The Lion's Share. Arnold Bennett

an address in London, she had popped out the remark: “Do you know I’m the youngest peeress in England?” And truth shone in her candid and simple smile. They had not found the peer, neither on the ship, nor on the quay, nor in the station. And the peeress would not wait. She was indeed obviously frightened at the idea of remaining in Calais alone, even till the next express. She said that her husband’s “man” would meet the train in Paris. She ate plenteously with Audrey and Miss Ingate in the refreshment-room, and she would not leave them nor allow them to leave her. The easiest course was to let her have her way, and she had it.

      By dint of Miss Ingate’s unscrupulous tricks with small baggage they contrived to keep a whole compartment to themselves. As soon as the train started the peeress began to cry. Then, wiping her heavenly silly eyes, and upbraiding herself, she related to her protectresses the glory of a new manicure set. Unfortunately she could not show them the set, as it had been left in the cabin. She was actually in possession of nothing portable except her clothes, some English magazines bought at Calais, and a handbag which contained much money and many bonbons.

      “He’s done it on purpose,” she said to Audrey as soon as Miss Ingate went off to take tea in the tea-car. “I’m sure he’s done it on purpose. He’s hidden himself, and he’ll turn up when he thinks he’s beaten me. D’you know why I wouldn’t bring that luggage away out of the cabin? Because we had a quarrel about it, at the station, and he said things to me. In fact we weren’t speaking. And we weren’t speaking last night either. The radiator of his—our—car leaked, and we had to come home from the Coliseum in a motor-bus. He couldn’t get a taxi. It wasn’t his fault, but a friend of mine told me the day before I was married that a lady always ought to be angry when her husband can’t get a taxi after the theatre—she says it does ’em good. So first I told him he mustn’t leave me to look for one. Then I said I’d wait where I was, and then I said we’d walk on, and then I said we must take a motor-bus. It was that that finished him. He said: ‘Did I expect him to invent a taxi when there wasn’t one?’ And he swore. So of course I sulked. You must, you know. And my shoes were too thin and I felt chilly. But only a fortnight before I was making cigarettes in the window of Constantinopoulos’s. Funny, isn’t it? Otherwise he’s behaved splendid. Still, what I do say is a man’s no right to be ill when he’s taking you to Paris on your honeymoon. I knew he was going to be ill when I left him in the cabin, but he stuck me out he wasn’t. A man that’s so bad he can’t come to his wife when she’s bad isn’t a man—that’s what I say. Don’t you think so? You know all about that sort of thing, I lay.”

      Audrey said briefly that she did think so, glad that the peeress’s intense and excusable interest in herself kept her from being curious about others.

      “Marriage ain’t all chocolate-creams,” said the peeress after a pause. “Have one?” And she opened her bag very hospitably.

      Then she turned to her magazines. And no sooner had she glanced at the cover of the second one than she gave a squeal, and, fetching deep breaths, passed the periodical to Audrey. At the top of the cover was printed in large letters the title of a story by a famous author of short tales. It ran:

      “MAN OVERBOARD.”

      Henceforward a suspicion that had lain concealed in the undergrowth of the hearts of the two girls stalked boldly about in full daylight.

      “He’s done it, and he’s done it to spite me!” murmured Lady Southminster tearfully.

      “Oh no!” Audrey protested. “Even if he had fallen overboard he’d have been seen and the captain would have stopped the boat.”

      “Where do you come from?” Lady Southminster retorted with disdain. “That’s an omen, that is"—pointing to the words on the cover of the magazine. “What else could it be? I ask you.”

      When Miss Ingate returned the child was fast asleep. Miss Ingate was paler than usual. Having convinced herself that the sleeper did genuinely sleep, she breathed to Audrey:

      “He’s in the next compartment! … He must have hidden himself till nearly the last minute on the boat and then got into the train while we were sending off that telegram.”

      Audrey blenched.

      “Shall you wake her?”

      “Wake her, and have a scene—with us here? No, I shan’t. He’s a fool.”

      “How d’you know?” asked Audrey.

      “Well, he must have been a fool to marry her.”

      “Well,” whispered Audrey. “If I’d been a man I’d have married that face like a shot.”

      “It might be all right if he’d only married the face. But he’s married what she calls her mind.”

      “Is he young?”

      “Yes. And as good-looking in his own way as she is.”

      “Well—”

      But the Countess of Southminster stirred, and the slight movement stopped conversation.

      The journey was endless, but it was no longer than the sleep of the Countess. At length dusk and mist began to gather in the hollows of the land; stations succeeded one another more frequently. The reflections of the electric lights in the compartment could be seen beyond the glass of the windows. The train still ruthlessly clattered and shook and swayed and thundered; and weary lords, ladies and financiers had read all the illustrated magazines and six-penny novels in existence, and they lolled exhausted and bored amid the debris of literature and light refreshments. Then the speed of the convoy slackened, and Audrey, looking forth, saw a pale cathedral dome resting aloft amid dark clouds. It was a magical glimpse, and it was the first glimpse of Paris. “Oh!” cried Audrey, far more like a girl than a widow. The train rattled through defiles of high twinkling houses, roared under bridges, screeched, threaded forests of cold blue lamps, and at last came to rest under a black echoing vault.

      Paris!

      And, mysteriously, all Audrey’s illusions concerning France had been born again. She was convinced that Paris could not fail to be paradisiacal.

      Lady Southminster awoke.

      Almost simultaneously a young man very well dressed passed along the corridor. Lady Southminster, with an awful start, seized her bag and sprang after him, but was impeded by other passengers. She caught him only after he had descended to the platform, which was at the bottom of a precipice below the windows. He had just been saluted by, and given orders to, a waiting valet. She caught him sharply by the arm. He shook free and walked quickly away up the platform, guided by a wise instinct for avoiding a scene in front of fellow-travellers. She followed close after him, talking with rapidity. They receded. Audrey and Miss Ingate leaned out of the windows to watch, and still farther and farther out. Just as the honeymooning pair disappeared altogether their two forms came into contact, and Audrey’s eyes could see the arm of Lord Southminster take the arm of Lady Southminster. They vanished from view like one flesh. And Audrey and Miss Ingate, deserted, forgotten utterly, unthanked, buffeted by passengers and by the valet who had climbed up into the carriage to take away the impedimenta of his master, gazed at each other and then burst out laughing.

      “So that’s marriage!” said Audrey.

      “No,” said Miss Ingate. “That’s love. I’ve seen a deal of love in my time, ever since my sister Arabella’s first engagement, but I never saw any that wasn’t vehy, vehy queer.”

      “I do hope they’ll be happy,” said Audrey.

      “Do you?” said Miss Ingate.

CHAPTER VIII

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EXPLOITATION OF WIDOWHOOD