Twelve Stories and a Dream (23 page)

"Three times, fishing like. And no answer. We'd parted in a bit of a
'uff on account of 'er being jealous. So that I couldn't make out for
certain what it meant.

"I didn't know what to do. I didn't even know whether the old man knew
it was me. I sort of kep' an eye open on papers to see when he'd give
up that treasure to the Crown, as I hadn't a doubt 'e would, considering
'ow respectable he'd always been."

"And did he?"

Mr. Brisher pursed his mouth and moved his head slowly from side to
side. "Not 'IM," he said.

"Jane was a nice girl," he said, "a thorough nice girl mind you, if
jealous, and there's no knowing I mightn't 'ave gone back to 'er after a
bit. I thought if he didn't give up the treasure I might 'ave a sort
of 'old on 'im.... Well, one day I looks as usual under Colchester—and
there I saw 'is name. What for, d'yer think?"

I could not guess.

Mr. Brisher's voice sank to a whisper, and once more he spoke behind
his hand. His manner was suddenly suffused with a positive joy. "Issuing
counterfeit coins," he said. "Counterfeit coins!"

"You don't mean to say—?"

"Yes-It. Bad. Quite a long case they made of it. But they got 'im,
though he dodged tremenjous. Traced 'is 'aving passed, oh!—nearly a
dozen bad 'arf-crowns."

"And you didn't—?"

"No fear. And it didn't do 'IM much good to say it was treasure trove."

Miss Winchelsea was going to Rome. The matter had filled her mind for
a month or more, and had overflowed so abundantly into her conversation
that quite a number of people who were not going to Rome, and who were
not likely to go to Rome, had made it a personal grievance against her.
Some indeed had attempted quite unavailingly to convince her that Rome
was not nearly such a desirable place as it was reported to be, and
others had gone so far as to suggest behind her back that she was
dreadfully "stuck up" about "that Rome of hers." And little Lily
Hardhurst had told her friend Mr. Binns that so far as she was concerned
Miss Winchelsea might "go to her old Rome and stop there; SHE (Miss Lily
Hardhurst) wouldn't grieve." And the way in which Miss Winchelsea put
herself upon terms of personal tenderness with Horace and Benvenuto
Cellini and Raphael and Shelley and Keats—if she had been Shelley's
widow she could not have professed a keener interest in his grave—was
a matter of universal astonishment. Her dress was a triumph of tactful
discretion, sensible, but not too "touristy"—Miss Winchelsea, had a
great dread of being "touristy"—and her Baedeker was carried in a cover
of grey to hide its glaring red. She made a prim and pleasant little
figure on the Charing Cross platform, in spite of her swelling pride,
when at last the great day dawned, and she could start for Rome. The
day was bright, the Channel passage would be pleasant, and all the
omens promised well. There was the gayest sense of adventure in this
unprecedented departure.

She was going with two friends who had been fellow-students with her
at the training college, nice honest girls both, though not so good at
history and literature as Miss Winchelsea. They both looked up to her
immensely, though physically they had to look down, and she anticipated
some pleasant times to be spent in "stirring them up" to her own pitch
of aesthetic and historical enthusiasm. They had secured seats already,
and welcomed her effusively at the carriage door. In the instant
criticism of the encounter she noted that Fanny had a slightly
"touristy" leather strap, and that Helen had succumbed to a serge jacket
with side pockets, into which her hands were thrust. But they were much
too happy with themselves and the expedition for their friend to
attempt any hint at the moment about these things. As soon as the first
ecstasies were over—Fanny's enthusiasm was a little noisy and crude,
and consisted mainly in emphatic repetitions of "Just FANCY! we're
going to Rome, my dear!—Rome!"—they gave their attention to their
fellow-travellers. Helen was anxious to secure a compartment to
themselves, and, in order to discourage intruders, got out and planted
herself firmly on the step. Miss Winchelsea peeped out over her
shoulder, and made sly little remarks about the accumulating people on
the platform, at which Fanny laughed gleefully.

They were travelling with one of Mr. Thomas Gunn's parties—fourteen
days in Rome for fourteen pounds. They did not belong to the personally
conducted party of course—Miss Winchelsea had seen to that—but they
travelled with it because of the convenience of that arrangement. The
people were the oddest mixture, and wonderfully amusing. There was a
vociferous red-faced polyglot personal conductor in a pepper-and-salt
suit, very long in the arms and legs and very active. He shouted
proclamations. When he wanted to speak to people he stretched out an arm
and held them until his purpose was accomplished. One hand was full of
papers, tickets, counterfoils of tourists. The people of the personally
conducted party were, it seemed, of two sorts; people the conductor
wanted and could not find, and people he did not want and who followed
him in a steadily growing tail up and down the platform. These people
seemed, indeed, to think that their one chance of reaching Rome lay
in keeping close to him. Three little old ladies were particularly
energetic in his pursuit, and at last maddened him to the pitch of
clapping them into a carriage and daring them to emerge again. For the
rest of the time, one, two, or three of their heads protruded from the
window wailing enquiries about "a little wickerwork box" whenever he
drew near. There was a very stout man with a very stout wife in shiny
black; there was a little old man like an aged hostler.

"What CAN such people want in Rome?" asked Miss Winchelsea. "What can it
mean to them?" There was a very tall curate in a very small straw hat,
and a very short curate encumbered by a long camera stand. The contrast
amused Fanny very much. Once they heard some one calling for "Snooks."
"I always thought that name was invented by novelists," said Miss
Winchelsea. "Fancy! Snooks. I wonder which IS Mr. Snooks." Finally they
picked out a very stout and resolute little man in a large check suit.
"If he isn't Snooks, he ought to be," said Miss Winchelsea.

Presently the conductor discovered Helen's attempt at a corner in
carriages. "Room for five," he bawled with a parallel translation on
his fingers. A party of four together—mother, father, and two
daughters—blundered in, all greatly excited. "It's all right, Ma, you
let me," said one of the daughters, hitting her mother's bonnet with
a handbag she struggled to put in the rack. Miss Winchelsea detested
people who banged about and called their mother "Ma." A young man
travelling alone followed. He was not at all "touristy" in his costume,
Miss Winchelsea observed; his Gladstone bag was of good pleasant leather
with labels reminiscent of Luxembourg and Ostend, and his boots, though
brown, were not vulgar. He carried an overcoat on his arm. Before these
people had properly settled in their places, came an inspection of
tickets and a slamming of doors, and behold! they were gliding out of
Charing Cross station on their way to Rome.

"Fancy!" cried Fanny, "we are going to Rome, my dear! Rome! I don't seem
to believe it, even now."

Miss Winchelsea suppressed Fanny's emotions with a little smile, and
the lady who was called "Ma" explained to people in general why they
had "cut it so close" at the station. The two daughters called her "Ma"
several times, toned her down in a tactless effective way, and drove her
at last to the muttered inventory of a basket of travelling requisites.
Presently she looked up. "Lor'!" she said, "I didn't bring THEM!"
Both the daughters said "Oh, Ma!" but what "them" was did not appear.
Presently Fanny produced Hare's Walks in Rome, a sort of mitigated
guide-book very popular among Roman visitors; and the father of the two
daughters began to examine his books of tickets minutely, apparently in
a search after English words. When he had looked at the tickets for a
long time right way up, he turned them upside down. Then he produced
a fountain pen and dated them with considerable care. The young man,
having completed an unostentatious survey of his fellow travellers,
produced a book and fell to reading. When Helen and Fanny were looking
out of the window at Chiselhurst—the place interested Fanny because the
poor dear Empress of the French used to live there—Miss Winchelsea took
the opportunity to observe the book the young man held. It was not a
guide-book, but a little thin volume of poetry—BOUND. She glanced at
his face—it seemed a refined pleasant face to her hasty glance. He wore
a little gilt pince-nez. "Do you think she lives there now?" said Fanny,
and Miss Winchelsea's inspection came to an end.

For the rest of the journey Miss Winchelsea talked little, and what she
said was as pleasant and as stamped with refinement as she could make
it. Her voice was always low and clear and pleasant, and she took care
that on this occasion it was particularly low and clear and pleasant.
As they came under the white cliffs the young man put his book of poetry
away, and when at last the train stopped beside the boat, he displayed
a graceful alacrity with the impedimenta of Miss Winchelsea and her
friends. Miss Winchelsea hated nonsense, but she was pleased to see
the young man perceived at once that they were ladies, and helped
them without any violent geniality; and how nicely he showed that his
civilities were to be no excuse for further intrusions. None of her
little party had been out of England before, and they were all excited
and a little nervous at the Channel passage. They stood in a little
group in a good place near the middle of the boat—the young man had
taken Miss Winchelsea's carry-all there and had told her it was a good
place—and they watched the white shores of Albion recede and quoted
Shakespeare and made quiet fun of their fellow travellers in the English
way.

They were particularly amused at the precautions the bigger-sized people
had taken against the little waves—cut lemons and flasks prevailed, one
lady lay full-length in a deck chair with a handkerchief over her face,
and a very broad resolute man in a bright brown "touristy" suit walked
all the way from England to France along the deck, with his legs
as widely apart as Providence permitted. These were all excellent
precautions, and, nobody was ill. The personally conducted party pursued
the conductor about the deck with enquiries in a manner that suggested
to Helen's mind the rather vulgar image of hens with a piece of bacon
peel, until at last he went into hiding below. And the young man with
the thin volume of poetry stood at the stern watching England receding,
looking rather lonely and sad to Miss Winchelsea's eye.

And then came Calais and tumultuous novelties, and the young man had not
forgotten Miss Winchelsea's hold-all and the other little things. All
three girls, though they had passed government examinations in French
to any extent, were stricken with a dumb shame of their accents, and
the young man was very useful. And he did not intrude. He put them in a
comfortable carriage and raised his hat and went away. Miss Winchelsea
thanked him in her best manner—a pleasing, cultivated manner—and Fanny
said he was "nice" almost before he was out of earshot. "I wonder what
he can be," said Helen. "He's going to Italy, because I noticed green
tickets in his book." Miss Winchelsea almost told them of the poetry,
and decided not to do so. And presently the carriage windows seized hold
upon them and the young man was forgotten. It made them feel that they
were doing an educated sort of thing to travel through a country whose
commonest advertisements were in idiomatic French, and Miss Winchelsea
made unpatriotic comparisons because there were weedy little sign-board
advertisements by the rail side instead of the broad hoardings that
deface the landscape in our land. But the north of France is really
uninteresting country, and after a time Fanny reverted to Hare's Walks
and Helen initiated lunch. Miss Winchelsea awoke out of a happy reverie;
she had been trying to realise, she said, that she was actually going to
Rome, but she perceived at Helen's suggestion that she was hungry, and
they lunched out of their baskets very cheerfully. In the afternoon they
were tired and silent until Helen made tea. Miss Winchelsea might have
dozed, only she knew Fanny slept with her mouth open; and as their
fellow passengers were two rather nice critical-looking ladies of
uncertain age—who knew French well enough to talk it—she employed
herself in keeping Fanny awake. The rhythm of the train became
insistent, and the streaming landscape outside became at last quite
painful to the eye. They were already dreadfully tired of travelling
before their night's stoppage came.

The stoppage for the night was brightened by the appearance of the young
man, and his manners were all that could be desired and his French quite
serviceable. His coupons availed for the same hotel as theirs, and by
chance as it seemed he sat next Miss Winchelsea at the table d'hote.
In spite of her enthusiasm for Rome, she had thought out some such
possibility very thoroughly, and when he ventured to make a remark upon
the tediousness of travelling—he let the soup and fish go by before he
did this—she did not simply assent to his proposition, but responded
with another. They were soon comparing their journeys, and Helen and
Fanny were cruelly overlooked in the conversation. It was to be the same
journey, they found; one day for the galleries at Florence—"from what I
hear," said the young man, "it is barely enough,"—and the rest at Rome.
He talked of Rome very pleasantly; he was evidently quite well read, and
he quoted Horace about Soracte. Miss Winchelsea had "done" that book of
Horace for her matriculation, and was delighted to cap his quotation. It
gave a sort of tone to things, this incident—a touch of refinement to
mere chatting. Fanny expressed a few emotions, and Helen interpolated
a few sensible remarks, but the bulk of the talk on the girls' side
naturally fell to Miss Winchelsea.