The Wheel Spins (16 page)

Once again she flattened herself against the window, as the flaxen-haired waiter came down the corridor. Miss Rose saw him pass for she bounded out after him.

“Stop,” she cried in her most imperious tone. “You speak English?”

“Yes, madame.”

“Then get me some matches, please. Matches.”

“Oh, yes, madame.”

“I wonder if he really understood her,” thought Iris, who had grown sceptical of every one.

Her doubts were unfounded, for after a brief interval the waiter returned with a box of matches. He used one to light Miss Rose’s cigarette and handed her the remainder, with a bow.

“The engine-driver is fulfilling his obligations and the express will reach Trieste within the scheduled time,” he informed Miss Rose, who remarked, “Oh, definitely good.”

He seemed anxious to oblige every one. When Iris in her turn called out to him, he wheeled round smartly as though eager for service.

As he recognised her, however, a change came over his face. His smile faded, his eyes shifted, and he appeared to conquer an impulse to bolt.

All the same he listened obediently as she gave her order.

“I’m not going to the dining-car for dinner?” she told him. “I want you to bring me something to my carriage—right at the end of the corridor. A cup of soup or Bovril, or Oval-tine. Nothing solid. You understand?”

“Oh, yes, madame.”

He bowed himself away. But he never brought the soup.

Iris forgot her order directly she had given it. A stream of passengers had begun to file steadily past her, crushing her against the side of the corridor. Since every one was heading in the same direction, she glanced at her watch.

The time told her that the first dinner was about to be served.

“Only three hours now to Trieste,” she thought gladly—goaded no longer by the thought of wasted minutes.

Where she stood she was very much in the way of the procession, and—since the majority was hungry—she was resented as an obstacle. She met with ruthless treatment, but it was useless to fight her way out against the human current. When she made the attempt she was nearly knocked down, as some of the rougher element began to push.

No one appeared to notice her plight as she tried to get out of the jam. The train was racing at top speed, and she was shaken and bruised as she gripped the rail. Terrified of being crushed, her palms were sticky and her heart leaped with panic.

At last the pressure was relaxed and she breathed more freely, as she waited for the better-behaved passengers to pass. Presently a combination of strokes, dots and dashes, in black and white, told her that the family party—linked together—was on its way to dinner. Free from the restraining presence of the baroness, they talked and laughed, evidently in high spirits at the prospect of their meal.

Although the parents were sufficiently big to inflict some merciless massage as they squeezed past her, Iris was glad to see them, for she argued that they must be in the tail of the procession. Then the blonde slipped by—cool as a dripping icicle—with unshatterable composure and without one ruffled hair.

Although the corridor was practically clear, Iris still lingered, unable to face the prospect of being alone in the carriage with the baroness. To her relief, however, the personage herself came in sight, accompanied by the doctor. Sure of getting a seat in the dining-car—however late her entrance—she had waited for the mob to disperse.

As her vast black figure surged past Iris, a simile floated into the girl’s mind. An insect and a relentless foot.

The doctor threw her a keen professional glance which noted each symptom of distress. With a formal bow he passed on his way, and she was able to bump and sway along the corridors, back to the empty carriage.

She had barely seated herself, after an involuntary glance at Miss Froy’s empty corner, when Hare hurried in.

“Coming to first dinner?” he asked. “I warn you, the second one will be only the scrapings.”

“No,” she told him, “the waiter’s bringing me some soup here. I’ve been in a rough-house and I simply couldn’t stand the heat.”

He looked at her as she wiped her damp brow.

“Gosh, you look all in. Let me get you a spot. No? Well, then, I’ve just had an intriguing experience. On my way here, a woman’s trembling hand was laid on my sleeve and a woman’s piteous voice whispered, ‘Could you do something for me?’ I turned and looked into the beautiful eyes of the vicar’s wife. Needless to say, I pledged myself to the service of the distressed lady.”

“Did she want a hot water bottle for her husband?” asked Iris.

“No, she wanted me to send a telegram for her directly we reached Trieste. But now comes the interesting bit. I’m not to let her husband know or suspect anything. After that, I can’t hint at the message.”

“Who wants to know it?” asked Iris dully.

“Sorry. I see you really are flat. I won’t worry you any more. Chin-chin.”

Hare left the compartment, only to pop his head again round the corner of the door.

“There’s the ugliest ministering angel I’ve ever seen in the next carriage,” he told her. “But what I really came back for was this. Do you know who ‘Gabriel’ is?”

“An archangel.”

“I see. You’re definitely
not
in the know.”

As the time passed and no waiter appeared with her soup, Iris came to the conclusion that he was too rushed to remember her order. But she felt too limp to care. All that mattered was the crawling hands of her watch, which drew her imperceptibly nearer to Trieste.

As a matter of fact, the fair waiter possessed a heart of gold, together with a palm which twitched an instinctively as a divining-twig in the direction of a tip. He would have found time to rush in that cup of soup, whatever the demand on his resource. The only drawback was he knew nothing about the order.

Like most of his fellow-countrymen, he had been made a good linguist by the method of interchange between families of different nationalities. As he was ambitious, he felt that one extra language might turn the scale in his favour, when he applied for a job. Accordingly, he learned English from his teacher, who had taught himself the language from a book of phonetic pronunciation.

The waiter, who was an apt pupil, passed his school examination and was able to rattle off strings of English phrases but the first time he heard the language spoken by a Briton, he was unable to understand it.

Fortunately English tourists were rare and most of their conversation was limited to the needs of their meals. While his ear was growing accustomed, therefore, he managed to keep his job by bluff and by being a good guesser.

Miss Rose’s unlighted cigarette gave him the clue that she wanted matches. Moreover her voice was loud and she was brief.

But in Iris, he met his Waterloo. Her low husky voice and unfamiliar words beat him completely. After his first nerve-racking experience, he could only fall back on the mechanical, “Yes, madame,” and rush to take cover.

Before the other passengers returned to the carriage, Iris had another visitor—the professor. He took off his glasses to polish them nervously, while he explained the nature of his mission.

“Hare has been talking to me, and—frankly—he is worried about you. I don’t want to alarm you. Of course, you are not ill—that is, not definitely ill—but we are wondering if you are fit to continue the journey alone.”

“Of course I am,” cried Iris in a panic. “I’m perfectly fit. And I don’t want any one to worry on my account.”

“Yet, if you should collapse later, it would be decidedly awkward for you and every one. I was discussing it with the doctor, just now, and he came to the rescue with an admirable suggestions.”

As he paused, Iris’ heart began to flutter with apprehension, for she knew by instinct what the proposal would be.

“The doctor,” went on the professor, “is taking a patient to a hospital at Trieste, and he offers to see you safely placed in a recommended nursing-home for the night.”

As the professor made his proposal, Iris saw the opening of the trap. But he had forgotten the bait. She was a free agent—and nothing could induce her to walk inside.

“I will not go anywhere with that doctor,” she said.

“But—”

“I refuse to discuss it.”

The professor seemed about to argue, so she decided that it was no time for politeness.

“I can’t pretend to be grateful for your interest,” she told him. “I consider it interference.”

The professor stiffened at the last word.

“I have not the slightest wish to be intrusive,” he said. “But Hare was genuinely concerned about you, and he asked me to use my influence.”

“No one can influence me to go with that horrible doctor.”

“In that case there is no more to be said.”

The professor was only too thankful to be rid of his responsibility. Since the girl was bent on antagonising those who held out a helping hand, there would be time for a smoke, while he waited for the second dinner.

Iris did not like the professor’s face, but his Harris-tweed back was British and reassuring. She realised with a pang that she was sending it away.

Acting on impulse she called him back.

“I won’t go with that doctor,” she said. “He’s like death, but—supposing I
should
flop—which is absurd—I’d go with
you
.”

She thought she was making a concession, but at that there were two frightened people in the carriage.

“That’s is impossible,” said the professor sharply, to hide his nervousness. “The circumstances put it out of court. The doctor has made you a kind and helpful offer—which comes best from a medical man.”

He opened the door of the trap again, but she shook her head. She would never go inside. Unless—of course—she were tricked.

It was a disquieting reflection, for she was beginning to think that she could trust no one. Even Hare had let her down. While he was, in reality, concerned about her condition, he had been facetious about Mrs. Barnes. According to him, she had asked him to send a telegram to some man called “Gabriel,” while her husband was to be kept in the dark.

Since it was impossible to connect the vicar’s wife with a clandestine affair, Iris concluded that Hare had been trying to pull the wool over her eyes.

She resented the feebleness of the effort, especially as Mrs. Barnes was connected with a poignant memory. It was she who had driven away Miss Froy and sent her groping back into Limbo.

Iris could not forgive her for that, for she was missing badly the support which only the little governess could give. At this juncture, she knew she would be safe in those experienced hands. She felt terrified, sick, friendless—for she had burned her bridges.

Besides, whenever she thought about the mystery, she felt near the border-line of that world which was filled with shifting shadows—where phantasy usurped reality, and she existed merely in the Red King’s dream. Unless she kept a firm grip on herself, her sanity might hang—or crash—on the fact of Miss Froy’s existence.

There were others in that trainful of holiday folk who were in a worse plight than herself. One was the invalid in the next carriage. Although she was chiefly unconscious, the flash of every lucid second held the horror of the shock which had stunned her into darkness. And if the moment lasted a fraction too long, there was time for a cloud of awful doubts to arise.

“Where am I? What is going to happen to me? Where are they taking me?”

Luckily, before these questions could be answered, the flare always died down again.
So
, therefore, she was in better case than Edna Barnes, who was in full possession of her faculties while she endured a protracted martyrdom of mental suffering.

She had been completely happy in anticipation of their last mountain ramble when she saw the letter in the pigeonhole of the bureau. Her mother-in-law’s handwriting gave her a warning pang which broke slightly the shock of the contents of the note.

“I’ve been wondering what to do for the best,” wrote the excellent lady. “I don’t want to make you anxious during your long journey, yet, on the other hand, I feel I ought to prepare you for a disappointment. I had hoped to have Gabriel in perfect health for your return, and up to now he’s been splendid. But now he has developed a cold in his chest. He is quite comfortable and the doctor says he is going on as well as can be expected. So there is no need for you to worry.”

Edna Barnes skimmed the letter in a flash which read between the lines. If her mother-in-law had composed it with a view to alarm her, she could not have succeeded better. All the familiar soothing phrases were there. “No need to worry.” “As well as can be expected.” “Comfortable”—the hospitable formula for a hopeless case.

A cold on the chest could camouflage bronchitis or even pneumonia; and she had heard that a big strong baby, stricken by these complaints, was sometimes snuffed out after a few hours’ illness. Her heart nearly burst as she wondered whether, at that moment, he were already dead.

Then her husband called out to inquire the contents of the letter. The answer had been “Margaret Rose silk.”

She had lied with a fierce protective instinct to save him from her own agony. There was no need for two to suffer, if she could bear his pain for him. Screening her torment with her habitual smile, she racked her brains desperately for some reason to leave for England that same day.

Just as the vicar took the packet of sandwiches from her, preparatory to their start, she snatched at the excuse of Miss Rose Flood-Porter’s warning dream.

Although he was disappointed, the vicar gave way to her in the matter. The sisters, too, decided to take no chances, when they heard that the vicar’s wife had changed her plans owing to superstitious presentiments. As the honeymoon couple had previously decided to go, the exodus from the hotel was complete.

For the first time Edna Barnes was glad that her husband suffered from train-sickness. While he sat with closed eyes and gritted teeth, she had some respite from acting. Her only consolation was knowing that she was on her way home. Therefore, when she was threatened with the prospect of an enforced delay at Trieste, she felt desperate.