Two in a Train

by Warwick Deeping

  He hurried forward, and suddenly he was aware of a pair of eyes looking up at him, the eyes of von Braun. The German was conscious, and obviously in great pain. His eyes had lost their blue assurance. They looked up at Miller like the eyes of a wounded dog.

  Von Braun’s lips moved.

  “Get a doctor. I’m—I’m——”

  His broken words died away and something happened to the manager of the Royal Hotel. There stirred in him a strange impulse of pity. He seemed to forget the blackmailer in looking at the agonized face of the man.

  Instantly he took charge. He was Mr. Miller the autocrat of the “Royal.”

  “Into the lift, Parsons. Corcoran, telephone at once for a doctor. Gently—gently.”

  He supervised the placing of the improvised stretcher in the lift. He bent over the German.

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Brown. We’ll do everything we can. A doctor will be here—almost at once.”

  The German turned his head on the rolled up coat that had been converted into a pillow. He smiled faintly at Mr. Miller.

  “Don’t let me die, Miller. I’ve got a wife and——”

  Mr. Miller patted him gently on the shoulder.

  “So have I. I understand.”

  When Mr. Miller had seen von Braun laid on the bed of room No. 47, he rushed downstairs to make sure that Corcoran had been able to get into touch with a doctor. It had been obvious to Mr. Miller that von Braun’s was a pretty desperate case.

  “Any luck, Corcoran?”

  “Dr. Standish will be here in ten minutes.”

  “Good.”

  Mr. Miller realized that he was hot. He perspired easily, and especially so on emotional occasions. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead.

  “Just going across to the house, Corcoran. I shall be back in five minutes.”

  But what a morning! He hurried across lawns and past herbaceous borders that were all purple and gold. He found that his wife had returned to her chair on the grass, and that Babs had been rescued from the kitchen. He picked up his small daughter and kissed her. He met his wife’s questioning and troubled eyes. Poor Mary! For her too it had been a morning of shocks.

  “There has been an accident, my dear. A most terrible and extraordinary thing. Just as though fate——”

  “Not Mr. Brown?”

  “Yes, poor devil. He was out alone in Mr. Dunning’s speed-boat and hit something. They’ve just brought him in.”

  “Dead?”

  Mr. Miller replaced Babs in her mother’s lap.

  “No, but terribly smashed up. I’ve had him carried up to his room. The doctor will be up in a minute.”

  Mrs. Miller looked intently at her husband.

  “Fate—Fred. What are you going to do?”

  He wiped his forehead.

  “Do? Why—the best I can for the poor devil. He—O, well—he said something to me. He’s human. And when I saw his poor, scared face——”

  Mrs. Miller rose with Babs in her arms. She kissed her husband.

  “I’m glad you’re my husband, Fred.”

  “My dear——”

  “I’ll come with you and see if I can help.”

  Captain von Braun’s was a desperate case. He had a smashed thigh, and internal injuries, and when Dr. Standish had examined him, he phoned for further advice and help. The two doctors were with the German for an hour. A nurse was phoned for, and arrived. Mr. Miller, pacing up and down the corridor, was given a note to the local hospital. Dressings and appliances were required, and Corcoran went off in the hotel bus.

  Dr. Standish came out and spoke to Mr. Miller.

  “He’s too bad to move. We’ve had to give him a pretty big dose of morphia. What about his relations?”

  Mr. Miller stroked his chin.

  “I don’t think he has any relations in England, doctor.”

  “I thought he was English.”

  “No. As a matter of fact he is a German over on business. Well, we’ll do everything we can, doctor.”

  “It’s a bit of a nuisance for you, Miller, but we don’t like taking the risk of moving him.”

  “There’s no need, sir. We can manage. It is not the first time we have had a bad case in the hotel.”

  The doctors had gone, and Mr. Miller was eating a hurried lunch when one of the porters came across with a message. The nurse had phoned from Mr. Brown’s room. Mr. Brown was very restless, and kept asking for Mr. Miller. Would Mr. Miller come at once.

  Mr. Miller went. The nurse, who was an understanding person, slipped out of the room, and the manager sat down beside the German’s bed. Von Braun’s face was almost as white as the pillow. His eyes still had that frightened look. His voice was a mere harsh whisper.

  “Miller—what do they say about me?”

  “I’m afraid you are pretty badly hurt.”

  “You’ll let me stay here? Yes—I know you can’t be feeling very friendly. But if I go under——”

  Mr. Miller’s face was all kindness.

  “Yes, we are going to keep you here. We’ll do everything we can. You’ll pull through.”

  The German’s eyes softened. He put out a feeble hand.

  “That’s—that’s—generous. More than I—deserve. But I was——”

  Mr. Miller covered the German’s hand with his.

  “Desperate. I know. Well—look here, you musn’t talk. Save your strength. Much pain?”

  “Not now. They gave me morphia.”

  “Well, try to go to sleep.”

  Von Braun closed his eyes.

  “You’re a good man, Müller, a good man. O, my God—I want to get over this.”

  For some days it was very doubtful whether Captain von Braun would survive. The whole hotel was shocked and sympathetic, and Mr. Miller was eternally waylaid by kindly inquirers. “Oh, Mr. Miller, how is Mr. Brown to-day?” Old Lady Cartwright who occupied room No. 46, instead of complaining of the coming and going and the noise, offered to move and give up her room to the night nurse. Young Dunning, whose speed-boat was in pieces, seemed quite unconcerned about the wreck, but then—Mr. Dunning was a very rich young man. He was much more concerned about the human wreckage.

  “I say, Miller, I feel awfully responsible. I suppose I oughtn’t to have let him out in her. Tell me if there is anything I can do?”

  “It’s very generous of you, sir.”

  “But—Miller. Brown’s such a damned good chap.”

  At the end of a week von Braun’s balance tipped towards life. He was a mere shadow of a man, strangely chastened and subdued. The nurses spoke of him as a perfect patient, and he was suffering much.

  Mr. Miller saw him every day, and wondered at the transfiguration, and in spite of his compassion, he was reminded of the old quotation—“The Devil was sick. The Devil a saint would be. The Devil was well. The Devil a saint was he.” And Mr. Miller wondered. He wondered what von Braun thought about as he lay there trussed and helpless. What did the German think of the flowers that were sent him?—flowers that Mary Miller did not leave to the chambermaid or the nurses.

  She went daily into the German’s room, for on such occasions she was the healing spirit in the hotel. She would place the flowers by von Braun’s bed, and stand for a moment beside his bed, a consoling, soothing presence.

  “You look better to-day, Mr. Brown.”

  He asked her a question.

  “You are very kind. Are you the housekeeper?”

  “No—I am the manager’s wife.”

  “Mr. Miller’s wife?”

  “Yes.”

  A curious little smile passed over the German’s face.

  “Ah—I understand.”

  But his smile had ceased to be cynical.

  Early in the second week von Braun sent for Mr. Miller. He asked the nurse to leave them alone together.

  “Miller—I’m—I’m sorry, but I can’t pay my bill.”

  “You mustn’t worry about that—just now.”

  “But, my
dear fellow——”

  “We’ll give you credit.”

  “But there are the doctors and the nurses. When I came down here I had twenty pounds or so in my pockets.”

  For the moment Mr. Miller was tempted to wonder whether von Braun’s anxiety was genuine, or whether the German was recovering his strength, and was preparing to apply pressure.

  “The hotel can settle the bills, and give you credit.”

  “But, Miller, my account in Germany is on the wrong side.”

  “Haven’t you any friends?”

  “Well, yes, but most of them are as hard up as I am. You see, the war, and the revolution, and the industrial crisis——”

  Mr. Miller stroked his very well shaved chin.

  “I’ll take it on myself to settle these affairs—not because—of that—private affair, but because——”

  Von Braun’s face seemed to light up.

  “You mean—you’re willing to do this, in spite of—everything?”

  “Yes. Just common humanity, von Braun. After all—I’ve been a lucky man. I’ve had my chance. Perhaps yours hasn’t come yet.”

  The German lay and looked at him.

  “My chance?—Yes,—I was pretty desperate—but that’s—— O, well, if you’ll let me—bury—that memory—I’ll have another shot at life, Miller. I’m not quite worthless.”

  He put out a hand, and Mr. Miller grasped it.

  “Well, that’s a bargain.”

  He was walking towards the door when von Braun called him back.

  “O, just one moment. Your wife brings these flowers in. Does she know?”

  Mr. Miller hesitated, and then uttered the merciful lie.

  “No.”

  “I’m glad. You’re a lucky man, Miller. Life’s worth while with a woman like that.”

  Captain von Braun recovered. Meanwhile Mr. Miller drew money from his bank, and the doctors and the nurses were paid, and the hotel bills settled ostensibly by Mr. Brown. Mr. Miller was some two hundred pounds out of pocket on the transaction, but as a man of business he was of the opinion that he might be cutting his loss rather cheaply. Von Braun was being wheeled about in an invalid chair, or was taking gentle exercise with a couple of sticks. One leg was two inches shorter than the other.

  But he was a restless man.

  “I want to get home, Miller. You see—they don’t know over there that I have had this smash.”

  “You have never told them?”

  “Well—I didn’t want to worry a particular person. She has enough to worry her.”

  “Your wife?”

  “Yes, my wife.”

  The sea had a fascination for von Braun. He liked to limp down to the little garden house on the cliff and sit there. Winter was in the air, and kind persons would help Mr. Brown down the path and wrap him up in rugs. Mr. Miller found him there one winter morning when the sun happened to be shining, and something else seemed to be shining in von Braun’s eyes.

  “Oh—Miller, just a moment.”

  “Getting some sun?”

  “Yes. You English are kind people. You don’t seem to bear malice.”

  Mr. Miller laughed.

  “You seem to forget——? But perhaps I’m not included.”

  Von Braun was feeling in his overcoat pocket.

  “You’re as English as the rest of them, Miller. You ought to have let me die, and you didn’t. Read that, will you.”

  He passed an envelope to Mr. Miller, who extracted from it a sheet of hotel note-paper. He read:

  “I—Captain Fritz von Braun declare that when I and two other German officers visited the Royal Hotel during the war Mr. Miller, the manager, was a complete stranger to us and was wholly innocent of any espionage.

  Signed—Fritz von Braun.”

  Mr. Miller slipped the sheet back into the envelope.

  “You wish me to keep this?”

  “Of course.”

  Mr. Miller smiled and put the thing in his pocket.

  “Very well, if you wish it, but I have a feeling that it isn’t necessary.”

  The German looked at him gratefully.

  “You mean that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thanks.”

  Von Braun had produced a second letter. He passed it to Mr. Miller. The envelope bore a German stamp and was addressed to Mr. Brown.

  “Read that.”

  Mr. Miller read it. It was a woman’s letter. It said:

  “Come quickly, Fritz—such good news. Herr Schmidt thinks he has found a place for you, quite a good position. Oh—I am so happy. You need not stay in England any longer trying to get orders for that wretched firm. Yes, Elsa is much better. She is going to school again. Come at once, Fritz——”

  Mr. Miller handed the letter back to von Braun.

  “Can you travel?”

  “Yes—I must. It’s my chance.”

  “But what about—tickets?”

  The German’s eyes were hungry.

  “I can sell one or two things. Third-class will do.”

  “Oh—I’ll lend you the money.”

  “I’ll pay you back, Miller.”

  “We won’t worry about that—just now.”

  Von Braun slipped his wife’s letter into his pocket.

  “Wait. I want you to give me all the receipted bills. Yes, all that you have paid for me. A debt of honour, Miller. Absurd, isn’t it? You remember that morning here? Well, once more—I am a man of honour.”

  Von Braun travelled to Germany the following week. Mr. Miller actually went to the port with him and saw him on board the boat. They looked into each other’s eyes for the last time, and shook hands.

  “God bless you, Miller. Thanks for those bills. It may take me a little time to settle them, but they will be settled.”

  Mr. Miller spoke like an Englishman.

  “Don’t worry, old chap. I’m doing pretty well.”

  “You deserve to. Tell your wife that those flowers helped me to get—healed, yes, body and soul.”

  “That’s all to the good, old man. If you ever come to England again——”

  “Perhaps I shall.”

  Mr. Miller was not a cynic, but as a business man he did not expect to recover the money he had advanced to von Braun. It was just a bad debt, one of his few bad debts, a sop to Cerberus, or a thankoffering to fate; but one day nearly a year later he found a German letter on the breakfast table. He opened it, smiled a little half-incredulous smile, and passed something to his wife—a cheque.

  “Von Braun’s debt of honour. Well—that’s rather astonishing.”

  His wife’s eyes were faintly moist.

  “Poor man. I hope—he can afford it.”

  “He says that he is doing very well.”

  “Shall you—cash the cheque, Fred?”

  “Of course. Between man and man it’s a debt of honour.”

  Mr. Miller seemed to reflect for a moment. As a business man he was tempted to wonder whether von Braun was good for the sum written on that piece of paper.

  “I’d like to cash it—just to see——”

  His wife’s eyes reproved him.

  “Oh—Fred!”

  “Well, if it’s all right, we’ll send them a little present for Elsa.”

  The bank honoured Captain von Braun’s cheque. It was not a stumer, and somehow Mr. Miller’s faith in human nature was both surprised and reassured.

  IN A LITTLE BELGIAN TOWN

  Major Manners walked up the steep street between houses of grey stone. Everything was grey, the pavé, the sky, the glass in the windows, the shutters, the little gardens. St. Hubert climbed a cleft between green hills whose summits were dark and serrate with pines, but even the greenness of the December country had a tinge of grey.

  Manners paused in front of a house with a mansard roof and a pretentious façade. He looked at the windows with the eyes of a man who had become expert in appraising the appearances of strange houses. He glanced at his notebook.

  �
��One of ours, Barry.”

  The little orderly-room clerk nodded.

  “No. 17, sir.”

  “Yes, this looks like the colonel.”

  Manners’s field boots were well polished. They seemed to have collected more and more polish since the war had died a month or so ago, yet this lustre was not martial. It suggested something more subtle than professional spit and polish. It was part of a man’s consciousness of life returning to a gradual appreciation of things that were both old and new, the bloom upon fruit, half-forgotten decencies, a life that was not all duck-board and latrine. For Manners was a doctor and second in command of a field ambulance. He had known mud, but not too much mud; horror, but not too much horror. The war had hardened and dulled him, but beneath the coarsened surface there remained the illusion that civilization was worth while and that—somehow—life should be decent.

  He knocked at the door of No. 17. It was opened by a sallow little Belgian girl in a check apron. To her Manners spoke briefly in bad French.

  “Billets for two officers.”

  He was admitted—or rather, he walked in with the air of a man who had ceased to regard private property as anything personal. He was in search of beds, especially good clean beds, and a room with a stove in it. The colonel liked space and a stove. Through a doorway he had a glimpse of a fat old woman in black seated on a sofa. He gave her a cursory “Bon jour, madame,” and followed the servant up polished stairs. No. 17 proved satisfactory. He chalked two doors.

  Barry, waiting on the sidewalk, turned an infantile and wizened face to his returning officer. A certain informality had established itself between the two.

  “That settles all the officers, Barry, except myself.”

  “There’s the sergeants’ mess, sir.”

  “Oh, we’ll do them proud. We can spread ourselves here. I imagine that this is the first occasion on which the unit has occupied an hotel.”

  “And the Transport, sir? You remember—last time——”

  “They are a grousing crowd. They shan’t grouse here. I’ve got ’em a palace.”

  He glanced at the pages of his notebook and handed it to the clerk.

  “You might take this along to the sergeant-major. I’ll just go and hunt myself up a corner. Oh, and tell Tombs—the mess-orderly—to spread himself in that house just off the Place. We shall want tea. I’ll be back in the orderly-room in half an hour.”