Two weeks passed and Joyce found himself in Hull. During the previous
week Miss Stevens had lodged quite near to the theatre, and there had
been no occasion for his escort after the performance. Besides, she had
maintained a distant attitude toward him which precluded further offer
of sympathy in her affairs. He was sorry for her; she seemed lonely,
like himself, and, like himself, to have some inward suffering that made
life bitter. He was glad, then, to find at Hull that they lodged in the
same street, some distance away from the Theatre Royal, so that he could
propose, as a natural thing, the resumption of their former habit. She
had acquiesced readily on the Monday night, and they had met as a
matter of course on the four succeeding evenings. Her late aloofness was
followed by a more intimate and submissive manner. There were no more
defiant utterances and fits of petulance. She seemed anxious to atone
for past irritability, and Joyce, vaguely remembering a spring-tide
cynicism of his, that one must be astonished at nothing in a woman,
received these advances kindly, and looked upon their friendly relations
as consolidated.
He also found himself progressing in favour with the rest of the
company. Several desultory chats with Miss Verrinder, the friend of
Yvonne, had not only brightened the dulness of the theatre life, but
also given him a little _prestige_ among his colleagues. For there is a
good deal of humanity in man, including the chorus of comic opera. So,
such as it was, Joyce’s contentment rose to high-level at Hull. He did
not couple the town with Hell and Halifax in his litany of supplication,
but, on the contrary, found it a not unpleasant place, which, moreover,
was in process of undergoing a rare week of sunshine.
His favourite spot was the Corporation Pier, with its double deck and
comfortable seats and view across the Humber. His well-worn clothes were
in harmony with its frequenters, and he felt more at ease than on the
Parade of a seaside resort thronged with well-dressed people.
Here he brought his book and pipe, read discursively, watched the
shipping, fell into talk with seafaring men, who told him the tonnage
of vessels and the ports from which they came. Often a great steamer
performing the passenger service across the North Sea would come into
the docks close by, and he would go and watch her land her passengers
and cargo. The hurry and movement were welcome to him, breaking, as they
did, the lethargy of the day. If the docks were quiet, there was always
the mild excitement of witnessing the arrival of the Grimsby boat at the
pier.
On Saturday morning this last incident had attracted him from his seat
on the lower gallery to the little knot of expectant idlers gathered by
the railing. The steamer was within a quarter of a mile, the churn of her
paddles the only break visible in the sluggish water of the river. He
stood leaning over, pipe in mouth, idly watching her draw near. When
she was moored alongside and the gangway pushed on to the landing-stage
below, he moved with the others to the head of the slope to watch the
passengers ascend. Why he should particularly interest himself in the
passage of humdrum labourers, fishwives, artisans, and young
women come to shop in Hull, he did not know. He watched them, with
unspeculating gaze, pass hurrying by, until suddenly a pair of evil
eyes looking straight into his own made him start back with a shiver of
dismay.
Escape was impossible; in another moment the man was by his side.
“Hullo, old pal! Who would have thought of seeing you?”
Joyce did not take the dirty hand that was proffered. He stuck his own
deep in his pockets, frowned at the man, and turned away. But the other
followed.
“Look here, old pal, I don’t call this a friendly lead--bust me if I do.
You might pass the time of day with a bloke--especially as it is n’t sol
ong ago----”
The man’s voice was loud, the pier busy with people. The air seemed
to Joyce filled with a thousand listening ears. His blood tingled with
shame. He faced round with an angry look.
“What do you want with me?”
“Oh, don’t take on, old pal,” replied the other, in lower tones. “I
ain’t going to give you away--don’t you fear. It’s only pleasant to meet
old pals again--in better circs. Ain’t it?”
Joyce had always loathed him--a flabby, sallow, greasy-faced fellow,
with blear eyes and a protruding under-lip. He had been sentenced for a
foul offence against decency. Joyce’s soul used to revolt at the sight
of him as they sat on either side of the reeking tub washing up the
cooking utensils in the prison kitchen. The hateful stench rose again to
his nostrils now and turned his stomach.
“Can’t you see I am going to have nothing to do with you?” he said
angrily.
“Come, don’t be hard on a bloke when he’s down,” replied the man. “It
ain’t everyone that gets on their legs again when they comes out. I ’ve
been out two months, and I haven’t had a job yet. S’welp me! And there’s
the wife and the kids starving. Give us a couple of quid to send to
’em and make ’em happy again. Just two thick uns.”
Joyce stared at him, breathless with indignation at his impudence.
“I ’ll see you damned first!” he cried fiercely.
“Well, make it ten bob, or five, or the price of a drink, old pal. You
can’t leave an old fellow-boarder in distress, or the luck will turn
agen you.”
He leered up into Joyce’s face, disclosing a jagged row of yellow teeth.
But Joyce started forward and took him by the collar.
“If you try to blackmail me,” said he, pointing to a policeman on the
quay, “I ’ll give you in charge. Just stay where you are and let me go my
ways.”
He released him and marched off. But the man did not attempt to follow.
He slipped into a seat close by and sang out sarcastically: “If you ’ll
leave your address, I ’ll send you a mourning card when the kids is
dead!”
Joyce caught the words as he hurried down the stairs. When he had
crossed the quay to the hotels, he looked up at the pier, and saw the
man leaning over with a grin on his face. It was only when he reached
his lodging that he breathed freely again.
What he had long expected had come to pass--recognition by a
fellow-prisoner. It was a horrible experience. It might occur again and
again indefinitely. He walked agitated up and down his poorly-furnished
bedroom. Could he do nothing to guard against such things in the future?
If he could only disguise himself! Then he remembered that the moustache
which might have served him as a slight protection against casual
glances had been sacrificed to theatrical exigencies. He ground his
teeth at the futility of the idea. And at intervals wrath rose up hot
within him at the man’s cool impudence. Two pounds--more than a week’s
salary--to be thrown away on swine like that! He laughed savagely at the
thought.
He grew calm after a time, lay down on his bed and opened a book. But
the face of the man, bringing with it scenes of a past in which they had
been associated came between his eyes and the page.
“Anyhow, it’s over,” he exclaimed at last, with a determined effort to
banish the memories. “And, thank God, it’s Saturday, and I shall be in
Leeds to-morrow.”
To avoid the chance of meeting him in the streets, however, he stayed at
home all day, sending round a note of excuse on the score of seediness
to Miss Stevens, with whom he had arranged to take an afternoon stroll.
On his way to the theatre he caught sight of the man standing by a
gas-lamp at a street-corner on the other side of the way. He hurried on,
glad at his escape, for the glance of the man’s eyes resting upon him
was abhorrent.
For the first time since he had started on the tour the rough
companionship of the dressing-room was a comfort and delight. Here
were kindly words, welcoming faces, the pleasant familiarity of common
avocation. He forgot the heat, and the crush, and the tomfool aspect
the dressing had always presented. The place was home-like, familiar,
sheltering. His costume, as he took it down from the peg, seemed like
an old friend. The jolly voices of his companions rang gratefully in his
ears. The disgust of the day faded into the memory of a nightmare. This
was a reality--this hearty good-fellowship with uncontaminated men.
When he went out with them on to the stage, before the curtain rose,
and met the ladies of the chorus, he greeted those that he liked with
a newer sense of friendliness. Until then he had never been aware how
pleasant it was to have Annie Stevens’s head resting on his knee. He
thanked God he was a criminal no longer--not as that other man was.
Certainly Phariseeism is justifiable at times.
He was very kind to Miss Stevens all the evening during the waits, when
they happened to be together. His apologies for having to put off their
engagement met with her full acceptance. She was solicitous as to his
health--asked him in her downright fashion whether he ate enough.
“You are a gentleman, you know, and not accustomed to poor people’s ways
and their privations.”
“My dear,” he replied, dropping for the first time into the old
professional’s mode of address. “I ’ve gone through privations in my life
that you have never dreamed of. This is clover--knee-deep.”
And he believed it; thought, too, what a fool he had been to grumble at
this honest, pleasant theatrical life. The reaction had rather excited
him.
“I look upon myself as jolly well off here,” he said. “And I eat like an
ox, I assure you. Do you know, it’s very good of you to take an interest
in me?”
“Do you think so?” said the girl, with a little laugh, and turning away
her head.
At the end of the first act a fresh pleasure awaited him. It was a night
of surprising sensations. The stage-manager called him into his room.
“Walker has been telegraphed for--wife very ill--and he won’t be able
to play on Monday. Do you think you could play his part till he comes
back?”
“Rather!” said Joyce, delighted.
“You are the only one of the crowd that can sing worth a cent,” said
the stage-manager with a seasonable mixture of profanity. “I ’ll pull
you through. Perhaps he’s not coming back at all. One never knows. If
he does n’t and you go all right, there’s no reason why you should n’t
stick to it.”
Walker spoke exactly four lines, sang once in a quartette and had a
couplet solo. Otherwise he made himself useful in the chorus. But it
was a part, his name was down in the bill. The value of the step, moral,
pecuniary and professional was considerable. Joyce felt that his luck
had turned at last. Here was the gate into the profession proper open to
him.
The news soon spread through the company. A “call” for rehearsal on
Monday morning for the chorus and those of the principals concerned in
the change was posted up. He felt himself a person of some importance.
McKay congratulated him; and Blake, although he said, “You swells get
all the fat,” spoke by no means enviously. The others cracked jokes
and suggested drinks all round, which, being sent for by Joyce, were
consumed in the dressing-room. Annie Stevens squeezed his hand, during
their dance together, and whispered a word of pleasure. He had no
idea that so infinitesimal a success could have masqueraded as such a
triumph. He longed to get back to his room to write it all to Yvonne.
At the stage-door, after the performance, he met Annie Stevens, who had
hurried through her dressing.
“I’m glad for your sake, but I’m sorry for my own,” she said, after they
had walked a few steps.
“Why, what difference can it make to you?” asked Joyce laughing.
“I shall have to play and sing with somebody else.”
“True. I was forgetting. Yes, it will seem funny. I shall miss you too.”
“I don’t believe you care one bit,” said the girl.
To acquiesce would have been rude. He answered her with vague regrets.
She interrupted him with a laugh in which was the faintest note of
scorn.
“Oh, you’re very glad to get rid of me, and the stupid kissing and
everything. You won’t have to give any one a Chinese kiss now. And they
were very Chinese, you know.”
“An English kiss would have been out of the picture,” said Joyce.
“We’re not in the picture now,” she said softly.
Joyce felt that he was doing something very foolish, perhaps dangerous.
He had never had the remotest fancy for allowing his companionship with
her to degenerate into a flirtation. But what could he do? He bent down
and kissed her.
There was an awkward silence for a few yards, which she broke at last in
her irrelevant way.
“I should so like a glass of port wine tonight.”
“So should I,” said Joyce, cheerfully. “Or something like it. We ’ll go
into the Crown yonder.”
Two or three times before they had had a glass together on their way
home. To-night, therefore, the suggestion seemed natural. They entered
the private bar of the public-house, and Joyce ordered the liquors. Only
one young man was there, reading a sporting paper on a high stool. It
was a quiet place, with the view beyond the counter down the bar cut off
by a ground-glass screen, through a low space under which the customers
were served.
Joyce pushed the port wine smilingly to Miss Stevens, and, with his
back to the door, was pouring some water into his whisky, when a
voice sounded in his ear, causing him to start violently and flood the
counter.
“I say, old pal, _are_ you goin’ to help a poor feller?”
The man was standing behind him, the leer upon his greasy face. Joyce
had been blissfully unaware that he had dogged his steps from that
street corner to the stage-door of the theatre, and from the stage-door
hither. The sight of him was a stroke of cold terror.
“Go away. I ’ll give you in charge,” he stammered, losing his head for
the moment.
Annie Stevens clutched his arm.
“Who is this beastly man?” she said.
“Only an old pal, miss,” said the man, edging towards the door. “We was
in quod many months together, and now he won’t give me ’arf a crown to
keep me from starving.”
“By God!” cried Joyce, making a sudden dash at him.
But the man was too quick; he had secured his retreat, and when Joyce
reached the pavement--the house was at a corner of cross roads--he
could not catch the fall of his footsteps. The man had vanished into
the night, and pursuit was hopeless. It had all passed with the sudden
unexpectedness of a dream. Joyce put his hand to his forehead and tried
to think. He could scarcely realise exactly what had happened. He seemed
to be enveloped with tiny tingling waves that drew his skin tight like
a drum for his heart to beat against. He turned, and saw Annie Stevens
standing by his side, in the light of the public-house, with anger on
her face.
“What have you got to say for yourself?” she asked brusquely.
“Do you believe that man?” said Joyce, the words coming painfully.
Their lack of conviction damned him. The girl drew back a step, and
looked at him with revulsion in her eyes.
“You can’t deny it! I see that you can’t. You’ve just come out of
prison.”
If the world had been at his feet he could not have lied convincingly
at that moment. He could only stare at her haggardly and rack his brains
for words that would not come. She moved away instinctively from the
public glare and turned down the dark street that led toward their
destination.
“It’s a lie,” he said desperately, striding to her side.
“No it is n’t. It’s truth. I read it on your face. That’s why you’ve
come down in the world--that’s why you live by yourself--that’s why you
didn’t dare come out this afternoon--and that’s where you’ve known all
those privations I never dreamed of. It’s no good telling lies.”
“Well, it’s true,” said Joyce. “And I ’ve paid the penalty for my folly
ten times over. Forget all this, Annie, for God’s sake.”
“Go away!” she cried, walking faster. “I don’t want to see you again.
Oh, to think of it makes me sick! Go away, do!”
But he followed her imploringly. He was at her mercy. “I don’t care what
you think of me,” he said. “I will keep out of your way as much as you
like. Only, a word from you would ruin me. Keep my story secret, like an
honourable woman. I have done nothing to you.”
“Yes, you have!” she cried, stopping short and facing him. “You have
dared to kiss me. Oh--a pretty fine gentleman you are--with your
patronising superior ways--and I thinking myself an ignorant, common
girl, not good enough for you! What were you? A pickpocket?”
“You abuse me as if I were one,” said Joyce, bitterly. “Good-night, Miss
Stevens. I shall not molest you any further.” He motioned to her with
his hand to pass on in front. She regarded him for a moment stonily,
and then, with a short exclamation of disgust, swung round sharply and
proceeded at a hurried pace down the dismal, ill-lighted street. Joyce
watched her until she was swallowed up in the darkness, and had obtained
sufficient start for him to follow in her footsteps without fear of
overtaking her.
But as he walked along, the dread of her indignation seized him. If only
he could say another word to her before the morning, he might secure her
pity and her silence. The idea grew more and more insistent, until
he could bear it no longer. He started off at a run, at first on the
pavement of the quiet side street, and then in the roadway by the kerb
of the busier thoroughfare into which it led, and regardless of jostling
and oaths, continued his way, until he succeeded in catching her up just
as she was inserting the latchkey into her door.
“Annie,” he cried, his chest heaving painfully from the exertion of
running. “Promise me you won’t breathe a word of this to any one.”
She let herself in deliberately and stood in the dark passage.
“I ’ll promise nothing. I never want to set my eyes on you again!”
And then she slammed the door in his face.
He turned away sick at heart, and went to his own lodging. Resentment at
her coarse anger, and speculation as to the motives of the sudden change
from friendliness to hatred were things that did not come to him till
afterwards. Sufficient for the night was the despair of the sleepless
hours, the dread of the girl’s tongue, and the anguish of tottering
hopes. He did not write to Yvonne. The little triumph of the evening
seemed like a gay pagoda struck by lightning.