by W. W. Jacobs
"But you will be less help still if you stay here for ever with yourhurt ankle--you must see that? I must stay with you or see you to yourhome."
When she answered, it was upon another change of mood. The soft, darkwings were fluttering again; and it was the banter of George's tonethat had recalled them. For this was an adventure--and she had not knownadventure for years; for these were flippant exchanges arising out ofgay young hearts, and they recalled memories of days when such harmlessbantering was of her normal life; for there had been sympathy inGeorge's stammering inquiries, and it recalled the time when she livedamidst sympathy and amidst love.
The soft, dark wings fluttered again: "I am very grateful to you forhelping me," she told him. "You must not think me ungrateful; only, Ithink you had better go. In my position I am not free to--to do as Ilike, talk where I will. You understand?" Her voice trembled a little,and she repeated: "You understand?"
George said, "I understand."
II.
And that was all that passed upon this meeting. A cab swung round theopposite corner; pulled up with a rattle; turned towards them; wasalongside. Within, a brow of thunder sat.
The cabman called, "I knowed you was all right, miss," raised the trap,and cheerfully repeated the information to his fare: "I knowed she wasall right, mum."
The mum addressed gave no congratulation to his prescience. He shut thelid; winked at George; behind his hand communicated, "Not 'arf angry,she ain't."
The girl ran forward; agitation bound up her hurt ankle. "Oh!" shecried, "I am so glad you are safe!"
The thunder-figure addressed said: "Please get in. I have had a severeshock."
"This gentleman--" The girl half turned to George.
"Please get in--instantly."
Scarlet the girl went. "Thank you very much," she said to George;climbed in beside the cloud of wrath.
Her companion slammed the door; dabbed at George a bow that was like asharp poke with a stick; called, "Drive on."
George stepped into the road, held half a crown to the driver: "Theaddress?"
The man stooped. With a tremendous wink answered, "Fourteen PalaceGardens, St. John's Wood."
Away with a jingle.
CHAPTER VIII.
Astonishing After-Effects Of A Heroine.
I.
George did not return to St. Peter's that afternoon; watched the cabfrom view; walked back to Waterloo; thence took train to Paltley Hillwith mind awhirl.
Recovering from stunning shock the mind first sees a blur ofevents--formless, seething, inextricably tangled. Deep in this boilingchaos is one fact struggling more powerfully than the rest to cool andso to shape itself. It kicks a leg free here, there an arm, then anotherleg. Its exertions cause the whole more furiously to agitate--the brainis afire. Very suddenly this struggling fact jumps free. Laid hold of itis a cold spoon which, plunged back into the seething cauldron, arreststhe turmoil of its contents.
Or again, recovering from sudden shock the mind first sees a greatwhirling, blinding cloud of dust which hides and wreathes about thesudden topple of masonry that has provoked it. Here the slowly emergingfact may be likened to a clear gangway through the ruin up which thefevered owner may walk to investigate the catastrophe's cause andextent.
So now with George. If not dazed by stunning shock, he was at leastawhirl by set back of the swift sequence of events which suddenlyhad buffeted him; and it was not until strolling up from Paltley Hillrailway station to Herons' Holt that one cooling fact emerged from whichhe might make an ordered examination of what had passed.
The address that the cabman had given him was this fact--14 PalaceGardens, St. John's Wood. Here was the gangway through the pile ofdisorder, and here George resolutely made a start of examining events inplace of wildly beating about through the dust of aimless conjectures.
He visualised this Palace Gardens residence. A gloomy house, hesuspected,--prison-like; its inhabitants warders, the girl theircaptive. A beautiful picture was thus presented to this ridiculousyoung man. For if the girl were indeed captive, warder-surrounded, howgratefully her heart must press towards him who was no turnkey! The moreirksomely her captors held her, the more warmly would she remember him.Subconsciously he hoped for a rattle of chains, a scourging with whips.Every bond, every stroke would speed her spirit to the recollection oftheir meeting.
But this delectable picture soon faded. Love--and this ridiculous Georgevowed he was in love--love is a mental see-saw. The nicely-balancedmind is set suddenly oscillating: now up, commandingly above the world,intoxicated with the rush and the elevation; now down to depths madehorribly deep by contrast, wretchedly jarred by the bump.
A new thought impelled a downward jolt of this kind. Failing a gloomy14 Palace Gardens, supposing the girl to be happily situated, it washorribly improbable that she would give him a moment's thought. This wasa most chilling idea. Shivering beneath the douche, George's mind ranback along the episode of their meeting to discover arguments that wouldbuild up the chains and the whips.
Memories banked high on either side. In search of his desire Georgegathered them haphazard, closely examined each.
It was an unsatisfactory business. Here was a memory. She had saidso-and-so. Yes; but, damn it, that might mean anything. He flung itdown; took another. She had said so-and-so. Yes; but, damn it, thatmight have meant nothing.
This was very disturbing. He must systematically go through the wholepile of memories--upon an ordered plan reconstruct each step of theepisode.
At first attempt it was a wretched business. Never was builder set towork with bricks so impossible as the bricks of conversation with whichthis reconstruction must be done. Each that the girl had suppliedmight dovetail in as he would have it go; upon the other hand it fittedequally well when twisted into the form in which, for all he knew, shemight have constructed it. The bricks George had himself supplied hefound even more disconcerting--they were stupid, ugly, laughable. Heshoved them in, and they grinned at him--mocked him. None the lesshe persevered--he must get his answer; he must see both what she hadthought of him and if she were likely still to be thinking of him. Andat last the whole passage was reconstructed. He examined it, and oncemore down came the see-saw with a most shattering bump: he had madehimself an idiot, and stood champion idiot if he believed she werelikely to remember him.
With a crash George sent the whole pile flying. Let him wander blindlyin the dust of imaginings rather than be tortured by the grim austerityof ordered facts. More than this, there was one most comfortable memoryto which he desperately clung--that falter in her voice when she hadsaid "You understand?" Whenever, during that evening, doubt stirred andbade him recognise himself for a fool, George flattened the ugly spectrewith the arm he contrived out of this memory.
It was a lusty weapon.
But a fresh vexation that lies in wait for all new lovers tore him whenhe got to bed. In the darkness he set his mind solely to recalling thegirl's face. The picture tantalisingly eluded him. Generalities he couldrecall. She was fair, very, very fair; her hair was shining golden; buthow was it arranged? In desperation he squirmed off to her eyes--blue;no, grey; no, blue. Damn it, he would forget whether she were black orwhite in a minute. Her chin? Ah, he had that!--white and firm and round.And her nose?--small, and a trifle tip-tilted. And her mouth?--hermouth, oh, heaven, he could not fix her mouth! The distracted young mantossed upon his pillow and went elsewhere. Distinctly he could rememberher little feet with those silver buckles, quite different from anyother feet. And she held herself slim and supple. Held herself? Why,good heavens! she was tall, and he had been thinking of her as short!This was appalling! He might meet her and pass her by. He might ... herushed into troubled slumber.
II.
The night gave him little rest. Whilst his body lay heavy, his brain,feverishly active, chased through the hours glimpses of the queen ofhis adventure. By early morning he was prodded into consciousness, andawaked to find himself instantly confronted with a terrible affair. I
ntohis life, so he assured himself, had come a serious interest such asthat which the Dean had hoped for him.
Here, lying abed with fresh morning smiling in through the open window,for the first time he looked forward, following the face he had pursuedthrough his dreams, into the future. Its chambers he found ghastlybarren. He visualised it as a vast unfurnished house. To the merry eyewith which two days ago he had looked upon the world, the picture,had he then conjured it, would have given him no gloom. He would havethought it a fine thing, this empty house that was his own--empty, butrepresenting freedom.
The matter was different now. Into this empty house had danced the girl.Her gay presence discovered its barrenness. There was not a chair onwhich she could sit, not a dish in the larder.
George recalled that tight little practice at Runnygate that might behad for 400 pounds; went down to breakfast rehearsing a scene with hisuncle; was moody through the meal.
III.
The breakfast dragged past its close. Mr. Marrapit spoke. "The momentsfly," he observed.
Margaret said earnestly: "Oh, yes, father."
"I was addressing George."
"Ur!" said George, suddenly aroused.
Mr. Marrapit looked at his watch; repeated his observation.
George read his meaning. "I thought of going up by the later trainto-day," he explained.
"A dangerous thought. Crush it." Mr. Marrapit continued: "Margaret, Mrs.Major, I observe you have concluded"; and when the two had withdrawnaddressed himself again to George: "A dangerous thought. You recall ourconversation of the day before yesterday?"
"Perfectly."
"Yet by later trains, by idleness, you deliberately imperil yourfuture?"
George did not answer the question. This was the very opportunity forwhich he had wished. "I would like to talk about my future," he said.
"I dare not dwell upon it," replied Mr. Marrapit.
"I have to. I shall pass all right this time. I want to know--the factis, sir, I know I have slacked in the past; I am a man now, and I--Iregret it. I fully realise my responsibilities. You may rely that Ishall make a certainty of the October examination."
"Commendable," Mr. Marrapit criticised.
"I want to know what help I may expect when I qualify."
"I cannot tell you." Mr. Marrapit threw martyrdom into his tone. "Iam so little," he said, "in your confidence. Your expectations whenqualified may be enormous. I am not favoured with them." He sighed.
George said: "I mean what help I may expect from you."
The piece of toast rising to Mr. Marrapit's mouth slowly returnedtowards his plate: "Reiterate that. From _me_?"
"From you," said George.
The toast dropped from trembling fingers. "_I_?" Mr. Marrapit draggedthe word to tremendous length. "I? Is it conceivable that you expectmoney from me?"
"I only ask."
"I only shudder. Might I inquire the amount?"
"The Dean told me of a practice I could have for 400 pounds."
"Tea!" exclaimed Mr. Marrapit on a gasp. "I must steady myself! Tea!" Hepaused; gulped a cup; with alarmed eyes stared at George.
The affair was going no better than George had expected. He rememberedthe face that was dear to him; nerved himself to continue. "I would payit back," he said. "Will you lend me the 400 pounds?"
"I must have air!" Mr. Marrapit staggered to the window. "I reel beforethis sudden assault. For nine years at ruinous cost I have supportedyou. Must I sell my house? Am I never to be free? Must I totter alwaysthrough life with you upon my bowed back? I am Sinbad."
"There's no need to exaggerate or make a scene."
"Did I impel the scene?"
"I only asked you a question," George reminded.
"You have aroused a spectre," Mr. Marrapit answered.
"Well, I may understand that I need expect nothing?"
"I dare not answer you. I am shaken. I tremble."
George rose. Though what hope he had possessed was driven by his uncle'sattitude, he was as yet only upon the threshold of his love. Hence therefusal of what he suddenly desired for that love's sake was not sobitter an affair as afterwards it came to be. "This is ridiculous," hesaid; moved to the door.
"To me a tragedy," Mr. Marrapit declaimed from the window, "old asmankind; not therefore less bitter--the tragedy of ingratitude. Atstupendous cost I have supported, educated, clothed you. You turnupon me for more. How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have athankless child! I am Lear."
George tried a thrust: "I always understood my mother left you ample forme."
"Adjust that impression. She left me less than a sufficiency--nothingapproaching amplitude. To the best of my ability I have fulfilledmy task. It has been hard. I do not complain. I do not ask you forrepayment of any excess that may have been incurred. But I am embitteredby yet further demands. I have been too liberal. Had I meted out strictjustice as I have striven to mete out kindness, my grey hairs would notbe speeding in poverty to the grave. I am Wolsey."
Upon Wolsey George slammed the door; started for the station.
IV.
Palace Gardens, St. John's Wood, was his aim. There could be no work,nor even thought of work, until again he had met his lady. Yet how tomeet her cost him another of the wrestles with conjecture that had beenhis lot since the cab carried her away.
At first it was easy work. He would call, he decided, with politeinquiries; and as he pictured the scene his spirits rose. Thethunder-figure that had poked a bow at him from the cab would comedragonish into the drawing-room where he waited. Her he would charm withthe suavity of his manners; she would doff the dragon's skin; wouldsay (he had read the scene in novels), "You would like to see MissSo-and-so?"
The girl would come in ....
With her appearance in his thoughts George's mind swung from coherentreasoning into a delectable phantasy ....
A sudden thought swept the filmy clouds-landed him with a bump upon hardrock. He was not supposed to know their address. How, to the dragon,could he explain the venal trick by which he had acquired it? Now hebeheld a new picture. Himself in the drawing-room; to him the dragon;her first words, "How did you know where we lived?"; his miserableanswer.
This was very unpleasant. As a red omnibus took him on towards St.John's Wood he decided that the meeting must be otherwise effected. Thegirl must sometimes go out. She had called herself a mother's-help; itsuggested children; and, if children, doubtless her task to take themwalking. Well, he would take up a post near to the house, and wait--justwait.
And then there came a final thought that struck him cold and staring.What if she did not live at the house?--was merely about to visit therewhen the accident befell the cab?
It was a sorely agitated young man that stepped off the 'bus and struckup Palace Gardens.
BOOK II.
Of his Mary.
CHAPTER I.
Excursions In The Memory Of A Heroine.
I.
AS that cab swung round the corner bearing away the nameless haunter ofGeorge's dreams, she to the red wrath beside her turned, and, "Oh, Mrs.Chater," she said, "I hope you are not hurt!"
By a mercy Mrs. Chater was not hurt. By a special intervention ofProvidence she had escaped a fearful death. Whether she would everrecover from the shock was another matter. Whether the shock would proveto be that sudden strain on her heart which she had been warned wouldend fatally, might at any moment be proved. Much anybody, except herdarling children, would care if she were brought home dead in this verycab. Never had she known a heart to act as hers was acting now--thumpingas if it would burst, first quickly then slowly. Perhaps Miss Humfraywould feel it, and give her opinion.
Where the girl now laid her small hand five infant Chaters had beennourished; the massive bosom was advertisement that they had donewell. Beneath the mingled gusts of hysteria and of wrath it violentlycontracted and dilated; but the heart, terrificly though Mrs. Chatersaid it throbbed, lay too deep to be discerned.
The agitate
d woman panted, "Can it go on like that?"
"I'm afraid I hardly--" Miss Humfray shifted her hand.
"_Stupid!_ Take off your glove!"
The white kid clung to the warm flesh. Nervous and clumsy the girlstruggled with it.
"Miss _Humfray!_ How slow you are! _Pull_ it!"
Mrs. Chater grabbed the turned-back wrist. A crack answered the jerk,and the glove split away in her hand. "_There!_ Not my fault. Next time,perhaps, you will buy gloves sufficiently large. Oh, my poor heart! Now,feel. _Press!_"
The girl bit her lip. Humiliation lumped in her throat. She pressed, asbid, into that heaving blouse; said she could feel it. It was not veryviolent, she thought. Perhaps if Mrs. Chater lay back and closed hereyes--
"_I_ was not able to jump out, you see," said Mrs. Chater, sinking.
"Oh, you don't think I _jumped_ out--and left you? I _wouldn't_.Besides, it is the most dangerous thing to do. That would have preventedme in any case. I was thrown. I thought I was going to be killed."
"You were with a young man."
"He caught me."
The words came faintly. Nearly the girl was crying. That lump in herthroat seemed to be squeezing tears from her eyes--silly tears. Shedid not want Mrs. Chater's sympathy, yet could not but reflect whatdisregard for her the utter absence of inquiry showed. Bitter thoughtsyet more dangerously squeezed the tears. She was a paid _thing_, thatwas all--not even a servant. Mrs. Chater was on kindly terms with herservants--had experienced the servant problem and craftily evaded it bythe familiarity that was too useful to produce contempt--knew her maids'young men, entered into their quarrels with their young men, read theiryoung men's letters.
