The Wheel Spins (9 page)

Presently there was a stir among the other passengers. The little girl began to whine fretfully, while the father appeared to reason with her. Iris guessed that she had complained of sleepiness, and had been persuaded to take a nap, when she saw the mother’s preparations to keep her daughter’s trim appearance intact.

After the black patent belt and the organdie collar had been removed, she drew out a net and arranged it carefully over the little girl’s permanent wave. The blonde beauty showed her first signs of animation as she watched the process, but her interest died when the matron pulled off her child’s buckled shoes and replaced them with a pair of shabby bedroom-slippers.

Finally she pointed to Miss Froy’s vacant place.

Iris felt a rush of disproportionate resentment when she saw the little girl sitting in the spinster’s seat. She wished she could protest by signs, but was too self-conscious to risk making an exhibition of herself.

“When she comes back, Miss Froy will soon turn her out,” she thought.

Upon reflection, however, she was not so sure of direct action. When she remembered the friendly spirit Miss Froy displayed towards every one, she felt certain that she had already established a pleasant understanding with her fellow passengers.

The little girl was so heavy with sleep that she closed her eyes directly she curled up in her corner. The parents looked at each other and smiled. They caught the blonde beauty’s attention, and she, too, nodded with polite appreciation. Only Iris remained outside the circle.

She knew that she was unjustly prejudiced, since she was the real interloper, yet she hated this calm appropriation of Miss Froy’s place. It was as though the other passengers were taking unfair advantage of her absence—since she could not turn out a sleeping child.

Or even as though they were acting on some secret intelligence.

They were behaving as though they
knew
she was not coming back. In a panic, Iris looked at her watch, to find, to her dismay, that the half-hour had slipped away.

The lapse of time was registered outside the window. The overcast sky had grown darker and the first mists were beginning to collect in the corners of the green saturated fields. Instead of crocuses, she saw the pallid fungoid growths of toadstools or mushrooms.

As the sadness of twilight stole over her, Iris began to hunger for company. She wanted cheerful voices, lights, laughter; but although she thought wistfully of the crowd, she was even more anxious to see a little lined face and hear the high rushing voice.

Now that she was gone, she seemed indefinite as a dream. Iris could not reconstruct any clear picture of her, or understand why she should leave such a blank.

“What was she
like
?” she wondered.

At that moment she chanced to look up at the rack. To her surprise, Miss Froy’s suitcase was no longer there.

In spite of logic, her nerves began to flutter at this new development. While she told herself that it was obvious that Miss Froy had moved to another compartment, the circumstances did not fit in. To begin with, the train was so overcrowded that it would be difficult to find an empty unreserved place.

On the other hand, Miss Froy had mentioned some muddle about her seat. It was barely possible that it had proved available, after all.

“No,” decided Iris, “the baroness had already paid the difference for her to travel first. And I’m sure she wouldn’t leave me without a word of explanation. She talked of bringing me dinner. Besides, I owe her for my tea. I’m simply bound to find her.”

She looked at the other passengers, who might hold the key to the mystery. Too distracted now to care about appearances, she made an effort to communicate with them. Feeling that “English” was the word which should have lightened their darkness, she started in German.

“Wo ist die dame
English?
”

They shook their heads and shrugged, to show that they did not understand. So she made a second attempt.

“Où est la dame
English?
”

As no sign of intelligence dawned on their faces, she spoke to them in her own language.

“Where is the English lady?”

The effort was hopeless, She could not reach them, and they showed no wish to touch her. As they stared at her, she was chilled by their indifference, as though she were outside the pale of civilised obligations.

Feeling suddenly desperate, she pointed to Miss Froy’s seat, and then arched her brows in exaggerated inquiry. This time she succeeded in arousing an emotion, for the man and his wife exchange amused glances, while the blonde’s lip curled with disdain. Then, as though she scented entertainment, the little girl opened her black eyes and broke into a snigger, which she suppressed instantly at a warning glance from her father.

Stung by their ridicule, Iris glared at them, as she crossed to the baroness and shook her arm.

“Wake up, please,” she entreated.

She heard a smothered gasp from the other passengers, as though she had committed some act of sacrilege. But she was too overwrought to remember to apologise, when the baroness raised her lids and stared at her with outraged majesty.

“Where is Miss Froy?” asked Iris.

“Miss Froy?” repeated the baroness. “I do not know any one who has that name.”

Iris pointed to the seat which was occupied by the little girl.

“She sat
there
,” she said.

The baroness shook her head.

“You make a mistake,” she declared. “No English lady has sat there ever.”

Iris’ head began to reel.

“But she
did
,” she insisted. “I talked to her. And we went and had tea together. You must remember.”

“There is nothing to remember.” The baroness spoke with slow emphasis. “I do not understand what you mean at all. I tell you this. There has been no English lady, here, in this carriage, never, at any time, except you.
You
are the only English lady here.”

Iris opened her lips only to close them again. She had the helpless feeling of being shouted down by some terrific blast of sound. The baroness had made a statement which was an outrage on the evidence of her senses; but it was backed up by the force of an over-powering authority.

As she held the girl’s eye, challenging her denial, Iris looked at the leaden eyelids, the deep lines graven from nose to chin—the heavy obstinate chin. The lips were drawn down in a grimace which reminded her of a mask of the Muse of Tragedy.

She realised that further protest was useless. The baroness would flatten down any attempt at opposition with relentless pressure. The most she could do was to acknowledge defeat with a shrug which disdained further argument.

Her composure was only bluff for she felt utterly bewildered as she sank back in her seat. She was scarcely conscious of slides of twilight scenery streaming past the window, or of the other passengers. A village shot out of the shadows and vanished again in the dimness. She caught the flash of a huddle of dark roofs and the white streak of a little river, which boiled under a hooded bridge.

The next second the church tower and wooden houses were left behind as the express rocked on its way back to England. It lurched and shrieked as though in unison with the tangle of Iris’ thoughts.

“No Miss Froy? Absurd. The woman must be mad. Does she take me for a fool? But why does she say it?
Why
?”

It was this lack of motive which worried her most. Miss Froy was such a harmless little soul that there could be no reason for her supression. She was on friendly terms with every one.

Yet the fact remained that she had disappeared, for Iris was positive now that she would not come back to the carriage. In a sudden fit of nerves she sprang to her feet.

“She must be somewhere on the train,” she argued. “I’ll find her.”

She would not admit it, but her own confidence was flawed by the difficulty of finding a reason for Miss Froy’s absence. She had taken Iris under her wing, so that it was entirely out of line with her character as a kindly little busybody for her to withdraw in such an abrupt and final manner.

“Does she think I might be sickening from some infectious disease?” she wondered. “After all, she’s so terribly keen to get back to her old parents and the dog, that she wouldn’t dare run risks of being held up. Naturally she would sacrifice me.”

Her progress down the train was a most unpleasant experience. It had been difficult when Miss Froy acted the part of a fussy little tug and had cleared a passage for her. Now that more passengers had grown tired of sitting in cramped compartments and had emerged to stretch, or smoke, the corridor was as closely packed with tourists as a melon with seeds.

Iris did not know how to ask them to step aside and she did not like to push. Moreover, the fact that she was attractive did not escape the notice of some of the men. Each time a swerve of the express caused her to lurch against some susceptible stranger, he usually believed that she was making overtures.

Although she grew hot with annoyance her chief emotion was one of futility. She had no hope of finding Miss Froy in such confusion. Whenever she passed each fresh compartment to peer inside she always saw the same blur of faces.

Because she was beginning to run a temperature, these faces appeared as bleared and distorted as creations of a nightmare. It was a relief when she worked her way down the train, in an unavailing search, to see the vicar and his wife in one of the crowded carriages.

They were sitting opposite each other. Mr. Barnes had closed his eyes and his face was set. In spite of his sunburn it was plain that he was far from well and was exerting his will-power to subdue his symptoms.

His wife watched him with strained attention. She looked wan and miserable, as though—in imagination—she was sharing his every pang of train-sickness.

She did not smile when Iris struggled inside and spoke to her.

“Sorry to bother you but I’m looking for my friend.”

“Oh, yes?”

There was the familiar forced brightness in Mrs. Barnes’ voice but her eyes were tragic.

“You remember her?” prompted Iris. “She sent the waiter with your tea.”

The vicar came to life.

“It was kind indeed,” he said. “Will you give her my special thanks?”

“When I find her,” promised Iris. “She went out of the carriage some time ago—and she hasn’t come back.”

“I haven’t noticed her pass the window,” said Mrs. Barnes. “Perhaps she went to wash. Anyway, she couldn’t possibly be lost.”

Iris could see that she was concentrating on her husband and had no interest in some unknown woman.

“Can I find her for you?” offered the vicar manfully, struggling to his feet.

“Certainly
not
.” His wife’s voice was sharp. “Don’t be absurd, Kenneth. You don’t know what she looks like.”

“That’s true. I should be more hindrance than help.”

The vicar sank back gratefully and looked up at Iris with a forced smile.

“Isn’t it humiliating to be such a wretched traveller?” he asked.

“I wouldn’t talk,” advised his wife.

Iris took the hint and went out of the compartment. She, too, considered the vicar’s weakness was a major misfortune. He was not only a man of high principle but she was sure that he possessed imagination and sympathy; yet she was unable to appeal to him for help because nature had laid him low.

Because she was beginning to fear that she faced failure she grew more frantic with determination to find Miss Froy. If she failed she was loaded with a heavy responsibility.

Of all the people in the train she—alone—seemed conscious of the disappearance of a missing passenger.

She shrank from the prospect of trying to arouse these callous strangers from their apathy. As she clung to rails and was buffeted by the impacts of other tourists pushing their way past her, she hated them all. In her strung-up condition she could not realise that these people might experience her own sensations were they suddenly placed in a crowded London Tube or New York Subway and jostled by seemingly hostile and indifferent strangers.

When she reached the reserved portion of the train, the blind was still pulled down over the Todhunters’ window, but she recognised the Misses Flood-Porter in one of the reserved coupés. They sat on different sides of the tiny compartment—each with her feet stretched out on the seat. The elder lady wore horn-rimmed glasses and was reading a Tauchnitz, while Miss Rose smoked a cigarette.

They looked very content with life and although kind-hearted, the sight of others standing in the corridors subtly enhanced their appreciation of their own comfort.

“Smug,” thought Iris bitterly.

They made her realise her own position. She reminded herself that her place, too, was in a reserved compartment, instead of fighting her way into the privacy of strange people.

“Why am I taking it?” she wondered as she met the unfriendly glance of the ladies. Miss Rose’s was perceptibly more frigid as though she were practising gradations, in preparation for the cut direct, at Victoria Station.

At last she had combed the train with the exception of the restaurant-car. Now that tea was finished it was invaded by men who wanted to drink and smoke in comfort.

As she lingered at the entrance to make sure that Miss Froy was not inside seeking her soul-mate of whom she had spoken, a hopeful young man touched Iris’ arm. He said something unintelligible which she translated as an invitation to refreshment, and leered into her face.

Furious at the liberty she shook him off and was on the point of turning away, when, amid the rumble of masculine voices, she distinguished the distinctive vowels of an Oxford accent.

She was trying to locate it when she caught sight of the spade-bearded doctor. His bald, domed head, seen through the murk of smoke, reminded her of a moon rising through the mist. His face was blanched and bony—his dead eyes were magnified by his thick glasses.

As they picked her out with an impersonal gaze, she felt as though she had been pinned down and classified as a type.