Richard's eye travelled expectantly over the tanned crowd of men in flannels and gaily attired girls which lined the platform of Littlehampton station, but Adeline was not to be seen. He felt somewhat disappointed, and then decided that he liked her the better for not having come to meet him. "Besides," he thought, "the train being a special is not in the time-table, and she would not know when it was due."
Her lodging was in a long, monotonous terrace which ran at right angles to the seashore, turning its back upon the river. Noon was at hand, and the fierce rays of the unclouded sun were untempered by any breeze. The street lay hushed, for everyone was either at church or on the sands. In response to his inquiry, the landlady said that Miss Aked was out, and had left a message that if a gentleman called, he was to follow her to the jetty. Obeying the directions given to him, Richard soon found himself by the banks of the swift Arun, with the jetty some distance in front, and beyond that the sea, which shimmered blindly in the heat. Throngs of respectably dressed people wandered up and down, and a low, languid murmur of conversation floated out as it were from the cavities of a thousand parasols. Perspiring children whose hands were chafed by gloves full of creases ran to and fro among the groups, shouting noisily, and heedless of the frequent injunction to remember what day it was. Here and there nurses pushing perambulators made cool spots of whiteness in the confusion of colour. On the river boats and small yachts were continually sweeping towards the sea on the ebbing tide; now and then a crew of boys would attempt to pull a skiff against the rapid current, persevere for a few strokes, and then, amid scoffs from the bank, ignominiously allow themselves to be whirled past the jetty with the other craft.
Richard had never seen a southern watering-place before, and he had fondly expected something different from Llandudno, Rhyl, or Blackpool, something less stolid and more continental. Littlehampton fell short of his anticipations. It was unpicturesque as a manufacturing town, and its summer visitors were an infestive, lower-middle class folk, garishly clothed, and unlearned in the fine art of enjoyment. The pure accent of London sounded on every side from the lips of clerks and shop-girls and their kin. Richard forgot that he was himself a clerk, looking not out of place in that scene.
Presently he espied a woman who seemed to belong to another sphere. She was leaning over the parapet of the jetty, and though a black and white sunshade entirely hid her head and shoulders, the simple, perfectly hung black skirt, the neatly shod foot, the small, smoothly gloved hand with thin gold circlet at wrist, sufficed to convince him that here, by some strange chance, was one of those exquisite creatures who on Saturday afternoons drove past the end of Raphael Street on their way to Hurlingham or Barnes. He wondered what she did there, and tried to determine the subtleties of demeanour and costume which constituted the plain difference between herself and the other girls on the jetty. At that moment she stood erect, and turned round. Why, she was quite young.... He approached her.... It was Adeline.
Astonishment was so clearly written on his face that she laughed as they exchanged greetings.
You seem startled at the change in me, she said abruptly. "Do you know that I positively adore clothes, though I've only just found it out. The first thing I did when I got here was to go over to Brighton, and spend terrific sums at a dressmaker's. You see, there wasn't time in London. You don't despise me for it, I hope? I've plenty of money—enough to last a long, long time."
She was dazzling, and she openly rejoiced in the effect her appearance had made on Richard.
You couldn't have done better, he answered, suddenly discovering with chagrin that his own serge suit was worn and shabby.
I'm relieved, she said; "I was afraid my friend might think me vain and extravagant." Her manner of saying "my friend"—half mockery, half deference—gave Richard intense satisfaction.
They walked to the end of the jetty and sat down on a stone seat.
Isn't it beautiful? she exclaimed enthusiastically.
What—the town, or the people, or the sea?
Everything. I've scarcely been to the seaside before in all my life, and I think it's lovely.
The sea would be splendid if one could see it, but it blinds one even to glance at it in this heat.
You shall have half my sunshade. She put it over him with a protective gesture.
No, no, he demurred.
I say yes. Why don't men carry sunshades? It's only their pride that stops them.... So you don't like the town and the people?
Well—
I love to see plenty of people about. And you would, too, if you'd been fixed like me. I've never seen a real crowd. There are crushes when you go into theatres, sometimes, aren't there?
Yes. Women faint.
But I shouldn't. I would have given anything not long ago to be in one of those crushes. Now, of course, I can just please myself. When we are back in London, do you think I could persuade you to take me?
You might, he said, "if you asked nicely. But young ladies who wear clothes like yours don't usually patronise the pit, where the crushes are. Stalls or dress circle would be more in your style. I propose we take the dress circle. You wouldn't enjoy your crush going in, but at the Lyceum and some other theatres, there is quite a superior crush coming out of the stalls and dress circle."
Yes, that is better. And I shall buy more clothes. Oh! I will be shockingly wasteful. If poor old uncle knew how his money was to be spent—
A little child, chased by one still less, fell down flat in front of them, and began to cry. Adeline picked it up, losing her sunshade, and kissed both children. Then she took a paper of chocolates from her pocket and gave several to each child, and they ran away without saying thank you.
Have one? She offered the bag to Richard. "That's another luxury I shall indulge in—chocolates. Do have just one, to keep me company," she appealed. "By the way, about dinner. I ordered dinner for both of us at my rooms, but we can improve on that. I have discovered a lovely little village a few miles away, Angmering, all old cottages and no drains. Let us drive there in a victoria, and picnic at a cottage. I know the exact place for us. There will be no people there to annoy you."
But you like 'people,' so that won't do at all.
I will do without 'people' for this day.
And what shall we have for dinner?
Oh! Eggs and bread and butter and tea.
Tea for dinner! Not very solid, is it?
Greedy! If you have such a large appetite, eat a few more chocolates; they will take it away.
She rose, pointing to a victoria in the distance.
He looked at her without getting up, and their eyes met with smiles. Then he, too, rose. He thought he had never felt so happy. An intoxicating vision of future felicities momentarily suggested itself, only to fade before the actuality of the present.
The victoria stopped at Adeline's rooms. She called through the open window to Lottie, who came out and received orders to dine alone, or with the landlady if she preferred.
Lottie and Mrs. Bishop are great friends, Adeline said. "The silly girl would sooner stay in to help Mrs. Bishop with housework than go out on the beach with me."
She must indeed be silly. I know which I should choose! It seemed a remark of unutterable clumsiness—after he had said it, but Adeline's faint smile showed no dissatisfaction. He reflected that he would have been better pleased had she totally ignored it.
The carriage ran smoothly along the dusty roads, now passing under trees, and now skirting poppy-clad fields whose vivid scarlet almost encroached on the highway itself. Richard lay back, as he had seen men do in the Park, his shoulder lightly touching Adeline's. She talked incessantly, though slowly, in that low voice of hers, and her tones mingled with the measured trot of the enfeebled horse, and lulled Richard to a sensuous quiescence. He slightly turned his face towards hers, and with dreamy deliberateness examined her features,—the dimple in her cheek which he had never noticed before, the curves of her ear, her teeth, her smooth black hair, the play of light in her eye; then his gaze moved to her large felt hat, set bewitchingly aslant on the small head, and then for a space he would look at the yellowish-green back of the imperturbable driver, who drove on and on, little witting that enchantment was behind him.
They consumed the eggs and bread and butter and tea which Adeline had promised; and they filled their pockets with fruit. That was Adeline's idea. She gave herself up to enjoyment like a child. When the sun was less strenuous they walked about the village, sitting down frequently to admire its continual picturesqueness. Time sped with astonishing rapidity; Richard's train went at twenty-five minutes past seven, and already, as they stood by the margin of the tiny tributary of the Arun, some grandfather's clock in a neighbouring cottage clattered five. He was tempted to say nothing about the train, quietly allow himself to miss it, and go up by the first ordinary on Monday morning. But soon Adeline inquired about his return, and they set off to walk back to Littlehampton; the carriage had been dismissed. He invented pretexts for loitering, made her sit on walls to eat apples, tried to get lost in by-paths, protested that he could not keep the pace she set; but to no purpose. They arrived at the station at exactly a quarter past seven. The platform was busy, and they strolled to the far end of it and stood by the engine.
I wish to heaven the train didn't leave so early, he said. "I'm sure the sea air would do me a lot of good, if I could get enough of it. What a beautiful day it has been!" He sighed sentimentally.
I never, never enjoyed myself so perfectly, she said emphatically. "Suppose we beseech the engine-driver to lie still for a couple of hours?" Richard's smile was inattentive.
You are sure you haven't done too much, he said with sudden solicitude, looking at her half anxiously.
I! not a bit. I am absolutely well again. Her eyes found his and held them, and it seemed to him that mystic messages passed to and fro.
How long do you think of staying?
Not long. It gets rather boring, being alone. I expect I shall return on Saturday.
I was thinking I would run down again on Saturday for the week-end,—take a week-end ticket, he said; "but of course, if—"
In that case I should stay a few days longer. I couldn't allow myself to deprive you of the sea air which is doing you so much good. By next Saturday I may have discovered more nice places to visit, perhaps even prettier than Angmering.... But you must get in.
He would have given a great deal just then to be able to say firmly: "I have changed my mind about going. I will stay at a hotel to-night and take the first train to-morrow." But it required more decision than he possessed, and in a few moments he was waving good-bye to her from the carriage window.
There were several other people in the compartment,—a shy shop-girl and her middle-aged lover, evidently employés of the same establishment, and an artisan with his wife and a young child. Richard observed them intently, and found a curious, new pleasure in all their unstudied gestures and in everything they said. But chiefly he kept a watch on the shop-girl's lover, who made it no secret that he was dwelling in the seventh heaven. Richard sympathised with that man. His glance fell on him softly, benignantly. As the train passed station after station, he wondered what Adeline was doing, now, and now, and now.
On the following Saturday he took tea with Adeline at her lodgings. The train had been late, and by the time they were ready for the evening walk without which no visitor to the seaside calls the day complete, it was close upon nine o'clock. The beach was like a fair or a north-country wake. Conjurers, fire-eaters, and minstrels each drew an audience; but the principal attraction was a man and woman who wore masks and were commonly supposed to be distinguished persons to whom fate had been unkind. They had a piano in a donkey-cart, and the woman sang to the man's accompaniment. Just as Richard and Adeline came up, "The River of Years" was announced for performance.
Let us listen to this, said Adeline.
They stood at the rim of the crowd. The woman had a rich contralto voice and sang with feeling, and her listeners were generous of both applause and coppers.
I wonder who she is, Adeline murmured, with a touch of melancholy,—"I wonder who she is. I love that song."
Oh, probably some broken-down concert-singer, Richard said curtly, "with a drunken husband."
But she sang beautifully. She made me feel—you know—funny.... A lovely feeling, isn't it? She looked up at him.
Yes, he said, smiling at her.
You're laughing.
Indeed I'm not. I know what you mean perfectly well. Perhaps I had it just then, too—- a little. But the song is a bit cheap.
I could listen to it every day, and never get tired of listening. Don't you think that if a song gives anyone that—feeling, there must be some good in it?
Of course it's far better than most; but—
But not equal to those classical songs you told me about—the first time I saw you, wasn't it? Yes, Schubert: was that the name? I mean to get those, and you must show me the best ones, and play the accompaniments, and then I shall judge for myself.
I shall make an awful mess of the accompaniments; they're not precisely easy, you know.
Full of accidentals, are they? I sha'n't like them, then. I never do like that sort of song.
But you will; you must.
Must I? she almost whispered, in tones of gentle, feminine surrender. And after a second or two: "Then I'll try, if it will keep you in a good temper."
They stood fronting the sea. She looked straight ahead into the darkening distance, and then turned round to him with a mock plaintive expression, and they both laughed.
Wouldn't it be better up by the river, he suggested, "where there are fewer people?"
A little to his surprise, she agreed that it was certainly rather noisy and crowded on the beach on Saturday nights, and they turned their backs to the shore. The moon had risen, and shone at intervals through clouds. For a few score yards they walked in silence. Then Adeline said,—
It's very dull here during the week for a poor single woman like me. I shall go home on Monday.
But think of London in this weather.
I do think of it. I think of the parks and the restaurants and the theatres.
The good theatres are closed now.
Well, the music-halls. I've never been in one, and if they are very naughty, then I want to go very much. Besides, there are lots of theatres open. I've read all the theatrical advertisements in the 'Telegraph,' and there must be plenty of things to see. You mayn't think them worth seeing, but I should enjoy any theatre.
I believe you would, he said. "I used to be like that."
Up to now I've had no real pleasure—what I call pleasure—and I'm just going to have it. I'll settle down afterwards.
Didn't your uncle take you out much?
I should say he didn't. He took me to a concert once. That was all—in nearly two years. I suppose it never occurred to him that I was leading a dull life.
She made a movement with her hands, as if to put away from her all the drab dailiness of her existence in Carteret Street.
You can soon recover lost time, Richard said cheerfully.
His fancy was in the rosy future, vividly picturing the light-hearted gaieties, Bohemian, unconventional, artistic, in which he and she should unite. He saw himself and Adeline becoming dearer to each other, and still dearer, her spirit unfolding like a flower, and disclosing new beauties day by day. He saw her eyes glisten when they met his; felt the soft pressure of her hand; heard her voice waver with tenderness, expectant of his avowal. And then came his own bold declaration: "I love you, Adeline," and her warm, willing lips were upon his. God! To dream of such beatitudes!
She had slightly quickened her step. The quays were silent and deserted, save for these two. Presently masts rose vaguely against the sky, and they approached a large ship. Richard leaned over the parapet to decipher the name on her bows. "Juliane," he spelt out.
That is Norwegian or Danish.
They lingered a few moments, watching the movements of dim figures on deck, listening to the musical chatter of an unknown tongue, and breathing that atmosphere of romance and adventure which foreign vessels carry with them from strange lands; then they walked on.
Hush! exclaimed Adeline, stopping, and touching Richard's arm.
The sailors were singing some quaint modern strain.
What is it? she asked when they had finished a verse.
It must be a Norwegian folk-song. It reminds me of Grieg.
Another verse was sung. It began to rain,—warm, summer drops.
You will be wet, Richard said.
Never mind.
A third verse followed, and then a new air was started. It rained faster.
Come under the shelter of the wall here, Richard urged, timidly taking her arm. "I think I see an archway."
Yes, yes, she murmured, with sweet acquiescence; and they stood together a long time under the archway in silence, while the Norwegian sailors, heedless of weather, sang song after song.
The next morning the sky had cleared again, but there was a mist over the calm sea. They walked idly on the level sands. At first they were almost alone. The mist intensified distances; a group of little children paddling in a foot of water appeared to be miles away. Slowly the mist was scattered by the sun, and the beach became populous with visitors in Sunday attire. In the afternoon they drove to Angmering, Adeline having found no preferable haunt.
You have no train to catch to-night, she said; "what a relief! Shall you start very early to-morrow?"
I'm not particular, he answered. "Why?"
I was thinking that Lottie and I would go up by the same train as you, but perhaps you won't care to be bothered with women and their luggage.
If you really intend to return to-morrow, I'll wire to Curpet not to expect me till after lunch, and we'll go at a reasonable hour.
He left her at her lodging as the clock was striking eleven; but instead of making direct for his hotel, he turned aside to the river to have a last look at the "Juliane." Curiously, it began to rain, and he sheltered under the archway where he had stood with Adeline on the previous night. Aboard the "Juliane" there was stir and bustle. He guessed that the ship was about to weigh anchor and drop down with the tide. Just after midnight she slid cautiously away from the quay, to the accompaniment of hoarse calls and the rattling of chains and blocks.
During the journey to town Adeline would talk of nothing but her intention to taste all the amusements which London had to offer. She asked numberless questions with the persistency of an inquisitive child, while Lottie modestly hid herself behind a copy of "Tit Bits," which had been bought for her.
Now I will read out the names of the plays advertised in the 'Telegraph,' she said, "and you must tell me what each is like, and whether the actors are good, and the actresses pretty, and things of that kind."
Richard entered with zest into the conversation. He was in a boisterous mood, and found her very willing to be diverted. Once, when he used a technical term, she stopped him: "Remember, I have never been to a theatre." On Sunday she had made the same remark several times. It seemed as if she liked to insist on the point.
The morning was delicious, full of light and freshness, and the torpid countryside through which the train swept at full speed suggested a gentle yet piquant contrast to the urban, gaslight themes which they were discussing. Though the sun shone with power, Adeline would not have the blinds drawn, but sometimes she used the newspaper for a shade, or bent her head so that the broad brim of her hat might come between her eyes and the sunshine. After an hour the talk slackened somewhat. As Richard, from his seat opposite, looked now at Adeline and now at the landscape, a perfect content stole over him. He wished that the distance to London could have been multiplied tenfold, and rejoiced in every delay. Then he began to miss the purport of her questions, and she had to repeat them. He was examining his heart. "Is this love?" his thoughts ran. "Do I actually love her now,—now?"
When the train stopped at New Cross, and Richard said that they would be at London Bridge in a few minutes, she asked when he would go down to Carteret Street.
Any time, he said.
To-morrow night?
He had hoped she would fix the same evening. "When is the theatre-going to commence?" he queried.
She laughed vaguely: "Soon."
Suppose I book seats for the Comedy?
We will talk about it to-morrow night.
It appeared that her desire for the relaxations of town life had suddenly lost its instancy.
Immediately he reached the office he wrote a note to Mr. Clayton Vernon. Some three hundred pounds was coming to him under the will of William Vernon, and he had purposed to let Mr. Clayton Vernon invest this sum for him; but the letter asked that a cheque for £25 should be sent by return of post. Later in the afternoon he went to a tailor in Holborn, and ordered two suits of clothes.
He grew restless and introspective, vainly endeavouring to analyse his feeling towards Adeline. He wished that he had himself suggested that he should call on her that night, instead of allowing her to name Tuesday. When he got home, he looked at the letter which he had received from her a fortnight before, and then, enclosing it in a clean envelope, put it away carefully in his writing-case. He felt that he must preserve all her letters. The evening dragged itself out with desolating tedium. Once he went downstairs intending to go to the theatre, but returned before he had unlatched the front door.
Mrs. Rowbotham laid his supper that evening, and he began to tell her about his holiday, mentioning, with fictitious naïveté, that he had spent it in the company of a young lady. Soon he gave the whole history of his acquaintance with the Akeds. She warmly praised his kindness towards Adeline.
My Lily is keeping company with a young man, she said, after a pause; "a respectable young chap he is, a bus-conductor. This is his night off, and they're gone to the Promenade Concert. I didn't like her going at first, but, bless you, you have to give in. Young folk are young folk, all the world over.... But I must be getting downstairs again. I have to do everything myself to-night. Ah! when a girl falls in love, she forgets her mother. It's natural, I suppose. Well, Mr. Larch, it will be your turn soon, I hope." With that she left the room quickly, missing Richard's hurried disclaimer.
So you're engaged, Lily, he said to the girl next morning.
Lily blushed and nodded; and as he looked at her eyes, he poignantly longed for the evening.
They sat by the window and talked till the day began to fade and the lamplighter had passed up the street. Several matters of business needed discussion,—the proving of Mr. Aked's will, the tenancy of the house and the opening of a new banking-account. Richard, who was acting informally as legal adviser, after the manner of solicitors' clerks towards their friends, brought from his pocket some papers for Adeline's signature. She took a pen immediately.
Where do I put my name?
But you must read them first.
I shouldn't understand them a bit, she said; "and what is the use of employing a lawyer, if one is put to the trouble of reading everything one signs?"
Well—please yourself. To-morrow you will have to go before a commissioner for oaths and swear that certain things are true; you'll be compelled to read the affidavits.
That I won't! I shall just swear.
But you simply must.
Sha'n't. If I swear to fibs, it will be your fault.
Suppose I read them out to you?
Yes, that would be nicer; but not now, after supper.
For a few moments there was silence. She stood up and drew her finger in fanciful curves across the window-pane. Richard watched her, with a smile of luxurious content. It appeared to him that all her movements, every inflection of her voice, her least word, had the authenticity and the intrinsic grace of natural phenomena. If she turned her head or tapped her foot, the gesture was right,—having the propriety which springs from absolute self-unconsciousness. Her mere existence from one moment to the next seemed in some mysterious way to suggest a possible solution of the riddle of life. She illustrated nature. She was for him intimately a part of nature, the great Nature which hides itself from cities. To look at her afforded him a delight curiously similar to that which the townsman derives from a rural landscape. Her face had little conventional beauty; her conversation contained no hint either of intellectual powers or of a capacity for deep feeling. But in her case, according to his view, these things were unnecessary, would in fact have been superfluous. She was and that sufficed.
Mingled with the pleasure which her nearness gave him, there were subordinate but distinct sensations. Except his sister Mary, he had never before been upon terms of close familiarity with any woman, and he realised with elation that now for the first time the latencies of manhood were aroused. His friendship—if indeed it were nothing else—with this gracious, inscrutable creature seemed a thing to be very proud of, to gloat upon in secret, to contemplate with a dark smile as one walked along the street or sat in a bus.... And then, with a shock of joyful, half-incredulous surprise, he made the discovery that she—she—had found some attractiveness in himself.
Their loneliness gave zest and piquancy to the situation. On neither side were there relatives or friends who might obtrude, or whom it would be proper to consult. They had only themselves to consider. Not a soul in London, with the exception of Lottie, knew of their intimacy,—the visit to Littlehampton, their plans for visiting the theatres, her touching reliance upon him. Ah, that confiding feminine trust! He read it frequently in her glance, and it gave him a sense of protective possession. He had approached no closer than to shake her hand, and yet, as he looked at the slight frame, the fragile fingers, the tufts of hair which escaped over her ears,—these things seemed to be his. Surely she had donned that beautiful dress for him; surely she moved gracefully for him, talked softly for him!
He left his chair, quietly lighted the candles at the piano, and began to turn over some songs.
What are you doing? she asked, from the window.
I want you to sing.
Must I?
Certainly. Let me find something with an easy accompaniment.
She came towards him, took up a song, opened it, and bade him look at it.
Too difficult, he said abruptly. "Those arpeggios in the bass,—I couldn't possibly play them."
She laid it aside obediently.
Well, this?
Yes. Let us try that.
She moved nearer to him, to miss the reflection of the candles on the paper, and put her hands behind her back. She cleared her throat. He knew she was nervous, but he had no such feeling himself.
Ready? he asked, glancing round and up into her face. She smiled timidly, flushing, and then nodded.
No, she exclaimed the next second, as he boldly struck the first chord. "I don't think I'll sing. I can't."
Oh, yes, you will—yes, you will.
Very well. She resigned herself.
The first few notes were tremulous, but quickly she gained courage. The song was a mediocre drawing-room ballad, and she did not sing with much expression, but to Richard's ear her weak contralto floated out above the accompaniment with a rich, passionate quality full of intimate meanings. When his own part of the performance was not too exacting, he watched from the corner of his eye the rise and fall of her breast, and thought of Keats's sonnet; and then he suddenly quaked in fear that all this happiness might crumble at the touch of some adverse fate.
I suppose you call that a poor song, she said when it was finished.
I liked it very much.
You did? I am so fond of it, and I'm glad you like it. Shall we try another? She offered the suggestion with a gentle diffidence which made Richard desire to abase himself before her, to ask what in the name of heaven she meant by looking to him as an authority, a person whose will was to be consulted and whose humours were law.
Again she put her hands behind her back, cleared her throat, and began to sing.... He had glimpses of mystic, emotional deeps in her spirit hitherto unsuspected.
Lottie came in with a lamp.
You would like supper? Adeline said. "Lottie, let us have supper at once."
Richard remembered that when Mr. Aked was alive, Adeline had been accustomed to go into the kitchen and attend to the meals herself; but evidently this arrangement was now altered. She extinguished the candles on the piano, and took the easy-chair with a question about Schubert. Supper was to be served without the aid of the mistress of the house. She had been training Lottie,—that was clear. He looked round. The furniture was unchanged, but everything had an unwonted air of comfort and neatness, and Adeline's beautiful dress scarcely seemed out of keeping with the general aspect of the room. He gathered that she had social aspirations. He had social aspirations himself. His fancy delighted to busy itself with fine clothes, fine furniture, fine food, and fine manners. That his own manners had remained inelegant was due to the fact that the tireless effort and vigilance which any amelioration of their original crudity would have necessitated, were beyond his tenacity of purpose.
The supper was trimly laid on a very white tablecloth, and chairs were drawn up. Lottie stood in the background for a few moments; Adeline called her for some trifling service, and then dismissed her.
Won't you have some whisky? I know men always like whisky at night.
She touched a bell on the table.
The whisky, Lottie—you forgot it.
Richard was almost awed by her demeanour. Where could she have learnt it? He felt not unlike a bumpkin, and secretly determined to live up to the standard of deportment which she had set.
You may smoke, she said, when Lottie had cleared the table after supper; "I like it. Here are some cigarettes—'Three Castles'—will they do?" Laughing, she produced a box from the sideboard, and handed it to him. He went to the sofa, and she stood with one elbow resting on the mantelpiece.
About going to the theatre— she began.
May I take you? Let us go to the Comedy.
And you will book seats, the dress circle?
Yes. What night?
Let us say Friday.... And now you may read me those documents.
When that business was transacted, Richard felt somehow that he must depart, and began to take his leave. Adeline stood erect, facing him in front of the mantelpiece.
Next time you come, you will bring those Schubert songs, will you not?
Then she rang the bell, shook hands, and sat down. He went out; Lottie was waiting in the passage with his hat and stick.
Seven or eight weeks passed.
During that time Richard spent many evenings with Adeline, at the theatre, at concerts, and at Carteret Street. When they were going up to town, he called for her in a hansom. She usually kept him waiting a few minutes. He sat in the sitting-room, listening to the rattle of harness and the occasional stamp of a hoof outside. At length he heard her light step on the stairs, and she entered the room, smiling proudly. She was wonderfully well dressed, with modish simplicity and exact finish, and she gave him her fan to hold while she buttoned her long gloves. Where she ordered her gowns he never had the least notion. They followed one another in rapid succession, and each seemed more beautiful than the last. All were sober in tint; the bodices were V-shaped, and cut rather low.
Lottie carefully placed a white wrap over her mistress's head, and then they were off. In the hansom there was but little conversation, and that of a trivial character. In vain he endeavoured to entice her into discussions. He mentioned books which he had read; she showed only a perfunctory interest. He explained why, in his opinion, a particular play was good and another bad; generally she preferred the wrong one, or at least maintained that she liked all plays, and therefore would not draw comparisons. Sometimes she would argue briefly about the conduct of certain characters in a piece, but he seldom found himself genuinely in agreement with her, though as a rule he verbally concurred. In music she was a little less unsympathetic towards his ideals. They had tried over several of his favourite classical songs, and he had seen in her face, as she listened, or hummed the air, a glow answering to his own enthusiasm. She had said that she would learn one of them, but the promise had not been kept, though he had reminded her of it several times.
These chagrins, however, were but infinitesimal ripples upon the smooth surface of his happiness. All of them together were as nothing compared to the sensations which he experienced in helping her out of the cab, in the full glare of a theatre façade. Invariably he overpaid the driver, handing him the silver with an inattentive gesture, while Adeline waited on the steps,—dainty food for the eyes of loiterers and passers-by. He offered his arm, and they passed down the vestibule and into the auditorium. With what artless enjoyment she settled herself in her seat, breathing the atmosphere of luxury and display as if it had been ozone, smiling radiantly at Richard, and then eagerly examining the occupants of the boxes through a small, silver-mounted glass! She was never moved by the events on the stage, and whether it happened to be tragedy or burlesque at which they were assisting, she turned to Richard at the end of every act with the same happy, contented smile, and usually began to make remarks upon the men and women around her. It was the play-house and not the play of which she was really fond.
After the fall of the curtain, they lingered till most of the audience had gone. Sometimes they supped at a restaurant. "It is my turn," she would say now and then, when the obsequious waiter presented the bill, and would give Richard her purse. At first, for form's sake, he insisted on his right to pay, but she would not listen. He wondered where she had caught the pretty trick of handing over her purse instead of putting down the coins, and he traced it to a play which they had seen at the Vaudeville theatre. Yet she did it with such naturalness that it did not seem to have been copied. The purse was small, and always contained several pounds in gold, with a little silver. The bill paid, he gave it back to her with a bow.
Then came the long, rapid drive home, through interminable lamp-lined streets, peopled now only by hansoms and private carriages, past all the insolent and garish splendours of Piccadilly clubs, into whose unveiled windows Adeline eagerly gazed; past the mysterious, night-ridden Park; past the dim, solemn squares and crescents of Kensington and Chelsea, and so into the meaner vicinage of Fulham. It was during these midnight journeys, more than at any other time, that Richard felt himself to be a veritable inhabitant of the City of Pleasure. Adeline, flushed with the evening's enjoyment, talked of many things, in her low, even voice, which was never raised. Richard answered briefly; an occasional reply was all she seemed to expect.
Immediately, on getting out of the cab, she said good-night, and entered the house alone, while Richard directed the driver back to Raphael Street. Returning thus, solitary, he endeavoured to define what she was to him, and he to her. Often, when actually in her presence, he ventured to ask himself, "Am I happy? Is this pleasure?" But as soon as he had left her, his doubtfulness vanished, and he began to long for their next meeting. Little phrases of hers, unimportant gestures, came back vividly to his memory; he thought how instinct with charm they were. And yet, was he really, truly in love? Was she in love? Had there been a growth of feeling since that night at Carteret Street after the holiday at Littlehampton? He uncomfortably suspected that their hearts had come nearer to each other that night than at any time since.
He tried to look forward to the moment when he should invite her to be his wife. But was that moment approaching? At the back of his mind lay an apprehension that it was not. She satisfied one part of his nature. She was the very spirit of grace; she was full of aplomb and a delicate tact; she had money. Moreover, her constant reliance upon him, her clinging womanishness, the caressing, humouring tone which her voice could assume, powerfully affected him. He divined darkly that he was clay in her hands; that all the future, even the future of his own heart, depended entirely upon her. If she chose, she might be his goddess.... And yet she had sharp limitations....
Again, was she in love?
When he woke up of a morning he wondered how long his present happiness would continue, and whither it was leading him. A scrap of conversation which he had had with Adeline recurred to him frequently. He had asked her, once when she had complained of ennui, why she did not become acquainted with some of her neighbours.
I don't care for my neighbours, she replied curtly.
But you can't live without acquaintances all your life.
No, not all my life, she said with significant emphasis.
They had been to the National Gallery; it was Saturday afternoon. Adeline said that she would go home; but Richard, not without a little trouble, persuaded her to dine in town first; he mentioned a French restaurant in Soho.
As they walked up Charing Cross Road, he pointed out the Crabtree, and referred to the fact that at one time he had frequented it regularly. She stopped to look at its white-and-gold frontage. In enamel letters on the windows were the words: "Table d'hôte, 6 to 9, 1/6."
Is it a good place? she asked.
The best in London—of that kind.
Then let us dine there; I have often wanted to try a vegetarian restaurant.
Richard protested that she would not like it.
How do you know? If you have been so often, why shouldn't I go once? She smiled at him, and turned to cross the street; he hung back.
But I only went for economy.
Then we will only go for economy to-day.
He dangled before her the attractions of the French restaurant in Soho, but to no purpose. He was loth to visit the Crabtree. Most probably Miss Roberts would be on duty within, and he felt an inscrutable unwillingness to be seen by her with Adeline.... At last they entered. Looking through the glass doors which lead to the large, low-ceiled dining-room on the first floor, Richard saw that it was nearly empty, and that the cash-desk, where Miss Roberts was accustomed to sit, was for the moment unoccupied. He led the way in rather hurriedly, and selected places in a far corner. Although it was scarcely beginning to be dusk, the table electric lights were turned on, and their red shades made glimmering islands of radiance about the room.
Richard kept a furtive watch on the cash-desk; presently he saw Miss Roberts take her seat behind it, and shifted his glance to another quarter. He was preoccupied, and answered at random Adeline's amused queries as to the food. Between the soup and the entrée they were kept waiting; and Adeline, Richard being taciturn, moved her chair in order to look round the room. Her roving eyes stopped at the cash-desk, left it, and returned to it. Then a scornful smile, albeit scarcely perceptible, appeared on her face; but she said nothing. Richard saw her glance curiously at the cash-desk several times, and he knew, too, that Miss Roberts had discovered them. In vain he assured himself that Miss Roberts was not concerned in his affairs; he could not dismiss a sensation of uneasiness and discomfort. Once he fancied that the eyes of the two girls met, and that both turned away suddenly.
When the dinner was over, and they were drinking the coffee for which the Crabtree is famous, Adeline said abruptly,—
I know someone here.
Oh! said Richard, with fictitious nonchalance. "Who?"
The girl at the pay-desk,—Roberts, her name is.
Where have you met her? he inquired.
Adeline laughed inimically. He was startled, almost shocked, by the harsh mien which transformed her face.
You remember one night, just before uncle died, she began, bending towards him, and talking very quietly. "Someone called while you and I were in the sitting-room, to inquire how he was. That was Laura Roberts. She used to know uncle—she lives in our street. He made love to her—she didn't care for him, but he had money and she encouraged him. I don't know how far it went—I believe I stopped it. Oh! men are the strangest creatures. Fancy, she's not older than me, and uncle was over fifty!"
Older than you, surely! Richard put in.
Well, not much. She knew I couldn't bear her, and she called that night simply to annoy me.
What makes you think that?
Think! I know it.... But you must have heard of the affair. Didn't they talk about it at your office?
I believe it was mentioned once, he said hastily.
She leaned back in her chair, with the same hard smile. Richard felt sure that Miss Roberts had guessed they were talking about herself, and that her eyes were fixed on them, but he dared not look up for confirmation; Adeline gazed boldly around her. They were antagonistic, these two women, and Richard, do what he would, could not repress a certain sympathy with Miss Roberts. If she had encouraged Mr. Aked's advances, what of that? It was no mortal sin, and he could not appreciate the reason of Adeline's strenuous contempt for her. He saw a little gulf widening between himself and Adeline.
What tremendously red hair that girl has! she said, later on.
Yes, but doesn't it look fine!
Ye-es, Adeline agreed condescendingly.
When he paid the bill, on the way out, Miss Roberts greeted him with an inclination of the head. He met her eye steadily, and tried not to blush. As she checked the bill with a tapping pencil, he could not help remarking her face. Amiability, candour, honesty, were clearly written on its attractive plainness. He did not believe that she had been guilty of running after Mr. Aked for the sake of his money. The tales told by Jenkins were doubtless ingeniously exaggerated; and as for Adeline, Adeline was mistaken.
Good evening, Miss Roberts said simply, as they went out. He raised his hat.
You know her, then! Adeline exclaimed in the street.
Well, he answered, "I've been going there, off and on, for a year or two, and one gets acquainted with the girls." His tone was rather petulant. With a quick, winning smile, she changed the subject, and he suspected her of being artful.
"I am going to America," she said.
They sat in the sitting-room at Carteret street. Richard had not seen her since the dinner at the vegetarian restaurant, and these were almost the first words she addressed to him. Her voice was as tranquil as usual; but he discerned, or thought he discerned, in her manner a consciousness that she was guilty towards him, that at least she was not treating him justly.
The blow was like that of a bullet: he did not immediately feel it.
Really? he questioned foolishly, and then, though he knew that she would never return: "For how long are you going, and how soon?"
Very soon, because I always do things in a hurry. I don't know for how long. It's indefinite. I have had a letter from my uncles in San Francisco, and they say I must join them; they can't do without me. They are making a lot of money now, and neither of them is married.... So I suppose I must obey like a good girl. You see I have no relatives here, except Aunt Grace.
You many never come back to England?
(Did she colour, or was it Richard's fancy?)
Well, I expect I may visit Europe sometimes. It wouldn't do to give England up entirely. There are so many nice things in England,—in London especially....
Once, in late boyhood, he had sat for an examination which he felt confident of passing. When the announcement arrived that he failed, he could not believe it, though all the time he knew it to be true. His thoughts ran monotonously: "There must be some mistake; there must be some mistake!" and like a little child in the night, he resolutely shut his eyes to keep out the darkness of the future. The same puerility marked him now. Assuming that Adeline fulfilled her intention, his existence in London promised to be tragically cheerless. But this gave him no immediate concern, because he refused to contemplate the possibility of their intimacy being severed. He had, indeed, ceased to think; somewhere at the back of the brain his thoughts lay in wait for him. For the next two hours (until he left the house) he lived mechanically, as it were, and not by volition, subsisting merely on a previously acquired momentum.
He sat in front of her and listened. She began to talk of her uncles Mark and Luke. She described them in detail, told stories of her childhood, even recounted the common incidents of her daily life with them. She dwelt on their kindness of heart, and their affection for herself; and with it all she seemed a little to patronise them, as though she had been accustomed to regard them as her slaves.
They are rather old-fashioned, she said, "unless they have altered. Since I heard from them, I have been wondering what they would think about my going to theatres and so on—with you."
What should they think? Richard broke in. "There's nothing whatever in that. London isn't a provincial town, or even an American city."
I shall tell them all about you, she went on, "and how kind you were to me when I scarcely knew you at all. You couldn't have been kinder if you'd been my only cousin."
Say 'brother,' he laughed awkwardly.
No, really, I'm quite serious. I never thanked you properly. Perhaps I seemed to take it all as a matter of course.
He wished to heaven she would stop.
I'm disgusted that you are going, he grumbled, putting his hands behind his head,—"disgusted."
In many ways I am sorry too. But don't you think I am doing the right thing?
How am I to tell? he returned quickly. "All I know is that when you go I shall be left all alone by my little self. You must think of me sometimes in my lonely garret." His tone was light and whimsical, but she would not follow his lead.
I shall often think of you, she said musingly, scanning intently the toe of her shoe.
It seemed to him that she desired to say something serious, to justify herself to him, but could not gather courage to frame the words.
When he got out of the house, his thoughts sprang forth. It was a chilly night; he turned up the collar of his overcoat, plunged his hands deep into the pockets, and began to walk hurriedly, heedlessly, while examining his feelings with curious deliberation. In the first place, he was inexpressibly annoyed. "Annoyed,"—that was the right word. He could not say that he loved her deeply, or that there was a prospect of his loving her deeply, but she had become a delightful factor in his life, and he had grown used to counting upon her for society. Might he not, in time, conceivably have asked her to marry him? Might she not conceivably have consented? In certain directions she had disappointed him; beyond doubt her spiritual narrowness had checked the growth of a passion which he had sedulously cherished and fostered in himself. Yet, in spite of that, her feminine grace, her feminine trustfulness, still exercised a strong and delicate charm. She was a woman and he was a man, and each was the only friend the other had; and now she was going away. The mere fact that she found a future with her uncles in America more attractive than the life she was then leading, cruelly wounded his self-love. He, then, was nothing to her, after all; he had made no impression; she could relinquish him without regret! At that moment she seemed above and beyond him. He was the poor earthling; she the winged creature that soared in freedom now here, now there, giving her favours lightly, and as lightly withdrawing them.
One thing came out clear: he was an unlucky fellow.
He ran over in his mind the people who would remain to him in London when she had gone. Jenkins, Miss Roberts—Bah! how sickeningly commonplace were they! She was distinguished. She had an air, a je ne sais quoi, which he had never observed in a woman before. He recalled her gowns, her gestures, her turns of speech,—all the instinctive touches by which she proved her superiority.
It occurred to him fancifully that there was a connection between her apparently sudden resolve to leave England, and their visit to the Crabtree and encounter with Miss Roberts. He tried to see in that incident a premonition of misfortune. What morbid fatuity!
Before he went to sleep that night he resolved that at their next meeting he would lead the conversation to a frank discussion of their relations and "have it out with her." But when he called at Carteret Street two days later, he found it quite impossible to do any such thing. She was light-hearted and gay, and evidently looked forward to the change of life with pleasure. She named the day of departure, and mentioned that she had arranged to take Lottie with her. She consulted him about a compromise, already effected, with her landlord as to the remainder of the tenancy, and said she had sold the furniture as it stood, for a very small sum, to a dealer. It hurt him to think that she had given him no opportunity of actively assisting her in the hundred little matters of business involved in a change of hemisphere. What had become of her feminine reliance upon him?
He felt as if some object was rapidly approaching to collide with and crush him, and he was powerless to hinder it.
Three days, two days, one day more!