

  There were voices, the opening of a door. The Matron carried a dressing tray, Nurse Part a japanned box. The Matron, self-contained and much upon her dignity, placed the tray on the table, and went to the sofa. She looked at Kitty, but spoke to Morrow.

  “It should never have happened. I feel that I was responsible. How are you feeling, nurse?”

  But it was Morrow who answered her.

  “The burns are superficial. The tray, Matron, please.”

  His abruptness surprised her. He was taking off his coat, and he held out his hands to Nurse Part.

  “Roll up my sleeves, nurse, will you.”

  Nurse Part became vocal.

  “All my silly fault, doctor. It was my idea, you know. I shall never forgive myself.”

  Miss Frederick, icy and slightly offended by Morrow’s abruptness, exerted her authority.

  “Don’t chatter, nurse——”

  Mrs. Part’s blue eyes opened wide.

  “Well, if I can’t show my feelings—— You can sack me if you like.”

  Kitty’s voice was heard.

  “It wasn’t your fault, nurse, any more than mine.”

  Then, for some minutes there was silence while Morrow dressed his wife’s face and hands. He cut a lint mask for her face. The Matron and Nurse Part, ice and fire, stood to serve him.

  “How’s that?”

  “O, so soothing.”

  “Splendid.”

  He rolled bandages lightly round her dressed hands, and while he was thus engaged he began to speak.

  “Matron, you will have a bed put up here, please.”

  Miss Frederick looked astonished.

  “Here?”

  There was a little smile on Morrow’s face.

  “Well, you see, the patient happens to be—my wife.”

  Silence from Miss Frederick, a kind of gulp from Nurse Part. He went on speaking.

  “I think we owe you an explanation. It was my wife’s idea to come down and work as a probationer at the Home, and since she wished to play the part thoroughly, and not as my wife——”

  He accepted a safety-pin from the Matron’s stiff fingers.

  “Nothing like doing a thing thoroughly. Thanks, Matron. Now, about the bed——”

  There was a movement from Nurse Part, whose face was the colour of fire.

  “Well—I always had a big foot——”

  She went suddenly to the sofa and bent over Kitty.

  “You wicked little thing. My dear, you’ll have to——”

  Kitty’s voice was a little unsteady.

  “All my fault, nurse. But I’m so glad you’re here.”

  IX

  It was very early in the morning, and the curtains with their softly glowing colours told that the sun was shining, when Morrow opened the door of the room in which his wife was sleeping. He drew back the edge of a curtain and stood for a moment looking at the garden with its early sunlight and its dew. Letting the curtain fall he crossed to Kitty’s bed, and watched her tranquil breathing.

  He smiled, and nodded his head. The grandfather clock struck six, and the clangour woke Morrow’s wife. Her bandaged hands made a movement, and suddenly she seemed to divine his presence there.

  “Arnold.”

  “All right, I’m here.”

  She turned her head and her eyes looked up at him through the slits in the white mask.

  “Arnold, is it true, or have I dreamt it? You’ve been so great to me.”

  He bent over her.

  “It’s true, not a dream.”

  “O, my dear, give me my chance. Can you? I’ll try and be great to you.”

  He sat down in an arm-chair by the bed, his hand resting lightly on her arm.

  “The sun’s shining. It’s a most perfect morning; all dew, the kind of morning when one might begin life over again. Yes, and I have a confession to make. You will have to forgive me.”

  “What have I to forgive you?”

  “For a selfish dullness, dear, the taking of certain things for granted. The last person a man should take for granted—is his wife. Am I forgiven?” />
  She lay very still.

  “O, how rotten and cheap you make me feel.”

  “My dear, no. Perhaps you have found out what life is, and so have I. Compassion. You rushed to save that child, you know. That was a bit of life. Are we both forgiven?”

  She moved her swathed hands.

  “Draw back the curtains, Arnold.”

  “More light.”

  “Yes.”

  He rose and drew back the curtains.

  “And give me those flowers to smell. The freshness, the loveliness! It’s as though everything had been made all over again. You weren’t pretending last night?”

  “Pretending?”

  “I shan’t be disfigured, shall I?”

  “I told you the truth, Kitty. You’ll be no more scarred than these flowers.”

  X

  The Morrows did not set out to explain to the world the whys and the wherefores of this second comradeship. The impertinence of the older social scheme was apt to exercise an hypocrisy that neither forgave nor forgot, perhaps because that particular generation had so many secrets of its own to hide. When there are skeletons in every cupboard society may conspire to assert that such things as skeletons do not and shall not exist. But those people who came to the house of the Morrows in Welbeck Street found no dry bones concealed in cupboards and corners.

  The first floor was the same, save that Kitty had had a window-box placed on the sill of the big window which overlooked the backs of other houses. The Morrows had a particular affection for this room, for it was both light and spacious, and away from the noises of the street. They used it both as dining-room and sitting-room; it was lived in and worked in. Whatever memories it possessed had been woven into the tapestry of their mutual comprehension.

  On this June day, the product of another June, lunch was just over, and Morrow was lighting a cigarette. Kitty had taken the water-jug from the table and was watering the plants in the window-box.

  “That’s a thing Ann never can remember. She would leave the poor dears nothing but the smuts.”

  Morrow looked whimsically at his wife.

  “You don’t want her to remember it—really. You like to feel responsible.”

  She glanced at him over her shoulder.

  “Old tease!”

  “O, yes, you do.”

  He sat down with The Times, and Kitty, having watered her plants, went to her bureau and began to turn over some papers. The bureau was kept in perfect order, and in one drawer lived a file of index-cards. She extracted a ledger from a recess, and proceeded to enter figures in it.