There is something on my mind, of which I must relieve myself. If I am ever to face the world again with a smile I must share my trouble with others. I cannot bear my burden alone.
Friends, I have lost my hat. Will the gentleman who took it by mistake, and forgot to leave his own in its place, kindly return my hat to me at once?
I am very miserable without my hat. It was one of those nice soft ones with a dent down the middle to collect the rain; one of those soft hats which wrap themselves so lovingly round the cranium that they ultimately absorb the personality of the wearer underneath, responding to his every emotion. When people said nice things about me my hat would swell in sympathy; when they said nasty things, or when I had had my hair cut, it would adapt itself automatically to my lesser requirements. In a word, it fitted—and that is more than can be said for your hard unyielding bowler.
My hat and I dropped into a hall of music one night last week. I placed it under the seat, put a coat on it to keep it warm, and settled down to enjoy myself. My hat could see nothing, but it knew that it would hear all about the entertainment on the way home. When the last moving picture had moved away, my hat and I prepared to depart together. I drew out the coat and felt around for my—Where on earth …
I was calm at first.
"Excuse me," I said politely to the man next to me, "but have you got two hats?"
"Several," he replied, mistaking my meaning.
I dived under the seat again, and came up with some more dust.
"Someone," I said to a programme girl, "has taken my hat."
"Have you looked under the seat for it?" she asked.
It was such a sound suggestion that I went under the seat for the third time.
"It may have been kicked further along," suggested another attendant. She walked up and down the row looking for it, and, in case somebody had kicked it into the row above, walked up and down that one too; and, in case somebody had found touch with it on the other side of the house, many other girls spread themselves in pursuit; and soon we had the whole pack hunting for it.
Then the fireman came up, suspecting the worst. I told him it was even worse than that—my hat had been stolen.
He had a flash of inspiration.
"Are you sure you brought it with you?" he asked.
The programme girls seemed to think that it would solve the whole mystery if I hadn't brought it with me.
"Are you sure you are the fireman?" I said coldly.
He thought for a moment, and then unburdened himself of another idea.
"Perhaps it's just been kicked under the seat," he said.
I left him under the seat and went downstairs with a heavy heart. At the door I said to the hall porter, "Have you seen anybody going out with two hats by mistake?"
"What's the matter?" he said. "Lost your hat?"
"It has been stolen."
"Have you looked under the seats? It may have been kicked along a bit."
"Perhaps I'd better see the manager," I said. "Is it any good looking under the seats for HIM?"
"I expect it's just been kicked along a bit," the hall porter repeated confidently. "I'll come up with you and look for it."
"If there's any more talk about being kicked along a bit," I said bitterly, "somebody WILL be. I want the manager."
I was led to the manager's room, and there I explained the matter to him. He was very pleasant about it.
"I expect you haven't looked for it properly," he said, with a charming smile. "Just take this gentleman up," he added to the hall porter, "and find his hat for him. It has probably been kicked under one of the other seats."
We were smiled irresistibly out, and I was dragged up to the grand circle again. The seats by this time were laid out in white draperies; the house looked very desolate; I knew that my poor hat was dead. With an air of cheery confidence the hall porter turned into the first row of seats….
"It may have been kicked on to the stage," I said, as he began to slow down. "It may have jumped into one of the boxes. It may have turned into a rabbit. You know, I expect you aren't looking for it properly."
The manager was extremely sympathetic when we came back to him. He said, "Oh, I'm sorry." Just like that—"Oh, I'm sorry."
"My hat," I said firmly, "has been stolen."
"I'm sorry," he repeated with a bored smile, and turned to look at himself in the glass.
Then I became angry with him and his attendants and his whole blessed theatre.
"My hat," I said bitingly, "has been stolen from me—while I slept."
. . . . . . .
You must have seen me wearing it in the dear old days. Greeny brown it was in colour; but it wasn't the colour that drew your eyes to it—no, nor yet the shape, nor the angle at which it sat. It was just the essential rightness of it. If you have ever seen a hat which you felt instinctively was a clever hat, an alive hat, a profound hat, then that was my hat—and that was myself underneath it.
When I am in any doubt or difficulty I say to myself, "What would Napoleon have done?" The answer generally comes at once: "He would have borrowed from Henry," or "He would have said his aunt was ill"—the one obviously right and proper thing. Then I weigh in and do it.
"What station is this?" said Beatrice, as the train began to slow up. "Baby and I want to get home."
"Whitecroft, I expect," said John, who was reading the paper. "Only four more."
"It's grown since we were here last," I observed. "Getting quite a big place."
"Good; then we're at Hillstead. Only three more stations."
I looked out of the window, and had a sudden suspicion.
"Where have I heard the name Byres before?" I murmured thoughtfully.
"You haven't," said John. "Nobody has."
"Say 'Byres,' baby," urged Beatrice happily.
"You're quite sure that there isn't anything advertised called'Byres'? You're sure you can't drink Byres or rub yourself down withByres?"
"Quite."
"Well, then, we must be AT Byres."
There was a shriek from Beatrice, as she rushed to the window.
"We're in the wrong train—Quick! Get the bags!—Have you got the rug?—Where's the umbrella?—Open the window, stupid!"
I got up and moved her from the door.
"Leave this to me," I said calmly. "Porter!—PORTER!!—PORTER!!!—Oh, guard, what station's this?"
"Byres, sir."
"Byres?"
"Yes, sir." He blew his whistle and the train went on again.
"At any rate we know now that it WAS Byres," I remarked, when the silence began to get oppressive.
"It's all very well for you," Beatrice burst out indignantly, "but you don't think about Baby. We don't know a bit where we are—"
"That's the one thing we do know," I said. "We're at this littleByres place."
"It was the porter's fault at Liverpool Street," said John consolingly. "He told us it was a through carriage."
"I don't care whose fault it was; I'm only thinking of Baby."
"What time do babies go to bed as a rule?" I asked.
"This one goes at six."
"Well, then, she's got another hour. Now, what would Napoleon have done?"
"Napoleon," said John, after careful thought, "would have turned all your clothes out of your bag, would have put the baby in it diagonally, and have bored holes in the top for ventilation. That's as good as going to bed—you avoid the worst of the evening mists. And people would only think you kept caterpillars."
Beatrice looked at him coldly.
"That's a way to talk of your daughter," she said in scorn.
"Don't kill him," I begged, "We may want him. Now I've got another idea. If you look out of the window you observe that we are on a SINGLE line."
"Well, I envy it. And, however single it is, we're going away from home in it."
"True. But the point is that no train can come back on it until we've stopped going forward. So, you see, there's no object in getting out of this train until it has finished for the day. Probably it will go back itself before long, out of sheer boredom. And it's much better waiting here than on a draughty Byres platform."
Beatrice, quite seeing the point, changed the subject.
"There's my trunk will go on to Brookfield, and the wagonette will meet the train, and as we aren't there it will go away without the trunk, and all baby's things are in it."
"She's not complaining," I said. "She's just mentioning it."
"Look here," said John reproachfully, "we're doing all we can. We're both thinking like anything." He picked up his paper again.
I was beginning to get annoyed. It was, of course, no good to get as anxious and excited as Beatrice; that wouldn't help matters at all. On the other hand, the entire indifference of John and the baby was equally out of place. It seemed to me that there was a middle and Napoleonic path in between these two extremes which only I was following. To be convinced that one is the only person doing the right thing is always annoying.
"I've just made another discovery," I said in a hurt voice. "There's a map over John's head, if he'd only had the sense to look there before. There we are," and I pointed with my stick; "there's Byres. The line goes round and round and eventually goes through Dearmer. We get out at Dearmer, and we're only three miles from Brookfield."
"What they call a loop line," assisted John, "because it's in the shape of a loop."
"It's not so bad as it might be," admitted Beatrice grudgingly, after studying the map, "but it's five miles home from Dearmer; and what about my trunk?"
I sighed and pulled out a pencil.
"It's very simple. We write a telegram:—
'Stationmaster, Brookfield. Send wagonette and trunk to wait for us at Dearmer Station.'"
"Love to mother and the children," added John.
Our train stopped again. I summoned a porter and gave him the telegram.
"It's so absurdly simple," I repeated, as the train went on. "Just a little presence of mind; that's all."
We got out at Dearmer and gave up our tickets to the porter-station-master-signalman.
"What's this?" he said. "These are no good to me."
"Well, they're no good to us. We've finished with them."
We sat in the waiting-room with him for half an hour and explained the situation. We said that, highly as we thought of Dearmer, we had not wantonly tried to defraud the Company in order to get a sight of the place; and that, so far from owing him three shillings apiece, we were prepared to take a sovereign to say nothing more about it…. And still the wagonette didn't come.
"Is there a post-office here?" I asked the man. "Or a horse?"
"There might be a horse at the 'Lion.' There's no post-office."
"Well, I suppose I could wire to Brookfield Station from here?"
"Not to Brookfield."
"But supposing you want to tell the station-master there that the train's off the line, or that you've won the first prize at the Flower Show in the vegetable class, how would you do it?"
"Brookfield's not on this line. That's why you've got to pay three shill—"
"Yes, yes. You said all that. Then I shall go and explore the village."
I explored, as Napoleon would have done, and I came back with a plan.
"There is no horse," I said to my eager audience; "but I have found a bicycle. The landlady of the 'Lion' will be delighted to look after Beatrice and the baby, and will give her tea; John will stay here with the bags in case the wagonette turns up, and I will ride to Brookfield and summon help."
"That's all right," said John, "only I would suggest thatIgo to the 'Lion' and have tea, and Beatrice and the child—"
We left him in disgust at his selfishness. I established the ladies at the inn, mounted the bicycle, and rode off. It was a windy day, and I had a long coat and a bowler hat. After an extremely unpleasant two miles something drove past me. I lifted up my head and looked round. It was the wagonette.
I rode back behind it in triumph. When it turned up the road to the station, I hurried straight on to the "Lion" to prepare Beatrice. I knocked, and peered into rooms, and knocked again, and at last the landlady came.
"Er—is the lady—"
"Oh, she's gone, sir, a long time ago. A gentleman she knew drove past, and she asked him to give her a lift home in his trap. She was going to tell the other gentleman, and he'd wait for you."
"Oh yes. That's all right."
I returned my bicycle to its owner, distributed coppers to his children, and went up to the station. The porter came out to meet me. He seemed surprised.
"The gentleman thought you wouldn't be coming back, sir, as you didn't come with the wagonette."
"I just went up to the 'Lion'—"
"Yessir. Well, he drove off quarter of an hour ago; said it was no good waiting for you, as you'd ride straight 'ome when you found at Brookfield that the wagonette 'ad come."
And now I ask you—What would Napoleon have said?
EVERYTHING promised well for my week-end with Charles. The weather was warm and sunny, I was bringing my golf clubs down with me, and I had just discovered (and meant to put into practice) an entirely new stance which made it impossible to miss the object ball. It was this that I was explaining to Charles and his wife at dinner on Friday, when the interruption occurred.
"By the way," said Charles, as I took out a cigarette, "I've got a cigar for you. Don't smoke that thing."
"You haven't let him go in for cigars?" I said reproachfully to MrsCharles. I can be very firm about other people's extravagances.
"This is one I picked up in Portugal," explained Charles. "You can get them absurdly cheap out there. Let's see, dear; where did I put it?"
"I saw it on your dressing-table last week," said his wife, getting up to leave us. He followed her out and went in search of it, while I waited with an interest which I made no effort to conceal. I had never heard before of a man going all the way to Portugal to buy one cigar for a friend.
"Here it is," said Charles, coming in again. He put down in front of me an ash-tray, the matches and a—and a—well, as I say, a cigar. I examined it slowly. Half of it looked very tired.
"Well," said Charles, "what do you think of it?"
"When you say you—er—PICKED IT UP in Portugal," I began carefully, "I suppose you don't mean—" I stopped and tried to bite the end off.
"Have a knife," said Charles.
I had another bite, and then I decided to be frank.
"WHY did you pick it up?" I asked.
"The fact was," said Charles, "I found myself one day in Lisbon without my pipe, and so I bought that thing; I never smoke them in the ordinary way."
"Did you smoke this?" I asked. It was obvious that SOMETHING had happened to it.
"No, you see, I found some cigarettes at the last moment, and so, knowing that you liked cigars, I thought I'd bring it home for you."
"It's very nice of you, Charles. Of course I can see that it has travelled. Well, we must do what we can with it."
I took the knife and started chipping away at the mahogany end. The other end—the brown-paper end, which had come ungummed—I intended to reserve for the match. When everything was ready I applied a light, leant back in my chair, and pulled.
"That's all right, isn't it?" said Charles. "And you'd be surprised if I told you what I paid for it."
"No, no, you mustn't think that," I protested. "Probably things are dearer in Portugal." I put it down by my plate for a moment's rest. "All I've got against it at present is that its pores don't act as freely as they should."
"I've got a cigar-cutter somewhere, if—"
"No, don't bother. I think I can do it with the nut-crackers. There's no doubt it was a good cigar once, but it hasn't wintered well."
I squeezed it as hard as I could, lit it again, pressed my feet against the table and pulled.
"Now it's going," said Charles.
"I'm afraid it keeps very reticent at my end. The follow-through is poor. Is your end alight still?"
"Burning beautifully."
"It's a pity that I should be missing all that. How would it be if we were to make a knitting-needle red-hot, and bore a tunnel from this end? We might establish a draught that way. Only there's always the danger, of course, of coming out at the side."
I took the cigar up and put it to my ear.
"I can't HEAR anything wrong," I said. "I expect what it really wants is massage."
Charles filled his pipe again and got up. "Let's go for a stroll," he said. "It's a beautiful night. Bring your cigar with you."
"It may prefer the open air," I said. "There's always that. You know we mustn't lose sight of the fact that the Portuguese climate is different from ours. The thing's pores may have acted more readily in the South. On the other hand, the unfastened end may have been more adhesive. I gather that though you have never actually met anybody who has smoked a cigar like this, yet you understand that the experiment is a practicable one. As far as you know, this had no brothers. No, no, Charles, I'm going on with it, but I should like to know all that you can tell me of its parentage. It had a Portuguese father and an American mother, I should say, and there has been a good deal of trouble in the family. One moment"—and as we went outside I stopped and cracked it in the door.
It was an inspiration. At the very next application of the match I found that I had established a connection with the lighted end. Not a long and steady connection, but one that came in gusts. After two gusts I decided that it was perhaps safer to blow from my end, and for a little while we had in this way as much smoke around us as the most fastidious cigar-smoker could want. Then I accidentally dropped it; something in the middle of it shifted, I suppose—and for the rest of my stay behind it only one end was at work.
"Well," said Charles, when we were back in the smoking-room, and I was giving the cigar a short breather, "it's not a bad one, is it?"
"I have enjoyed it," I said truthfully, for I like trying to get the mastery over a thing that defies me.
"You'll never guess what it cost," he chuckled.
"Tell me," I said. "I daren't guess."
"Well, in English money it works out at exactly three farthings."
I looked at him for a long time and then shook my head sadly.
"Charles, old friend," I said, "you've been done."
Herbert is a man who knows all about railway tickets, and packing, and being in time for trains, and things like that. But I fancy I have taught him a lesson at last. He won't talk quite so much about tickets in future.
I was just thinking about getting up when he came into my room. He looked at me in horror.
"My dear fellow!" he said. "And you haven't even packed! You'll be late. Here, get up, and I'll pack for you while you dress."
"Do," I said briefly.
"First of all, what clothes are you going to travel in?"
There was no help for it. I sat up in bed and directed operations.
"Right," said Herbert. "Now, what about your return ticket? You mustn't forget that."
"You remind me of a little story," I said. "I'll tell it you while you pack—that will be nice for you. Once upon a time I lost my return ticket, and I had to pay two pounds for another. And a month afterwards I met a man—a man like you who knows all about tickets—and he said, 'You could have got the money back if you had applied at once.' So I said, 'Give me a cigarette now, and I'll transfer all my rights in the business to you.' And he gave me a cigarette; but unfortunately—"
"It was too late?"
"No. Unfortunately it wasn't. He got the two pounds. The most expensive cigarette I've ever smoked."
"Well, that just shows you," said Herbert. "Here's your ticket. Put it in your waistcoat pocket now."
"But I haven't got a waistcoat on, silly."
"Which one are you going to put on?"
"I don't know yet. This is a matter which requires thought. Give me time, give me air."
"Well, I shall put the ticket here on the dressing-table, and then you can't miss it." He looked at his watch. "And the trap starts in half an hour."
"Help!" I cried, and I leapt out of bed.
Half an hour later I was saying good-bye to Herbert.
"I've had an awfully jolly time," I said, "and I'll come again."
"You've got the ticket all right?"
"Rather!" and I drove away amidst cheers. Cheers of sorrow.
It was half an hour's drive to the station. For the first ten minutes I thought how sickening it was to be leaving the country; then I had a slight shock; and for the next twenty minutes I tried to remember how much a third single to the nearest part of London cost. Because I had left my ticket on the dressing-table after all.
I gave my luggage to a porter and went off to the station-master.
"I wonder if you can help me," I said. "I've left my return ticket on the dress—Well, we needn't worry about that, I've left it at home."
He didn't seem intensely excited.
"What did you think of doing?" he asked.
"I had rather hoped that YOU would do something."
"You can buy another ticket, and get the money back afterwards."
"Yes, yes; but can I? I've only got about one pound six."
"The fare to London is one pound five and tenpence ha'penny."
"Ah; well, that leaves a penny ha'penny to be divided between the porter this end, lunch, tea, the porter the other end, and the cab. I don't believe it's enough. Even if I gave it all to the porter here, think how reproachfully he would look at you ever afterwards. It would haunt you."
The station-master was evidently moved. He thought for a moment, and then asked if I knew anybody who would vouch for me. I mentioned Herbert confidently. He had never even heard of Herbert.
"I've got a tie-pin," I said (station-masters have a weakness for tie-pins), "and a watch and a cigarette case. I shall be happy to lend you any of those."
The idea didn't appeal to him.
"The best thing you can do," he said, "is to take a ticket to the next station and talk to them there. This is only a branch line, and I have no power to give you a pass."
So that was what I had to do. I began to see myself taking a ticket at every stop and appealing to the station-master at the next. Well, the money would last longer that way, but unless I could overcome quickly the distrust which I seemed to inspire in station-masters there would not be much left for lunch. I gave the porter all I could afford—a ha'penny, mentioned apologetically that I was coming back, and stepped into the train.
At the junction I jumped out quickly and dived into the sacred office.
"I've left my ticket on the dressing—that is to say I forgot—well, anyhow I haven't got it," I began, and we plunged into explanations once more. This station-master was even more unemotional than the last. He asked me if I knew anybody who could vouch for me—I mentioned Herbert diffidently. He had never even heard of Herbert. I showed him my gold watch, my silver cigarette case, and my emerald and diamond tie-pin—that was the sort of man I was.
"The best thing you can do," he said, walking with me to the door," is to take a ticket to Plymouth and speak to the station-master there—"
"This is a most interesting game," I said bitterly. "What is 'home'? When you speak to the station-master at London, I suppose? I've a good mind to say 'Snap!'"
Extremely annoyed I strode out, and bumped into—you'll never guess—Herbert!
"Ah, here you are," he panted; "I rode after you—the train was just going—jumped into it—been looking all over the station for you."
"It's awfully nice of you, Herbert. Didn't I say good-bye?"
"Your ticket." He produced it. "Left it on the dressing-table." He took a deep breath. "I told you you would."
"Bless you," I said, as I got happily into my train. "You've saved my life. I've had an awful time. I say, do you know, I've met two station-masters already this morning who've never even heard of you. You must inquire into it."
At that moment a porter came up.
"Did you give up your ticket, sir?" he asked Herbert.
"I hadn't time to get one," said Herbert, quite at his ease. "I'll pay now," and he began to feel in his pockets…. The train moved out of the station.
A look of horror came over Herbert's face. I knew what it meant. He hadn't any money on him. "Hi!" he shouted to me, and then we swung round a bend out of sight….
Well, well, he'll have to get home somehow. His watch is only nickel and his cigarette case leather, but luckily that sort of thing doesn't weigh much with station-masters. What they want is a well- known name as a reference. Herbert is better off than I was: he can give them MY name. It will be idle for them to pretend that they have never heard of me.
"May I look at my watch?" I asked my partner, breaking a silence which had lasted from the beginning of the waltz.
"Oh, HAVE you got a watch?" she drawled. "How exciting!"
"I wasn't going to show it to you," I said, "But I always think it looks so bad for a man to remove his arm from a lady's waist in order to look at his watch—I mean without some sort of apology or explanation. As though he were wondering if he could possibly stick another five minutes of it."
"Let me know when the apology is beginning," said Miss White. Perhaps, after all, her name wasn't White, but, anyhow, she was dressed in white, and it's her own fault if wrong impressions arise.
"It begins at once. I've got to catch a train home. There's one at 12.45, I believe. If I started now I could just miss it."
"You don't live in these Northern Heights then?"
"No. Do you?"
"Yes."
I looked at my watch again.
"I should love to discuss with you the relative advantages of London and Greater London," I said; "the flats and cats of one and the big gardens of the other. But just at the moment the only thing I can think of is whether I shall like the walk home. Are there any dangerous passes to cross?"
"It's a nice wet night for a walk," said Miss White reflectively.
"If only I had brought my bicycle."
"A watch AND a bicycle! You ARE lucky!"
"Look here, it may be a joke to you, but I don't fancy myself coming down the mountains at night."
"The last train goes at one o'clock, if that's any good to you."
"All the good in the world," I said joyfully. "Then I needn't walk." I looked at my watch. "That gives us five minutes more. I could almost tell you all about myself in the time."
"It generally takes longer than that," said Miss White. "At least it seems to." She sighed and added, "My partners have been very autobiographical to-night."
I looked at her severely.
"I'm afraid you're a Suffragette," I said.
As soon as the next dance began I hurried off to find my hostess. I had just caught sight of her, when—
"Our dance, isn't it?" said a voice.
I turned and recognized a girl in blue.
"Ah," I said, coldly cheerful, "I was just looking for you. Come along."
We broke into a gay and happy step, suggestive of twin hearts utterly free from care.
"Why do you look so thoughtful?" asked the girl in blue after ten minutes of it.
"I've just heard some good news," I said.
"Oh, do tell me!"
"I don't know if it would really interest you."
"I'm sure it would."
"Well, several miles from here there may be a tram, if one can find it, which goes nobody quite knows where up till one-thirty in the morning probably. It is now," I added, looking at my watch (I was getting quite good at this), "just on one o'clock and raining hard. All is well."
The dance over, I searched in vain for my hostess. Every minute I took out my watch and seemed to feel that another tram was just starting off to some unknown destination. At last I could bear it no longer and, deciding to write a letter of explanation on the morrow, I dashed off.
My instructions from Miss White with regard to the habitat of trams (thrown in by her at the last moment in case the train failed me) were vague. Five minutes' walk convinced me that I had completely lost any good that they might ever have been to me. Instinct and common sense were the only guides left. I must settle down to some heavy detective work.
The steady rain had washed out any footprints that might have been of assistance, and I was unable to follow up the slot of a tram conductor of which I had discovered traces in Two-hundred-and- fifty-first Street. In Three-thousand-eight-hundred- and-ninety-seventh Street I lay with my ear to the ground and listened intently, for I seemed to hear the ting-ting of the electric car, but nothing came of it; and in Four-millionth Street I made a new resolution. I decided to give up looking for trams and to search instead for London—the London that I knew.
I felt pretty certain that I was still in one of the Home Counties, and I did not seem to remember having crossed the Thames, so that if only I could find a star which pointed to the south I was in a fair way to get home. I set out to look for a star; with the natural result that, having abandoned all hope of finding a man, I immediately ran into him.
"Now then," he said good-naturedly.
"Could you tell me the way to—" I tried to think of some place near my London—"to Westminster Abbey?"
He looked at me in astonishment. His feeling seemed to be that I was too late for the Coronation and too early for the morning service.
"Or—or anywhere," I said hurriedly. "Trams, for instance."
He pointed nervously to the right and disappeared.
Imagine my joy; there were tram-lines, and, better still, a tram approaching. I tumbled in, gave the conductor a penny, and got a workman's ticket in exchange. Ten minutes later we reached the terminus.
I had wondered where we should arrive, whether Gray's Inn Road or Southampton Row, but didn't much mind so long as I was again within reach of a cab. However, as soon as I stepped out of the tram, I knew at once where I was.
"Tell me," I said to the conductor; "do you now go back again?"
"In ten minutes. There's a tram from here every half-hour."
"When is the last?"
"There's no last. Backwards and forwards all night."
I should have liked to stop and sympathize, but it was getting late.I walked a hundred yards up the hill and turned to the right…. AsI entered the gates I could hear the sound of music.
"Isn't this our dance?" I said to Miss White, who was taking a breather at the hall door. "One moment," I added, and I got out of my coat and umbrella.
"Is it? I thought you'd gone."
"Oh no, I decided to stay after all. I found out that the trams go all night."
We walked in together.
"I won't be more autobiographical than I can help," I said, "but I must say it's a hard life, a doctor's. One is called away in the middle of a dance to a difficult case of—of mumps or something, and—well, there you are. A delightful evening spoilt. If one is lucky, one may get back in time for a waltz or two at the end.
"Indeed," I said, as we began to dance; "at one time to-night I quite thought I wasn't going to get back here at all."
RONALD, surveying the world from his taxi—that pleasant corner of the world, St James's Park—gave a sigh of happiness. The blue sky, the lawn of daffodils, the mist of green upon the trees were but a promise of the better things which the country held for him. Beautiful as he thought the daffodils, he found for the moment an even greater beauty in the Gladstone bags at his feet. His eyes wandered from one to the other, and his heart sang to him, "I'm going away—I'm going away—I'm going away."
The train was advertised to go at 2.22, and at 2.20 Ronald joined the Easter holiday crowd upon the platform. A porter put down his luggage and was then swallowed up in a sea of perambulators and flustered parents. Ronald never saw him again. At 2.40, amidst some applause, the train came in.
Ronald seized a lost porter.
"Just put these in for me," he said. "A first smoker."
"All this lot yours, sir?"
"The three bags—not the milk-cans," said Ronald.
It had been a beautiful day before, but when a family of sixteen which joined Ronald in his carriage was ruthlessly hauled out by the guard, the sun seemed to shine with a warmth more caressing than ever. Even when the train moved out of the station, and the children who had been mislaid emerged from their hiding-places and were bundled in anywhere by the married porters, Ronald still remained splendidly alone … and the sky took on yet a deeper shade of blue.
He lay back in his corner, thinking. For a time his mind was occupied with the thoughts common to most of us when we go away—thoughts of all the things we have forgotten to pack. I don't think you could fairly have called Ronald over-anxious about clothes. He recognized that it was the inner virtues which counted; that a well-dressed exterior was nothing without some graces of mind or body. But at the same time he did feel strongly that, if you are going to stay at a house where you have never visited before, and if you are particularly anxious to make a good impression, it IS a pity that an accident of packing should force you to appear at dinner in green knickerbockers and somebody else's velvet smoking-jacket.
Ronald couldn't help feeling that he had forgotten something. It wasn't the spare sponge; it wasn't the extra shaving-brush; it wasn't the second pair of bedroom slippers. Just for a moment the sun went behind a cloud as he wondered if he had included the reserve razor-strop; but no, he distinctly remembered packing that.
The reason for his vague feeling of unrest was this. He had been interrupted while getting ready that afternoon; and as he left whatever he had been doing in order to speak to his housekeeper he had said to himself, "If you're not careful, you'll forget about that when you come back." And now he could not remember what it was he had been doing, nor whether he HAD in the end forgotten to go on with it. Was he selecting his ties, or brushing his hair, or—
The country was appearing field by field; the train rushed through cuttings gay with spring flowers; blue was the sky between the baby clouds … but it all missed Ronald. What COULD he have forgotten?
He went over the days that were coming; he went through all the changes of toilet that the hours might bring. He had packed this and this and this and this—he was all right for the evening. Supposing they played golf? … He was all right for golf. He might want to ride …. He would be able to ride. It was too early for lawn-tennis, but … well, anyhow, he had put in flannels.
As he considered all the possible clothes that he might want, it really seemed that he had provided for everything. If he liked, he could go to church on Friday morning; hunt otters from twelve to one on Saturday; toboggan or dig for badgers on Monday. He had the different suits necessary for those who attend a water-polo meeting, who play chess, or who go out after moths with a pot of treacle. And even, in the last resort, he could go to bed.
Yes, he was all right. He had packed EVERYTHING; moreover, his hair was brushed and he had no smut upon his face. With a sigh of relief he lowered the window and his soul drank in the beautiful afternoon. "We are going away—we are going away—we are going away," sang the train.
At the prettiest of wayside stations the train stopped and Ronald got out. There were horses to meet him. "Better than a car," thought Ronald, "on an afternoon like this." The luggage was collected—"Nothing left out," he chuckled to himself, and was seized with an insane desire to tell the coach-man so; and then they drove off through the fresh green hedgerows, Ronald trying hard not to cheer.
His host was at the door as they arrived. Ronald, as happy as a child, jumped out and shook him warmly by the hand, and told him what a heavenly day it was; receiving with smiles of pleasure the news in return that it was almost like summer.
"You're just in time for tea. Really, we might have it in the garden."
"By Jove, we might," said Ronald, beaming.
However, they had it in the hall, with the doors wide open. Ronald, sitting lazily with his legs stretched out and a cup of tea in his hands, and feeling already on the friendliest terms with everybody, wondered again at the difference which the weather could make to one's happiness.
"You know," he said to the girl on his right, "on a day like this,NOTHING seems to matter."
And then suddenly he knew that he was wrong; for he had discovered what it was which he had told himself not to forget … what it was which he had indeed forgotten.
And suddenly the birds stopped singing and there was a bitter chill in the air.
And the sun went violently out.
. . . . . . .
He was wearing only half a pair of spats.