Fool Errant Read online

  “Please,” said the girl with a gasp. “Please, sir, are you Mr. Hugo?”

  “My name’s Hugo Ross.”

  The girl also was aware of Mrs. Parford. She dropped her voice to a mumble:

  “Because she said, sir, as I was to be sure and not give it to no one but Mr. Hugo hisself.”

  “Give what?”

  “Not on no account,” said the girl.

  Hugo took out of his pocket the letter which he had received that morning from his uncle’s solicitor. It was addressed very clearly to Hugo Ross, Esq. He held it out for the girl to see. The blue eyes stared at it. After a moment she stared at Hugo.

  “She says if it was Mr. Hugo, he’d say what her cousin’s name was. And she said not on no account I wasn’t to give it to no one else”—she paused, and added with a gasp—“nohow.”

  Hugo’s thoughts jumped to the girl in the lane. She had asked his name; he had shouted it after her as the train moved off in its cloud of steam, and the wind had carried his voice away. She must have heard just “Hugo,” and no more. And she had written or sent a message.

  He said eagerly, “You’ve got a letter for me.”

  “Not if you don’t know her cousin’s name, I haven’t.”

  Brown was the name—yes, Brown—Emily Brown; and her husband was a solicitor; his name was Andrew. He said,

  “Mrs. Andrew Brown—Christian name Emily. Is that right?”

  The girl relaxed into a giggle.

  “That’s her! And it’s all right about your being Mr. Hugo, I suppose?”

  “Yes, it’s all right.”

  She dived into the pocket of the brick-red coat and produced a letter.

  “She said to find out for sure and certain whether you was living here, and not to give it to no one else.”

  “Who’s she?” said Hugo quickly.

  He had forgotten Mrs. Parford, but the girl’s round stare dwelt on her.

  “That woman’s a-listening,” she said.

  Hugo looked round impatiently.

  “That’s all right, Mrs. Parford—you needn’t wait.”

  Mrs. Parford sniffed, and faded resentfully. Later on she took away Hugo’s character in the village with a good deal of the “Who’d ha’ thought it?” and “I’m sure I don’t know what the world’s coming to” type of innuendo.

  “She was a-listening,” said the girl. “I know her sort. And I don’t want no one listening to Miss Loveday’s business.”

  Hugo’s heart gave a funny little jump at the name. He had not the slightest idea why this should happen. It had the effect of making him stammer.

  “I s-s-say, d-do give me the letter.”

  The girl went on clutching it.

  “Miss Loveday she wrote to me Tuesday; but I couldn’t come afore, because I don’t get no more than the one afternoon and evenin’ off.”

  “Do you live with Mrs. Brown?”

  “I don’t live in—I obloiges her. And Miss Loveday wrote me to come along to Meade House and find out whether there was a gentleman living here by the name of Mr. Hugo. And Miss Loveday she said very partickler not to give her letter to no one else.”

  “All right, I’m Mr. Hugo. Give it to me.”

  The girl still clutched it.

  “They were in an awful way about Miss Loveday going off,” she said. “And she said not to tell no one as I’d heard from her—and I haven’t neither.” Then, without the slightest pause, “Please, sir, I must be getting along, or my friend that’s waiting for me will be in a reg’lar taking—he gets that jealous. So I’ll be going.”

  She pushed the letter at him and ran away into the dark. Hugo heard a man’s voice on a deep growl, and heard her giggling answer. Then he shut the door and ran upstairs to his own room.

  It was pitch dark, the uncurtained windows as black as the walls. He lit his candle and sat down on the edge of the four-post bed. His heart gave another of those odd jumps as he turned the envelope to the light. There was just his Christian name written on it in a round childish hand—“Hugo.” He tore it open and took out the letter with a most vivid sense of expectation.

  The letter was written in pencil. There was no heading to it; it just began,

  “I’ve told Gertie to find out if you’re at Meade House, and to give you this if you are. If you are, please leave it and come away at once. I can’t tell you why in a letter. I want to see you, but you can’t come here. Cissie says”—this was scratched out but quite legible—“you can’t come here. And you mustn’t, mustn’t, mustn’t stay at Meade House. Do come away quickly. If I can think of somewhere to see you, I’ll write again. I can’t tell you in a letter, but you mustn’t stay. Please burn this.”

  A long sentence followed, which had been so successfully scratched out that he could only distinguish the name Cissie at the beginning and guess at something which looked like “promised” at the end. She had signed her name after that:

  “Loveday Leigh.”

  Hugo sat and looked at the letter until he heard Minstrel roaring for him below. Even then he took time to hold the letter to the candle and to watch the flame catch the edge of the paper. The sheet curled up and blazed. Loveday’s name went out in a blue flame. The black ash fell into the trough of the candlestick and fluttered there.

  He pushed the envelope into his pocket and went down.

  CHAPTER VII

  It was all very odd. The more Hugo thought about it, the odder it seemed. He thought a good deal. And he wished that Miss Loveday Leigh had been less discreet and had told him why she thought that he mustn’t stay at Meade House. As a matter of fact, he was more or less bound to stay there, since he possessed no more than thirty shillings in hard cash. You cannot go very far or live for very long on thirty shillings.

  All next day Minstrel’s temper raged. Hugo marvelled at Hacker’s patience. One would not, somehow, have supposed that Hacker would be patient. The weather was cold and dreary. Everything that Hugo did was wrong; the evening found him wondering whether he would not be told to pack up and be off. Instead, Hacker seized a moment when they were alone to say some really very decent things:

  “You’re sticking it very well. He gets like this every now and again, but it doesn’t last. He likes you, you know, or he wouldn’t let himself go like this. You’re treated as one of the family. I get my share. I don’t say he’s easy; but he’s a big man, and I’d rather be cursed by him than soft-sawdered by one of your mediocrities.”

  It was next day that the letter came. Hugo found Mrs. Parford studying the envelope in the hall. He took it from her and went on into the study, wondering who his correspondent might be.

  The letter was signed “Brice,” or “Rice,” or some such name, and it appeared to be from the middle-aged man who wanted to buy Uncle Richard’s field-glasses. Hugo looked at a page covered with characterless copper-plate and read:

  “DEAR SIR,

  “I am instructed to say that my client does not consider the sum you mentioned too large in view of the nature, and the value to him, of the article in question. I am therefore empowered to make you an offer of £50.

  “Yours faithfully,”

  There followed the scrawl that might have been “Brice” or “Rice.”

  How astonishing! Fifty pounds for a pair of old field-glasses. If it had been five, Hugo would have been tempted. But fifty gave him the sensation of being out of his depth in dangerous waters; there were currents running of which he knew nothing. He put the letter away and thought that he would take a day or two before he answered it.

  It happened that he was alone when the telephone bell rang. He took up the receiver and, to his surprise, heard his own name:

  “Is that Mr. Ross?”

  “Speaking.”

  “Oh, Mr. Ross”—it was a man’s voice—“I rang up to ask if you had received my letter—the one in which my client made you an offer.”

  “Yes, I’ve got the letter.”

  “And you accept my client’s offer?”
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  Hugo was silent.

  “Come, Mr. Ross, you fixed the price yourself.”

  Hugo laughed.

  “If you call that fixing it! I wasn’t serious.”

  “Are you not satisfied with the amount?”

  “It seems to me to be a perfectly ridiculous amount,” said Hugo.

  “Well, well, I won’t say that my client would not raise it. He attaches great importance—Come, Mr. Ross, name your own terms—in writing. I can’t say fairer than that.” There was a click and the line went dead.

  Hugo put back the receiver. He was to name his own terms. If fifty pounds was not enough, he could have more. What sort of fool did they take him for? And who were they? For the hundredth time, what did it all mean?

  Hacker came in presently.

  “He’s going to town to-morrow for a couple of days. I’m going with him, worse luck! And he says you can stay here, or go away, or do any blessed thing you please. I should clear out if I were you, or you’ll be dead of boredom by the time we get back. It’s only his temper that keeps us going. Whatever else he is, he’s not dull—is he?”

  Hugo took a look at Mr. Rice’s letter—he had decided that the name was Rice. It gave an address in north-east London. It occurred to him that he might do worse than run up to town and make some discreet inquiries about Mr. Rice. He could get a bed at his old lodgings if he wanted one. He could—yes, he thought he would go to town. But he didn’t say so to Hacker.

  About one o’clock the telephone went again. This time it was a woman speaking.

  “Can I speak to Mr. Hugo?”

  Hugo jumped. Who was it? It didn’t sound—and yet—

  He said, “Speaking,” and had trouble with the “p.”

  “It’s me,” said the voice. “Oh—is it you? Oh, do say quickly if it is, because I can’t stop a moment—I can’t really.”

  “I’m Hugo Ross. Who are you?” But by now he knew that it was the girl in the lane.

  “I’m Loveday. You know—you carried my bag. Is your name Ross? I didn’t get that part of it—only the Hugo. It is Hugo, isn’t it? Did you get my letter—the one I sent by Gertie?”

  “Yes, I g-got it. Look here, what does it mean?”

  “I can’t tell you on the telephone. I want to see you—I must see you. Can you come up to town and meet me at Waterloo, by the end platform where you go down to the Tube? It’s nineteen, or twenty or something like that. Can you meet me there?”

  “I c-could—to-morrow.”

  “At one o’clock? Could you meet me at one o’clock? Cissie’s going out to lunch. I think I could manage to get away—I must. Can you manage one o’clock?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ll wait if I’m late—won’t you? Because I must see you. Are you alone, or is there anyone in the room?” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Mr. Hacker isn’t in the room, is he?”

  Hugo was startled.

  “Why do you ask that? Do you know him?”

  “Cissie knows him. Is he there?”

  “No—I’m quite alone. Look here, how shall I know you? I mean I’ve heard your voice, but—”

  He heard a little breathless laugh.

  “I’ll wear a chrysanthemum—a yellow one. Oh—” It was just the sharp beginning of a sound, cut off almost as it reached him. He waited; but there was no more life in the line.

  As he hung up the receiver, Hacker came into the room.

  CHAPTER VIII

  Hugo slept that night heavily and dreamlessly. He woke late, and came down to find that Minstrel and Hacker were already away.

  “Gone this half-hour,” said Mrs. Parford with a morose sniff. She was slopping water on the hall floor and messing it about with a mop. She regarded Hugo with an air of virtuous distrust, sniffed again, and inquired, “Might you be wanting anything?”

  “B-b-breakfast,” said Hugo meekly.

  Mrs. Parford tipped the pail in his direction.

  “On the table—in the dining-room. And I’d be glad if you’d make the tea do, seeing I’m in the middle of me floor and it isn’t but half an hour made—and what’s half an hour when all’s said and done?”

  Hugo caught the next train. He had the luck to get a carriage to himself, and presently it occurred to him to take out his pocket-book and have another look at Mr. Rice’s extraordinary letter. He had pushed it down behind the last letter he had had from his uncle’s solicitor.

  The solicitor’s letter was there, a thick, stiff wad—but Mr. Rice’s thin blue sheet was not where he had put it. It was neither behind Mr. Gray’s letter, nor in front of it, nor anywhere else in the pocket-book. It was gone. Something else had gone too—those pawn-tickets. Never mind about them.

  Hugo sat looking down at the pocket-book on his knee. The telephone bell had rung. He had talked to Rice, and after Rice had rung off, he had taken a look at the letter; and then he had put it back. He was quite sure that he had put it back. He remembered pulling Gray’s letter forward so as to make room for it. He had certainly put the letter back, and, as certainly, the letter was gone. The address—yes, fortunately he remembered the address—107 Finch Street, N.E. He thought he would go and have a look at 107 Finch Street after he had talked to Miss Loveday Leigh.

  At ten minutes to one he took up his stand between platform 21 and the Tube entrance. An intense shyness had fallen upon him like a fog. He knew quite well that he ought to be feeling adventurous, excited, romantic. Instead, he was merely in a blue funk. Suppose he spoke to the wrong girl. Suppose she never came. Suppose there were half a dozen girls all wearing yellow chrysanthemums. Suppose there wasn’t anyone wearing a yellow chrysanthemum at all. In any case, he was quite sure that he was going to have one of his worst stammering fits. A horrified glance at his watch showed him that it was a minute passed one. He would have given anything in the world to be somewhere else, and for four minutes he hoped earnestly that she would not come; after which he became desperately afraid that she had changed her mind, that she had been kept, that she was not coming after all.

  He began to walk up and down, twenty yards in the direction of the flower-stall, and twenty yards back again. Perhaps she meant to buy her chrysanthemum at the stall. He walked nearer to it, and when a girl stopped and bought flowers he broke into a cold perspiration. She was a pretty girl with red hair. She bought a sheaf of bronze chrysanthemums and ran past him as if she were afraid of losing her train.

  He heaved a sigh of relief. Quite definitely he did not want Loveday to have red hair. And then, right in front of him, coming towards him with a look of inquiry on her face, he saw a girl with a yellow chrysanthemum pinned conspicuously on the left of her coat. She was thinner than he had thought she would be, and older. But perhaps this was because she was made up so pale. He hadn’t, somehow, expected her to be made up at all. Why couldn’t girls leave their faces alone?

  The girl with the yellow chrysanthemum had rather bright blue eyes and very long black lashes. Her face was white with powder, and her mouth was painted a very brilliant shade of cerise. She wore a black coat with some grey fur on it, and a bright scarlet hat. The yellow chrysanthemum struck a vivid, jarring note.

  She came up to Hugo with the beginning of a smile. And then, just as she was about to speak, she began to cough; her hand went to her sleeve and out came a bright green handkerchief and a waft of scent. She pressed the handkerchief to her lips and went on coughing, but with less violence. After a moment she made an effort to speak.

  “Mr. Hugo?”

  Then she began coughing again.

  “Yes, I’m Hugo Ross. Are you—?”

  “Loveday Leigh.” The bright blue eyes looked up at him, and then were veiled in an affectation of embarrassment. “I’ve got such a shocking cold. You must excuse me.” Her voice was hoarse and weak. She coughed again.

  Something odd had happened to Hugo. His shyness was gone; he no longer felt the slightest inclination to stammer; he was coldly alert. He said,

  “I’m so so
rry. Perhaps you’ll feel better when you’ve had some lunch. Where would you like to go?”

  Lunch for two would make rather a hole in his very small balance. He wondered what she would say.

  She looked over her shoulder and back again. Then she said, “I can’t stay.”

  “But you must have lunch somewhere.”

  Another glance, slightly more coquettish.

  “Oh, I’ve got an engagement.”

  “With someone more fortunate?”

  She giggled, and then coughed again.

  “Well, if you won’t have lunch, what about a cup of coffee?”

  “I can’t—really.” She came dangerously near to saying “Reelly.”

  Hugo gazed at the yellow chrysanthemum.

  “Well, where shall we talk? You said you wanted to talk to me, didn’t you?”

  “Oh, Mr. Hugo! How that sounds!”

  “Yes, doesn’t it? But then I want to talk to you.”

  She slid a hand into his arm.

  “Do you really?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Well, there’s a seat over there.”

  They went over to it and sat down. Station seats are not made for comfort; they are works more of necessity than of mercy. There was a dampness on the pavement and on the seat itself. There was a cold rushing draught. He continued to look at the chrysanthemum. He was conscious of some curiously mixed feelings. Anger was one of them.

  The girl fidgeted with the corner of her green handkerchief, looked sideways at him, and said, still in that weak, hoarse voice,

  “You were sweet to me the other night.”

  “Was I? Was that why you wanted to see me?”

  “Of course. Didn’t you want to see me?”

  “Very much. But you had something to tell me, hadn’t you?”

  She laughed rather consciously and looked down. Her features were pretty in spite of their pallor; the down-dropped lashes were dark and silky.

  “Hadn’t you something to tell me?” said Hugo.

  “Oh—well—”

  “You said you had.”

  She looked up at him again archly.