What's Become of Waring, page 17
Later in the afternoon we went with him to the train and saw him off. In the end he seemed quite sorry to leave. Eustace insisted on giving him a sample bottle of Vieux Marc to help him through the night.
‘See you in London’ were Hudson’s last words.
Eustace and I walked back across the dusty square. ‘I think,’ said Eustace, ‘he will soon be owning one of those vessels which are described as rubber, handleless, lunatic officers, for the use of.’
‘I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘How did he get in such a state?’
‘T. T. Waring and Roberta Payne.’
‘And yourself.’
‘I suppose so.’
A boy passed selling Le Petit Provençal. Eustace had a pathological urge to buy any periodical he saw exposed for sale. He took a copy.
‘Let’s rest here for a while.’
We sat down in a cafe on one of the corners of the square. It was getting hot again. Eustace studied his paper.
‘This storm seems to have done the hell of a lot of damage,’ he said.
‘Read out any funny bits.’
‘What about this? Crime odieux d’un Quinquagénaire.’
‘Was that the result of the storm?’
‘No; he thought it up last week.’
‘Go ahead.’
Eustace read the passage, translating as he went.
‘Anything more like that?’
‘Do you want to hear Un ouvrier métallurgiste a abattu sa maîtresse d’un coup de couteau?’
‘Use your judgment.’
Eustace continued his running commentary.
‘What a banal story.’
Eustace folded up the paper and put it in his pocket. He said:
‘The more I get married the more sure I am that it is the natural state for men and women. I shall begin looking round again. I have been without a wife for too long.’
‘Have you anyone in mind?’
‘I have my lists at home,’ Eustace said. ‘Let’s go back to the pub. I want a sleep before dinner.’
I returned to England about a week later.
8
IN London things were much as usual. There was, however, a letter from the advertising agency I had approached before going abroad which held out some hope that they might need my services. At present they could promise nothing. Something more definite in the way of answer would be sent in a week or two. It looked as if my days with Judkins & Judkins might be numbered. In the used-up atmosphere of late summer even the prospect of more money was not specially stimulating. As usual after coming home from the Continent, I felt that the only acceptable restorative would be a long holiday.
My desk at the office had been tidied. The galley proofs of Lot’s Hometown lay on the blotting-paper waiting for correction. A pile of manuscripts to be read stretched unevenly into the distance like Hadrian’s Wall. The authors, those middle-aged women in the Midlands, East-Anglian clergy, Scotch students, Indian Civil Servants, and the rest, all finished their novels in August. They sent them off to a publisher at the beginning of September. There were at least eighty of them waiting for inspection. This was surprising, because Hugh had been at work for more than a fortnight. He was accustomed to deal summarily with the stuff that had accumulated while he was away. Bernard was still in Scotland staying with relations.
When I went down to Hugh’s room he was sitting at his table reading a small black book like a hymnal. As he looked up I had the impression that some change had taken place in him since he had gone away. His appearance was healthier than it had been for a long time; but his eyes had sunk back into his head. They were brighter than they had been before his holiday. He smiled with an assurance that he had never carried in the past. It was as if he had put a weight off his mind at the price of a great sacrifice.
‘Good-morning.’
‘Good-morning to you,’ Hugh said.
‘Did you have a nice cruise?’
‘A very nice cruise,’ Hugh said, still grinning.
Sooner or later he would have to be told about T. T. Waring. There was no reason to rush such information. It must not come as a shock. Besides, Hugh’s new manner made it advisable to approach such a subject with caution.
‘There seem a lot of manuscripts waiting to be dealt with.’
‘They can all go back,’ Hugh said. ‘I don’t know why I have not sent them back before.’
That at least was a relief.
‘Is there anything good in at the moment?’
‘One or two very hopeful things,’ Hugh said. ‘A better type of thing altogether.’
He held up the little black book.
‘I’ll hand this over to you when I’ve finished it,’ he said. ‘I think it will interest you.’
‘I see the proofs of Lot’s Hometown have come in. Shall I go through them?’
Hugh’s face clouded over. He closed the little black book, marking the place with a paper-folder.
‘I have been thinking about Lot’s Hometown,’ he said. ‘I have come to the conclusion that we cannot publish it.’
‘But it is already in proof.’
‘It is a book I never liked,’ Hugh said. ‘I have given orders for its publication to be postponed indefinitely.’
‘The author or his agents will have something to say.’
‘Some other publisher can take it from the printer at advantageous terms. We do not want to handle muck like that.’
Hugh was breathing heavily. He had worked himself up all at once into an extraordinary state of excitement. So far as I could remember, it was Hugh himself who had read a review of the book in an American paper and had suggested sending for it. Bernard had never liked it. The only explanation of this volte-face was that the novel was to be abandoned as a concession to Bernard and that Hugh was feigning disgust to save his face.
‘What sort of a time did you have in France?’ Hugh said, with the tone of one who changes the subject deliberately.
‘A lot of things happened. Shall I tell you about them? It is rather a long story.’
‘Go ahead.’
Hugh showed little or no interest in the narrative of events from the discovery of T. T. Waring’s plagiarisms to the revelation that he was Alec Pimley. He behaved as if he was having someone’s dreams described to him. Halfway through the chronicle I began to wonder if he were even listening. At the end he said:
‘So T. T. Waring was a fake from start to finish?’
‘Yes.’
‘And he is now married to Mrs. Cromwell?’
‘Yes.’
‘And he always has been a mauvais sujet?’
‘Yes.’
‘I am not surprised.’
‘But I thought you admired him so much.’
‘I used to. Now I see more clearly.’
‘It was a great disappointment to Hudson.’
‘Hudson should turn his mind to more serious matters. I don’t know why he wanted to meddle with writing at all. It wasn’t his avocation. He should stick to his last.’
Hugh had often shown contradictory moods, but this was something out of the ordinary run of caprice. That he should hear of the exposure of his favourite author with approval showed that something radical had changed his point of view. It looked as if Roberta might be at the bottom of this. At the same time it was hard to see how even she could have brought about such an apostasy.
‘By the way, are you doing anything special this evening?’ Hugh said.
‘I am, unfortunately.’
I was going round to see Roberta after dinner. I had arranged this before coming down to see Hugh. I thought that he was going to suggest my assisting at another séance.
That’s a pity.’
‘Not another sitting by any chance?’
‘No,’ said Hugh, and his voice almost broke with the force he put into it. ‘I’m finished with all that.’
‘Oh, really?’
‘The Truth is not there.’
And then he laughed abruptly as if he had not meant to speak in so serious a tone.
‘You know, I’ve always thought it was a lot of rot,’ he said; ‘and at last I decided that it was too much waste of time to go on with. I wanted to ask you whether you had ever heard of the Sons and Daughters of the Tabernacle.’
‘I can’t say I have.’
‘They are rather an amusing little sect. They happen to be holding a meeting tonight. I thought we might have dropped in.’
I suppose I must have looked so surprised that Hugh felt some further explanation was necessary. He said:
‘I have become interested in some of those little cults recently. You know, there is a lot in some of them. This particular one is run by a very intelligent fellow. He is a retired lieutenant-commander, as a matter of fact.’
‘But what do you do at them?’
‘I like attending their services,’ Hugh said. ‘It broadens one’s outlook. They very flatteringly asked me to give an address one evening. I said I couldn’t tie myself down about that.’
‘I should like to be present if you ever decide you will speak.’
‘You must certainly come some time,’ Hugh said.
He spoke quickly while he was telling me about his new hobby. It was just the way he used to refer to his Spirits. He seemed to see nothing exceptional in the idea that he should get up and speak at a conventicle.
‘So there is nothing special for me to read?’
‘Have a look at this.’
He threw across a tattered bundle of manuscript. I glanced at the title page. It was an account of missionary work in the Pacific.
‘It looks as if a good many people have seen this before us.’
‘Never mind,’ said Hugh. ‘They are sometimes the best sellers. Anyway, it is the sort of thing we want. More in keeping with the original traditions of the firm.’
I took the manuscript up to my room.
When I had arranged to see Roberta, who had a right to hear about T. T. Waring at the first opportunity, she had said that she had a lot of things to tell me.
‘I have some news for you too.’
‘I’m sure it is not as strange as mine.’
‘I am sure it is.’
After interviewing Hugh I could almost believe this; but at the time it had seemed to me that her budget of information could not possibly rival my own. There was, accordingly, some likelihood that she would be able to throw light on the change that had taken place in Hugh.
Roberta lived in a mews not far from Belgrave Square. It was nicely done up in white with Regency furniture. Someone had given her a small Sickert to hang over the mantelpiece. It was easy to imagine Hudson’s fall in such surroundings. The outside was painted bright yellow. Roberta herself opened the door. She was looking well after her trip and very pretty. I had not seen her since the night of the Territorial dance.
‘First of all,’ she said, ‘I must tell you about poor Mr. Judkins—or Hugh, as I really call him now—though Mr. Judkins suits him so much better. Have you noticed anything about him since he came back?’
‘He is distinctly odd.’
‘That’s what I mean,’ said Roberta. ‘I can’t understand it at all. It happened while we were away.’
‘What did?’
‘Well, you know Mr. Judkins was kind enough to suggest that I should come for a cruise with him up the Scandinavian coast?’
‘I gathered that.’
‘Of course,’ Roberta said, ‘it was rather an extraordinary thing to suggest. One could not possibly have done it with anyone less reliable than Mr. Judkins—don’t laugh, I mean it. In fact, he did say that we might try and get Miss M’Kechnie or someone to come too. I said I thought it would be far more fun if it were just us. You see, by the end of the summer one always feels a bit of a wreck. I thought a nice quiet healthy holiday away from all the people one knows would be such a good thing.’
‘What a sensible girl you are, Roberta.’
‘Aren’t I? Well, this idea seemed to please Mr. Judkins very much, so off we started. At first it was very nice. I thought I had been quite right about Mr. Judkins, who behaved himself perfectly. We both got very brown and healthy and frightfully Scandinavian. And then one day he suddenly asked me if I would marry him.’
‘That always seems to be happening to you. Was Hugh after your money too?’
‘I was really rather embarrassed,’ Roberta said. ‘You see, it was very sweet of him to take me on the cruise and all that, but naturally I did not want to marry him. I had to tell him so.’
‘How did he take that?’
‘He said he knew it had been no good asking. He was rather melancholy and romantic. I tried to be as nice as possible about refusing. I thought it would all be forgotten. But the whole thing seemed to have unsettled him.’
‘What happened?’
‘The next day his manner changed completely soon after lunch. He suddenly asked me if I had ever read a short story by Somerset Maugham called Rain!
‘About a missionary who tried to reform a girl from the Red Light district and then fell for her and committed suicide?’
‘That’s the one. I said I had, and that I thought it very good. Mr. Judkins smiled in the oddest way and said: “Has it ever occurred to you that our relationship is rather like that described in Rain?”’
‘What did you say?’
‘I said I had never worn shiny white boots in my life, and if I did my calves would not bulge over them. I said I could not imagine what he meant and I hoped he was not going to cut his throat on the next bit of beach we came to.’
‘That was a very proper answer.’
‘Then he said: “You know you are a harlot, Roberta, a harlot.” He said it twice.’
‘What frightful cheek!’
‘I thought he had gone crazy. I think he had for the moment, because he began apologising almost as soon as he had said it. He never spoke like that again during the rest of the voyage, which was fortunately nearly over. It was rather awkward, wasn’t it?’
‘It sounds very awkward indeed.’
‘But he was never the same after that. He had been quiet for some days before it happened and had spent a lot of time reading in his cabin. Afterwards he scarcely appeared at all except for meals. Sometimes not even then. But he was always the soul of politeness.’
‘What do you think caused this?’
‘Well,’ said Roberta, ‘I don’t want to seem vain, but I suppose it was disappointment.’
‘It took rather a drastic form.’
‘I was a little reminded of a relation of mine who emigrated to America, where he started a new religion.’
‘But Hugh has never shown any signs of this before.’
‘There was all that spiritualism.’
‘But he approached it from a distinctly sceptical angle.’
‘He told me he came from a family who belonged to some unusual sect. I expect it’s all bursting out.’
‘That’s too bad.’
‘Will it affect the T. T. Waring life?’
Roberta’s description of Hugh had sent the thought of T. T. Waring out of my head. She had still heard nothing of the discoveries that had been made on this subject. I tried to give her some account of what had happened. This took a long time: but, unlike Hugh, Roberta was attentive.
‘And so the book won’t appear anyway?’ she said.
‘It can’t.’
‘There is no reason why I should not try to sell my stuff about T. T. Waring to some paper as a short memoir?’
‘None whatever.’
‘Of course one won’t make much money that way,’ she said. ‘But I suppose it is the best one can hope for. What an extraordinary story it is. Poor Tiger.’
‘Have you seen him since he came back?’
Roberta shook her head. She said:
‘You know, I really rather fell for Tiger at one moment. I thought he looked so handsome in uniform at that extraordinary dance. And then he was captivating while we were having our conversations about T. T. Waring. I think I told you I like shy men. But something happened. I don’t know what it was. He suddenly got offended with me. It was the afternoon I told him that I was going on this Scandinavian trip. He went off in a huff. I haven’t seen him again. Perhaps it was just as well, because he is really rather a bore, isn’t he? And the poor sweet is desperately serious and has no money at all.’
‘That’s the situation.’
‘And he is going to be married to a rather dull girl, isn’t he?’
‘The engagement was broken off.’
‘Did they have a row?’
‘Yes.’
‘How silly of them. He obviously ought to get married and what’s called settle down.’
‘That’s what I think.’
‘Well,’ said Roberta, ‘all these things are very disquieting. It only shows how careful one ought to be.’
‘It does.’
‘Oh, and there is something else,’ she said. ‘You know Judkins & Judkins are publishing my collected articles. I suppose they will come out all right?’
‘They are being printed.’
‘Keep an eye on them, do,’ said Roberta. ‘In Mr. Judkins’ present mood anything might happen.’
Hudson told me that he had enjoyed himself on his journey home through Provence. The amphitheatre at Aries had especially pleased him. He said that nothing much had happened but he had an opportunity to think things over and had come to various decisions.
‘When I got back,’ he said, ‘I went to the C.O. of my Territorials and told him how matters stood. Not in detail, of course, but about my engagement being broken off and so on. I said I wanted to go back to the regiment. He was very decent about it. Said he quite understood. He even thanked me for all I’d done for them. I felt rather a swine.’
‘Which battalion are you going to?’
‘Wait a bit. To give up this job I have to apply to go back to my regiment. I want the time with them to be as short as possible. Or even make my return only nominal.’
‘What are you going to do then?’
‘I had been thinking about whether I could get seconded to the Iraq Levies or the Gold Coast Regiment or some force of that sort. Well, I ran into a fellow called Pemberthy. It was in the swimming-bath at the R.A.C., as a matter of fact. One of the Territorial officers had taken me there.’
