MR. TOWNSEND COMES TO TEA.
I have not lived in the world so long as I have done, and seen so much
of it, without realising how small a world, after all, it really is,
and how full it is of coincidence; but I do think that this beats all
the coincidences of which I ever heard.
To think that I should have pitched on the one street in London which
Mr. Thomas Tennant has chosen for a residence! It seems that I have. I
lay awake for an hour trying to account for his sudden appearance from
that cab. At last I hit on something. I sat up in bed with quite a
jump.
"Can it be possible that he lives in this street?"
Rest was out of the question till I had made sure. I got out of bed--it
was nearer five than four--and I tiptoed my way downstairs. I routed
out a directory, and I hunted up the street. Sure enough he did. There
was his name, as large as life--"Thomas Tennant." He lived at No. 29.
My house was blank--it had been empty at the time the directory had
gone to press--but I had taken No. 39.
"Well, this beats everything! To think that I have spent all this
money, and come all this way, to plant myself five doors from Mr.
Tennant!"
He might be unwilling to have me for a neighbour, but I could assure
him that I was equally unwilling to have him. I did not wish the first
entry on the fresh leaf which I had turned to be a reminiscence, and
especially a reminiscence of that particular friend.
I thought that was strange enough, but stranger things were yet to
follow. What a queer little world this is!
Recognising that it was no use addling my brains by puzzling out
conundrums at that time of the morning, so soon as, by reading it over
and over again in the directory, I had made quite sure that my eyes had
not misled me, and that Tommy did reside five doors away, I toddled up
to bed again. "There is nothing like leather," says the proverb. I say
there is nothing like sleep. Give me plenty of sleep and I am good for
anything. As I have always been blessed with a clear conscience--if
there is a vacuum where the conscience ought to be it must be
clear--and, what is equally to be desired, a good digestion, I have
ever found sleep come at my bidding. Once I have my toes well down
between the sheets, my head on the pillow, and the blankets well up to
my ears, I snooze. I know I did just then. And I never dreamed; none of
Jack Haines's lively visions came my way.
I looked at my watch when I awoke. It was past eleven. I just turned
over. I had a stretch. I believe that, when you wake in the morning, it
does you good to have a stretch; it seems to help you to realise that
there is a piece of you between your head and your heels. "What should
I do?"
"I'll have some tea."
I had some tea. The girl brought me the letters and the papers. There
was nothing in the letters, but in the papers there were ructions!
At first I could not make out what it was all about. Directly I opened
the _Telegraph_ these were the words, in big, black letters, staring me
in the face: "Murder on the Brighton Line." That was my friend, the
gentleman! But at first, as I have said, the more I looked at it the
more I couldn't make it out.
A platelayer--whatever that might be in connection with a railway
line--going to his work in the morning had seen the body lying among
the bushes--in that clump of bushes, I took it, where it had almost
fallen on top of me. That was all right. Where I found the puzzle was
in what directly followed. The girl had, of course, been murdered in
the field, probably within a foot or two of where I had seen Townsend
standing. The papers, or the people who inspired the papers, seemed to
think that the murder had taken place in a train, and that then the
body had been thrown on to the line. What could have made them think
such a thing as that?
As I read on the whole thing flashed upon me; it was another
coincidence!
It seemed that when the 8.40 train from Brighton had arrived at
Victoria--the 8.40? Why, that was the train in which I had travelled
with Tommy! My stars and bars!--it was discovered that the window in
one of the carriages was shivered to atoms, that the carriage was
marked with blood, and that it bore signs of having been the scene of a
recent struggle.
Jerusalem! what was coming next? I had to put down the paper and take
another drink of tea.
Nothing came next except what they called a "presumption," and if ever
there was a piece of real presumption it was that same.
The presumption, according to the papers, was that the railway carriage
had been the scene of a hideous tragedy--of a frightful murder, of one
of those recurrent crimes, which force us, from time to time, to
recognise the dangers which, in England, at any rate, are associated
with railway travelling. The identity of one of the _dramatis
personæ_--as poor, dear Daniel used to say, "I'm a-quoting"--was
unfortunately, but too evident. There was the woman who had been found
lying among the laurels--I wonder if they were laurels?--with her face
turned towards the skies. As a matter of fact, she had lain face
downwards. It was owing to that I had not seen her face. She was a
silent but an eloquent witness--that was touching. The public
demanded the prompt production of at least another of the _dramatis
personæ_--"still a-quoting"--of the man--it would not, perhaps, display
too much rashness to hazard the prediction that it would prove to be a
man--who had hurled her there.
If that did not point to Tommy, I should like to know to whom it
pointed.
I began to wonder. What had Tommy done when I had made my exit? Had he
done nothing but twiddle his thumbs and stare? It would be
characteristic of him if he had. He never did do the right thing at the
right time if there was a wrong thing which could be done. The window
might have been smashed by the banging of the door. I dare say that
there had been signs of a struggle. I could not make out about the
blood, but, perhaps, in the midst of his muddle, Tommy's nose had
started bleeding. That was just the sort of thing his nose would do. It
was quite conceivable, to one who knew him, that Tommy had toddled home
without saying a word to any one about the lady who had tumbled out
upon the line. If so----
If so, and I kept in the background, it was equally conceivable that,
as a glorious climax to the muddle, because of that woman who had been
found upon the line, Tommy might find himself in a very awkward fix.
I had to take another drink of tea.
I found what might turn out to be the top brick of the building while I
was in the very act of drinking. Tommy himself might think that I was
dead. I might have died. From a mere consideration of the odds point of
view, I ought to have died. The miracle was that I wasn't dead. Tommy
knew nothing about the woman who had been thrown on the top of me. He
might think--he was capable of thinking anything, but in the present
instance it was natural that he should think--that the body which had
been found was mine.
If he did think so?
But he had seen me the night before. The fact rather supported my
theories than otherwise. He had glared at me as if I had been a ghost.
The sight of me had struck him senseless. According to the cabman, he
was drunk. Knowing what he knew, or what he thought he knew, he might
very well suppose that I was a creature born of his delirium.
It appeared to me that my cue, for the present, at any rate, was to
keep sitting on the fence. I might still be even with Tommy, and that
without having to move a finger of either hand. As for my friend, the
gentleman--we should see.
Oddly enough, I came across Mr. Reginald Townsend that very afternoon.
I had been shopping--shopping was about all there was for me to do;
after Strikehigh City I found life pretty dull West Kensington way, but
then I had expected it to be dull. As I was strolling homewards, who
should I see but Mr. Reginald Townsend. He was a sight for sore
eyes--at least, he was a sight for mine. I like to see a man that is a
man--handsome, well set up, and dressed as only the thoroughbred man
knows how to dress. I am not so particular about a man's morals as
about his manners, and his manners were all they ought to be. From his
bearing, as he stood there, in front of me, you would have thought I
was the very person he had wanted to see and had expected to see. I
don't believe that he had supposed that I was within a hundred miles of
him. I should not have been surprised to learn that, until my actual
presence recalled it to him, he had entirely forgotten my existence.
He was the sort of creature one finds amusing.
After poor, dear Daniel one liked to feel that one was connected with
such a picture of a man. One liked to feel that he was doing credit to
one's good taste as he was walking by one's side.
I asked him to come and have a cup of tea. He was delighted, or he
professed to be. When I remembered the occasion on which I had first
encountered him it seemed to me that, in his heart of hearts--or
whatever it was that passed for his heart of hearts--he must wish that
I was at the bottom of the sea. He could not like being reminded of
Three Bridges Junction. But one can never tell. From his manner he
might have met me first of all in Queen Victoria's drawing-room, and
none but pleasant memories might have been connected with the meeting.
When we got indoors, who should I find in the drawing-room, sitting in
solitary state, but Mr. Haines. The look he gave me! And the look he
gave my friend, the gentleman! The old nuisance might have been my
husband.
Mr. Townsend appeared oblivious of there being anything peculiar in
the old worry's demeanour, and, fortunately, the old worry did not stay
long, considerably to my surprise. I was afraid that he would make a
point of outstaying Mr. Townsend. But it was all the other way. After
he had tried to freeze us for about five minutes he disappeared.
"It's very odd," said Mr. Townsend, as soon as he was gone, "but I've
either seen that gentleman before or somebody very like him. There's
something in his face which positively haunts me."
I shook my head.
"Your imagination plays you a trick; it sometimes is like that. Mr.
Haines has only been in England, for the first time in his life, for
about a month. He was my late husband's partner. I fancy he is under
the impression that I'm a little lonely."
"That is a complaint which may easily be cured."
"The complaint of loneliness?"
"You will be able to make as many friends as you desire."
"It is not so easy for a woman to make friends as you may, perhaps,
suppose--that is, of course, friends who are worth the making. You see,
I have ambitions."
"Ambitions?"
"Yes, ambitions." He looked as if he would have liked to have asked me
what I meant, only he was too civil. "In my position I think I am
entitled to have ambitions."
He still seemed puzzled. It did me good to look at him, to know that he
was sitting there, to breathe in, as it were, the aroma of his
refinement and his high breeding. I have always hungered for those two
things in a man, and I have never had them. I could understand a
woman's falling in love with my friend, the gentleman. For the first
time in my life the idea of a woman being in love with a man became
conceivable.
All too soon--for me--he rose to go.
"You will come again?"
"I shall only be too happy."
"Seriously, I mean it, Mr. Townsend."
"And equally seriously I mean it too. Our acquaintance was made in an
informal fashion, but I trust that, in course of time, I may be able to
induce you to allow the informality to stand excused."
"It will be your fault if you do not."
When he went an appreciable something seemed to have departed with him,
and that although his voice, his presence, seemed still to linger in
the air. I found myself touching the cup from which he had been
drinking, even the chair on which he had been sitting, with quite a
curious sensation.
It was very odd.
I believe that if I had been born with a silver spoon in my mouth, and
the right sort of man to whom to attach myself, and to become attached
to him, I should have been one of the best women in the world. I agree
with Becky Sharp, that for a woman five thousand a year is something;
but it is nothing, after all, without a man. Love in a cottage is a
lunatic absurdity. Love itself may be all stuff. But there is something
which, for all I can tell, may be akin to love. If one never knows it,
life can never have its fullest savour. Perhaps, after all, for every
square peg there may be a square hole somewhere in the world. If, when
it meets it--it might; one can conceive that such meetings are--it
cannot claim, and obtain possession, it will be hard upon the peg.
I had half a mind to tell the girl to put the cup which he had used
aside and keep it free from the contamination of anybody else's lips
until he came again. It would seem so silly. And yet----
Somebody came striding into the room. I turned. It was Jack Haines come
back again. I almost dropped the cup, which I was holding, from my hand
in my surprise. He was looking as black as black could be and his
manners proved to be in full accord with his looks.
"Who is that man?"
"What man? What is the matter with you, Mr. Haines? I thought that you
had gone."
"You know what man I mean--he who has just left your house."
"I am at a loss to know how it concerns you. That gentleman is a friend
of mine."
"He is a thing of evil."
"Mr. Haines!"
"He is a shedder of innocent blood!"
Jack Haines was becoming really charming. I had always known he could
be pleasant. I was only just beginning to realise how pleasant he could
be when he tried.
"Mr. Haines, are you stark mad?"
"Woman!"
"Sit down."
He was raging like a wild bull about the room.
"Why should I sit down?" He threw up his hands. "I warn you against
that man!"
"Sit down!"
I pointed to a chair. He sat down--I knew he would--and he looked as if
he would like to eat me for forcing him to do it.
"Now, Mr. Haines, if you feel that you have, to a certain extent,
mastered your excitement, perhaps you will be so good as to tell me
what is the meaning of your behaviour."
"Nelly----"
"To you, Mr. Haines, I am Mrs. Carruth."
"Nelly, I say!"
In proof of his saying it, he stretched out towards me his clenched
fist.
"Even at Strikehigh City, I did not think you capable of insulting an
unprotected woman."
"I'm not insulting you."
"If you think not, then your ideas of what an insult is must be your
own."
He rubbed his hands slowly up and down his knees. He stared at me hard.
He shook his head.
"It's very hard; it's very hard. Between you and the girl, I'm
suffering. The lines have fallen on me, and they're cutting right into
my vital places." He brought his hands down upon his knees with a
sudden thwack. "I asked you first, before even Daniel said a word to
you; I laid myself at your feet."
"Was that my fault?"
He looked at me in silence. Then he drew the back of his hand across
his brow.
"No; it was not your fault. I'm not blaming you. It was to be. Some men
are made for women's feet to spurn." He paused. "Mrs. Carruth--since it
is to be--I mean you well."
"Some people's meaning is very badly expressed."
"That's me. That's me all through--yes, right along. I ask you again,
Who is that man?"
"Are you referring to the gentleman who has just been kind enough to
come and see me? That is Mr. Townsend."
"Then Mr. Townsend is a thing of evil--he is!" He held up his
forefinger to me with a warning gesture. I did not interrupt. "When I
came near him I knew him for what he was. I saw right through. He is a
whited sepulchre. I saw the blood gleaming on his hand. I could not
stay where he was. I went outside, and stood on the corner of the
street until I saw him go. And when I came back, I found that his
presence was still with the house."
For my part I was glad that it was--if it was.
"This sort of talk, coming from you, is very ridiculous. Has your own
life been so pure that you should attempt to blacken another man's
character merely because he is my friend?"
"Pure? No; no man's life is pure. We are born to evil like the sparks
fly upwards. But there's a difference."
"Pray, in what does the difference consist? I presume you have not
forgotten that at least a portion of your record is known to me?"
He shook his head with dogged insistence.
"There is a difference. You know there is a difference. There's bad
ones and there's bad ones; and Mr. Townsend's the sort of creature that
no woman ought to have any truck with. He'll bite you if you do."
I got up from my chair.
"I am sorry this should have happened, Mr. Haines. I fear I shall have
to ask you to come and see me more seldom than you have been in the
habit of doing. I hope Mr. Townsend will be a frequent visitor. It
would be pleasant neither for you nor for me for you to have to meet
him, in my house, when you hold the opinions of him which you say you
do."
He pressed his lips. He looked, if anything, sourer than ever.
"So Mr. Townsend is going to be a frequent visitor, is he? And how
about Daniel?--and about me?"
I laughed.
"About you, Mr. Haines? I hope, Mr. Haines, that you will have a cup of
tea."
He had one. And did penance in having it. For he hated tea.
And it was cold.