CHAPTER VIII
"Stand back there! Stand back!"
The guard waved his flag, a shrill whistle rose above the general hubbub, doors were banged, a wild-haired gentleman of obviously Semitic descent, who had been exchanging voluble farewells with a first-class passenger, was hustled on one side and the Northern Express glided triumphantly out of the station.
The first-class passenger sank back into his seat with a sigh of relief.
"I'm glad that's over!" he said.
His companion removed her hat, smoothed her fair hair and settled herself comfortably among her rugs.
"Are you?" she then enquired with polite interest.
"Getting married is such a business," he explained.
"It seems so. But this is my first experience."
Her tone was not encouraging. Moreover she was staring out of the window, and it is notoriously difficult to talk to a person who refuses to look at you. The Count Louis de Beaulieu coughed to cover his embarrassment.
"Quite comfortable?" he asked, after a moment, with a cheerful brevity which was intended to impress both her and himself with his complete mastery of the situation.
"Quite comfortable, thank you."
She glanced round at him this time, frigidly polite, and it was his turn to take refuge in the outlook. The outlook at that moment was even less exhilarating. The lights of dirty tenements and an occasional suburban station flashed past, and for all he could see they were being whirled through a monotonous darkness—a fact which made his appearance of absorbed interest somewhat farcical. He sighed ostentatiously, but as no notice was taken of this distress signal he ventured to glance cautiously at his vis-à-vis. She had taken a magazine out of her hand-bag and was reading, for all the world as though the business of getting married was of daily occurrence. She was also looking very pretty. The two circumstances, taken together, were intensely aggravating. Monsieur de Beaulieu sighed again.
"I wish I had bought myself an evening paper!" he burst out, with the abruptness of a long-suppressed grievance.
"Why didn't you?" she enquired tranquilly.
"'Pon my word—I thought it would seem—well—callous on one's—wedding day."
The shot was excellent, but the target merely smiled and turned over another page of the magazine.
"In an ordinary way your delicacy would be justified," she said. "As it happens, however, our marriage is exceptional."
"Indeed—?"
"The circumstances attending it are exceptional, you will admit?"
"What circumstances?" he asked obstinately.
"Mon pauvre ami—you know them as well as I do."
Count Louis flinched. The slightest inclination on her part to burst into French terrified him. Moreover her answer was conclusive and did not admit of contradiction, and he was surprised at his own dogged determination not to drop the subject.
"It certainly is an extraordinary business," he admitted meditatively as though continuing an amicable discussion; "I should never have dreamed that night when I woke up on the doorstep with a broken head and no idea what had happened to me or who I was, that a fortnight later I should be a Count and a married man."
"I suppose not," she agreed coldly. Nevertheless she looked up from her book with a faint interest, and presently she added—evidently much against her own will: "It must be uncomfortable to wake up and find that one has lost one's memory."
"I should think so! If it hadn't been for our friend, Dr. Frohlocken, I have not the slightest doubt that Constable X. would have bundled me off to a pauper lunatic asylum. As it was—"
"—you found you were a missing French nobleman, heir to English estates and engaged to be married to a runaway French girl whom you couldn't even remember!"
He nodded—not quite so much at his ease.
"I couldn't remember anything," he apologised, "—not even myself. For all I knew I might have been—well—anybody, you know."
The Countess Theodora smiled.
"The marriage part of the affair must have been a shock," she said thoughtfully.
"Not when I saw you."
"I did not ask for compliments.'*
"I'm not trying to pay any."
Her smile became mocking.
"At any rate you behaved like a knight sans peur et sans reproche. You married the runaway. It was noble of you."
The Count blushed.
"Theodora—" he began impulsively.
She withdrew her hand—not unkindly but with decision.
"All that is in defiance of our compact," she reminded him.
"Confound the compact!"
"No—don't confound it—it would be a pity. It is an excellent compact—so business-like and simple. In marrying you, I settled the doubtful matter of your identity; in marrying me—well, as a disowned runaway my advantage was obvious. But sentimentalities on either side are quite unnecessary."
"Then your girlhood's affection for me is dead?" he enquired with profound gloom.
"Quite."
"Do you think—there is any likelihood of a resurrection?"
"None."
"Don't you think it's rather bad luck?"
"For whom?"
"For me, of course."
She gave a gay little laugh.
"Considering that you cannot even remember me, the loss of my girlhood's affection cannot be unbearable."
The Count said something under his breath and turned his attention back to the window. The Countess went on reading and a long silence intervened. The Count was in a state usually described by the patient as "hurt" and by other people as "sulky"; the Countess appeared blissfully indifferent. And thus half an hour passed. Then the dining-car attendant made his appearance. He made his appearance discreetly, after a due rattling of the door handle, and his face, when he saw fit to reveal it, was radiant with knowing sympathy.
"Shall I reserve places for you, my lord?" he asked. "Dinner in twenty minutes."
The Count glanced across at the Countess.
"I do not want any dinner," she said, "but go yourself by all means. You are sure to be hungry."
"I am not at all hungry," with much stiffness.
"No places needed then, my lord?"
"No, thank you."
The attendant looked from one to the other with an air of exasperating understanding, mumbled a discreet "good-night" and retired. The Countess watched his departure with a faint uneasiness.
"Why did he look at us like that?" she asked. "Does he think we are suspicious characters?"
"Suspicious characters? Good heavens—" The Count started, but recovered himself with great presence of mind. "Probably he thinks we have had a lovers' quarrel," he added bitterly.
"That is one thing we shall never be able to have," she retorted.
"Thank Goodness!" said the Count with the hypocritical gratitude of frenzy. Whereupon the Countess Theodora smiled, and her smile was the last thing in sweetness.
"I knew you were really glad," she commented. "I am delighted you too feel like that. It makes things so much nicer. I am sure we shall be excellent friends—in time." She looked at him expectantly as though awaiting a further attack, but the Count covered his face with his hand, apparently overcome by a sudden weariness. "I think I shall try to go to sleep too," she went on with unalloyed affability. "Bon Soir, Louis."
"Bong Soir," in a gloomy growl.
She piled up her rugs to a comfortable pillow and closed her eyes—or appeared to close them. As a matter of fact her long dark lashes concealed a narrow aperture through which she studied her vis-à-vis with malicious curiosity. Was he looking at her between his fingers or was he not? Either way he annoyed her, and her annoyance was increased by her inability to come to a decision. The Count remained motionless; his breathing was peaceful and regular, and his fingers were suspicious. Once she fancied she caught the gleam of his eyes, but a sudden opening of hers produced not so much as a movement, and a few minutes later the Countess Theodora dropped into a heavy sleep.
The Count noted the fact, and he also noticed that she had inadvertently commandeered his rug and that the window was open. He bore the consequent rapid descent of his own temperature patiently, fearful of disturbing her, and, lulled by the rumble and roar of the train, he relapsed into a half-frozen state of torpor. His mind continued to work, however, against his will, and in a very jerky and disconnected fashion. Jumbled and distorted visions of the past few weeks rolled themselves out before his mental eye like a mad cinematograph film. Policemen, bogus counts, runaway, enraged French parents, distraught doctors, a whole galaxy of victims whom he had basely deceived danced for a moment into the limelight and disappeared. Last of all one face appeared and remained—a red, grinning face, horribly familiar. The Count shook himself, he rubbed his eyes. He told himself that he was dreaming and that he would wake up in a moment—but the face remained. Its expression became increasingly, disgustingly friendly. And then a hand added itself to the nightmare and cautiously, steadily, the big window of the railway carriage was pushed farther down. Under happier circumstances, the Count would have pulled the alarm cord or at least taken some steps to draw attention to his visitor. As it was he sat paralysed and tongue-tied and it was left to the apparition to break the ice.
"'Ullo, Bill!" it whispered.
The Count tried to respond, but could only give an imploring terror-stricken glance at his wife. With a sigh of relief he saw that she was still sleeping peacefully.
"'Ullo!" the owner of the red face repeated. "Ye don't seemed so pleased to see your brother Garge as you ought, old bird. Give us a 'and!"
"For pity's sake!" the "old bird" managed to gasp in a tragic undertone. "What on earth are you doing out there? You'll be killed!"
"Not I, anxious one. I'll be through in a jiffy."
"In? You can't come in here!"
"Oh, yes, I can! Just you open your little peeps and watch me!"
One foot and then a leg were introduced through the open window. The Count made a frantic gesture of protest. But it was too late. The nightmare had become an insurmountable reality.
"Look here—you can't—you'll ruin me. If you're found in here, it's all over with me—"
"Sonny, trust your loving brother. Anyhow I've got to come in. I've reckoned on you. This bloomin' old bone-rattler's goin' a good sixty and I can't hold on much longer. Now then—softly's the word and mind your toes!"
He was through. So cautious and light had been his movements that such noise as he had made had lost itself in the steady rumble of the express. Monsieur de Beaulieu rose involuntarily to his feet. George smiled cheerfully upon him.
"You don't need to look so blue, old bird," he whispered. "Ain't it nat'ral and right that a man should see 'is brother on the most solemn day of 'is life? Look 'ere—'ere's a wedding present for you!" He slipped a small jewel case out of his pocket, selected something from the contents and pressed it into the Count's nerveless hand. "You give that to your lady with brother George's best love!" he said. "They're real—they are. I've got 'em from an old friend of mine—Mrs. Pagot-Chump—'oo is at the very moment lying in a lovely swoon not two carriages off."
The Count examined the string of pearls in blank consternation.
"Stolen!" he groaned.
"Now, Bill, don't you go using nasty expressions or my feelings 'll be 'urt. I'm 'elping to nationalise property—that's all."
"The train will be searched—"
"Not a bit of it. I left the carriage door open. They'll be looking for me poor corpse along the line. Bright of me, wasn't it? Ain't I worthy of you, Bill, dear?"
"Don't—for mercy's sake—don't! And look here—take these things back—I can't—I won't have them—"
"Why not, old bird?"
"I tell you—I can't. It's impossible to explain—but I'm trying to lead an honest life and—"
"Wot—you, you old 'umbug you—"
"Hush!"
The train had suddenly begun to slacken speed and, apparently roused by the change of motion, the Countess Theodora opened her eyes. In questioning amazement she looked from her husband to his companion and back again.
"Louis!" she exclaimed. "Qui est ce monsieur?"
It was the first time she had addressed him directly in the language which should have been his own and the shock gave the Count back something of his presence of mind.
"Ce monsieur—" he began, and then tottered back into his own tongue, "Theodora—this gentleman—I should say this man—this—eh—person is—of course—my valet—"
It had come as an inspiration. He clutched at it as a drowning man clutches at a straw and shut his eyes. Nothing happened. When he opened them again George was standing stiffly respectful, his wife was looking at him in mild wonder.
"I didn't know you had a valet," she said.
"Nor did I—I mean—I hadn't, but the faithful fellow would follow me—"
"It's like this, your ladyship," George put in humbly but with gentle firmness. "His lordship left me behind to look after something he had ordered for your ladyship and which wasn't quite ready, but it arrived in time for me to catch the train and I thought it better to bring the parcel straight to his lordship."
The Count stared open-mouthed. The aspirates were in their place. The ruffianly George had become miraculously and instantaneously an edition de luxe of the proverbial "gentleman's gentleman."
"Yes—er—that was how it was," the Count assented hastily, in response to an admonitory wink from George's off-side eye. "It was to have been a little surprise for you, Theo—in fact—" He broke off; where the surprise was coming from he had no idea. He felt that he was up to his neck in a horrid quagmire of deceit from which there was no escape. It was Theodora herself who came to the rescue.
"Oh, Louis, how beautiful!" she said softly.
He followed the direction of her eyes. They rested on his hand with an expression of incredulous delight, and he remembered. The pearls! A storm of protest rushed to his lips, but stopped there, checked by the utter futility of endeavouring to explain a so hopelessly inexplicable situation. Paralysed with dismay, he watched her as she held the string of perfectly matched pearls to the light, a flush of genuine pleasure spreading over her fair cheeks.
"Oh, Louis!" she said scarcely above a whisper. "Did you really mean them for me—are they really mine to do just what I like with?"
The Count hesitated, gasping on the edge of the precipice. A gentle but expressive pressure from George's boot on his foot sent him headlong into the depths.
"Of course, Theo," he said. "Of course."
The deed was done. By his own action he had set the seal on his criminal career. He was once more the Rogue, that much sought-after individual who rejoiced in the vulgar pseudonym of "Slippery Bill," and all the make-believe glories of his present position and dropped from him like a borrowed mantle. And at that precise moment, as though to complete his misery, the brakes gripped and with an unpleasant jar the express came to a standstill. Loud voices sounded from the neighbouring carriages—an excited guard hurried down the corridor, gesticulating wildly, and a no less excited female, armed with smelling salts, followed in the rear.
But of all these matters the Countess Theodore appeared blissfully unconscious. She looked up shyly from her belated wedding gift, a faint smile dawning in her eyes and about the corners of her mouth.
"Thank you!" she said.
And for the first time since their marriage, George having tactfully withdrawn, she kissed him lightly on either cheek.