EXIT MR. DOUGLAS GUEST
Through the heart of England the express tore on--through town and
country, underneath the earth and across high bridges. All the while
the man and the woman talked. To him she was a revelation. Every
moment of his life had been spent in a humdrum seclusion--every moment
of hers seemed to have been lived out to its limit in those worlds of
which he had barely even dreamed. She was older than he had thought
her--thirty, perhaps, or thirty-one--and her speech and gestures every
now and then had a foreign flavour. She talked to him of countries
which he had scarcely dared hope to visit, and of men and women whose
names were as household words. She spoke of them with an ease and
familiarity which betokened close acquaintance--talking to him with a
mixture of kindness and reserve as if he were some strange creature who
had had the good fortune to interest her for the moment, but from whom
at any time she might draw aloof. Every word she spoke he hung upon.
He had come out into the world to seek for adventures--not, indeed, in
the spirit of the modern Don Quixote, tingling only for new sensations
to stimulate; but with the more robust and breezy spirit of his
ancestors, seeking for a fuller life and a healthy excitement, even at
the cost of hard blows and many privations. Surely this was an
auspicious start--an adventure this indeed! During a momentary silence
she looked across at him with genuine curiosity, her eyes half closed,
her brows knitted. What enthusiasm! She was not a vain woman, and she
knew that her personality had little, if anything, to do with the flush
upon his cheeks and the bright light in his eyes. She herself, a much
travelled, a learned, a brilliant, even a famous woman, had become only
lately conscious of a certain jaded weariness in her outlook upon life.
Even the best had begun to pall, the sameness of it had commenced its
fatal work. More than once lately a touch of that heart languor, which
is the fruit of surfeit, had startled her by its numbing and depressing
effect. Here at last was a new type--a man with clean pages before
him--young, emotional, without a doubt intellectual. But for his awful
clothes he was well enough to look upon, he had no affectations, his
instincts were apparently correct. His manners were hoydenish, but
there was nothing of the clown about him. She asked him a direct
question concerning himself.
"Tell me," she said, "what you really are. A worker, a student--or have
you a trade?"
He flushed up to his brows.
"I was brought up" he said, in a low tone, "for the ministry. It was no
choice of mine. I had an uncle and guardian who ruled our household as
he ruled everybody and everything with which he came in contact."
She was puzzled. To her the word sounded political.
"The ministry?"
"Yes. You remember when you first saw me? It was my first appearance.
I was to have been chosen pastor of that church."
"Oh!"
She looked at him now with something like amazement. This, then,
accounted for the sombreness of his clothes and his little strip of
white tie. She had only the vaguest ideas as to the conduct of those
various sects to be met with in English villages, but she had certainly
believed that the post of preacher was filled indifferently by any
member of the congregation, and she had looked upon his presence in the
pulpit on that last Sunday as an accident. To associate him with such
an occupation permanently seemed to her little short of the ridiculous.
She laughed softly, showing, for the first time, her brilliantly white
teeth, and his cheeks were stained with scarlet.
"I do not know why you laugh," he said, with a note of fierceness in his
tone. "It is the part of my life which is behind me. I was brought up
to it, and traditions are hard to break away from. I have been obliged
to live in a little village, to constrain my life between the narrowest
limits, to watch ignorance, and suffer prejudices as deeply rooted as
the hills. But all the same, it is nothing to laugh at. The thing
itself is great and good enough--it is the people who are so hopeless.
No, there is nothing to laugh at," he cried, with a sudden little burst
of excitement, "but may God help the children whose eyes He has opened
and who yet have to pass their lives on the smallest treadmill of the
world."
"You" she whispered, "have escaped."
"I have escaped," he murmured, with a sudden pallor, "but not
scatheless."
There was a silence between them then. She recognised that she had made
a mistake in questioning him about a past which he had already declared
hateful. The terror of an hour or more ago was in his face again. He
was back amongst the shadows whence she had beckoned him. She yawned
and took up her book.
They stopped at a great station, but the man was in a brown study and
scarcely moved his head. An angry guard came hurrying up to the window,
but a few words from the lady and a stealthily opened purse worked
wonders. They were left undisturbed, and the train glided off. She
laid down her book and spoke again.
"Do you mind passing me my luncheon basket?" she said, "and opening that
flask of wine? Are you not hungry, too?"
He shook his head, but when he came to think of it he knew that he was
ravenous. She passed him sandwiches as a matter of course--such
sandwiches as he had never eaten before--and wine which was strange to
him and which ran through his veins like warm magic. Once more the load
of evil memories seemed to pass away from him. He was not so much at
ease eating and drinking with her, but she easily acquired her former
hold upon him. She herself, whose appetite was assumed, watched him,
and wondered more and more.
Suddenly there came an interruption. The shrill whistling of the
engine, the shutting off of steam, the violent application of the brake.
The train came to a standstill. The man put down the window and looked
out.
"What is it?" she asked, with admirable nonchalance, making no effort to
leave her seat.
"I think that there has been an accident to some one," he said. "I will
go and see."
She nodded.
"Come back and tell me," she said. "Myself I shall not look. I am not
fond of horrors."
She took up her book, and he jumped down upon the line and made his way
to where a little group of men were standing in a circle. Some one
turned away with white face as he approached and stopped him.
"Don't look!--for God's sake, don't look!" he said. "It's too awful.
It isn't fit. Fetch a tarpaulin, some one."
"Was he run over?" some one asked. "Threw himself from that carriage,"
the guard answered, moving his head towards a third-class compartment,
of which the door stood open. "He was dragged half a mile, and--there
isn't much left of him, poor devil," he added, with a little break in
his speech.
"Does any one know who he was?" the young man asked.
"No one--nor where he got in."
"No luggage?"
"None."
The young man set his teeth and moved towards the carriage. His hand
stole for a moment to his pocket, then he seemed to pick something up
from the dusty floor.
"Here's a card," he said to the guard, "on the seat where he was."
The man took it and spelt the name out.
"Mr. Douglas Guest," he said. "Well, we shall know who he was, at any
rate. It's lucky you found it, sir. Now we'll get on, if you please."
A tarpaulin-covered burden was carefully deposited in an empty carriage,
and the little troop of people melted away. She looked up from her book
as he entered.
"Well?"
"It was an accident, or a suicide," he said, gravely. "A man threw
himself from an empty carriage in front and was run over. It was a
horrible affair."
"Do they know who he was?" she asked.
"There was a card found near him," he answered. "Mr. Douglas Guest.
That was his name."
Was it his fancy, or did she look at him for a moment more intently
during the momentary silence which followed his speech? It must have
been his fancy. Yet her next words puzzled him.
"You have not told me yet" she said, "your own name. I should like to
know it."
He hesitated for a moment. His own name. A name to be kept--to live
and die under--the hall mark of his new identity. How poor his
imagination was. Never an inspiration, and she was watching him. There
was so much in a name, and he must find one swiftly, for Mr. Douglas
Guest was dead.
"My name is Jesson," he said--"Douglas Jesson."