by A. J. Cronin
“Why, I suppose so, Miss Lorimer.”
Katharine observed the blushing Mills with a queer introspection. Charley Upton was devastating, no doubt, but it was his effect on the spinsterish Miss Mills, this remote yet truly feminine flutter which his advent always induced in her, that somehow struck at Katharine and depressed her. A man, she reflected despondently, still meant something in the narrow, desiccated life of our Miss Mills.
“Very well, then,” she nodded. “You’d better let him in.”
A moment later Charley Upton came in.
“You know, Charley,” said Katharine before he could speak, and she had to be quick to anticipate him, “some day I’m going to make you take Miss Mills out to lunch. She’d probably die of heart failure. But I daresay she’d think it would be worth it.”
Charley Upton smiled a nice easy smile that went with the gardenia in his buttonhole. “ The Mills of God type slowly,” he remarked airily, “but they type exceedingly well! She’s not a bad old thing by the look of her.”
“Heavens!” exclaimed Katharine. “She’s not old. She’s just choked up with business and her wretched women’s club and milk and buns and running for the tube and buying herself a new hot-water bottle. If it wasn’t for her weekly dose of the cinema and Clark Gable, and you, Charley, she’d probably pass out altogether. She’s the classic example of the female wage earner, the businesswoman, Charley. I tell you, and I ought to know.”
Charley laughed. “ You seem to be arguing my way to-day. Usually you’re so full of Big Business I can’t get a word in edgeways.”
Katharine gazed at him as he stood there, looking exactly what he was, an easy-going, good-natured fellow, not over-blessed with brains, a trifle over-groomed and a little overdressed, but on the whole likeable and genuine. The manifest advantage of Charley was that he never pretended to be what he was not, never insisted that the vacuum was full. He was forty-five, though he seemed younger, and had never done a hand’s turn in his life. His father had started life in a Birmingham solicitor’s office, worked his way through college, taken his law degree, established himself in practice, and risen by swift strategic steps to part proprietorship of a small provincial newspaper which for five years he controlled. Concentrating his ambitions on the Press, he expanded, amalgamated, sold out, then bought in again in London. His success continued until finally he stood as sole proprietor of the Sunday Searchlight, that incredibly popular Sunday newspaper with a penchant for the police and the divorce courts and a circulation of five million and a half.
On the old man’s death Charley found he was worth more than he could ever hope to spend, and his capacities in that direction were not slight. He had a seat on the board of directors of the paper which he seldom occupied, though at the Annual Banquet and the Staff Ball he was invariably the leading figure. For the rest, he did nothing. Yet he did it elegantly. He belonged to half a dozen clubs and had scores of friends, hunted a little and shot a little, enjoyed his dinner and a good story after it, slapped a great many good fellows on the back, kept himself fit, spent hours with his tailor, shirtmaker, and bootmaker, and whole afternoons in the Turkish baths, lent money to everybody, yet was nobody’s fool. In short, that phrase so often given to a very pleasant, well-mannered, yet slightly dull horse was very applicable to Charley—there was not an ounce of vice in him.
Eight years before, he had met Katharine Lorimer at a Charity Ball and, in his own classic phrase, been struck absolutely of a heap. He proposed the following week, and since then he had at intervals forced upon Katharine the distressing necessity of again refusing him. Between whiles, of course, Charley had some consolation from the ladies of the chorus, but these were empty little episodes, and, to his credit, Charley never hid them. Among such affairs his devotion to Katharine bloomed like a splendid flower in a rather shabby garden. There was such a faithful quality in Charley’s affection, and he had still such an eager hope of ultimate success, that it was impossible not to hate hurting him.
Lately, indeed, Katharine had felt a strange fear of herself. She did not love Charley, and she had definitely renounced the idea of marriage at the outset of her career. But at the back of her head lay an unformed notion that his fondness for her, allied to the immense solidity of his position, might one day drive her into some manifestation of weakness—an appeal for help, maybe, or even what was psychologically subtler and much more likely to occur, that she should mentally adopt him as a refuge, a safeguard from the harassing demands of her life. That she, Katharine Lorimer, who had so sternly moulded her own career, should come to acknowledge such a primitive and absurd necessity as the dominance of a man intellectually her inferior was, and could be, no more than an upsetting nightmare. Yet she had her moments of nervousness over it, especially when Charley sat near her, or took her hand. They made her draw down her brows when she looked at him, a trifle forbiddingly. And it was in this fashion that she observed him now.
“You haven’t explained yet,” she declared, “what you mean, coming bothering me at this time of day.”
“It’s the right time of day. I’ve come to take you to lunch.”
She made a firm gesture of negation with her head. “ I’m too busy.”
“You’re always too busy, Katharine. But you’re coming.”
“No, I’m not coming.”
“Oh, yes, you are. I’ve booked a table at the Embassy.”
“Now, listen, Charley,” she remonstrated sternly. “ I’ve told you before I’ve my work to do. How do you expect me to make an honest living if you come disturbing me like this?”
He laughed easily. “You don’t have to make an honest living. You’re the most prosperous woman in the West End of London. You’re in all the papers with that Holbein thing.”
“Don’t tell me I’m in the Sunday Searchlight!”
“Not yet, but you will be. But to get back to the point, I’ve ordered the lunch.”
“What have you ordered?”
“I ought to know by this time what you like for luncheon. Sole a la bonne femme, Florida salad, and cheese soufflé.”
She could not help it. Despite herself her lips twitched, and her frown dissolved. She jumped up companionably. “I’ll come, then,” she declared, “but I’ve got to be back here at this desk in one hour. Understand. At two p. m. sharp! And I’m coming only because of the soufflé, not because of you.”
Charley laughed again, watching her jam on her hat and fling a short fur cape over her shoulders.
“So long as you come!” As he followed her downstairs he added: “And by the by, after the cheese soufflé, Katharine, I’ve something to ask you. You see, it’s high time I proposed to you again.”
Chapter Five
On Saturday, the last day of November, Nancy left for Manchester with the rest of the Moonlight in Arcady company, and Madden accompanied the party as arranged. They were opening on the following Monday at the Royal Theatre, and since any one of Chesham’s plays made first-rate news, they had quite a spectacular send-off from St Pancras. Nancy was in the gayest spirits. She had armfuls of flowers, a middle place in two of the group flashes, and another with David Chesham himself. Katharine, aware of Nancy’s liking for a little publicity, had arranged for this beforehand with the agencies.
Madden, she had to admit, behaved well, keeping himself near yet unobtrusive, and attentive to Nancy in that practical undemonstrative style so particularly his own. Katharine had time only for a word with him before the train pulled out, a rather conventional admonition that he take care of Nancy, yet she went home feeling herself more favourably disposed towards him than ever.
On Tuesday morning she turned eagerly to the papers. As was to be expected, there was not much in the London press, though the majority of the paragraphs were favourable to the new play. But the Manchester dailies had each a full report, and the general tone was politely laudatory. With a throb of pride Katharine came across a notice which praised Nancy’s performance. Katharine herself, hav
ing seen Nancy in everything which she had hitherto done, had no doubt about her talent. She was extremely good. It was particularly in her delineations of the modern young woman that she excelled, for she could produce without effort a hard brilliance, a tired and youthful indifference to the contemporary scene, which combined both accuracy and irony and so became not only a portrait but a satire.
For all her pride and genuine delight in Nancy’s rapid progress on the stage, Katharine had still an attitude of mild indulgence towards it. She could not bring herself to be serious when Nancy, with genuine intensity, spoke of her profession and her devotion to the drama. The drama, thought Katharine with an inward smile, was such a wide, uncertain quantity, while Nancy was so slight and pretty, and poised so urgently for happiness, that the correlation of the two seemed quite incongruous. Nevertheless, this did not prevent Katharine from rejoicing in Nancy’s present success. She hoped the piece might have a long run when it came to the West End. This, at least, she reflected, would give the Madden situation time to resolve itself.
During the next two days Katharine was busy with the preliminaries of her departure, and her head was full of affairs more pressing than the play. But on Friday she had a most unexpected reminder. Just after noon the telephone rang, and Madden’s voice struck upon her ear.
“Are you still up north?” she demanded when her first sharp surprise subsided.
“No,” he answered. “I’m at my hotel here. I had to come back to London yesterday. Urgent business. It was a tough break, but I had to make it.”
“How is the play going?”
“Oh, fine, fine,” he answered, perhaps a shade too quickly. “Nancy is an absolute knockout. I want to tell you all about it. Say, Miss Lorimer, will you come to lunch?”
Katharine reflected. She was free of engagements. Yet she had no desire to be under obligation to Madden. She said:
“No! You come to lunch with me.”
“All right.” He accepted without demur. “Pick me up here. Only let’s go somewhere quiet. Suppose we go to one of those Fleet Street chophouses I’ve heard so much about.”
About an hour later Katharine, having acceded to his request, sat opposite Madden in one of the stalls of the Cheshire Cheese, surrounded by a cheerful bustle of hospitality and hearing his account of the northern trip. He spoke warmly. The opening had gone well, they were playing to fair houses, and Nancy in particular had been grand. Yet Katharine, listening without comment, her eyes fixed on his dark, mobile face, read a hesitancy between his words and a refusal to commit himself fully.
“They’re tightening up some of the scenes,” he concluded. “And changing the end of the second act. That ought to improve it when it comes up here.”
“You don’t think much of it,” said Katharine bluntly.
“Well, no,” he admitted candidly. “It isn’t nearly good enough for Nancy!”
Though he did not know it and Katharine herself made no sign, it was the most telling answer he could have given. Spoken with ingenuous simplicity, it went straight to Katharine’s heart and swept the last of her prejudice away. She decided at that moment that she liked Madden and henceforth would accept him without reserve.
“You’re very much in love with Nancy, aren’t you?” she asked.
“I certainly am, Miss Lorimer,” he answered steadily. “And that’s why I want to talk to you to-day.”
There was a pause, then she said, crumbling her roll into tiny fragments: “ I daresay you’ve found me pretty tiresome. I might even have said suspicious. But then, I’m fond of Nancy, too—terribly fond of her. She means really everything in the world to me.” She looked up quickly, almost apologetically, a faint colour in her cheeks. “Sorry to be so sentimental and old-fashioned, but I’m only trying to explain my attitude. I do so want Nancy to be happy, and in spite of all this horrible modern cynicism I know the only way she will be happy is by marrying the right man, the man who loves her, who’ll take her away from this silly business of the stage and make a real home and—oh dear, oh dear,” she broke off self-consciously, “there I go again. But I can’t help it. Out of date or not, it’s exactly how I feel about Nancy.”
“Believe me,” he replied very seriously, “that’s the very thing I had to say to you. Yes, I’m darn glad you do feel that way, for it’s just how I feel myself. Nancy’s a swell little actress, but—well, I hate seeing her fooling around in these stupid plays and doing stunts like she did at the B.B.C. So far as I’m concerned, it’s just a waste of time. Oh, I know she wants to play Shakespeare. But doesn’t every young actress? And honestly, when she marries me, though I guess I’m no Romeo, I’d rather she played Juliet back home.”
She smiled at the turn of phrase which epitomized all she might have struggled to say. “Then we do understand each other. We’re friends. And you go right ahead with Nancy.”
“That’s a real break for me, Miss Lorimer. And while we’re about if, if you don’t object, I think I’d better make it Katharine.”
“You make it anything you like. So long as you don’t blame me for being such a dragon.”
“If you’re a dragon,” he drawled, “I guess you’re the nicest one I ever saw.”
They both laughed, and the tension which had grown insensibly during those last few moments suddenly relaxed. A silence followed. Madden, as though sensible that enough had been said on a difficult subject, made no effort to pursue it. Instead he looked around the old room, on whose time-darkened walls hung many relics of the past.
“I’ve always wanted to come here,” he remarked. “ I suppose that sounds very banal and American to you. But it’s true. It’ll always give me a real kick to think I’ve lunched at the Cheshire Cheese.”
“The food is good,” she agreed.
He smiled. “Oh, you know it isn’t that, Miss Lorimer—sorry, I mean Katharine. Of course this pie is marvellous; but I’m thinking of Dr Johnson and Boswell and Goldsmith. How they came here and talked and wrote and had their ale under these old rafters. And nothing changed, either. The waiters still running about in aprons and bawling through the hatch like the stagecoach had just come in. Oh, I daresay that’s raw stuff—naïve, I suppose you’d call it—but I love these old things, and I guess I’ll never have enough of them.”
His enthusiasm was infectious. She said:
“There’s lots to see in London if you’re interested.”
He nodded and helped himself to celery from the old glass dish that stood on the checkered tablecloth. “ Yes, I know. I’ve been too busy with Nancy to have much opportunity. I wouldn’t expect her to come trailing through museums.” He smiled again, then was serious. “ But I guess I’ll have a look around this afternoon. There’s plenty I want to see right here in the City if I can find it.”
He was so genuine in his intention that Katharine’s heart warmed to him. She reflected that he probably did not know a soul in London beyond herself, and she had a swift vision of him asking his way of policemen and getting lost rather disconsolately in the gathering gloom of the Inns of Court. She exclaimed on an impulse:
“Suppose you let me show you round. I ought to know my way about if anyone does.”
His face lighted up in a manner which was extraordinarily attractive. “Oh, would you? But it would bore you. And you’ve far too much to do.”
“I think I can find time.” Her lips compressed themselves on a smile. “And it mightn’t bore me as much as you think.”
It was half-past two when they went out into Fleet Street and, with the cupola of St Paul’s standing proudly in the sky above them, walked up towards the Strand. Katharine had not been in this part of the City for years, and it gave her, as she had half-anticipated in her remark to Madden, an extraordinary thrill to walk those pavements which had known the hurrying footsteps of her youth. As they passed outside the Law Courts, she recognized the familiar landmarks—St Clement Danes, her tube station, the teashop where she had lunched, usually on sausage roll and cocoa—the whole
panorama of those early days flashed back upon her with a quick and exquisite nostalgia. How little, despite the march of progress and the jam of panting vehicles which now encumbered the streets, how little it had changed!
Avoiding the obvious, she showed Madden over the precincts of the Inns of Court, the gatehouse on which Ben Jonson worked, the chapel where the curfew bell is still rung each night. Then they went through the Church of St Mary-le-Strand, where, in her lunch hour, she had often wandered. Madden, as he phrased it, fell for this church. But Katharine did not linger. Her mind and steps seemed bent involuntarily towards the end of Holborn, and at last, with a little constriction of her heart, she led the way into Staple Inn Courtyard. One second they were encompassed by the turmoil of the clashing street, and the next they were in this tranquil backwater, fronted by the venerable façade of the inn, soothed by the chirrup of sparrows in the elm above them. Beyond the outer traffic mutter the quiet was absolute, the sole movement the sleepy pecking of a few pigeons among the cobblestones.
“This is wonderful,” said Madden slowly as they sat down on a bench. “In the very heart of London. I’ve read about it somewhere—yes, it comes into Edwin Drood, doesn’t it? Yes, it’s wonderful. And what a place to dream in!”
“I used to think so,” Katharine answered.
He looked at her sharply, struck by the queerness of her voice. For a minute he was silent, then in a tone less casual than usual he said:
“I’ve noticed—couldn’t help it, I suppose—that all this place round about means something to you. Why don’t you tell me?”
“There’s nothing to tell, really.” She forced a smile. “When I was seventeen or eighteen, I worked pretty near. I used to come and sit here sometimes, in my off time, on this very bench. You see, it’s just the usual sentimental nonsense. Why should I inflict it on you?”
“Because I want you to,” he persisted. “I’m interested to hear how you began. I guess I’d understand. I had a pretty mean time myself when I first stepped out.”
