Yet Again | Page 8

overnight. They know that we have not
altered. Yet, on the surface, everything is different; and the tension is
such that we only long for the guard to blow his whistle and put an end
to the farce.
On a cold grey morning of last week I duly turned up at Euston, to see
off an old friend who was starting for America.
Overnight, we had given him a farewell dinner, in which sadness was
well mingled with festivity. Years probably would elapse before his
return. Some of us might never see him again. Not ignoring the shadow
of the future, we gaily celebrated the past. We were as thankful to have
known our guest as we were grieved to lose him; and both these
emotions were made evident. It was a perfect farewell.
And now, here we were, stiff and self-conscious on the platform; and,
framed in the window of the railway-carriage, was the face of our
friend; but it was as the face of a stranger--a stranger anxious to please,
an appealing stranger, an awkward stranger. `Have you got everything?'
asked one of us, breaking a silence. `Yes, everything,' said our friend,
with a pleasant nod. `Everything,' he repeated, with the emphasis of an
empty brain. `You'll be able to lunch on the train,' said I, though this
prophecy had already been made more than once. `Oh yes,' he said with
conviction. He added that the train went straight through to Liverpool.
This fact seemed to strike us as rather odd. We exchanged glances.
`Doesn't it stop at Crewe?' asked one of us. `No,' said our friend, briefly.
He seemed almost disagreeable. There was a long pause. One of us,
with a nod and a forced smile at the traveller, said `Well!' The nod, the
smile, and the unmeaning monosyllable, were returned conscientiously.
Another pause was broken by one of us with a fit of coughing. It was
an obviously assumed fit, but it served to pass the time. The bustle of
the platform was unabated. There was no sign of the train's departure.
Release--ours, and our friend's--was not yet.

My wandering eye alighted on a rather portly middle-aged man who
was talking earnestly from the platform to a young lady at the next
window but one to ours. His fine profile was vaguely familiar to me.
The young lady was evidently American, and he was evidently English;
otherwise I should have guessed from his impressive air that he was her
father. I wished I could hear what he was saying. I was sure he was
giving the very best advice; and the strong tenderness of his gaze was
really beautiful. He seemed magnetic, as he poured out his final
injunctions. I could feel something of his magnetism even where I
stood. And the magnetism, like the profile, was vaguely familiar to me.
Where had I experienced it?
In a flash I remembered. The man was Hubert le Ros. But how changed
since last I saw him! That was seven or eight years ago, in the Strand.
He was then (as usual) out of an engagement, and borrowed
half-a-crown. It seemed a privilege to lend anything to him. He was
always magnetic. And why his magnetism had never made him
successful on the London stage was always a mystery to me. He was an
excellent actor, and a man of sober habit. But, like many others of his
kind, Hubert le Ros (I do not, of course, give the actual name by which
he was known) drifted seedily away into the provinces; and I, like
every one else, ceased to remember him.
It was strange to see him, after all these years, here on the platform of
Euston, looking so prosperous and solid. It was not only the flesh that
he had put on, but also the clothes, that made him hard to recognise. In
the old days, an imitation fur coat had seemed to be as integral a part of
him as were his ill-shorn lantern jaws. But now his costume was a
model of rich and sombre moderation, drawing, not calling, attention to
itself. He looked like a banker. Any one would have been proud to be
seen off by him.
`Stand back, please.' The train was about to start, and I waved farewell
to my friend. Le Ros did not stand back. He stood clasping in both
hands the hands of the young American. `Stand back, sir, please!' He
obeyed, but quickly darted forward again to whisper some final word. I
think there were tears in her eyes. There certainly were tears in his
when, at length, having watched the train out of sight, he turned round.
He seemed, nevertheless, delighted to see me. He asked me where I had
been hiding all these years; and