Читать книгу The Strange Boarders of Palace Crescent - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 4

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At a few minutes past seven o’clock that evening Roger Ferrison, having carefully brushed his brown business suit and indulged in the luxury of a clean collar, descended to the lounge. He entered without curiosity, without even that interest which a healthily minded young man of twenty-five might naturally be expected to feel in the little company of people who were to be his occasional associates for, at any rate, the next two weeks. Life had almost a stranglehold upon him in those days and he was living chiefly upon his courage. Nevertheless, a certain kindliness of disposition and a leaven of good manners kept him more or less in touch with the acquaintances of the moment. Mrs. Dewar came forward to greet him.

“I shall not introduce you to every one,” she announced. “You will soon find out who people are for yourself but you should perhaps know Mr. Luke, my oldest supporter here.”

A man of youthful middle age, pale, with light-coloured eves, greying hair, but with a certain amount of strength in his face, detached himself from a little group of men and held out his hand to Roger.

“Hope you will like it here, Mr. Ferrison,” he said. “We are not a very sociable crowd, I am afraid, but that too has advantages.”

Roger Ferrison shook hands and made some indeterminate speech. He was introduced to three or four others, commercial men apparently of his own standing but possibly more prosperous. Several ladies’ names were mentioned but in such a manner that a bow was sufficient. Then Mrs. Dewar led him a little further into the room. A girl, who on first appearance seemed to Roger to be startlingly beautiful, was seated in an easy-chair with three or four young men gathered around her. She was very thin and very pale, but her copper-coloured hair was beautifully coiffured, parted in the middle and brushed smoothly back. She had hazel eyes and artistically treated lips. She would have been noticeable anywhere but in the crowd which was gathered in Mrs. Dewar’s lounge she possessed a very rare and palpable distinction. She held out her hand with a smile to Roger.

“I hope you will like it here and stay with us a long time, Mr. Ferrison,” she said. “We need a few younger people. That is where Mrs. Dewar and I sometimes do not agree. She likes all these elderly, staid, successful professional and business people. Some of us would like a little more frivolity.”

“I’m afraid I sha’n’t be much of a help in that direction,” Roger Ferrison acknowledged, smiling. “I have to work very hard indeed, and where I live and what I do after business hours just now seems to make no difference to me. You like to dance and that sort of thing, I expect?”

There was a queer silence around the chair. A young man kicked him lightly on the foot. Suddenly Roger became aware of two large rubber-shod ebony sticks leaning against the chair. The colour mounted almost to his forehead. The young woman hastened to relieve his embarrassment.

“Of course, I should love to, Mr. Ferrison,” she said. “Just now, you see, I cannot. I have had an accident, but I like people to realise that I want to, all the same. Still, there are other things—theatres, cinemas, all manner of amusements, for which I think we young people ought to have more appetite than some of our elders.”

“I’m so sorry,” Roger apologised. “I had no idea.”

“Of course you hadn’t,” she interrupted. “And believe me, I’m not at all sensitive. Some day, I am convinced, something will happen—some great doctor will lay hands upon me and I shall throw away my sticks and you shall teach me all the new dances.”

“I hope you will find a better teacher,” he observed. “And indeed, Miss Quayne, it is so kind of you to make light of my blunder.”

She laughed happily at him.

“How on earth were you to know?” she questioned. “Come and talk to me after dinner, won’t you?”

He passed on. A slim pretty girl in a simple frock, a little shy and just a little shabby, reminded him somehow of himself, as he made his way across the hall. She was evidently of no great importance, however, for he did not remember that Mrs. Dewar had mentioned her name.

Roger found that his wish had been granted. He was seated at a very small, very uncomfortable table between the service entrance and the sideboard, but he shared it with no one. There was a carafe of water on his table in place of the usual bottle or half bottle of wine or whisky with their clip labels. The linen, he noticed, although coarse in quality, was clean and the table utensils bright and well polished. From his point of vantage he took stock of the assembled company. His first impressions were drab enough. The only person who stood out at all seemed to be the lame Miss Quayne. She was also the only one who shared her table with no other guest, but unlike his own, hers was in the best position, facing the door, on the other side of the room in a pleasant corner. She sat with a book in front of her in which she was apparently absorbed. She was served different food from the others on a different sort of china, and he admired the colour of the wine—a faint amber—which sparkled in her glass. Once she looked up and their eyes met. She smiled across the room at him, a smile that left him for a moment puzzled. She was trying to say something but his wits were not sufficiently acute to receive the message. He bit his lip in some discomfiture. He was rather a stupid person, he feared, amidst a crowd. He would have been better in a solitary room, even if he had been unable to afford regular meals. The shy little girl whom he had thought so pretty coming in seemed to him to have been watching his discomfiture. There was a touch of sympathy in her dark shaded eyes which he resented. Perhaps that was the reason why, when he entered the lounge after dinner, he ignored the fact that she was seated upon a divan by herself and joined the handful of young men who were hanging around Flora Quayne’s chair.

“How nice of you to come and talk to me, Mr. Ferrison,” she said. “Bring a chair up, won’t you? I am sure you are tired. You look as though you had had a long day’s work. Or sit here, won’t you?”

Roger, who had been on his feet since eight o’clock in the morning, glanced around but, finding no chair, accepted her gestured invitation and sat on the arm of her fauteuil.

“You must know these other kind friends of mine, Mr. Ferrison,” she went on. “This is Mr. Reginald Barstowe, our Beau Brummel, who is in a bank somewhere and sends me beautiful flowers. He has a great many friends and is a terrible gadabout, but I always feel we shall know all about him some day!”

Mr. Barstowe, a dark, olive-skinned young man, who was one of the few beside Mr. Luke who wore a dinner jacket, nodded to Roger and looked at the speaker speculatively.

“What do you expect to find out about me, Miss Quayne?” he enquired. “I am a very simple person and my life is an open book.”

“Oh, you are in finance and that is always mysterious,” Miss Quayne observed, “and you go rushing off to the continent and come back looking as though you had just saved the country from sudden terrible disaster. You talk gold. Mr. Bernascon too. What do we others know about gold?”

“What do I know, or Bernascon either, for that matter, about Walter Pater?” the young man demanded, turning over the book that lay in her lap. “We each have our way to travel in life. I dare say even from a very ordinary boarding house like this the roads branch out in many different ways.”

“I should like to compare notes with you all some day,” Flora Quayne remarked. “I think there is something very interesting about the day-by-day life of even the simplest human being. Look at Mr. Luke over there, reading a detective story all by himself in that corner. Does any one know what he does in life—what he is interested in? He talks a great deal and he talks about very interesting things, and we know that he belongs to the best clubs and is a very good golfer, but I have never heard him say a single self-revealing word as to what his tastes really are.”

Bernascon, a shrewd, powerful-looking man, carelessly dressed yet with something of an air, joined in the conversation.

“You never know what an Englishman’s business is,” he said “When I was living down at Forest Hill, I travelled up to London off and on in the same carriage with a neighbour for two years before I found out that during all that time he ought to have been a customer of mine. We lose a lot by our taciturnity.”

“Kind of self-consciousness, I suppose,” a young man named Lashwood observed, whom every one knew to be a manufacturer of leather trifles in the East End. “I do my own travelling and meet so many people I know in my job that I could not keep it quiet if I wanted to. On the other hand, present company excluded, I have been here two or three years and there have been at least a score of fellow boarders I have sat down and talked to and taken a drink with, exchanged cards and all that sort of thing. I have seen them walk down the street, hop on and off busses, run against them sometimes in the City, and yet I haven’t the faintest idea what line they are in.”

“Wonderful place, the City,” Mr. Bernascon reflected. “Millions of us crawling about like flies and not one of us has the slightest conception of what the man he jostles in the crowd is thinking about, or who he is or what he is making out of life.”

Flora Quayne smiled.

“I think,” she said, “that there is a certain dignity about reticence. I like to think that all my friends, at any rate, have a secret side to their lives, one which they don’t talk about. What do you think, Mr. Ferrison?”

Ferrison, whose thoughts for a moment had flashed into a dingy, barely furnished office, half of which had been converted into a sort of carpenter’s shop, and who had spent more than an hour that day with his partner, plotting how to avert the bankruptcy which seemed to be waiting around the corner, was prompt in his acquiescence.

“Other people’s affairs do not really interest anybody,” he agreed. “We pretend to be interested sometimes but it is mostly politeness. If you’ve got hold of a good thing and are making a lot of money, they are generally jealous and hate you if you mention it; and if you are desperately hard up and are fool enough to acknowledge it they think you want to borrow, and sheer off. I am all for every man minding his own business.”

“You look like that,” Flora Quayne declared approvingly. “I rather admire independence.”

“It is more difficult,” Mr. Bernascon meditated, “to keep quiet about your good luck than your bad. I once knew about the same time a friend who had won three thousand pounds in one of those sweeps and another who had made a bad debt in his business of about the same amount. I had always looked upon them as being men of the same temperament but you don’t suppose the fellow who had made that big loss went around talking about it. He kept his mouth closed as tight as wax. But, my God, we used to run when we saw the other chap coming!”

“Talking of good fortune,” Flora Quayne remarked, “Some kind friend has sent me a box for the Carlton Cinema to-morrow night. Every one says it is such a good film. Who would like to be my escort?”

“All of us,” they promptly declared.

“Then you will all be disappointed,” she continued, smiling. “I am going to ask our latest comer—Mr. Ferrison. Mr. Ferrison, will you be my escort, please? It doesn’t commence until half-past nine. Morning clothes will be quite all right,” she added hastily.

Ferrison shook his head.

“It is very kind of you, Miss Quayne,” he said. “I couldn’t possibly go.”

Her eyebrows slowly went up. Her fingers were twitching. The others, who knew her better, recognised the signs. Ferrison, on the other hand, never for a moment imagined that hers was a deliberate choice or that she would be disappointed in any way at his refusal.

“To tell you the truth,” he explained, “I am being a little worried just now. My work has been terribly hard. I should find no pleasure in attempting to amuse myself.”

Mr. Reginald Barstowe straightened his tie.

“I’m longing to see that film,” he said hopefully.

“I sha’n’t go myself,” Flora Quayne declared pettishly. “I shall send the tickets back. I am sorry to have put you to the discourtesy of refusing my invitation, Mr. Ferrison,” she added. “Mr. Barstowe, will you help me, please? I am going to that divan on the other side of the room. There is a draught here.”

The young man stepped eagerly forward. The girl shook out her skirts and rose. She looked very elegant and beautiful in the shaded lamplight. The light waft of perfume from the handkerchief which she had pressed to her lips reminded Roger of lilac and spring crocuses. He looked after her blankly. Mr. Luke turned towards him. One of his imperturbable smiles flickered at the corners of his lips.

“You will get used to Miss Quayne’s moods in time, if you stay here, Mr. Ferrison,” he remarked. “We all spoil her because of her affliction. And if,” he went on, “you will pardon my saying so, it is diplomatic to keep friends with her. She is what in our world we call a star boarder. She pays Mrs. Dewar twice as much as any one else, has the best room, specially cooked food and is altogether quite a power in the place.”

“Thanks very much for your advice,” the young man said ruefully. “I never dreamed that she would care whether I went or not. I have not known her more than an hour or so. Seems to me,” he went on, “she is rather an unusual sort of young woman to meet at a cheap boarding house.”

Mr. Luke, who was standing with his hands behind his back, looked out into vacancy.

“Boarding houses,” he pronounced, “are strange places. I read a successful novel lately about an hotel. The idea was the lifting of the roofs in the various rooms, seeing something of people when they were really themselves and not as they wished other people to see them—in character, as well as behaviour. Most interesting book. I sometimes think even in a fourth-rate struggling establishment like this one might get a few shocks if anything of the same sort happened. We seem a very ordinary lot of people but I expect we too have our eccentricities. I think,” he added, as he moved away, “I shall have an hour with the Times before I turn in. The financial situation abroad makes one feel very nervous these days.”

Roger Ferrison had a queer fancy as he watched the unhurried departure of the slim grey man with the colourless complexion and eyes. It came and went like a flash. The crisis in his own affairs was too acute for outside fancies. Nevertheless, he went up to his room with the conviction that if he had time or inclination to be interested in them, he should find his fellow boarders in Palace Crescent a queer lot.

Some hours later he stood downstairs in the cloakroom, an electric torch in his hand, staring at the long row of pegs opposite in blank amazement. A restless night and a loose bulb had forced him downstairs into the lounge for matches. On his way back a sudden impulse came to him to glance at that row of keys. He had heard the good nights, he had heard the footsteps upon the stairs, yet from five out of sixteen of those pegs the keys were absent! Five of the boarders from Palace Crescent, at two o’clock in the morning, had either broken the rule of the establishment and taken their keys up into their rooms or were spending the early hours of the morning threading the secret byways of the sleepless City.