The Wheel Spins (25 page)

“Shall we say ‘Good-bye’ now?” he suggested. “Before we are surrounded with a cloud of witnesses.”

Mrs. Laura ignored his overture.

“‘Good-bye,’” she said, carefully curling her lashes upwards. “Thanks for your hospitality. It’s been a cheap holiday for me, Cheap in every sense.”

In the next coupé the Misses Flood-Porter were facing a major tragedy. It was Miss Flood-Porter who threw the bombshell.

“Rose, did you see the brown suitcase put in the van?”

“No.”

“Then I believe it’s been left behind. It was pushed under the bed, if you remember.”

Their faces were rigid with horror, for their purchases had been packed together for conscientious declaration.

“I was counting on Captain Parker to get them through the Customs for us,” lamented Miss Rose. “But it
may
be in the van.”

“It may. We can do nothing but hope for the best.”

Iris slept on.

When she was a child she suffered from an unsuspected inferiority complex, due to the difference between her lot and that of other children. Although pampered by adults she was exposed to the secret hostility of some of her companions. She was not equal to reprisals, but, at night, her inhibitions found expression in dreams of power, when she sacked the toy-stores and sweet-shops of London with glorious immunity.

Time brought its revenge and Iris got on top of her own little world. But now the professor’s hostility, the antagonism of the doctor and baroness, together with the derision of the other passengers had combined with her sunstroke to make the old inferiority complex flare up again.

The result was that she passed from unconsciousness into one of her childish dreams of power.

She thought she was still on the express and on her way to rescue Miss Froy. The corridors were hundreds of miles long, so that it took her centuries to complete what passed within the limit of a minute. The doctor and a crowd of passengers kept trying to oppose her passages, but she had only to push back their faces, when they dissolved like smoke.

She was mowing them down in swathes when she was aroused by the scream of the engine. Shouts and sudden flashes of light told her that they were rushing into Trieste. Instantly she staggered to her feet—half-awake and half in a dream—and walked directly into the next compartment.

Her action took every one by surprise. No one expected it as it was believed that she was asleep. The doctor and the disguised chauffeur were looking out of the window, watching for the arrival of the ambulance. But Hare—who was chatting to the guard—saw her enter, and he made a frantic effort to stop her.

He was too late. Still under the influence of her dream of power and secure in her knowledge of immunity which raised her high above the fear of consequences—Iris rushed towards the invalid and tore the plaster from her face.

The doctor had made the final mistake of an unlucky venture when he gave her the sleeping-draught. Had she carried out her threat to go to the Embassy, she might have encountered incredulity and delay. But the drug had given her the courage to do the impossible thing.

As the criss-cross of strips peeled off and dangled in her fingers like a star-fish, Hare held his breath with horror. Then the guard behind him gave a whistle of astonishment as, instead of spurting blood and raw mutilated flesh, the sound though reddened skin of a middle-aged woman was revealed.

Iris gave a low cry of recognition.

“
Miss Froy
.”

Two days later Iris stood on the platform of Victoria Station, watching the dispersal of the passengers. Among the first to leave were the Misses Flood-Porter. Confident in their right to preferential treatment, they stood aloof with pleased expressions, while an influential gentleman, with an authoritative voice and an infallible method with officials, shouted and shepherded their luggage through the Customs.

Once, by mistake, they looked at Iris, but they were too preoccupied to bow. This was England, where she went out of their lives.

They were very gracious, however, to Mrs. Barnes, when she came to wish them “Good-bye.” Her face was radiant with happiness born of a telegram which she had received at Calais.

“Gabriel’s cold quite gone very well again.”

In spite of her impatience to get home to him she lingered to listen to the last snatch of gossip from the sisters.

“Wasn’t it
peculiar
about the honeymoon couple?” asked the elder Miss Flood-Porter. “I know he wasn’t on the Venice train, because I looked. And she got off at Milan—alone.”

“Yes,” nodded Mrs. Barnes. “I know my husband wouldn’t like me to say it—but it makes you wonder if they were really married.”

“Of course they weren’t,” scoffed Miss Rose. “I’m precious glad we had nothing to do with them. If there had been a divorce action later on,
we
might have been subpœnaed as witnesses.”

“Exactly,” agreed her sister. “It just shows how careful one should be when one is abroad. We always keep to our rule
never
to get mixed up in other people’s business.”

Iris smiled rather bitterly at the conscious virtue in their voices. It reminded her of what she had suffered as a result of their policy of superb isolation. With a shrug she turned her back on the affectionate leave-taking to watch instead the long thin white beams—as of a myriad searchlights—thrown by the sun through the smoky glass roof.

Although she was still shaky she felt quick with fresh life—glad to be back—glad to be alive. While Hare was scouting round the piles of luggage, her thoughts slipped back to the journey. Her memories were dim, with many blanks.

There was a black-out at Trieste, when she crashed completely, and she did not realise her surroundings until she was rushing through the darkness in the Italian train. Some one with lustrous black eyes looked after her, while Hare came and went. She slept most of the time, but whenever she woke she was conscious of happiness.

The carriage was crowded with other passengers, all shouting, smoking and gesticulating. She could not understand a word, but she felt in perfect tune and sympathy with all of them. There was so much happiness in the world with the prospect of joyous reunions. The barriers of language were down, so that they were not alien nationalities but fellow-citizens of the world, united by the common touch.

In the morning she discovered another passenger in the carriage—a little drab, middle-aged woman, with a small lined face and vivid blue eyes.

Iris gave a cry of rapture as she hugged her.

“Miss Froy. You horrible little brute to
give
me all that trouble. Oh, darling, darling.”

In spite of the joy of reunion Miss Froy proved a bad exchange for the Italian stranger. Her fussy attentions, her high tinkling laugh, her incessant chatter, became such a strain that Hare had to scheme for intervals of release.

For all the drawbacks, however, there was a sense of great adventure and high hope about the journey. The wind seemed to blow them along when they travelled across the flat stretches of France. Everything moved with them—streaming smoke and fluttering clouds. The wide fields and white sky swam in light, so that they felt that they were sailing through a magic country.

Although she was better Hare refused to answer any of Iris’ questions.

“Tell you in London,” he always said.

She reminded him of his promise when he returned with her suitcase, duly chalked.

“I can’t wait another minute,” she told him.

“Righto,” he agreed. “Take a pew.”

Squatting together on a luggage truck and smoking cigarettes, she listened to his story.

“It was all very tame. No rough-house—no nothing. The guard was a hero. He knew just what to do, and the doctor and the two nurses went like lambs. You see, they’ll probably only be charged with attempted abduction.”

“What happened to the baroness?” asked Iris.

“Oh, she just sailed out, twice her natural size. No connection at all with the next carriage. But she’ll pull wires and wangle their discharge. Wheels within wheels, you know.”

Iris felt indifferent to their fate.

“What did the others say when they heard about Miss Froy?” she inquired eagerly. “After all, I was right—and every one was out of step but me.”

“To be quite candid,” said Hare, “it all went in one ear and out at the other. We had a close shave at Venice and some of the Miss Flood-Porters’ luggage was missing. They were in such a panic about it that they were prostrate afterwards. And the parson’s wife was very worried about her husband.”

“But the professor?”

“Well, he’s the sort that doesn’t like to be proved wrong. When he saw Miss Froy running about like a two-year-old, he thought it was all exaggerated. I overheard him saying to Miss Flood-Porter, ‘People generally get what they invite. I cannot imagine anything of the kind happening to Miss Rose.’”

“Neither can I. Every one seems to be saying ‘Goodbye.’ Here’s my Miss Froy.”

Hare hurriedly made his escape just in time to avoid the little woman. She looked wonderfully fit and seemed actually rejuvenated by her terrible experience.

Although she had grown so irritated by the touch of those hard, dry hands, Iris felt a pang of regret now that the parting was near.

“I’m stopping in London for a few hours,” confided Miss Froy. “Selfridge’s, my dear. Just wandering. Topping.”

She looked after Hare as he chased a taxi, and lowered her voice.

“I’m just making up my story to tell them at home. Mater will be
thrilled
.”

“But do you think it wise to tell her?” objected Iris. “At her age it might prove a shock.”

“Oh, you mean about me.” Miss Froy shook her head and gave Iris the conspiratorial wink of one schoolgirl to another. “I’m going to keep mum about
that
. She’d throw a fit and she wouldn’t let me go back.”

“Are you?” gasped Iris.

“Of course. I shall have to give evidence at the trial, very likely. Besides, all the exciting things seem to happen abroad.”

“You’re a marvel. But what is the story you’re making up?”

Miss Froy grew suddenly young.

“It’s about you—and your romance. Is it true?”

Iris did not know herself until that minute.

“Yes,” she replied. “I’m going with him on his next trip.”

“Then I’m first to congratulate you. And, one day, perhaps you’ll congratulate
me
. And now I must fly to send off my wire.”

Not long afterwards, a telegram was received at the little grey stone house. Mr. and Mrs. Froy read it together, and later each read it, privately, to Sock.

“Home 8.10 too topping Winnie.”

That evening Mrs. Froy stood at the window of Winnie’s bedroom. Although she could not see the railway station, she got a glimpse of one amber signal lamp through a gap in the trees.

Everything was ready for her daughter’s return. The table was laid in the dining-room and decorated with vases of white dahlias and claret-tinted carrot-tops. The hot-water bottles had been removed from the bed. The rarely-used lamp had been lit in the hall, and the front door thrown open in readiness, so that a strip of light carpeted the mossy garden path.

The supper was keeping hot in the oven. Mrs. Froy always cooked sausages and mashed potatoes for the first meal, under the mistaken impression that it was Winnie’s favourite dish. It had been, some thirty years ago—but Winnie never had the heart to undeceive her.

Outside the window was darkness and silence. The stars were frosty and the keen air held the odour of autumnal bonfires. Then, suddenly, the stillness was torn by the scream of the distant train.

Mrs. Froy could trace its approach by the red cloud, quivering about the belt of elms which hid the station. She knew when it stopped, because the engine panted and blew off some steam.

It rattled on again, leaving her guessing. She wondered whether it had brought Winnie. Perhaps she had lost her connection in London. She could see nothing—hear nothing—for she was growing deaf and her eyes were beginning to fail.

The surrounding darkness baffled her and cheated her with unredeemed promises. Figures advanced through the gloom, but—just as her heart leaped in welcome—they always changed back to trees. She strained vainly to catch the first sound of voices—her husband’s deep tones and a girl’s high-pitched treble.

As she held her breath in suspense, somewhere in the distance a dog barked. Again and again, in frantic excitement. Then through the open gate and up the lighted path charged the clumsy shape of a big shaven dog—capering like an overgrown puppy—whirling round in circles—leaping at his shadow—falling over himself in his blundering haste.

It was the herald who had rushed on ahead, to tell her that the young mistress had come home.