DRUNK AND DISORDERLY
Claudia had slept but little that night, her thoughts going over the
scene in the studio again and again, sometimes accusing herself,
sometimes wondering at herself. One fact stood out clearly. Frank had
not loved her, nor she him. What had Colin thought when he found her
crouching on the stairs? She had offered to explain—but what could she
have said?
With weary eyes and pale cheeks she took the letters from her maid’s
hand. She was almost too tired to open them, but as the letters fell
loosely on the coverlet, she saw one in Colin’s handwriting. With her
heart beating fast, she picked it up and tore it open. For a moment she
forgot that it had probably been posted before he brought her home from
the studio.
A letter and some printed matter fell out. She picked up the printed
matter first. It was a page proof of a book, containing a dedication to
herself. She read it with a queer feeling, but her apathy had gone.
“TO MY FRIEND, CLAUDIA CURREY,
whose sympathy and friendship have inspired me to put down
on paper some facts I have been able to gather, together
with some purely personal views on that most baffling and
fascinating of all subjects—sociology. I beg her to accept the
dedication of this book, with all its faults and shortcomings,
of which the author is painfully aware, in memory of our many
talks about ‘humans.’”
Her eyes filled with tears, and she could hardly read the letter that
accompanied the page.
“MY DEAR CLAUDIA,” it ran, “I was horribly disappointed,
childishly disappointed the other day when you told me you had
heard about my forthcoming book. I think you must have got it
from some inside source, for it is not yet announced to the
public. I wanted the enclosed to be a surprise to you, and
now the squib won’t go off! I asked and obtained Gilbert’s
permission to put in this little dedication, because you really
did inspire it. You always liked people who ‘did things,’ and
your interest in life and ‘humans’ quickened mine. How dare
you say you will order a copy as soon as it is out? You _know_
you’ll get an advance copy, the very first. I do hope you will
like it, at least, a little. Now it is in print, I realize
what a little I have been able to say on a vast subject. All I
can say in extenuation is, I’ve done my best, though perhaps I
don’t deserve any marks for that. But it’s such a huge field
to try and cover. Do you remember when you asked me for a book
on the subject and I gave you Lecky’s ‘History of European
Morals’? I’ve always been cheered by your remark after reading
it. ‘Only a Methusaleh could hope to come to any definite
conclusions, and then he might be ready to lie down and die!’
“There are no definite conclusions in my book, because I try
hard to keep my mind plastic. Some day, when I’m a greybeard
with stooping shoulders and several deaf ears, perhaps I’ll do
something better.
“I’m sending you a new ‘Lear Nonsense’ book. Rather jolly, I
think. Do look at the picture of the German and the baby who is
_gedroppen_.
“Always your admiring friend,
“COLIN PATON.”
The other letters lay unheeded. She dropped back among the pillows, and
there was no movement of the head, or even the hand in which lay the
letter. She might have been asleep.
But when her maid, whose face betokened hesitation and perplexity, came
in quietly, Claudia turned and opened her dark eyes. There were no tears
in them, only a burning, unfathomable look which, though it envisaged
Johnson clearly, did not notice her perturbed face.
“Madam, I——” began Johnson, clearing her throat. “Did the master tell you
he would not be coming home last night?”
Claudia came back from a remote distance.
“Last night? No. He was only going to his club, I believe. Why, has he
not slept in the flat?”
“No, madam, and he did not say anything about stopping out to Marsh, and
he didn’t have his bag packed. He thought he had told Marsh to pack it
for him to go down to Wynnstay, but Marsh says——”
“Yes, I remember. Perhaps he went down to Wynnstay, after all, rather
late.” It had never happened before that Gilbert had been away from the
flat without informing her or the servants; but Claudia saw nothing
remarkable in the oversight.
“Marsh thought so too, madam, and he got a trunk call through to
Wynnstay, but he has not been there, and then he telephoned the club
and—and they told him Mr. Currey was there last night and left about
twelve o’clock. I—we thought we had better mention it, madam.”
Claudia was roused to attention this time. Where could Gilbert have got
to after he left the club? There were some wives, she knew, who would
have dismissed the matter with a shrug of their shoulders, but she had no
complaint of Gilbert on that score. Perhaps he would have been more human
and companionable had he had some of the weaknesses of the flesh.
She looked at the clock. It was half-past nine. He was generally down at
his chambers soon after nine.
“Was he in evening-dress, Johnson, when he went out last night?”
“Yes, madam; Marsh said he changed before he went out, and told him he
was going to bed early, as he had a big case on to-day and wanted to be
fresh for it.”
Johnson looked at her for instructions, but Claudia knit her brows in
perplexity. It was very curious, but it did not occur to her that there
was anything seriously wrong. He must have gone home with some friend and
turned in for the night. And yet—he had never done any such thing. He was
essentially a man of routine and order.
“I don’t think there is anything to be done, Johnson,” said Claudia,
after a little thought. “Probably they will ring up from his office to
say he has arrived all right. Ring them again and ask them to telephone
immediately Mr. Currey comes in. And bring my coffee, please.”
But when she had finished her coffee and toast there was still no word
from the office, except that they had rung up rather agitatedly to know
if Mrs. Currey had any idea where he could be found. By this time Claudia
had become impressed with the idea that something was wrong. One was
always hearing of motor accidents nowadays. Could anything of the kind
have happened to Gilbert?
Instinctively she turned to Colin Paton in the emergency. After they had
silently bade one another good-bye last night she had thought she could
never face him again, for if he did not think the worst of her he must
have guessed that there had been some kind of a scene that had upset her.
And on the top of it all his charming letter.
But this happening made her put her own _affaires du cœur_ on one side.
If anything had happened to Gilbert, Colin would be able to find it out.
She hardly realized how blind her faith in Colin was. She went to the
telephone in her dressing-gown and called him up.
“Colin! Oh! I am so glad you are there. I don’t know whether I ought to
be alarmed or not, but Gilbert has not been home since eight o’clock last
night, and he is not at the office. He took no suit-case out with him,
and he was seen to leave the club at twelve o’clock. What ought I to do?”
He answered her quite quietly, asking a few more questions; but she knew
his voice so well by now that she realized that he did not consider her
an alarmist in ringing him up.
“Don’t worry. I’ll go to the club and make some inquiries, and telephone
you later. Leave it to me.”
“What do you think——?” she began timidly.
“I don’t know. But we must find him. I’ll keep in touch with you. Don’t
be alarmed, Claudia.”
“Thank you,” she replied humbly. “You—you are always very good to me.”
There was a slight pause at the other end. “Don’t talk nonsense. When
will you learn the meaning of friendship?”
She went back to her dressing feeling more comforted, for the mere fact
of having confided a trouble to him always seemed to halve it. He was
essentially a man who inspired confidence, and Claudia wondered vaguely,
as she brushed her hair, why some men were like that and others were not.
His opinion was always sought after by his friends and acquaintances,
and yet he never gave it in any ponderous spirit. Sometimes he replied
with a joke, or a happy allusion, but he gave an answer all the same.
This reminded her of Patricia, who had said enthusiastically a few days
previously, “He’s the most helpful man I ever knew.” Lately Pat had seen
a good deal of him, and one or two people had remarked on it to Claudia,
saying, “Is Pat going to settle down at last?”
Was Colin Paton in love with Pat? What else could be the meaning of their
frequent meetings and that seclusion in the library? She, Claudia, was
only a great friend, and the little prick of jealousy she acknowledged
to her self that she felt was natural to women where their men friends
were concerned. All women hated losing their men friends by marriage.
And—yes—Pat would make a charming wife if she fell in love.
It was eleven o’clock—Gilbert’s case was on—and he had made no
appearance. This much had just been telephoned from his office. Claudia
was sure now that something was seriously amiss. For Gilbert to neglect
his work, some accident must have happened.
She felt a restless desire to do something, to search for him herself;
but what could she do? Where could he be? Could he be lying in one of the
great hospitals, unable to give an account of himself?
Johnson came hurrying in. “Madam, Mr. Paton is on the telephone and wants
to speak to you.”
Claudia flew to the receiver.
“Claudia, is that you? It’s all right, I’ve got him safe and sound. No,
he’s not hurt. I’ll tell you more when I see you. I am bringing him back
now. It’s a case of complete loss of memory; spent the night in the
police cells as a drunk and disorderly—he must have been very excited. He
is still dazed and suspicious of everyone. Don’t show there is anything
amiss. Keep quite calm, and telephone Dr. Neeburg.”
Gilbert locked up in the police-cells as drunk and disorderly! It was
unbelievable! It was too ironic! Though she no longer loved him, her
heart was touched by pity for him. He must have known where he was,
although he could not remember his name. What an awful time he must have
had!
But she immediately rang up Fritz Neeburg, who, she noted, did not seem
startled at the news. He said he would come immediately. “I was afraid of
something like this, Mrs. Currey,” he concluded.
The strong constitution of which Gilbert had always boasted had given
way. His pride would be in the dust. It would mean giving up work for
some time. It meant a very bad break.
Claudia was appalled when she saw the man who got out of the taxi
with Colin. No man looks well after a night spent in his clothes, but
Gilbert’s appearance had a wildness and dishevelment which was as much
due to the brain as the body. His eyes were bloodshot, there was a strong
growth of hair on his chin which showed conspicuously, his shirt-front
was rumpled and crushed as she had never seen any front, his mouth kept
twitching and his walk was unsteady. But Claudia controlled her alarm and
went forward with a smile.
“You’ll like some breakfast, won’t you, Gilbert? Marsh has got some nice
hot coffee for you in the dining-room.”
Neeburg had not arrived, and she had not known what preparations to make,
but she wanted to appear natural.
Gilbert looked at her with a curious indifference; she could not make out
if he knew her or not.
“I think you’d like a bath first, old man, wouldn’t you?” said Colin
cheerfully. “And some fresh clothes. This garb is unseemly in the
morning.”
He allowed Colin to lead him up the stairs, and in a few minutes Neeburg
arrived and went after him.
In half an hour the two men came down together. “We’ve put him to bed,
Mrs. Currey,” said Neeburg, “with a sleeping-draught. He’ll probably
sleep twelve hours or so. That’s the best thing for him at present. He
may wake up with his mind quite clear. It’s a case of mental aphasia, due
to nerve-strain. I’ve given him the clearest warnings time after time.
I’m very sorry, but he has brought it on himself.”
“He had made up his mind to go to Le Touquet next week,” said Claudia.
She looked at Colin. “You were going with him, were you not?”
“He asked me, and I was trying to make arrangements. Can he go, doctor,
as soon as he recovers a little?”
“The sooner the better. I’m glad you’re going with him. Keep him out in
the open all day, and don’t let him talk or think about his work. Let him
play golf, and keep him out of doors until he falls asleep directly he
gets into bed. No stimulants whatever. Has he been sleeping badly lately,
Mrs. Currey?”
“Yes, he told me he seldom got to sleep till late in the morning.”
“Madness! Sheer madness to neglect such warnings. Paton, I’ll have a talk
with you before he goes. How did you find him?”
“I got Carey Image to go the rounds of the hospitals in case it was an
accident, and I went myself to all the police-stations. As a matter of
fact, someone had just recognized him as I arrived at Bow Street. As
far as I can make out, he took a stiff hot whiskey at the club before
leaving—he told the waiter he thought he had a cold coming on—and went
out into the night air. Owing to the taxi strike there were no cabs
about, and after waiting a few minutes, Gilbert said he would walk.”
“And the fresh air on top of the hot whiskey finished him,” commented
Neeburg. “Was he very violent?”
“So the policeman said. He thought it was an ordinary case of drunk and
disorderly. He could hardly articulate, and couldn’t say where he lived
or his name. The policeman says the more he tried to say it the more
violent he became, and, as it happens, there was nothing in his pockets
to identify him. He spent the night in an ordinary lock-up. It wasn’t the
fault of the police.”
“I hope this won’t get in the papers,” said Claudia thoughtfully. “You
know how Gilbert would feel that, Colin; can you——?”
“I’ll try. I must go now. Ring up Pat and ask her to come and be with
you. Good-bye, Neeburg; I’ll ring you up and fix an appointment....” He
turned to Claudia. “You were splendid when he came in. It must have been
rather a shock to you.”
“Splendid! Colin, don’t laugh at me. I’m the least splendid of women. I
ought not to accept that dedication. Take it out. I’m not worth it. If—if
I don’t break all the sins in the Decalogue, it’s because—yes, I suppose
it’s because I’m a coward.”
She lifted her eyes miserably to his, and at what she read in his some
of the anguish and self-abasement in her heart was softened. For a few
moments they stood silent, only their eyes speaking.
“Colin,” she whispered, her finger-tips playing with his coat, “do you
still believe in me—after—last night?”
“If you told me with your own lips that you _had_ committed all the sins
in the Decalogue, I should not believe you. I think I know you, Claudia,
better than you know yourself, and I believe in you more than you believe
in yourself.... I shall be back in the afternoon, in case you want me.”
He was gone, but Claudia went upstairs with a load taken off her heart.
She did not try to analyse the meaning of it, she only knew that the
sting had been taken out of her folly.