RT. HON. SIR GEORGE FRINTON, P.C.
That journey of mine to London stands out in my memory with
extraordinary vividness. I don't think I shall ever forget the
smallest and most unimportant detail of it. The truth is, I suppose,
that my whole mind and senses were in an acutely impressionable state
after lying fallow, as they practically had, for over three years.
Besides, the sheer pleasure of being out in the world again seemed to
invest everything with an amazing interest and wonder.
It was just half-past one when Savaroff brought the car round to the
front door. I was standing in the hall talking to McMurtrie, who had
decided not to accompany us into Plymouth. Of Sonia I had seen nothing
since our unfortunately interrupted interview in the morning.
"Well," said the doctor, as with a grinding of brakes the car pulled
up outside, "we can look on this as the real beginning of our little
enterprise."
I picked up my Gladstone. "Let's hope," I said, "that the end will be
equally satisfactory."
McMurtrie nodded. "I fancy," he said, "that we need have no
apprehensions. Providence is with us, Mr. Lyndon--Providence or some
equally effective power."
There was a note of irony in his voice which left one in no doubt as
to his own private opinion of our guiding agency.
I stepped out into the drive carrying my bag. Savaroff, who was
sitting in the driving seat of the car, turned half round towards me.
"Put it on the floor at the back under the rug," he said. "You will
sit in front with me."
He spoke in his usual surly fashion, but by this time I had become
accustomed to it. So contenting myself with a genial observation to
the effect that I should be charmed, I tucked the bag away out of
sight and clambered up beside him into the left-hand seat. McMurtrie
stood in the doorway, that mirthless smile of his fixed upon his lips.
"Good-bye," I said; "we shall meet at Tilbury, I suppose--if not
before?"
He nodded. "At Tilbury certainly. Au revoir, Mr. Nicholson."
And with this last reminder of my future identity echoing in my ears,
we slid off down the drive.
All the way into Plymouth Savaroff maintained a grumpy silence. He was
naturally a taciturn sort of person, and I think, besides that, he had
taken a strong dislike to me from the night we had first seen each
other. If this were so I had certainly not done much to modify it. I
felt that the man was naturally a bully, and it always pleases and
amuses me to be disliked by bullies. Indeed, if I had had no other
reason for responding to Sonia's proffered affection I should have
done so just because Savaroff was her father.
My companion's sulks, however, in no way interfered with my enjoyment
of the drive. It was a perfect day on which to regain one's liberty.
The sun shone down from a blue sky flecked here and there with fleecy
white clouds, and on each side of the road the hedges and trees were
just beginning to break into an almost shrill green. The very air
seemed to be filled with a delicious sense of freedom and adventure.
As we got nearer to Plymouth I found a fresh source of interest and
pleasure in the people that we passed walking along the road or
driving in traps and cars. After my long surfeit of warders and
convicts the mere sight of ordinarily-dressed human beings laughing
and talking filled me with the most intense satisfaction. On several
occasions I had a feeling that I should like to jump out of the car
and join some group of cheerful-looking strangers who turned to watch
us flash past. This feeling became doubly intense when we actually
entered Plymouth, where the streets seemed to be almost inconveniently
crowded with an extraordinary number of attractive-looking girls.
I was afforded no opportunity, however, for indulging in any such
pleasant interlude. We drove straight through the town at a rapid
pace, avoiding the main thoroughfares as much as possible, and not
slackening until we pulled up outside Millbay station. We left the car
in charge of a tired-looking loafer who was standing in the gutter,
and taking out my bag, I followed Savaroff into the booking office.
"You had better wait there," he muttered, pointing to the corner. "I
will get the ticket."
I followed his suggestion, and while he took his place in the small
queue in front of the window I amused myself watching my fellow
passengers hurrying up and down the platform. They looked peaceful
enough, but I couldn't help picturing what a splendid disturbance
there would be if it suddenly came out that Neil Lyndon was somewhere
on the premises. The last time I had been in this station was on my
way up to Princetown two and a half years before.
At last Savaroff emerged from the throng with my ticket in his hand.
"I have taken you a first-class," he said rather grudgingly. "You will
probably have the carriage to yourself. It is better so."
I nodded. "I shouldn't like to infect any of these good people with
homicidal mania," I said cheerfully.
He looked at me rather suspiciously--I think he always had a sort of
vague feeling that I was laughing at him--and then without further
remark led the way out on to the platform.
McMurtrie had given me a sovereign and some loose silver for immediate
expenses, and I stopped at the bookstall to buy myself some papers. I
selected a _Mail_, a _Sportsman, Punch_, and the _Saturday Review_. I
lingered over the business because it seemed to annoy Savaroff: indeed
it was not until he had twice jogged my elbow that I made my final
selection. Then, grasping my bag, I marched up the platform behind
him, coming to a halt outside an empty first-class carriage.
"This will do," he said, and finding no sound reason for contradicting
him I stepped in and put my bag upon the rack.
"Good-bye, Savaroff," I said cheerfully. "I shall have the pleasure of
seeing you too at Tilbury, I suppose?"
He closed the door, and thrust his head in through the open window.
"You will," he said in his guttural voice; "and let me give you a
little word of advice, my friend. We have treated you well--eh, but if
you think you can in any way break your agreement with us you make a
very bad mistake."
I took out my cigarette case. "My dear Savaroff," I said coldly, "why
on earth should I want to break my agreement with you? It is the only
possible chance I have of a new start."
He looked at me closely, and then nodded his head. "It is well. So
long as you remember we are not people to be played with, no harm will
come to you."
He let this off with such a dramatic air that I very nearly burst out
laughing.
"I shan't forget it," I said gravely. "I've got a very good memory."
There was a shrill whistle from the engine, followed by a warning
shout of "Stand back there, please; stand back, sir!" I had a last
glimpse of Savaroff's unpleasant face, as he hurriedly withdrew his
head, and then with a slight jerk the train began to move slowly out
of the station.
I didn't open my papers at once. For some time I just sat where I was
in the corner and stared out contentedly over the passing landscape.
There is nothing like prison to broaden one's ideas about pleasure. Up
till the time of my trial I had never looked on a railway journey as a
particularly fascinating experience; now it seemed to me to be
simply chock-full of delightful sensations. The very names of the
stations--Totnes, Newton Abbot, Teignmouth--filled me with a sort of
curious pleasure: they were part of the world that I had once belonged
to--the gay, free, jolly world of work and laughter that I had thought
lost to me for ever. I felt so absurdly contented that for a little
while I almost forgot about George.
The only stop we made was at Exeter. There were not many people on the
platform, and I had just decided that I was not going to be disturbed,
when suddenly a fussy-looking little old gentleman emerged from the
booking office, followed by a porter carrying his bag. They came
straight for my carriage.
The old gentleman reached it first, and puckering up his face, peered
in at me through the window. Apparently the inspection was a success.
"This will do," he observed. "Leave my bag on the seat, and go and see
that my portmanteau is safely in the van. Then if you come back here I
will give you threepence for your trouble."
Dazzled by the prospect, the porter hurried off on his errand, and
with a little grunt the old gentleman began to hoist himself in
through the door. I put out my hand to assist him.
"Thank you, sir, thank you," he remarked breathlessly. "I am extremely
obliged to you, sir."
Then, gathering up his bag, he shuffled along the carriage, and
settled himself down in the opposite corner.
I was quite pleased with the prospect of a fellow passenger,
unexciting as this particular one promised to be. I have either read
or heard it stated that when people first come out of prison they feel
so shy and so lost that their chief object is to avoid any sort of
society at all. I can only say that in my case this was certainly not
true. I wanted to talk to every one: I felt as if whole volumes
of conversation had been accumulating inside me during the long
speechless months of my imprisonment.
It was the old gentleman, however, who first broke our silence.
Lowering his copy of the _Times_, he looked up at me over the top of
his gold-rimmed spectacles.
"I wonder, sir," he said, "whether you would object to having that
window closed; I am extremely susceptible to draughts."
"Why, of course not," I replied cheerfully, and suiting my action to
my words I jerked up the sash.
This prompt attention to his wishes evidently pleased him; for he
thanked me civilly, and then, after a short pause, added some becoming
reflection on the subject of the English spring.
It was not exactly an inspiring opening, but I made the most of it.
Without appearing intrusive I managed to keep the conversation going,
and in a few minutes we were in the middle of a brisk meteorological
discussion of the most approved pattern.
"I daresay you find these sudden changes especially trying," commented
my companion. Then, with a sort of apology in his voice, he added:
"One can hardly help seeing that you have been accustomed to a warmer
climate."
I smiled. "I have been out of England," I said, "for some time"; and
if this was not true in the letter, I don't think that even George
Washington could have found much fault with it in the spirit.
"Indeed, sir, indeed," said the old gentleman. "I envy you, sir. I
only wish my own duties permitted me to winter entirely abroad."
"It has its advantages," I admitted, "but in some ways I am quite
pleased to be back again."
My companion nodded his head. "For one thing," he said, "one gets
terribly behindhand with English news. I find that even the best of
the foreign papers are painfully ill-informed."
A sudden mischievous thought came into my head. "I have hardly seen a
paper of any kind for a fortnight!" I said. "Is there any particular
news? The last interesting thing I saw was about that young fellow's
escape from Dartmoor--that young inventor--what was his name?--who was
in for murder."
The old gentleman looked up sharply. "Ah! Lyndon," he said, "Neil
Lyndon you mean. He is still at large."
"From what I read of the case," I went on carelessly, "it seems rather
difficult to help sympathizing with him--to a certain extent. The
man he murdered doesn't appear to have been any great loss to the
community."
My companion opened his mouth as if to speak, and then hesitated.
"Well, as a matter of fact I am scarcely in a position to discuss the
subject," he said courteously. "Perhaps, sir, you are unaware who I
am?"
He asked the question with a slight touch of self-conscious dignity,
which showed me that in his own opinion at all events he was a person
of considerable importance. I looked at him again more carefully.
There seemed to be something familiar about his face, but beyond that
I was utterly at sea.
"The fact is, I have been so much abroad," I began apologetically--
He cut me short by producing a little silver case from his pocket and
handing me one of his cards.
"Permit me, sir," he said indulgently.
I took it and read the following inscription:
RT. HON. SIR GEORGE FRINTON, P.C.
_The Reform Club_.
I remembered him at once. He was a fairly well known politician--an
old-fashioned member of the Liberal Party, with whose name I had been
more or less acquainted all my life. I had never actually met him in
the old days, but I had seen one or two photographs and caricatures
of him, and this no doubt explained my vague recollection of his
features.
For just a moment I remained silent, struggling against a strong
impulse to laugh. There was something delightfully humorous in the
thought of my sitting in a first-class carriage exchanging cheerful
confidences with a distinguished politician, while Scotland Yard and
the Home Office were racking their brains over my disappearance. It
seemed such a pity I couldn't hand him back a card of my own just for
the fun of watching his face while he read it.
MR. NEIL LYNDON
_Late of His Majesty's Prison_,
_Princetown_.
Collecting myself with an effort, I covered my apparent confusion with
a slight bow.
"It was very stupid of me not to have recognized you from your
pictures," I said.
This compliment evidently pleased the old boy, for he beamed at me in
the most gracious fashion.
"You see now, sir," he said, "why it would be quite impossible for me
to discuss the matter in question."
I bowed again. I didn't see in the least, but he spoke as if the point
was so obvious that I thought it better to let the subject drop. I
could only imagine that he must be holding some official position, the
importance of which he probably overrated.
We drifted off into the discussion of one or two other topics;
settling down eventually to our respective newspapers. I can't say I
followed mine with any keen attention. My brain was too much occupied
with my own affairs to allow me to take in very much of what I read. I
just noticed that we were engaged in a rather heated discussion
with Germany over the future of Servia, and that a well-meaning but
short-sighted Anarchist had made an unsuccessful effort to shoot the
President of the American Steel Trust.
Of my own affairs I could find no mention, beyond a brief statement to
the effect that I was still at liberty. There was not even the usual
letter from somebody claiming to have discovered my hiding-place, and
for the first time since my escape I began to feel a little neglected.
It was evident that as a news topic I was losing something of my first
freshness.
The last bit of the journey from Maidenhead onwards seemed to take us
an unconscionably long time. A kind of fierce restlessness had begun
to get hold of me as we drew nearer to London, and I watched the
fields and houses flying past with an impatience I could hardly
control.
We rushed through Hanwell and Acton, and then suddenly the huge bulk
of Wormwood Scrubbs Prison loomed up in the growing dusk away to
the right of the line. It was there that I had served my
"separates"--those first ghastly six months of solitary confinement
which make even Princetown or Portland a welcome and agreeable change.
At the sight of that poisonous place all the old bitterness welled up
in me afresh. For a moment even my freedom seemed to have lost its
sweetness, and I sat there with my hands clenched and black resentment
in my heart, staring out of those grim unlovely walls. It was lucky
for George that he was not with me in the carriage just then, for
I think I should have wrung his neck without troubling about any
explanations.
I was awakened from these pleasant reflections by a sudden blare of
light and noise on each side of the train. I sat up abruptly, with
a sort of guilty feeling that I had been on the verge of betraying
myself, and letting down the window, found that we were steaming
slowly into Paddington Station. In the farther corner of the carriage
my distinguished friend Sir George Frinton was beginning to collect
his belongings.
I just had time to pull myself together when the train stopped, and
out of the waiting line of porters a man stepped forward and flung
open the carriage door. He was about to possess himself of my fellow
passenger's bag when the latter waved him aside.
"You can attend to this gentleman," he said. "My own servant is
somewhere on the platform." Then turning to me, he added courteously:
"I wish you good-day, sir. I am pleased to have made your
acquaintance. I trust that we shall have the mutual pleasure of
meeting again."
I shook hands with him gravely. "I hope we shall," I replied. "It will
be a distinction that I shall vastly appreciate."
And of all unconscious prophecies that were ever launched, I fancy
this one was about the most accurate.
Preceded by the porter carrying my bag, I crossed the platform and
stepped into a waiting taxi.
"Where to, sir?" inquired the man.
I had a sudden wild impulse to say: "Drive me to George," but I
checked it just in time.
"You had better drive me slowly along Oxford Street," I said. "I want
to stop at one or two shops."
The man started the engine and, climbing back into his seat, set off
with a jerk up the slope. I lay back in the corner, and took in a
long, deep, exulting breath. I was in London--in London at last--and
if those words don't convey to you the kind of savage satisfaction
that filled my soul you must be as deficient in imagination as a
prison governor.