IV
The bell which gave five minutes’ notice of the starting of the Ramsgate train had just rung.
While the other travellers were hastening to the platform, two persons stood passively apart as if they had not even yet decided on taking their places in the train. One of the two was a smart young man in a cheap travelling suit; mainly noticeable by his florid complexion, his restless dark eyes, and his profusely curling black hair. The other was a middle-aged woman in frowsy garments; tall and stout, sly and sullen. The smart young man stood behind the uncongenial-looking person with whom he had associated himself, using her as a screen to hide him while he watched the travellers on their way to the train. As the bell rang, the woman suddenly faced her companion, and pointed to the railway clock.
“Are you waiting to make up your mind till the train has gone?” she asked.
The young man frowned impatiently. “I am waiting for a person whom I expect to see,” he answered. “If the person travels by this train, we shall travel by it. If not, we shall come back here, and look out for the next train, and so on till night-time, if it’s necessary.”
The woman fixed her small scowling gray eyes on the man as he replied in those terms. “Look here!” she broke out. “I like to see my way before me. You’re a stranger, young Mister; and it’s as likely as not you’ve given me a false name and address. That don’t matter. False names are commoner than true ones, in my line of life. But mind this! I don’t stir a step farther till I’ve got half the money in my hand, and my return-ticket there and back.”
“Hold your tongue!” the man suddenly interposed in a whisper. “It’s all right. I’ll get the tickets.”
He looked while he spoke at an elderly traveller, hastening by with his head down, deep in thought, noticing nobody. The traveller was Mr. Ronald. The young man, who had that moment recognized him, was his runaway porter, John Farnaby.
Returning with the tickets, the porter took his repellent travelling companion by the arm, and hurried her along the platform to the train. “The money!” she whispered, as they took their places. Farnaby handed it to her, ready wrapped up in a morsel of paper. She opened the paper, satisfied herself that no trick had been played her, and leaned back in her corner to go to sleep. The train started. Old Ronald travelled by the second class; his porter and his porter’s companion accompanied him secretly by the third.
V
It was still early in the afternoon when Mr. Ronald descended the narrow street which leads from the high land of the South-Eastern railway station to the port of Ramsgate. Asking his way of the first policeman whom he met, he turned to the left, and reached the cliff on which the houses in Albion Place are situated. Farnaby followed him at a discreet distance; and the woman followed Farnaby.
Arrived in sight of the lodging-house, Mr. Ronald paused—partly to recover his breath, partly to compose himself. He was conscious of a change of feeling as he looked up at the windows: his errand suddenly assumed a contemptible aspect in his own eyes. He almost felt ashamed of himself. After twenty years of undisturbed married life, was it possible that he had doubted his wife—and that at the instigation of a stranger whose name even was unknown to him? “If she was to step out in the balcony, and see me down here,” he thought, “what a fool I should look!” He felt half-inclined, at the moment when he lifted the knocker of the door, to put it back again quietly, and return to London. No! it was too late. The maid-servant was hanging up her birdcage in the area of the house; the maid-servant had seen him.
“Does Mrs. Ronald lodge here?” he asked.
The girl lifted her eyebrows and opened her mouth—stared at him in speechless confusion—and disappeared in the kitchen regions. This strange reception of his inquiry irritated him unreasonably. He knocked with the absurd violence of a man who vents his anger on the first convenient thing that he can find. The landlady opened the door, and looked at him in stern and silent surprise.
“Does Mrs. Ronald lodge here?” he repeated.
The landlady answered with some appearance of effort—the effort of a person who was carefully considering her words before she permitted them to pass her lips.
“Mrs. Ronald has taken rooms here. But she has not occupied them yet.”
“Not occupied them yet?” The words bewildered him as if they had been spoken in an unknown tongue. He stood stupidly silent on the doorstep. His anger was gone; an all-mastering fear throbbed heavily at his heart. The landlady looked at him, and said to her secret self: “Just what I suspected; there is something wrong!”
“Perhaps I have not sufficiently explained myself, sir,” she resumed with grave politeness. “Mrs. Ronald told me that she was staying at Ramsgate with friends. She would move into my house, she said, when her friends left—but they had not quite settled the day yet. She calls here for letters. Indeed, she was here early this morning, to pay the second week’s rent. I asked when she thought of moving in. She didn’t seem to know; her friends (as I understood) had not made up their minds. I must say I thought it a little odd. Would you like to leave any message?”
He recovered himself sufficiently to speak. “Can you tell me where her friends live?” he said.
The landlady shook her head. “No, indeed. I offered to save Mrs. Ronald the trouble of calling here, by sending letters or cards to her present residence. She declined the offer—and she has never mentioned the address. Would you like to come in and rest, sir? I will see that your card is taken care of, if you wish to leave it.”
“Thank you, ma’am—it doesn’t matter—good morning.”
The landlady looked after him as he descended the house-steps. “It’s the husband, Peggy,” she said to the servant, waiting inquisitively behind her. “Poor old gentleman! And such a respectable-looking woman, too!”
Mr. Ronald walked mechanically to the end of the row of houses, and met the wide grand view of sea and sky. There were some seats behind the railing which fenced the edge of the cliff. He sat down, perfectly stupefied and helpless, on the nearest bench.
At the close of life, the loss of a man’s customary nourishment extends its debilitating influence rapidly from his body to his mind. Mr. Ronald had tasted nothing but his cup of coffee since the previous night. His mind began to wander strangely; he was not angry or frightened or distressed. Instead of thinking of what had just happened, he was thinking of his young days when he had been a cricket-player. One special game revived in his memory, at which he had been struck on the head by the ball. “Just the same feeling,” he reflected vacantly, with his hat off, and his hand on his forehead. “Dazed and giddy—just the same feeling!”
He leaned back on the bench, and fixed his eyes on the sea, and wondered languidly what had come to him. Farnaby and the woman, still following, waited round the corner where they could just keep him in view.
The blue lustre of the sky was without a cloud; the sunny sea leapt under the fresh westerly breeze. From the beach, the cries of children at play, the shouts of donkey-boys driving their poor beasts, the distant notes of brass instruments playing a waltz, and the mellow music of the small waves breaking on the sand, rose joyously together on the fragrant air. On the next bench, a dirty old boatman was prosing to a stupid old visitor. Mr. Ronald listened, with a sense of vacant content in the mere act of listening. The boatman’s words found their way to his ears like the other sounds that were abroad in the air. “Yes; them’s the Goodwin Sands, where you see the lightship. And that steamer there, towing a vessel into the harbour, that’s the Ramsgate Tug. Do you know what I should like to see? I should like to see the Ramsgate Tug blow up. Why? I’ll tell you why. I belong to Broadstairs; I don’t belong to Ramsgate. Very well. I’m idling here, as you may see, without one copper piece in my pocket to rub against another. What trade do I belong to? I don’t belong to no trade; I belong to a boat. The boat’s rotting at Broadstairs, for want of work. And all along of what? All along of the Tug. The Tug has took the bread out of our mouths: me and my mates. Wait a bit; I’ll