# The Mad 'Bus

Extracted from Windsor magazine, v. 45 1916-17, pp. 92-103. Accompanying illustrations G. C. Wilmshurst omitted.
THE MAD 'BUS
By H. B. MARRIOTT WATSON.
YOU remember Schumann's 'Carnival," of course. Arscott has sometimes wondered since if it were all started by that. By an odd coincidence someone was playing it on the piano in one of the houses near which the Dorley motor-'buses pulled up and awaited passengers. It had been also wandering in his head since he left the concert-room, where it had been quite superbly and enticingly played. Halford was very particular as to its musical reputation, and prided itself on drawing its audiences from the surrounding country. It drew also from neighbouring towns, even from Dorley, some ten miles away. It was a wonderful summer evening, with a gibbous moon already climbing up the eastern sky, and Arscott was prettily fluttered with the exquisite music, and also the temptations of what had seemed an exquisite face. She was in evening-dress, and had sat some two rows from him, but he had not seen her full face; it eluded, invited, and tantalised. In the mood evoked" by "Carnival" he coquetted with the possibilities of its fascination.
And then, with the light of the 'bus gleaming on her fairly, he saw her mounting the step. Apparently she was going towards Dorley. So was he. So much the better. He ascended after her, with the strains of "Carnival" flowing out upon the beautiful night air, and he pushed forward to a seat towards the top, near an open window. Thus he could keep his eye on her and also breathe the magic air. She was with a companion of her own sex, but more mature and matronly. Serene airs blew the soft hair into wrinkles. Arscott was charmed. The profile was just as exquisite as he had thought, and the setting was harmonious. The windows were open in front near the driver, and beside him was a clean-shaven man, on whom the light fell constantly as he turned his head from one side to the other. He was talking cheerfully, even jocularly, with the driver. The big 'bus kicked and moved on. Arscott turned to glance at the other passengers.
The 'bus was by no means full, but everyone in it seemed to have come from happy gatherings. He noted two youths of decent, middle-class origin, a rather angular spinster lady with what must be a small nephew of about thirteen, an old gentleman with a white moustache, very much de rigueur a demure shop-girl, and others. And outside was the smooth-faced man talking to the driver. Arscott's eyes reclaimed the girl with the opera cloak over her bare shoulders, who was listening with a smiling visage to the quick talk of her friend. The latter caught his gaze, and her good-natured, easy-going face smiled. Arscott answered the smile before he knew he was going to do so. Just beyond Halford there was a steep hill which had to be climbed, and then followed the descent into the flatter country, with the sharp left-hand turn into the Dorley road. The motor-'bus groaned up, stopped to change gear, and jerked, throwing Arscott forward. He bumped into a stout lady in front, and apologised. Her smile was vaguely amiable.
"It is this hill," she said, as if explanatorily.
Arscott's glance carried once more to the girl in the opera cloak. Suddenly he was tapped on the shoulder from behind, and, looking round, saw a tall, thin-faced man of middle age.
"This 'bus does go to Dorley, doesn't it?" he inquired anxiously.
Arscott assured him, and with a polite bow he sat back. The 'bus had reached the top of the hill now, and was preparing to descend. At the first rush the air flowed in beautifully. The light in front showed the face of the passenger talking gleefully with the driver, who had lighted a cigar which his companion had given him. The thin-faced man tapped again on Arscott's shoulder.
"How long," he asked, "does it take to get to Dorley?"
"About an hour," said Arscott rather shortly, for he had a suspicion that this neighbour would prove fussy. The girl drew his eyes again, and now he saw her full face, which bore out the radical impressions of her profile. Under the light night airs of that summer night, with the gibbous moon aloft, he thrilled to the exhibition of that beauty. Just then the 'bus began to increase its pace and rock clumsily in the roadway. It floundered so heavily that he was shaken by a movement out of his seat and flung across the dividing passage upon the two ladies.
"I—I sincerely beg your pardon," he stammered, very much in confusion. "The 'bus——"
"Great goodness, I hope it's not going to overturn!" said the older lady, in alarm.
Cries of distress and alarm rose from sundry parts of the vehicle. The demure shop-girl clutched the back of the seat before her and stared affrighted; the old gentleman grabbed the first thing within reach, which was a window-strap; and the thin-faced man rose fussily in what was clearly a small panic, and pulled at the bell-rope.
"Stop the 'bus!" he commanded the conductor, a capable fellow with a Cockney eye.
The conductor pushed his way to the front and put his head out. His voice was vaguely heard exchanging with the driver. The passenger beside the driver turned and nodded and smiled reassuringly. The conductor returned.
"It's all right," he said. "Road's a bit rough."
It was. The 'bus was galloping faster than ever, and lurched even more recklessly. The thin-faced man, who had been standing with his hand on the bell-strap, was thrown sideways, and clutched desperately at the nearest object, which happened to be the spinster lady. In a flutter she screamed, and they endeavoured to disentangle themselves. Arscott, who had braced himself for the occasion, looked round on the débris. The shop-girl was somehow now between the two modest youths, the boy of thirteen was giggling at his aunt's predicament, the stout lady was seated on the floor ungracefully, but quite safely, and the girl in the opera cloak was regarding him with an expression of questioning fear.
Suddenly the man beside the driver put his head through the open window. His face was round and full of wrinkles, and it was impossible to determine his age.
"Don't be alarmed," said he. "The driver has perfect control of the steering, but something has gone wrong with the gear-box."
His very face, rather ugly, puckered and dimpled, with its bushy brows, emanated confidence, and as the 'bus settled down forthwith into a steadier career, the temporary panic was allayed.
"So you really think there is no danger?" inquired the thin-faced man, poking into Arscott's shoulder.
"I wish to goodness——" he began irritably, for he had just caught the girl's eye limpidly resting on him, as if she would have spoken. "Go and ask that gentleman over there," he added, pointing to the old gentleman with the while moustache. The thin-faced man wheeled slowly round in his seat, and suddenly left it in a rush as the 'bus rocked, landing full against the old gentleman's stomach.
"Steady on!" called out the conductor.
"Why, this is where we turn for Dorley!" cried the companion of Arscott's young lady. "Conductor!"
But the 'bus shot past the turning at an ever-accelerated rate, and continued on the main road with the utmost abandon. The road was straight enough and wide enough, and there was little traffic on it at that time of night. What there was they went by like an express train. Gradually the company inside the 'bus recovered its equanimity. The road was level now, and there was neither bumping nor rocking. If the driver could not control the speed, he steered in a masterly way: Arscott leaned his head out of the window and shouted a question—
"When do you think you'll be able to pull up?"
The man beside the driver grinned pleasantly, and the driver growled back—
"Dunno. I ain't got so very much petrol in. I guess we'll have to go on till it's gone."
This was odd hearing, and discomfiting. "Might run into a 'edge up a 'ill," added the driver, with easy nonchalance.
The passenger beside him lit a cigar for him, and Arscott drew his head in. Certainly neither of the two seemed in any anxiety, despite the ominous suggestion in the last statement. He fell back into his seat and looked out. The moon was now well up in the heavens, and the fields and hedges by which they swept were bathed in soft light. The air rushed in a stream through the open 'bus, and it really was quite beautiful and comforting. There was even a thrill in it, this odd, unexpected adventure which seemed to have no real risks, and yet to have broken down all the habits and conventions of life. Conventions began to seem silly. The lady over the way—the elder one—leaned across.
"What does the driver say?" she asked.
"Oh, we shall be all right," said Arscott easily. "He has got it well in hand. We're getting all the more for our money."
The stout lady was now engaged in eating buns, and the demure girl was giggling between the two youths. It looked as if the old gentleman had actually gone to sleep. Certainly it could hardly have been a more pacific party.
By this time they had reached an abrupt turn in the main road, and Arscott looked out. The 'bus swept on at its fifteen miles an hour, and took the straight road in front. Arscott dashed forward, and met the twinkling face of the outside passenger.
"Impossible to take that curve at this pace," he said. "But we're all right. The road's good enough."
"Where are we heading for?" shouted Arscott.
The man nodded, smiled, and turned about in his seat to the driver.
"We're all right," said Arscott to the girl in the opera cloak. "We'll fetch up somewhere soon."
He was feeling wonderfully exhilarated by the situation, for what reason he could not say. The road led on to a smaller road, and thence they galloped on into a lane. Moonlight lay on the ricks visible between the huge elms, and the driver was still smoking his cigar. How beautiful this mad ride was! Peace seemed to have descended on the occupants of the 'bus, and the stout lady in front had finished her buns, brushed off the crumbs, and settled back into slumber. Between dark hedges the runaway slid, came out suddenly on an empty plateau, and submerged to the hub of its wheels in sand. In the air was the breath and freshness of the sea.
"Good gracious!" exclaimed the old gentleman, when he had recovered himself from the lap of the elderly spinster. Unfortunately, it was into the back of the stout lady that Arscott plunged this time. He extricated himself, and saw the front passenger's face framed in the window with a merry grin on it.
"Run to ground," he cried, "and no one a whit the worse for it!"
"All change here!" called out one of the youths facetiously. He was aiding the giggling damsel out of the 'bus, and with one accord all the passengers followed his example. Arscott was privileged to help the two ladies to alight in the sand, and to answer their anxious questions. But these were answered more authoritatively, it seemed, by the outside passenger, who announced in a clear voice—
"The driver has discovered the defect, and says he will be able to put it right in an hour or two. So we must make the best of it meanwhile. We shan't do so badly. The night is warm, the moon shines on a wonderful world, and the silver sea is rolling on the sands. Ladies and gentlemen, things have a way of coming by chance. I recognise where we are, and a friend of mine has a bungalow here. I am sure he will gladly entertain us in our plight. I will go up and see, and will acquaint you, if you will amuse yourselves for five minutes. It's yonder."
The eyes of the bewildered party followed the direction of his hand, and lo! the moonlight lay pale on a long, rambling building some four hundred yards away. There was a general murmur of approbation and thanks, and the outside passenger, who had proved to be small and tubby, skipped off like a frog into the twilight.
Somehow the odd party sorted itself into constituents. The demure giggler and the two youths stuck together like stamps, and presently were wandering along the seashore, arm-in-arm. Arscott caught a glimpse of the old gentleman and the stout lady hobbling along the pebbles, and without waiting to see what had become of the others, he darted after the girl in the opera cloak, who was vanishing with her companion. He caught them up near the rocks, just as the older stumbled over a sand ridge in the shadows. Shadows from the rocks spread all about, and Arscott rejoiced in them.
"We'd better get out of here, my dear," said the lady who had had the mishap.
"Pardon me," said Arscott, like a knight-errant, "the beach is firmer farther out. It always is where the sand is wet, you know."
They thanked him, and turned to follow him in the most natural way. The water foamed gently on the sand, and ripples came almost to their feet. Somewhere in the distance he could make out that the damsel and her escort had taken off their boots and stockings, and were wading. Hilarious conversation reached him, and the girl in the opera cloak glanced inquiringly towards the party.
"I should almost like to do it myself," said the older lady.
Just then the younger stumbled and put her foot into a pool of water. She gave vent to a small cry of alarm, and, like a shot, Arscott had got her in his arms. She disengaged herself quickly.
"Thank you," she said. "I very nearly——"
Arscott, gloating over the situation, was prodded from behind.
"Excuse me," said the thin-faced man's voice, this is really very embarrassing. Have you any idea when we really shall get to——"
But here, greatly to Arscott's satisfaction, he stepped into the pool from which the girl had just been rescued.
"Dear—oh, dear!" he exclaimed distressfully. "This is most embarrassing. Would you be so good——"
"Let's get away from him," said Arscott boldly to the ladies, and almost to his surprise, and greatly to his delight, they obeyed without a word. Exhilaration swept Arscott's spirits to ecstatic heights.
"Let's run," he said, adding: "It will keep you warm after the wetting."
Then he was aware that they were running—running along the beach in the direction of the waders. They left the thin-faced man in the pool, and Arscott was also aware that the older lady was dropping behind. He felt almost intoxicated.
"Come unto these yellow sands,"
he cried,
"And then take hands."
He wished that he could remember more of that passage, but the girl did. She finished it—
"Curtsied when you have and kiss'd—
(The wild waves whist)."
They had reached the waders, and now paused breathlessly.
"Let us!" said Arscott, with increasing audacity, and he sat down and pulled off his boots. Just then the older lady arrived, panting.
"Maisie," she said, "you are a disgrace! What are you doing?"
Maisie had sat down, and was tampering with her boots in an ominous way. Her friend also plumped down and began unlacing. Arscott distinctly heard her say under her breath—
"We don't know him from Adam, so it won't matter."
In a trice they were all three of them ankle-deep in the water, and the little delicious ripples made them laugh out of pure happiness. Once Maisie nearly fell down, but Arscott's strong arm again rescued her promptly. It was so exceedingly delightful and so full of real fairydom, that Arscott felt a distinct sense of grievance when from the middle distance came three strenuous hoots of a horn.
"They're calling us; the 'bus is ready," said the older lady. "Maisie, do hurry up."
They hurried up to the uncouth summons of the bellowing horn to such an effect that Arscott had to run, carrying his own and one of the ladies' pair of boots. But no one seemed to mind. Everyone was there and gathered about the driver.
"Ain't quite done yet," he said grimly. "I guess I want a drink."
The outside passenger came here into prominence again. "You shall have your drink," he said, in his jovial voice, "and, ladies and gentlemen, I took the liberty of sounding the hooter for a reason. My friend is away, but I have arranged for a little refreshment at the bungalow. Come along, all!"
Something took Arscott in the back as he moved off with the ladies. "I beg your pardon," said the thin-faced man's voice politely, "but you must have taken some lady's boots by mistake."
Arscott turned savagely.
"Heavens, I forgot all about them!" exclaimed the older lady, and promptly secured her property. Arscott waited chivalrously while she donned them, so that they arrived—all three of them—in the room of the bungalow behind the others. It was a long room, and a long table in it was spread with cold viands—tongues, hams, and other tempting things. The sea air had made them all hungry, and with some merriment the company fell to eating without scruple. At the head of the table was seated the outside passenger. Arscott somehow found himself between the two ladies, talking very briskly to them, just as if they had been old friends. The only thing that interfered with his perfect enjoyment of the situation was the fact that the thin-faced man, who was seated just opposite, kept on complaining to his neighbours of the damp condition of his legs.
And then presently wine was served, and though it was as divine nectar, it seemed to be very heady. At any rate, it had an immediate effect on Arscott. He knew he was talking a great deal, and, he thought, brilliantly. The wine affected others also, and Maisie chattered gaily. He bent over and looked into her eyes, and they seemed to meet his with some shy, melting tenderness. What induced him to do it he didn't know, but it certainly didn't appear odd to him that he was holding her hand presently. Then the outside passenger was upon his legs, beaming. Arscott could see his eyes twinkling in the light of the many candles. He didn't hear all he said, but he did catch a phrase at the end, as he drained his glass.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I give you a toast. To the goddess of chance and good fortune."
Arscott and the ladies were impelled to drink to this, and next, with a curious drumming in his ears that shut out all other sounds, Arscott was feeling in his waistcoat pocket. He remembered that he had a ring there—a pretty pearl ring—and as he fumbled with his left hand he held the girl's hand with his right. He found the ring and carefully placed it on the third finger of her left hand. She looked at it, sighed, and raised her beautiful eyes to him.
"It's lucky I thought of bringing it with me," he reflected.
Suddenly everyone was startled by the hooting of the horn.
"The 'bus, the 'bus!" they cried, and, almost without knowing it, Arscott found himself walking out of the bungalow into the open night with the girl's hand still in his.
"Might I ask——" It was the thin-faced man's voice, and Arscott's anger leapt in him. He thrust out an arm, and suddenly the thin-faced man disappeared. Then they all climbed into the 'bus, and in their excited state no one thought of the outside passenger, who did not seem to have accompanied them. Certainly he was not beside the driver. Arscott had taken a seat next to the girl, and he clung to her hand, which was submissively left in his. He was aware of laughter all about him, and he saw the older lady's eyes smiling at him as if she were amused. Then the 'bus started and groaned out into the road. He settled back into perfect contentment. He was not anxious to talk, only to hold that slender hand. The wine must have been very heady, but all was right with the world.
They had been some time on the road, progressing quite evenly, when the 'bus jolted, kicked, and stopped. His head was jerked forward, and he was shaken up.
"Really," he exclaimed, "there must be something radically wrong with the engine. The company——"
He felt himself poked in the shoulder, and turned irritably. "Go to the dickens!" he began, and found that it was not the thin-faced man, but the conductor.
"Fare, please!" said he.
"Fare!" Arscott looked bewildered. The 'bus had stopped, and he was sitting close against Maisie, but she seemed more bashful now, and was withdrawing from him. The conductor left him and went to the window, whence he called out to his mate. The old gentleman two seats away pulled out his watch and examined it.
"We're late," he said to the 'bus in general. "It's nearly eleven-thirty."
"Late! The idiot!" thought Arscott. "What else did he expect after what they had gone through?" Eleven-thirty! He had looked at his watch in the bungalow, and had found it at two o'clock. He pulled it out now. Eleven-thirty! Yes, that was what it registered. He looked round a little dazed. The 'bus passengers were in the same position relatively in which they had been when they left Halford—the demure girl by herself, the two quiet youths together, the stout lady, the thin-faced man—— What on earth—— He turned his attention abruptly to the two ladies against whom he was pressing on a seat inadequate for them. The older was regarding him with that amused smile he had seen before, but the younger was shrinking away. Then he remembered, and he bent a little lower to look at her hand. Why, there was the pearl ring he had given her, and she was wearing it still.
"Excuse me," said the older lady, still smiling, "but I dare say you're a little bewildered. It shook you up when you came flying—— Do you mind moving back now?"
Moving back! What on earth—why, everyone was there but the outside passenger, and he must have been left behind at the bungalow.
"I beg your pardon, sir," said a well-known voice—it was the thin-faced man's—"you are incommoding those ladies."
He stood up muzzily and dropped into the seat across the way. What on earth——
Outside, the driver and conductor were busily engaged, and the crank was being turned. The ring! Then it came upon Arscott, with a strange and awful sense of panic, that he had never had a pearl ring. Where did he get it from? He gazed across in a fascinated way at the girl's fingers. Ring! He had never had any ring. What on earth—— He leaned over abruptly to the stout lady.
"Excuse me," he said, "how long is it since we left the bungalow?"
"The bungalow!" she repeated vaguely. "Do you mean that corrugated iron place next to 'The Coach and Horses'?"
He mumbled "Thank you," and sat back. He was more than tormented by horrific doubts, and he tried again.
"This is the second time this has happened," he said.
"This?"
"This accident—the stoppage," he explained shortly.
"Oh, we only stopped once before," said the stout lady, "to let that gentleman outside down."
Conviction came home with a rush to Arscott. Then nothing had happened! This beautiful thing he had gone through——
"Ladies and gentlemen, the 'bus can't go any further; she's broke down."
It was the conductor speaking, and while Arscott was still in his maze the vehicle emptied. Out in the moonlit road the passengers were talking and consulting. The two ladies had engaged the conductor.
"Sorry, madam, but 'tain't my fault. Harkover? Dunno. I believe it's on the hill somewhere. Perhaps someone else——"
He saw Arscott. "Know where Harkover is?" he asked.
"Yes," said Arscott, coming out of his maze. "Up the lane and across the heath. It's——"
"Perhaps you could direct these ladies."
He had discharged his obligations, and turned once moie to his mate, the driver. Arscott found himself being prettily thanked by the elder lady.
"If you would be so kind——"
"I'm afraid," he said rather timidly, for he had not completely recovered from his stupendous fantasia, "that the way is a little difficult from here. It is just over a mile, but the field paths go through woods after the heath. From Sharn it is all plain sailing, but we've broken down two miles from Sharn."
"Dear me," said the lady, "and it's getting so very late!"
"If you don't mind," went on Arscott boldly, "I can put you on the way altogether. I live just a little way from Harkover."
"It would be very good of you," said the lady slowly, and then: "You're sure it's not out of your way?"
"No," said Arscott eagerly. "I live at Hotton, half a mile from the farm."
"Hotton! " said the lady. "Why, then Mrs. Arscott——"
"She is my mother," said he.
"Then you must know my friends the Chalfonts. I am staying with my cousin at the farm. My name is Mrs. Medway—my cousin, Miss Seaton."
Everything seemed thus agreeably arranged. They had not been introduced, but, like the people in "Etiquette," they "both knew Robinson." Arscott measured the tread of his long step all the way up the lane, talking of the concert, of the night, of the accident, even of "Carnival," but never of the bungalow, and the sea, and the boots.
He learnt that they were staying at Harkover for six wrecks. Presently, as they reached the heath, lovely in the moonlight, and fragrant, Mrs. Medway began laughing.
"You must have been sound asleep that time the 'bus stopped. You came over like a shot from a popgun—didn't he, Maisie?"
Arscott didn't hear Maisie's reply. He stuttered. Mists rose about him. Maisie! Good Heavens, was there then something in it, after all? Maisie!
It was with a soft glow in his heart that he began the descent towards Harkover.
Copyright, 1916, by H. B. Marriott Watson, in the United States of America.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse