Albert Jenkins was nineteen years of age, and lived with his parents and seven brothers and sisters in Camberwell; his father managed a refreshment bar in Oxford Street. He had been in the employ of Messrs. Curpet and Smythe for seven years,—first as junior office boy, then as senior office boy, and finally as junior shorthand clerk. He was of the average height, with a shallow chest, and thin arms and legs. His feet were very small—he often referred to the fact with frank complacency—and were always encased in well-fitting hand-made boots, brightly polished. The rest of his attire was less remarkable for neatness; but at intervals an ambition to be genteel possessed him, and during these recurrent periods the nice conduct of his fingernails interfered somewhat with official routine. He carried his hat either at the back of his head or tilted almost upon the bridge of his nose. In the streets he generally walked with sedate deliberation, his hands deep in his pockets, his eyes lowered, and an enigmatic smile on his thin lips.
His countenance was of a pale yellow complexion just tinged with red, and he never coloured; his neck was a darker yellow. Upon the whole, his features were regular, except the mouth, which was large, and protruded like a monkey's; the eyes were grey, with a bold regard, which not seldom was excusably mistaken for insolence.
Considering his years, Jenkins was a highly accomplished person, in certain directions. Upon all matters connected with her Majesty's mail and inland revenue, upon cab fares, bus-routes, and local railways, upon "Pitman outlines," and upon chamber practice in Chancery, he was an unquestioned authority. He knew the addresses of several hundred London solicitors, the locality of nearly every street and square within the four-mile radius, and, within the same limits, the approximate distance of any one given spot from any other given spot.
He was the best billiard-player in the office, and had once made a spot-barred break of 49; this game was his sole pastime. He gambled regularly upon horse-races, resorting to a number of bookmakers, but neither winning nor losing to an appreciable extent; no less than three jockeys occasionally permitted him to enjoy their companionship, and he was never without a stable-tip.
His particular hobby, however, was restaurants. He spent half his income upon food, and quite half his waking hours either in deciding what he should consume, or in actual drinking and mastication. He had personally tested the merits of every bar and house of refreshment in the neighbourhood of the Law Courts, from Lockhart's to Gatti's, and would discourse for hours on their respective virtues and defects. No restaurant was too mean for his patronage, and none too splendid; for days in succession he would dine upon a glass of water and a captain biscuit with cheese, in order to accumulate resources for a delicate repast in one of the gilded establishments where the rich are wont to sustain themselves; and he had acquired from his father a quantity of curious lore, throwing light upon the secrets of the refreshment trade, which enabled him to spend the money thus painfully amassed to the best advantage.
Jenkins was a cockney and the descendant of cockneys; he conversed always volubly in the dialect of Camberwell; but just as he was subject to attacks of modishness, so at times he attempted to rid himself of his accent, of course without success. He swore habitually, and used no reticence whatever, except in the presence of his employers and of Mr. Alder the manager. In quick and effective retort he was the peer of cabmen, and nothing could abash him. His favourite subjects of discussion were restaurants, as before mentioned, billiards, the turf, and women, whom he usually described as "tarts." It was his custom to refer to himself as a "devil for girls," and when Mr. Alder playfully accused him of adventures with females of easy virtue, his delight was unbounded.
There were moments when Richard loathed Jenkins, when the gross and ribald atmosphere which attended Jenkins' presence nauseated him, and utter solitude in London seemed preferable to the boy's company; but these passed, and the intimacy throve. Jenkins, indeed, had his graces; he was of an exceedingly generous nature, and his admiration for the deep literary scholarship which he imagined Richard to possess was ingenuous and unconcealed. His own agile wit, his picturesque use of slang, his facility in new oaths, and above all his exact knowledge of the byways, and backwaters of London life, endowed him, in Richard's unaccustomed eyes, with a certain specious attractiveness. Moreover, the fact that they shared the same room and performed similar duties made familiar intercourse between them natural and necessary. With no other member of the staff did Richard care to associate. The articled clerks, though courteously agreeable to everyone, formed an exclusive coterie; and as for the rest, they were either old or dull, or both. He often debated whether he should seek out Mr. Aked, who was now recovered, and had once, unfortunately in Richard's absence, called at the office; but at length he timidly decided that the extent of their acquaintance would not warrant it.
Where shall we go to lunch to-day? was almost the first question which Richard and Jenkins asked each other in the morning, and a prolonged discussion would follow. They called the meal "lunch," but it was really their dinner, though neither of them ever admitted the fact.
Jenkins had a predilection for grill-rooms, where raw chops and steaks lay on huge dishes, and each customer chose his own meat and superintended its cooking. A steak, tender and perfectly cooked, with baked potatoes and half a pint of stout, was his ideal repast, and he continually lamented that no restaurant in London offered such cheer at the price of one shilling and threepence, including the waiter. The cheap establishments were never satisfactory, and Jenkins only frequented them when the state of his purse left no alternative. In company with Richard he visited every new eating-house that made its appearance, in the hope of finding the restaurant of his dreams, and though each was a disappointment, yet the search still went on. The place which most nearly coincided with his desires was the "Sceptre," a low, sombre room between the Law Courts and the river, used by well-to-do managing clerks and a sprinkling of junior barristers. Here, lounging luxuriously on red plush seats, and in full sight and hearing of a large silver grill, the two spent many luncheon hours, eating slowly, with gross, sensual enjoyment, and secretly elated by the proximity of men older and more prosperous than themselves, whom they met on equal terms.
Richard once suggested that they should try one of the French restaurants in Soho which Mr. Aked had mentioned.
Not me! said Jenkins, in reply. "You don't catch me going to those parley-voo shops again. I went once. They give you a lot of little messes, faked up from yesterday's dirty plates, and after you've eaten half a dozen of 'em you don't feel a bit fuller. Give me a steak and a potato. I like to know what I'm eating."
He had an equal detestation of vegetarian restaurants, but once, during a period of financial depression, he agreed to accompany Richard, who knew the place fairly well, to the "Crabtree" in Charing Cross Road, and though he grumbled roundly at the insubstantiality of the three-course dinner à la carte which could be obtained for sixpence, he made no difficulty, afterwards, about dining there whenever prudence demanded the narrowest economy.
An air of chill and prim discomfort pervaded the Crabtree, and the mingled odour of lentils and sultana pudding filled every corner. The tables were narrow, and the chairs unyielding. The customers were for the most eccentric as to dress and demeanour; they had pale faces, and during their melancholy meals perused volumes obviously instructive, or debated the topics of the day in platitudinous conversations unspiced by a single oath. Young women with whom their personal appearance was a negligible quantity came in large numbers, and either giggled to one another without restraint or sat erect and glared at the males in a manner which cowed even Jenkins. The waitresses lacked understanding, and seemed to resent even the most courteous advances.
One day, just as they were beginning dinner, Jenkins eagerly drew Richard's attention to the girl at the pay-desk. "See that girl?" he said.
What about her? Is she a new one?
Why, she's the tart that old Aked used to be after.
Was she at that A. B. C. shop in the Strand? said Richard, who began to remember the girl's features and her reddish brown hair.
Yes, that's her. Before she was at the A. B. C. she was cashier at that boiled-beef place opposite the Courts, but they say she got the sack for talking to customers too much. She and Aked were very thick then, and he went there every day. I suppose his courting interfered with business.
But he's old enough to be her father!
Yes. He ought to have been ashamed of himself. She's not a bad kind, eh?
There wasn't anything between them, really, was there?
I don't know. There might have been. He followed her to the A. B. C, and I think he sometimes took her home. Her name's Roberts. We used to have him on about her—rare fun.
The story annoyed Richard, for his short tête-à-tête with Mr. Aked had remained in his mind as a pleasant memory, and though he was aware that the old man had been treated with scant respect by the youngsters in the office, he had acquired the habit of mentally regarding him with admiration, as a representative of literature. This attachment to a restaurant cashier, clearly a person of no refinement or intellect, scarcely fitted with his estimate of the journalist who had spoken to Carlyle.
During the meal he surreptitiously glanced at the girl several times. She was plumper than before, and her cough seemed to be cured. Her face was pleasant, and undoubtedly she had a magnificent coiffure.
When they presented their checks, Jenkins bowed awkwardly, and she smiled. He swore to Richard that next time he would mention Mr. Aked's name to her. The vow was broken. She was willing to exchange civilities, but her manner indicated with sufficient clearness that a line was to be drawn.
In the following week, when Richard happened to be at the Crabtree alone, at a later hour than usual, they had rather a long conversation.
Is Mr. Aked still at your office? she asked, looking down at her account books.
Richard told what he knew.
Oh! she said, "I often used to see him, and he gave me some lozenges that cured a bad cough I had. Nice old fellow, wasn't he?"
Yes, I fancy so, Richard assented.
I thought I'd just ask, as I hadn't seen him about for a long time.
Good afternoon—Miss Roberts.
Good afternoon—Mr.——
Larch.
They both laughed.
A trivial dispute with Jenkins, a few days later, disclosed the fact that that haunter of bars had a sullen temper, and that his displeasure, once aroused, was slow to disappear. Richard dined alone again at the Crabtree, and after another little conversation with Miss Roberts, having time at his disposal, he called at the public library in St. Martin's Lane. In a half-crown review he saw an article, by a writer of considerable repute, entitled "To Literary Aspirants," which purported to demonstrate that a mastery of the craft of words was only to be attained by a regular course of technical exercises; the nature of these exercises was described in detail. There were references to the unremitting drudgery of Flaubert, de Maupassant, and Stevenson, together with extracts chosen to illustrate the slow passage of the last-named author from inspired incompetence to the serene and perfect proficiency before which all difficulties melted. After an unqualified statement that any man—slowly if without talent, quickly if gifted by nature—might with determined application learn to write finely, the essayist concluded by remarking that never before in the history of literature had young authors been so favourably circumstanced as at that present. Lastly came the maxim, Nulla dies sine linea.
Richard's cooling enthusiasm for letters leaped into flame. He had done no writing whatever for several weeks, but that night saw him desperately at work. He took advantage of the quarrel to sever all save the most formal connection with Jenkins, dined always frugally at the Crabtree, and spent every evening at his lodging. The thought of Alphonse Daudet writing "Les Amoureuses" in a Parisian garret supported him through an entire month of toil, during which, besides assiduously practising the recommended exercises, he wrote a complete short story and began several essays. About this time his "City of Sleep" was returned upon his hands in a condition so filthy and ragged that he was moved to burn it. The short story was offered to an evening daily, and never heard of again.
It occurred to him that possibly he possessed some talent for dramatic criticism, and one Saturday evening he went to the first performance of a play at the St. George's theatre. After waiting for an hour outside, he got a seat in the last row of the pit. Eagerly he watched the critics take their places in the stalls; they chatted languidly, smiling and bowing now and then to acquaintances in the boxes and dress circle; the pit was excited and loquacious, and Richard discovered that nearly everyone round about him made a practice of attending first nights, and had an intimate knowledge of the personnel of the stage. Through the hum of voices the overture to "Rosamund" fitfully reached him. During whole bars the music was lost; then some salient note caught the ear, and the melody became audible again until another wave of conversation engulfed it.
The conclusion of the last act was greeted with frenzied hand-clapping, beating of sticks, and inarticulate cries, while above the general noise was heard the repeated monosyllable "'thor, 'thor." After what seemed an interminable delay the curtain was drawn back at one side and a tall man in evening dress, his face a dead white, stepped before the footlights and bowed several times; the noise rose to a thunderous roar, in which howls and hissing were distinguishable. Richard shook from head to foot, and tears unaccountably came to his eyes.
The whole of Sunday and Monday evening were occupied in writing a detailed analysis and appreciation of the play. On Tuesday morning he bought a weekly paper which devoted special attention to the drama, in order to compare his own view with that of an acknowledged authority, and found that the production was dismissed in ten curt lines as mere amiable drivel.
A few days afterwards Mr. Curpet offered him the position of cashier in the office, at a salary of three pounds a week. His income was exactly doubled, and the disappointments of unsuccessful authorship suddenly ceased to trouble him. He began to doubt the wisdom of making any further attempt towards literature. Was it not clear that his talents lay in the direction of business? Nevertheless a large part of his spare cash was devoted to the purchase of books, chiefly the productions of a few celebrated old continental presses, which he had recently learned to value. He prepared a scheme for educating himself in the classical tongues and in French, and the practice of writing was abandoned to make opportunity for the pursuit of culture. But culture proved to be shy and elusive. He adhered to no regular course of study, and though he read much, his progress towards knowledge was almost imperceptible.
Other distractions presented themselves in the shape of music and painting. He discovered that he was not without critical taste in both these arts, and he became a frequenter of concerts and picture-galleries. He bought a piano on the hire-purchase system, and took lessons thereon. In this and other ways his expenditure swelled till it more than swallowed up the income of three pounds a week which not long before he had regarded as something very like wealth. For many weeks he made no effort to adjust the balance, until his debts approached the sum of twenty pounds, nearly half of which was owing to his landlady. He had to go through more than one humiliating scene before an era of economy set in.
One afternoon he received a telegram to say that William Vernon had died very suddenly. It was signed "Alice Clayton Vernon." Mrs. Vernon was William's stately cousin-in-law, and Richard, to whom she had spoken only once,—soon after Mary's wedding,—regarded her with awe; he disliked her because he found it impossible to be at ease in her imposing presence. As he went into Mr. Curpet's room to ask for leave of absence, his one feeling was annoyance at the prospect of having to meet her again. William's death, to his own astonishment, scarcely affected him at all.
Mr. Curpet readily granted him two days' holiday, and he arranged to go down to Bursley the following night for the funeral.
Wearied of sitting, Richard folded his overcoat pillow-wise, put it under his head, and extended himself on the polished yellow wood. But in vain were his eyes shut tight. Sleep would not come, though he yawned incessantly. The monstrous beat of the engine, the quick rattle of windows, and the grinding of wheels were fused into a fantastic resonance which occupied every corner of the carriage and invaded his very skull. Then a light tapping on the roof, one of those mysterious sounds which make a compartment in a night-train like a haunted room, momentarily silenced everything else, and he wished that he had not been alone.
Suddenly jumping up, he put away all idea of sleep, and lowered the window. It was pitch dark; vague changing shapes, which might have been either trees or mere fancies of the groping eye, outlined themselves a short distance away; far in front was a dull glare from the engine, and behind twinkled the guard's lamp.... In a few seconds he closed the window again, chilled to the bone, though May was nearly at an end.
The thought occurred to him that he was now a solitary upon the face of the earth. It concerned no living person whether he did evil or good. If he chose to seek ruin, to abandon himself to the most ignoble impulses, there was none to restrain,—not even a brother-in-law. For several weeks past, he had been troubled about his future, afraid to face it. Certainly London satisfied him, and the charm of living there had not perceptibly grown less. He rejoiced in London, in its vistas, its shops, its unending crowds, its vastness, its wickedness; each dream dreamed about London in childhood had come true; and surer than ever before was the consciousness that in going to London he had fulfilled his destiny. Yet there was something to lack in himself. His confidence in his own abilities and his own character was being undermined. Nearly a year had gone, and he had made no progress, except at the office. Resolutions were constantly broken; it was three months since he had despatched an article to a newspaper. He had not even followed a definite course of study, and though his acquaintance with modern French fiction had widened, he could boast no exact scholarship even in that piquant field. Evening after evening—ah! those long, lamplit evenings which were to be given to strenuous effort!—was frittered away upon mean banalities, sometimes in the company of some casual acquaintance and sometimes alone. He had by no means grasped the full import and extent of this retrogression; it was merely beginning to disturb his self-complacence, and perhaps, ever so slightly, his sleep. But now, hurrying to the funeral of William Vernon, he lazily laughed at himself for having allowed his peace of mind to be ruffled. Why bother about "getting on"? What did it matter?
He still experienced but little sorrow at the death of Vernon. His affection for the man had strangely faded. During the nine months that he had lived in London they had scarcely written to one another, and Richard regarded the long journey to attend William's obsequies as a tiresome concession to propriety.
That was his real attitude, had he cared to examine it.
At about four o'clock it was quite light, and the risen sun woke Richard from a brief doze. The dew lay in the hollows of the fields but elsewhere there was a soft, fresh clearness which gave to the common incidents of the flying landscape a new and virginal beauty—as though that had been the morn of creation itself. The cattle were stirring, and turned to watch the train as it slipped by.
Richard opened the window again. His mood had changed, and he felt unreasonably joyous. Last night he had been too pessimistic. Life lay yet before him, and time enough to rectify any indiscretions of which he might have been guilty. The future was his, to use as he liked. Magnificent, consoling thought! Moved by some symbolic association of ideas, he put his head out of the window and peered in the direction of the train's motion. A cottage stood alone in the midst of innumerable meadows; as it crossed his vision, the door opened, and a young woman came out with an empty pail swinging in her left hand. Apparently she would be about twenty-seven, plump and sturdy and straight. Her hair was loose about her round, contented face, and with her disengaged hand she rubbed her eyes, still puffed and heavy with sleep. She wore a pink print gown, the bodice of which was unfastened, disclosing a white undergarment and the rich hemispheres of her bosom. In an instant the scene was hidden by a curve of the line, and the interminable succession of fields resumed, but Richard had time to guess from her figure that the woman was the mother of a small family. He pictured her husband still unconscious in the warm bed which she had just left; he even saw the impress of her head on the pillow, and a long nightdress thrown hastily across a chair.
He was deeply and indescribably affected by this suggestion of peaceful married love set in so great a solitude. The woman and her hypothetical husband and children were only peasants, their lives were probably narrow and their intellects dormant, yet they aroused in him a feeling of envy which surged about his brain and for the moment asphyxiated thought....
Later on the train slackened speed as it passed through a shunting-yard. The steam from the light shunting-engine rose with cloud-like delicacy in the clear air, and an occasional short whistle seemed to have something of the quality of a bird's note. The men with their long poles moved blithely among the medley of rails, signalling one another with motions of the arm. The coupling-chains rang with a merry, giant tinkle, and when the engine brought its load of waggons to a standstill, and a smart, metallic bump, bump, bump ran diminuendo from waggon to waggon, one might have fancied that some leviathan game was being played. Richard forgot the girl with the pail, and soon after went to sleep.
At six o'clock the train reached Knype, where he had to change. Two women with several children also alighted, and he noticed how white and fatigued were their faces; the children yawned pitifully. An icy, searching wind blew through the station; the exhilaration of the dawn was gone, and a spirit of utter woe and disaster brooded over everything. For the first time William's death really touched him.
The streets of Bursley were nearly empty as he walked through the town from the railway station, for the industrial population was already at work in the manufactories, and the shops not yet open. Yet Richard avoided the main thoroughfares, choosing a circuitous route lest he might by chance encounter an acquaintance. He foresaw the inevitable banal dialogue:—
Well, how do you like London?
Oh, it's fine!
Getting on all right?
Yes, thanks.
And then the effort of two secretly bored persons to continue a perfunctory conversation unaided by a single mutual interest.
A carriage was driving away from the Red House just as Richard got within sight of it; he nodded to the venerable coachman, who gravely touched his hat. The owner of the carriage was Mr. Clayton Vernon, William's cousin and an alderman of Bursley, and Richard surmised that Mrs. Clayton Vernon had put herself in charge of the place until the funeral should be over. He trembled at the prospect of a whole day to be spent in the company of these excellent people, whom William had always referred to with a smile, and yet not without a great deal of respect. The Clayton Vernons were the chief buttress of respectability in the town; rich, strictly religious, philanthropic, and above all dignified. Everyone looked up to them instinctively, and had they possessed but one vice between them, they would have been loved.
Mrs. Clayton Vernon herself opened the door. She was a stately woman of advanced middle age, with a suave, imperious manner.
I left Clayton to have breakfast by himself, she said, as she led Richard into the sitting-room; "I thought you would like someone here to welcome you after your long night journey. Breakfast will be ready almost directly. How tired you must be! Clayton said it was a pity you should come by the night train, but of course it is quite right that you should inconvenience your employers as little as possible, quite right. And we admire you for it. Now will you run upstairs and wash? You've not forgotten the way?..."
The details of the funeral had been settled by Mr. Clayton Vernon, who was the chief mourner, and Richard had nothing to do but fall in with preconcerted plans and answer decorously when spoken to. The arrangement was satisfactory in that it relieved him from duties which would have been irksome, but scarcely gratifying to his pride. He had lived nearly all his life in that house, and had known the dead man perhaps more intimately than anyone else present. However, he found it convenient to efface himself.
In the evening there was an elaborate tea at which were present the Clayton Vernons and the minister who had conducted the funeral service. The minister and the alderman left immediately afterwards to attend a meeting, and when they were gone Mrs. Clayton Vernon said,—
Now we are all alone, Richard. Go into the drawing-room and I will follow. I do want to have a chat with you.
She came in with needle and thread and scissors.
If you will take off your coat, I will stitch on that button that is hanging by one thread. I noticed it this morning, and then it went quite out of my mind. I am so sorry!
Oh, thanks! he blushed hotly. "But I can stitch myself, you know—"
Come, you needn't be shy of an old woman seeing you in your shirt-sleeves. Do as I ask.
He doffed the coat.
I always like young men to be immaculately neat, she said, cutting off a piece of cotton. "One's personal character is an index to one's character, don't you think? Of course you do. Here, thread the needle for me. I am afraid since your dear sister died you have grown a little careless, eh? She was most particular. Ah, what a mother she was to you!"
Yes, said Richard.
I was very grieved to see you go to the funeral in a soft hat—Richard, really I was. It wasn't respectful to your brother-in-law's memory.
I never thought. You see, I started in rather a hurry. The fact was that he had no silk hat, nor could he easily afford to buy one.
But you should think, my dear boy. Even Clayton was shocked. Are those your best clothes?
Richard answered that they were. He sheepishly protested that he never bothered about clothes.
There was a silence, broken by her regular stitching. At last she handed him the coat and helped him to put it on. He went to the old green sofa, and somewhat to his dismay she sat down by his side.
Richard, she began, in a changed, soft voice, and not without emotion, "do you know we are expecting great things from you?"
But you shouldn't. I'm a very ordinary sort of person.
No, no. That you are not. God has given you great talents, and you must use them. Poor William always used to say that you were highly gifted and might do great things.
Might!
Yes—if you tried.
But how am I gifted? And what 'great things' are expected? he asked, perhaps angling for further flattering disclosures.
I cannot answer that, said Mrs. Clayton Vernon; "it is for you to answer. You have given all your friends the impression that you would do something worth doing. You have raised hopes, and you must not disappoint them. We believe in you, Richard. That is all I can say."
That's all very well; but— He stopped and played with the seal on his watch-chain. "The fact is, I am working, you know. I want to be an author—at least a journalist."
Ah!
It's a slow business—at first— Suddenly moved to be confidential, he went on to give her some account, incomplete and judiciously edited, of his life during the past year.
You have relieved my mind greatly, and Clayton will be so glad. We were beginning to think—
Why were you 'beginning to think'?
Well, never mind now.
But why?
Never mind. I have full confidence in you, and I am sure you will get on. Poor boy, you have no near connections or relatives now?
No, none.
You must look on Clayton and myself as very near relatives. We have no children, but our hearts are large. I shall expect you to write to me sometimes and to come and stay with us now and then.
In the centre of the reading-room at the British Museum sit four men fenced about by a quadruple ring of unwieldy volumes which are an index to all the knowledge in the world. The four men know those volumes as a good courier knows the Continental Bradshaw, and all day long, from early morning, when the attendants, self-propelled on wheeled stools, run around the rings arranging and aligning the huge blue tomes, to late afternoon, when the immense dome is like a dark night and the arc lamps hiss and crackle in the silence, they answer questions, patiently, courteously; they are seldom embarrassed and less seldom in the wrong.
Radiating in long rows from the central fortress of learning, a diversified company of readers disposes itself: bishops, statesmen, men of science, historians, needy pedants, popular authors whose broughams are waiting in the precincts, journalists, medical students, law students, curates, hack-writers, women with clipped hair and black aprons, idlers; all short-sighted and all silent.
Every few minutes an official enters in charge of an awed group of country visitors, and whispers mechanically the unchanging formula: "Eighty thousand volumes in this room alone: thirty-six miles of bookshelves in the Museum altogether." Whereupon the visitors stare about them, the official unsuccessfully endeavours not to let it appear that the credit of the business belongs entirely to himself, and the party retires again.
Vague, reverberating noises roll heavily from time to time across the chamber, but no one looks up; the incessant cannibal feast of the living upon the dead goes speechlessly forward; the trucks of food are always moving to and fro, and the nonchalant waiters seem to take no rest.
Almost Richard's first care on coming to London had been to obtain a reader's ticket for the British Museum, and for several months he had made a practice of spending Saturday afternoon there, following no special line of study or research, and chiefly contenting himself with desultory reading in the twenty thousand volumes which could be reached down without the slow machinery of an order form. After a time the charm of the place had dwindled, and other occupations filled his Saturday afternoons.
But when upon his return from William's funeral he stepped from Euston Station into Bloomsbury, the old enthusiasms came back in all their original freshness. The seduction of the street vistas, the lofty buildings, and the swiftly flitting hansoms once more made mere wayfaring a delight; the old feeling of self-confident power lifted his chin, and the failures of the past were forgotten in a dream of future possibilities. He dwelt with pleasure on that part of his conversation with Mrs. Clayton Vernon which disclosed the interesting fact that Bursley would be hurt if he failed to do "things." Bursley, and especially Mrs. Clayton Vernon, good woman, should not be disappointed. He had towards his native town the sentiments of a consciously clever husband who divines an admiring trust in the glance of a little ignoramus of a wife. Such faith was indeed touching.
One of the numerous resolutions which he made was to resume attendance at the British Museum; the first visit was anticipated with impatience, and when he found himself once more within the book-lined walls of the reading-room he was annoyed to discover that his plans for study were not matured sufficiently to enable him to realise any definite part of them, however small, that day. An idea for an article on "White Elephants" was nebulous in his brain; he felt sure that the subject might be treated in a fascinating manner, if only he could put hands on the right material. An hour passed in searching Poole's Index and other works of reference, without result, and Richard spent the remainder of the afternoon in evolving from old magazines schemes for articles which would present fewer difficulties in working out. Nothing of value was accomplished, and yet he experienced neither disappointment nor a sense of failure. Contact with innumerable books of respectable but forbidding appearance had cajoled him, as frequently before, into the delusion that he had been industrious; surely it was impossible that a man could remain long in that atmosphere of scholarly attainment without acquiring knowledge and improving his mind!
Presently he abandoned the concoction of attractive titles for his articles, and began to look through some volumes of the "Biographie Universelle." The room was thinning now. He glanced at the clock; it was turned six. He had been there nearly four hours! With a sigh of satisfaction he replaced all his books and turned to go, mentally discussing whether or not so much application did not entitle him, in spite of certain resolutions, to go to the Ottoman that evening.
Hey! a voice called out as he passed the glass screen near the door; it sang resonantly among the desks and ascended into the dome; a number of readers looked up. Richard turned round sharply, and beheld Mr. Aked moving a forefinger on the other side of the screen.
Been here long? the older man asked, when Richard had come round to him. "I've been here all day—first time for fifteen years at least. Strange we didn't see each other. They've got a beastly new regulation about novels less than five years old not being available. I particularly wanted some of Gissing's—not for the mere fun of reading 'em of course, because I've read 'em before. I wanted them for a special purpose—I may tell you about it some day—and I couldn't get them, at least several of them. What a tremendous crowd there is here nowadays!"
Well, you see, it's Saturday afternoon, Richard put in, "and Saturday afternoon's the only time that most people can come, unless they're men of independent means like yourself. You seem to have got a few novels besides Gissing's, though." About forty volumes were stacked upon Mr. Aked's desk, many of them open.
Yes, but I've done now. He began to close the books with a smack and to pitch them down roughly in new heaps, exactly like a petulant boy handling school-books. "See, pile them between my arms, and I bet you I'll carry them away all at once."
Oh, no. I'll help you, Richard laughed. "It'll be far less trouble than picking up what you drop."
While they were waiting at the centre desk Mr. Aked said,—
There's something about this place that makes you ask for more volumes than can possibly be useful to you. I question whether I've done any good here to-day at all. If I'd been content with three or four books instead of thirty or forty, I might have done something. By the way, what are you here for?
Well, I just came to look up a few points, Richard answered vaguely. "I've been messing about—got a notion or two for articles, that's all."
Mr. Aked stopped to shake hands as soon as they were outside the Museum. Richard was very disappointed that their meeting should have been so short. This man of strange vivacity had thrown a spell over him. Richard was sure that his conversation, if only he could be persuaded to talk, would prove delightfully original and suggestive; he guessed that they were mutually sympathetic. Ever since their encounter in the A. B. C. shop Richard had desired to know more of him, and now, when by chance they met again, Mr. Aked's manner showed little or no inclination towards a closer acquaintance. There was of course a difference between them in age of at least thirty years, but to Richard that seemed no bar to an intimacy. It was, he surmised, only the physical part of Mr. Aked that had grown old.
Well, good-bye.
Good-bye. Should he ask if he might call at Mr. Aked's rooms or house, or whatever his abode was? He hesitated, from nervousness.
Often come here?
Generally on Saturdays, said Richard.
We may see each other again, then, sometime. Good-bye.
Richard left him rather sadly, and the sound of the old man's quick, alert footsteps—he almost stamped—receded in the direction of Southampton Row. A minute later, as Richard was turning round by Mudie's out of Museum Street, a hand touched his shoulder. It was Mr. Aked's.
By the way, the man's face crinkled into a smile as he spoke, "are you doing anything to-night?"
Nothing whatever.
Let's go and have dinner together—I know a good French place in Soho.
Oh, thanks. I shall be awfully pleased.
Half a crown, table d'hôte. Can you afford?
Certainly I can, said Richard, perhaps a little annoyed, until he recollected that Mr. Aked had used exactly the same phrase on a previous occasion.
I'll pay for the wine.
Not at all—
I'll pay for the wine, Mr. Aked repeated decisively.
All right. You told me about this Soho place before, if you remember.
So I did, so I did, so I did.
What made you turn back?
A whim, young friend, nothing else. Take my arm.
Richard laughed aloud, for no reason in particular, except that he felt happy. They settled to a brisk walk.
The restaurant was a square apartment with a low and smoky beamed ceiling, and shining brass hat-pegs all round the walls; above the hat-pegs were framed advertisements of liqueurs and French, Italian, and Spanish wines. The little tables, whose stiff snowy cloths came near to touching the floor at every side, gleamed and glittered in the light of a fire. The place was empty save for an old waiter who was lighting the gas. The waiter turned a large, mild countenance to Mr. Aked as the two entered, and smiling benignly greeted him with a flow of French, and received a brief reply in the same language. Richard failed to comprehend what was said.
They chose a table near the fire. Mr. Aked at once pulled a book from his pocket and began to read; and Richard, somewhat accustomed by this time to his peculiarities, found nothing extraordinary in such conduct. This plain little restaurant seemed full of enchantment. He was in Paris,—not the great Paris which is reached via Charing Cross, but that little Paris which hides itself in the immensity of London. French newspapers were scattered about the room; the sound of French voices came musically through an open door; the bread which was presently brought in with the hors d'oeuvre was French, and the setting of the table itself showed an exotic daintiness which he had never seen before.
Outside a barrel organ was piercingly strident in the misty dusk. Above the ground-glass panes of the window, Richard could faintly descry the upper storeys of houses on the opposite side of the road. There was a black and yellow sign, "Umberto Club," and above that a blue and red sign, "Blanchisserie française." Still higher was an open window from which leaned a young, negligently dressed woman with a coarse Southern face; she swung a bird-cage idly in her hand; the bird-cage fell and was swallowed by the ground glass, and the woman with a gesture of despair disappeared from the window; the barrel organ momentarily ceased its melody and then struck up anew.
Everything seemed strangely, delightfully unsubstantial, even the meek, bland face of the waiter as he deftly poured out the soup. Mr. Aked, having asked for the wine list, called "Cinquante, Georges, s'il vous plait," and divided his attention impartially between his soup and his book. Richard picked up the "Echo de Paris" which lay on a neighbouring chair. On the first page was a reference in displayed type to the success of the feuilleton "de notre collaborateur distingué," Catulle Mendès. How wondrously enticing the feuilleton looked, with its descriptive paragraphs cleverly diversified by short lines of dialogue, and at the end "CATULLE MENDÈS, à suivre. Réproduction interdite!" Half Paris, probably, was reading that feuilleton! Catulle Mendès was a real man, and no doubt eating his dinner at that moment!
When the fish came, and Georges had gently poured out the wine, Mr. Aked's tongue was loosed.
And how has the Muse been behaving herself? he began.
Richard told him, with as little circumlocution as pride would allow, the history of the last few sterile months.
I suppose you feel a bit downhearted.
Not in the least! answered Richard, bravely, and just then his reply was approximately true.
Never feel downhearted?
Well, of course one gets a bit sick sometimes.
Let's see, to-day's the 30th. How many words have you written this month?
How many words! Richard laughed. "I never count what I do in that way. But it's not much. I haven't felt in the humour. There was the funeral. That put me off."
I suppose you think you must write only when the mood is on you. Mr. Aked spoke sarcastically, and then laughed. "Quite a mistake. I'll give you this bit of advice and charge nothing for it. Sit down every night and write five hundred words descriptive of some scene which has occurred during the day. Never mind how tired you are; do it. Do it for six months, and then compare the earlier work with the later, and you'll keep on."
Richard drank the wisdom in.
Did you do that once?
I did, sir. Everyone does it that comes to anything. I didn't come to anything, though I made a bit of money at one time. But then mine was a queer case. I was knocked over by dyspepsia. Beware of dyspepsia. I was violently dyspeptic for twenty years—simply couldn't write. Then I cured myself. But it was too late to begin again. He spoke in gulps between mouthfuls of fish.
How did you cure yourself?
The man took no notice of the question, and went on:—
And if I haven't written anything for twenty years, I'm still an author at heart. In fact, I've got something 'in the air' now. Oh! I've always had the literary temperament badly. Do you ever catch yourself watching instinctively for the characteristic phrase?
I'm afraid I don't quite know what you mean.
Eh?
Richard repeated what he had said, but Mr. Aked was absorbed in pouring out another glass of wine.
I wish you'd tell me, Richard began, after a pause, "how you first began to write, or rather to get printed."
My dear little friend, I can't tell you anything new. I wrote for several years and never sold a line. And for what peculiar reason, should you think? Simply because not a line was worth printing. Then my things began to be accepted. I sold a story first; I forget the title, but I remember there was a railway accident in it, and it happened to come before the editor of a magazine just when everyone was greatly excited about a railway smash in the West of England. I got thirty shillings for that.
I think I should get on all right enough if only I could sell one thing. Richard sighed.
Well, you must wait. Why, damn it all, man!—he stopped to drink, and Richard noticed how his hand shook. "How long have you been working seriously? Not a year! If you were going in for painting, you surely wouldn't expect to sell pictures after only a year's study?" Mr. Aked showed a naïve appreciation of himself in the part of a veteran who deigns to give a raw recruit the benefit of vast experience.
Of course not, assented Richard, abashed.
Well, then, don't begin to whine.
After the cheese Mr. Aked ordered coffee and cognac, and sixpenny cigars. They smoked in silence.
Do you know, Richard blurted out at length, "the fact is I'm not sure that I'm meant for writing at all. I never take any pleasure in writing. It's a confounded nuisance." He almost trembled with apprehension as he uttered the words.
You like thinking about what you're going to write, arranging, observing, etc.?
Yes, I like that awfully.
Well, here's a secret. No writer does like writing, at least not one in a hundred, and the exception, ten to one, is a howling mediocrity. That's a fact. But all the same they're miserable if they don't write.
I'm glad; there's hope.
When Richard had finished his coffee, it occurred to him to mention Miss Roberts.
Do you ever go to the Crabtree? he asked.
Not of late.
I only ask because there's a girl there who knows you. She inquired of me how you were not long since.
A girl who knows me? Who the devil may she be?
I fancy her name's Roberts.
Aha! So she's got a new place, has she? She lives in my street. That's how I know her. Nice little thing, rather!
He made no further remark on the subject, but there remained an absent, amused smile on his face, and he pulled at his lower lip and fastened his gaze on the table.
You must come down sometime, and see me; my niece keeps house for me, he said before they separated, giving an address in Fulham. He wrung Richard's hand, patted him on the shoulder, winking boyishly, and went off whistling to himself very quietly in the upper register.
The slender, badly hung gate closed of itself behind him with a resounding clang, communicating a little thrill to the ground.
In answer to his ring a girl came to the door. She was rather short, thin, and dressed in black, with a clean white apron. In the half light of the narrow lobby he made out a mahogany hat-rack of conventional shape, and on a wooden bracket a small lamp with a tarnished reflector.
No, Richard heard in a quiet, tranquil voice, "Mr. Aked has just gone out for a walk. He didn't say what time he should be back. Can I give him any message?"
He sent me a card to come down and see him this afternoon, and—I've come. He said about seven o'clock. It's a quarter past now. But perhaps he forgot all about it.
Will you step inside? He may only be away for a minute or two.
No, thanks. If you'll just tell him I've called—
I'm so sorry— The girl raised her hand and rested it against the jamb of the doorway; her eyes were set slantwise on the strip of garden, and she seemed to muse an instant.
Are you Mr. Larch? she asked hesitatingly, just as Richard was saying good-day.
Yes, answered Richard.
Uncle was telling me he had had dinner with you. I'm sure he'll be back soon. Won't you wait a little while?
Well—
She stood aside, and Richard passed into the lobby.
The front room, into which he was ushered, was full of dim shadows, attributable to the multiplicity of curtains which obscured the small bay window. Carteret Street and the half-dozen florid, tawny, tree-lined avenues that run parallel to it contain hundreds of living rooms almost precisely similar. Its dimensions were thirteen feet by eleven, and the height of the ceiling appeared to bring the walls, which were papered in an undecipherable pattern of blue, even closer together than they really were. Linoleum with a few rugs served for a carpet. The fireplace was of painted stone, and a fancy screen of South African grasses hid the grate. Behind a clock and some vases on the mantelpiece rose a confection of walnut and silvered glass. A mahogany chiffonier filled the side of the room farthest from the window; it had a marble top and a large mirror framed in scroll work, and was littered with salt-cellars, fruit plates, and silver nicknacks. The table, a square one, was covered by a red cloth of flannel-like texture patterned in black. The chairs were of mahogany and horsehair, and matched the sofa, which stretched from the door nearly to the window. Several prints framed in gilt and oak depended by means of stout green cord from French nails with great earthenware heads. In the recess to the left of the hearth stood a piano, open, and a song on the music-stand. What distinguished the room from others of its type was a dwarf bookcase filled chiefly with French novels whose vivid yellow gratefully lightened a dark corner next the door.
Uncle is very forgetful, the girl began. There was some sewing on the table, and she had already taken it up. Richard felt shy and ill at ease, but his companion showed no symptom of discomposure. He smiled vaguely, not knowing what to reply.
I suppose he walks a good deal, he said at length.
Yes, he does. There was a second pause. The girl continued to sew quietly; she appeared to be indifferent whether they conversed or not.
I see you are a musician.
Oh, no! She laughed, and looked at his eyes. "I sing a very little bit."
Do you sing Schubert's songs?
Schubert's? No. Are they good?
Rather. They're the songs.
Classical, I suppose. Her tone implied that classical songs were outside the region of the practical.
Yes, of course.
I don't think I care much for classical music.
But you should.
Should I? Why? She laughed gaily, like a child amused. "Hope Temple's songs are nice, and 'The River of Years,' I'm just learning that. Do you sing?"
No—I don't really sing. I haven't got a piano at my place—now.
What a pity! I suppose you know a great deal about music?
I wish I did! said Richard, trying awkwardly not to seem flattered.
A third pause.
Mr. Aked seems to have a fine lot of French novels. I wish I had as many.
Yes. He's always bringing them in.
And this is the latest, eh? He picked up "L'Abbé Tigrane," which lay on the table by the sewing.
Yes, I fancy uncle got that last night.
You read French, of course?
I! No, indeed! Again she laughed. "You mustn't imagine, Mr. Larch," she went on, and her small eyes twinkled, "that I am at all like uncle. I'm not. I've only kept house for him a little while, and we are really—quite different."
How do you mean, 'like uncle'?
Well, the quiet voice was imperceptibly raised, "I'm not a great reader, and I know nothing of books. I'm not clever, you know. I can't bear poetry."
Richard looked indulgent.
But you do read?
Yes, sometimes a novel. I'm reading 'East Lynne.' Uncle bought it for me the other day.
And you like it?
There was a timid tap at the door, and a short, stout servant with red hands and a red face entered; her rough, chubby forearms were bare, and she carried a market basket. "Please, 'm," she ejaculated meaningly and disappeared. Mr. Aked's niece excused herself, and when she returned Richard looked at his watch and rose.
I'm very sorry about uncle—but it's just like him.
Yes, isn't it? Richard answered, and they exchanged a smile.
He walked down Carteret Street humming a tuneless air and twirling his stick. Mr. Aked's niece had proved rather disappointing. She was an ordinary girl, and evidently quite unsusceptible to the artistic influences which subtly emanated from Mr. Aked. But with the exception of his landlady and his landlady's daughter, she was the first woman whom Richard had met in London, and the interview had been somewhat of an ordeal.
Yes, it was matter for regret. Suppose she had been clever, witty, full of that "nameless charm" with which youths invest the ideal maidens of their dreams—with which, indeed, during the past week he had invested her! He might have married her. Then, guided by the experience of a sympathetic uncle-in-law, he would have realised all his ambitions. A vision of Mr. Richard Larch, the well-known editor, and his charming wife, giving a dinner-party to a carefully selected company of literary celebrities, flitted before him. Alas! The girl's "East Lynne," her drawing-room ballads, the mean little serving-maid, the complacent vulgarity of the room, the house, the street, the neighbourhood, combined effectually to dispel it.
He felt sure that she had no aspirations.
It was necessary to wait for a train at Parson's Green station. From the elevated platform grass was visible through a gently falling mist. The curving rails stole away mysteriously into a general greyness, and the twilight, assuaging every crudity of the suburban landscape, gave an impression of vast spaces and perfect serenity. Save for the porter leisurely lighting the station lamps, he was alone,—alone, as it seemed to him, in an upper world, above London, and especially above Fulham and the house where lived the girl who read "East Lynne." How commonplace must she be! Richard wondered that Mr. Aked could exist surrounded by all the banalities of Carteret Street. Even his own lodging was more attractive, for at least Raphael Street was within sound of the central hum and beat of the city.
A signal suddenly shone out in the distance; it might have been a lighthouse seen across unnumbered miles of calm ocean. Rain began to fall.
Richard's Sabbaths had become days of dismal torpor. A year ago, on first arriving in London, he had projected a series of visits to churches famous either for architectural beauty or for picturesque ritual. A few weeks, however, had brought tedium. He was fundamentally irreligious, and his churchgoing proceeded from a craving, purely sensuous, which sought gratification in ceremonial pomps, twilight atmospheres heavy with incense and electric with devotion, and dim perspectives of arching stone. But these things he soon discovered lost their fine savour by the mere presence of a prim congregation secure in the brass armour of self-complacency; for him the worship was spoilt by the worshippers, and so the time came when the only church which he cared to attend—and even to this he went but infrequently, lest use should stale its charm—was the Roman Catholic oratory of St. Philip Neri, where, at mass, the separation of the sexes struck a grateful note of austerity, and the mean appearance of the people contrasted admirably with the splendour of the priests' vestments, the elaborate music, and the gilt and colour of altars. Here deity was omnipotent and humanity abject. Men and women of all grades, casting themselves down before the holy images in the ecstatic abandonment of repentance, prayed side by side, oblivious of everything save their sins and the anger of a God. As a spectacle the oratory was sublime.
He visited it about once a month. The mornings of intervening Sundays were given to aimless perambulation of the parks, desultory reading, or sleep; there was nothing to prevent him leaving town for the day, but he was so innocent of any sort of rural lore that the prospect of a few hours in the country was seldom enticing enough to rouse sufficient energy for its accomplishment. After dinner he usually slept, and in the evening he would take a short walk and go early to bed. For some reason he never attempted to work on Sundays.
It had rained continuously since he left Parson's Green station on the previous night, till midday on Sunday, and in the afternoon he was lounging half asleep with a volume of verse on his knee, considering whether or not to put on his hat and go out, when Lily entered; Lily was attired for conquest, and with her broad velvet hat and pink bows looked so unlike a servant-girl that drowsy Richard started up, uncertain what fairy was brightening his room.
Please, sir, there's a young gentleman as wants to see you.
Oh!—who is it? No one had ever called upon him before.
I don't know, sir; it's a young gentleman.
The young gentleman was ushered in. He wore a new black frock coat, and light grey trousers which fell in rich folds over new patent-leather boots. The shortcomings of his linen, which was dull and bluish in tint, were more than atoned for by the magnificence of a new white silk necktie with heliotrope spots. He carried a silk hat and a pair of unworn kid gloves in one hand, and in the other a half-smoked cigar and a stick, with whose physiognomy Richard was quite familiar.
Hello, Jenkins!
Good afternoon, Mr. Larch. I was just passing this way, and I thought I'd look you up. With an inclination of the head more ridiculous even than he intended, Jenkins placed his hat, stick, and gloves on the bed, and, nicely adjusting the tails of his coat, occupied a chair.
The quarrel between Richard and Jenkins had been patched up a few days before.
So this is your digs. Nice large windows!
Yes, decent windows.
Although these two were on terms of almost brutal familiarity during office hours, here each felt slightly uncomfortable in the other's presence. Jenkins wiped his pallid, unhealthy face with a cambric handkerchief which he unfolded for the purpose.
Been to church this morning?
Meditatively Jenkins flicked some cigar-ash into the fire-grate, and then answered, "Yes."
I thought so.
Why?
Because you're such a swell.
Ain't I, just! Jenkins spoke with frank delight. "Two guineas the suit, my boy! Won't I knock 'em in the Wal—worth Road!"
But where's your ring? Richard asked, noticing the absence of the silver ring which Jenkins commonly wore on his left hand.
Oh! I gave it to my sister. She wanted to give it to her young man.
She's engaged, is she?
Yes—at least I suppose she is.
And when are you going to get engaged?
Jenkins emitted a sound expressive of scorn. "You don't catch me entering the holy bonds. Not this child! It ain't all lavender, you bet. I say, you know Miss Roberts at the veg—red-haired tart." Jenkins was unaware that Richard had been going regularly to the Crabtree. "I was passing the place last night just as they were closing, and I walked down to Charing Cross with her. I asked her to meet me to-day somewhere, but she couldn't."
You mean she wouldn't. Well, and what sort's she?
Devilish nice, I tell you. But not my style. But there's a girl I know—lives down the Camberwell New Road. She is a treat now,—a fair treat. About seventeen, and plump as a pigeon. I shall see her to-night.
Oh, indeed! said Richard, for the hundredth time marvelling that he should be on a footing of intimacy with Albert Jenkins. The girl at Carteret Street, whatever her imperfections, did not use the Cockney dialect. And her smile was certainly alluring. Moreover, she had dignity. True, she liked "East Lynne" and Hope Temple's songs, but it occurred to Richard that it might be pleasanter to listen even to these despised melodies than to remain solitary at Raphael Street or to accompany Jenkins on a prowl. Why should he not go down that afternoon to see Mr. Aked—and his niece? He immediately decided that he would do so.
It's turned out fine, said Jenkins. "What are you up to to-night? Will you come and have a turn round with me?"
Let me see.... The fact is, I can't. He fought desperately against the temptation to mention that he proposed to call on a lady, but in vain. Forth it must come. "I'm going to see a girl."
Aha! exclaimed Jenkins, with a terribly arch look. "So that's the little game, eh! Who's the mash?"
Richard smiled reticently.
Well, I'll be off. Jenkins rose, and his eye caught Richard's little bookcase; he scanned the titles of the volumes.
Oh! Likewise ah! Zola! Now we're getting at the secret. No wonder you're so damn studious. Zola, indeed! Well, so long. See you to-morrow. Give my love to the girl.... I say, I suppose you haven't got Zola in English, have you?
No.
Never mind. So long.
The little red-armed servant beamed an amiable recognition.
Very hot day! Richard said.
Beg pardon, sir.
Very hot day, rather louder. They were in the passage.
The door of the sitting-room opened, and Mr. Aked's niece stood before him, her finger on her lips and her eyebrows raised in a gesture of warning. She suddenly smiled, almost laughed. Richard remembered that smile for a long time afterwards. It transformed not only a girl's face, but the whole of Carteret Street. He had never seen anything like it. Shaking hands in silence, he followed her into the room, and she gently closed the door.
Uncle's not well, she explained. "He's asleep now, and I don't want you to wake him. In this house, you know, if any one speaks in the passage, you can hear it even in the attic. Uncle was caught in the rain last night; he has a very weak chest, and gets bronchitis directly."
I'm awfully sorry I disturbed you, said Richard. "The fact is I was down this way, and I thought I'd call." It sounded a sufficiently reasonable excuse, he considered. "I hope you weren't asleep too."
Yes, I was dozing in this chair. She put her head back, and drummed with her fingers lightly on the arms of the chair. "But I'm glad you've called."
Why?
Oh! Because one wants to see some one—some one new, especially after being in a sick-room.
You've been sitting up late. His tone was accusing. It seemed to him that somehow they were already intimate.
Only till three o'clock, and I slept later this morning. How changeable the sun is to-day! She moved her chair, and he saw her in profile. Her hands were on her lap. She coaxed a foot stool into position with her toes, and placed her feet on it.
You look just like a picture in this week's 'Illustrated London News'—I mean in general pose, he exclaimed.
Do I? How nice that sounds! What is it?
Whistler's 'Portrait of his Mother.' But I hope you don't think I think you look old.
How old do I look? She turned her head slightly towards him.
About twenty-three, only I imagine you're much younger.
Although she did not reply, she made no pretence of being annoyed, nor did Richard tax himself with a gaucherie.
It took me years to like Whistler's pictures, she said; and in response to Richard's surprised question she was beginning to explain that a large part of her life had been passed in the companionship of works of graphic art, when a slippered step was heard in the hall and some one fumbled with the door-handle. Mr. Aked entered.
Uncle! You wicked old man! She sprang up, flushed, and her eyes sparkled angrily. "Whatever did you get up for? It's enough to kill you."
Calm yourself, my child. I got up because I didn't want to stay in bed,—exactly that. Mr. Aked paused to take breath and sank into a chair. "Larch, I heard your voice in the passage. Upon my word, I quite forgot you yesterday. I suppose Adeline's been telling you I'm seriously ill, eh? Ah! I've had many a worse attack than this. Put that antimacassar over my shoulders, child."
He had given Richard a hot, limp hand, on which the veins formed soft ridges in the smooth, brittle skin. His grey hair was disarranged, and he wore a dirty, torn dressing-gown. His face had lost its customary alert expression; but his sunk, shining eyes glanced with mysterious restlessness first at Richard, then at Adeline, who, uttering no further word, covered him well and put the hassock under his feet.
Well, well, well! he sighed and closed his eyes wearily. The other two sat silent for a time; then Adeline, talking very quietly, and with a composure not quite unaffected, took up their interrupted conversation. Richard gathered that her justifiable vexation would remain in abeyance till he had gone. Soon her tone grew more natural; she leaned forward with hands clasped round one knee, and Richard felt like a receiver of confidences as she roughly outlined her life in the country which had come to an end only two years ago. Were all the girls so simply communicative, he wondered; it pleased him to decide that they were not, and that to any other but himself she would have been more reserved; that there was, in fact, an affinity between them. But the presence of her uncle, which Adeline seemed able to ignore utterly, hindered Richard from being himself.
How do you like London, after living so long in the country? he asked inevitably.
I know practically nothing of London, real London, she said; "but I think these suburbs are horrid,—far duller than the dullest village. And the people! They seem so uninteresting, to have no character!"
The hoarse, fatigued voice of Mr. Aked crept in between them. "Child!" he said—and he used the appellation, not with the proper dignity of age, but rather like an omniscient schoolboy, home for the holiday, addressing a sister—"Child!"—his eyes were still closed,—"the suburbs, even Walham Green and Fulham, are full of interest, for those who can see it. Walk along this very street on such a Sunday afternoon as to-day. The roofs form two horrible, converging straight lines I know, but beneath there is character, individuality, enough to make the greatest book ever written. Note the varying indications supplied by bad furniture seen through curtained windows, like ours" (he grinned, opened his eyes, and sat up); "listen to the melodies issuing lamely from ill-tuned pianos; examine the enervated figures of women reclining amidst flower-pots on narrow balconies. Even in the thin smoke ascending unwillingly from invisible chimney-pots, the flutter of a blind, the bang of a door, the winking of a fox terrier perched on a window-sill, the colour of paint, the lettering of a name,—in all these things there is character and matter of interest,—truth waiting to be expounded. How many houses are there in Carteret Street? Say eighty. Eighty theatres of love, hate, greed, tyranny, endeavour; eighty separate dramas always unfolding, intertwining, ending, beginning,—and every drama a tragedy. No comedies, and especially no farces! Why, child, there is more character within a hundred yards of this chair than a hundred Balzacs could analyse in a hundred years."
All the old vivacity had returned to his face; he had been rhetorical on a favourite subject, and he was frankly pleased with himself.
You will tire yourself, uncle, said Adeline. "Shall we have tea?"
Richard observed with astonishment that she was cold and unmoved. Surely she could not be blind to the fact that Mr. Aked was a very remarkable man with very remarkable ideas! Why, by the way, had those ideas never presented themselves to him? He would write an article on the character of Raphael Street. Unwillingly he announced that he must go; to remain longer would be to invite himself to tea.
Sit still, Larch. You'll have a cup of tea.
Adeline left the room; and when she had gone, Mr. Aked, throwing a glance after her, said,—
Well, what do you think of my notions of the suburb?
They are splendid, Richard replied, glowing.
There's something in them, I imagine, he agreed complacently. "I've had an idea lately of beginning to scribble again. I know there's a book waiting to be written on 'The Psychology of the Suburbs,' and I don't like to see copy lying about wasted. The old war-horse scenting the battle, you understand." He smiled grandiosely. "'Psychology of the Suburbs'! Fine title that! See how the silent P takes away all the crudity of the alliteration; that's because one never listens to words with the ears alone, but with the eyes also.... But I should need help. I want a clever chap who can take down from dictation, and assist me in the details of composition. I suppose you wouldn't care to come here two or three evenings a week?"
Richard answered sincerely that nothing would suit him better.
I should make you joint author, of course. 'Psychology of the Suburbs,' by Richard Aked and Richard Larch. It sounds rather catchy, and I think it ought to sell. About four hundred octavo pages, say a hundred thousand words. Six shillings—must be popular in price. We might get a royalty of ninepence a copy if we went to the right publisher. Sixpence for me and threepence for you. Would that do?
Oh, perfectly! But was not Mr. Aked running on rather fast?
Perhaps we'd better say fivepence halfpenny for me and threepence halfpenny for you; that would be fairer. Because you'll have to furnish ideas, you know. 'Psychology of the Suburbs, Psychology of the Suburbs'! Fine title! We ought to do it in six months.
I hope you'll be quite well again soon. Then we—
Quite well! he repeated sharply. "I shall be as right as a trivet to-morrow. You don't suppose that I can't take care of myself! We'll start at once."
You're not forgetting, Mr. Aked, that you've never seen any of my stuff yet? Are you sure I shall be able to do what you want?
Oh, you'll do. I've not seen your stuff, but I guess you've got the literary habit. The literary habit, that's the thing! I'll soon put you up to the wrinkles, the trade secrets.
What is your general plan of the book? Richard asked with some timidity, fearing to be deemed either stupid or inquisitive at the wrong moment. He had tried to say something meet for a great occasion, and failed.
Oh, I'll go into that at our first formal conference, say next Friday night. Speaking roughly, each of the great suburban divisions has, for me at any rate, its own characteristics, its peculiar moral physiognomy. Richard nodded appreciatively. "Take me blindfold to any street in London, and I'll discover instantly, from a thousand hints, where I am. Well, each of these divisions must be described in turn, not topographically of course, but the inner spirit, the soul of it. See? People have got into a way of sneering at the suburbs. Why, the suburbs are London! It is alone the—the concussion of meeting suburbs in the centre of London that makes the city and West End interesting. We could show how the special characteristics of the different suburbs exert a subtle influence on the great central spots. Take Fulham; no one thinks anything of Fulham, but suppose it were swept off the face of the earth the effect would be to alter, for the seeing eye, the character of Piccadilly and the Strand and Cheapside. The play of one suburb on another and on the central haunts is as regular, as orderly, as calculable, as the law of gravity itself."
They continued the discussion until Adeline came in again with a tray in her hands, followed by the little red-armed servant. The two began to lay the cloth, and the cheerful rattle of crockery filled the room....
Sugar, Mr. Larch? Adeline was saying, when Mr. Aked, looking meaningly at Richard, ejaculated,—
Friday then?
Richard nodded. Adeline eyed her uncle distrustfully.
For some reason, unguessed by Richard, Adeline left them alone during most of the evening, and in her absence Mr. Aked continued to discourse, in vague generalities not without a specious poetical charm, on the subject upon which they were to collaborate, until Richard was wholly intoxicated with its fascinating possibilities. When he left, Adeline would not allow Mr. Aked to go to the door, and went herself.
If I hadn't been very firm, she laughed as they were shaking hands in the passage, "uncle would have stood talking to you in the street for goodness knows how long, and forgotten all about his bronchitis. Oh, you authors, I believe you are every one like babies." Richard smiled his gratification.
Mr. Larch, Mr. Larch! The roguish summons came after him when he was half-way up the street. He ran back and found her at the gate with her hands behind her.
What have you forgotten? she questioned. He could see her face but dimly in the twilight of the gas-lamps.
I know—my umbrella, he answered.
Didn't I say you were all like—little children! she said, as she whipped out the umbrella and gave it to him over the gate.
Anxious at once to add something original to the sum of Mr. Aked's observations, he purposely chose a round-about route home, through the western parts of Fulham and past the Salisbury hotel. It seemed to him that the latent poetry of the suburbs arose like a beautiful vapour and filled these monotonous and squalid vistas with the scent and the colour of violets, leaving nothing common, nothing ignoble. In the upturned eyes of a shop-girl who went by on the arm of her lover he divined a passion as pure as that of Eugénie Grandet; on the wrinkled countenance of an older woman he beheld only the nobility of suffering; a youth who walked alone, smoking a cigarette, was a pathetic figure perhaps condemned to years of solitude in London. When there was no one else to see, he saw Adeline,—Adeline with her finger on her lips, Adeline angry with her uncle, Adeline pouring out tea, Adeline reaching down his hat from the peg, Adeline laughing at the gate. There was something about Adeline that.... How the name suited her!... Her past life, judging from the hints she had given, must have been interesting. Perhaps that accounted for the charm which....
Then he returned to the book. He half regretted that Mr. Aked should have a hand in it at all. He could do it himself. Just as plainly as if the idea had been his own, he saw the volume complete, felt the texture of the paper, admired the disposition of the titlepage, and the blue buckram binding; he scanned the table of contents, and carelessly eyed the brief introduction, which was, however, pregnant with meaning; chapter followed chapter in orderly, scientific fashion, and the last summoned up the whole business in a few masterly and dignified sentences. Already, before a single idea had been reduced to words, "The Psychology of the Suburbs" was finished! A unique work! Other authors had taken an isolated spot here or there in the suburbs and dissected it, but none had viewed them in their complex entirety; none had attempted to extract from their incoherence a coherent philosophy, to deal with them sympathetically as Mr. Aked and himself had done—or rather were to do. None had suspected that the suburbs were a riddle, the answer to which was not undiscoverable. Ah, that secret, that key to the cipher! He saw it as it might be behind a succession of veils, flimsy obstructions which just then baffled his straining sight, but which he would rip and rend when the moment for effort came.
The same lofty sentiments occupied his brain the next morning. He paused in the knotting of his necktie, to look out of the window, seeking even in Raphael Street some fragment of that psychology of environment invented by Mr. Aked. Nor did he search quite in vain. All the phenomena of humble life, hitherto witnessed daily without a second thought, now appeared to carry some mysterious meaning which was on the point of declaring itself. Friday, when the first formal conference was to occur, seemed distressingly distant. But he remembered that a very hard day's work, the casting and completing of a gigantic bill of costs, awaited him at the office, and he decided to throw himself into it without reserve; the time would pass more quickly.