"We are in the worst plight three human beings could possibly find
themselves in. We've played here for six nights, and we haven't taken
enough money to pay for the lighting. We owe the bill at our lodgings,
we haven't a scrap of food, a scrap of drink, a scrap of tobacco, a
scrap of credit. We've nothing to pawn, and Drummond outside wants four
pounds."
"That settles it," our visitor declared curtly. "Follow me."
We obeyed him dumbly. It is my belief that we should have obeyed any one
helplessly at that moment, whether they had ordered us to set fire to
the place or to stand on our heads. We saw Drummond go off into the
darkness, gripping in his hand unexpected money, and followed our guide
across the windy space which led to the brilliantly lit front of the
Grand Hotel, whose luxurious portals we passed for the first time. We
had a tangled impression of bowing servants, an amiable lift man, a
short walk along a carpeted corridor, a door thrown open, a comfortable
sitting room and a blazing fire, a round table laid for four, a
sideboard set out with food, and gold-foiled bottles of champagne. A
waiter bustled in after us and set down a tureen of smoking hot soup.
"You needn't wait," our host ordered, taking off his mackintosh and
straightening his black evening bow in the glass. "Miss Mindel, allow me
to take your jacket. Sit on this side of the table, near the fire; you
there, Cotton, and you opposite me, Lister. We will just start the
proceedings so," he went on, cutting the wires of a bottle of champagne
and pouring out its contents. "A little soup first, eh, and then I'll
carve. Miss Mindel--gentlemen--your very good health. I drink to our
better acquaintance."
Rose's hand shook and I could see that she was on the verge of tears. It
is my belief that nothing but our host's matter-of-fact manner saved
her at that moment from a breakdown. Leonard and I, too, made our poor
little efforts at unsentimental cheerfulness.
"If this is hell," the former declared, eyeing the chickens hungrily,
"I'm through with earth."
"Drink your wine, Rose," I advised, raising my own glass, "and remember
the mummers' philosophy."
Rose wiped away the tears, emptied her glass of champagne and smiled.
"Nothing in the world," she declared fervently, "ever smelt or tasted so
good as this soup."
The psychological effect of food, wine, warmth and tobacco upon three
gently nurtured but half-starved human beings became even more evident
at a later stage in the evening. Its immediate manifestations, however,
were little short of remarkable. For my part, I forgot entirely the
agony of the last few weeks, and realised once more with complacent
optimism the adventurous possibilities of our vagabond life. Leonard,
with flushed cheeks, a many times refilled glass, and a big cigar in
the corner of his mouth, had without the slightest doubt completely
forgotten the misery of having to try and be funny on an empty stomach
to an insufficient audience. With a little colour in her cheeks, a smile
once more upon her lips, and a sparkle in her grey eyes, Rose was once
more herself, the most desirable and attractive young woman in the world
as, alas! both Leonard and I had discovered. The only person who
remained unmoved, either by the bounty he was dispensing or by the wine
and food of which he also partook, was the giver of the feast.
Sphinxlike, at times almost saturnine looking, his eyes taking frequent
and restless note of us, his mouth, with its queer upward curve, a
constant puzzle, he remained as mysterious a benefactor when the meal
was finished as when he had made his ominous appearance behind the stage
at the framework theatre. He was an attentive although a silent host. It
was never apparent that his thoughts were elsewhere, and I, watching him
more closely, perhaps, than the other two, realised that most of the
time he was living in a world of his own, in which we three guests were
very small puppets indeed.
Cigars were lit, chairs were drawn around the fire, Rose was installed
on a superlatively comfortable couch, with a box of cigarettes at her
elbow, and her favourite liqueur, untasted for many weeks, at her side.
"Let me try your wits," our host proposed, a little abruptly. "Tell me
your life history in as few words as possible. Mr. Lister? Tabloid form,
if you please?"
"Clergyman's son, without a shilling in the family," I replied;
"straight from the 'Varsity, where I had meant to work hard for a
degree, to the Army, where after three and a half years of it I lost
this,"--touching my empty left coat sleeve. "Tried six months for a job,
without success. Heard of a chap who had made a concert party pay,
realised that my only gifts were a decent voice and some idea of
dancing, so had a shot at it myself."
"Mr. Cotton?"
"Idle and dissolute son of a wine merchant at Barnstaple who failed
during the war," Leonard expounded; "drifted into this sort of thing
because I'd made some small successes locally and didn't want to be a
clerk."
"Miss Mindel?"
The girl shook her head.
"I am quite alone in the world," she said. "My mother taught music at
Torquay and she died quite suddenly. I put my name down for a concert
party, and in a way I was very fortunate," she added, glancing sweetly
at Leonard and at me. "These two men have been so dear to me and I don't
think it's any one's fault that we're such a failure. The weather's been
bad, and people stay in their hotels and dance all the time now."
She held out a hand to each of us. She knew perfectly well how we both
felt, and she treated us always just like that, as though she understood
and realised the compact which Leonard and I had made. So we sat, linked
together, as it were, while our host studied us thoughtfully,
appreciating, without a doubt, our air of somewhat nervous expectancy. A
fine sense of psychology guided him to the conviction that we were in a
properly receptive state of mind. The smile which had first puzzled us
played once more upon his lips.
"And now," he said, "about those souls!"