CHAPTER 3
After flinging himself violently from the home of his cousin, Eugenia, John Turnbull rushed down Russell Square in a veritable blind frenzy of rage, misery and despair. He was in a condition of turbulent revolt; he was filled with a universal hatred. He fled headlong, so that oncoming pedestrians sprang aside to let him pass, staring affrontedly at his dark and furious countenance. He saw no one, blinded as he was by his undisciplined emotions. The handsome coat with its three tiers of small capes flapped against his calves; the flowered silk waistcoat was displayed to the most casual and unheeded gaze. Once when two ragged urchins got in his path, he raised his black cane and struck at them with an oath.
The rain had stopped. The bleak wind came howling around the corners of gloomy houses and over the walls of drenched gardens. Heated as he was, John did not feel its assault. The air, gray and wet and full of grit, choked him, and he cursed it. His polished boots splashed in the running gutters. A low dank mist was drifting on the brick roads. Carriages rolled by, and curious faces peered forth at him. He could smell the mingled odour of acrid smoke, damp, chill and dirt which was the peculiar odour of London.
Now the streets became more congested. He had to pause, fuming, on the kerbs, to allow the crowded carriages, hucksters’ carts and heavy lorries to pass. Far in the distance the dark gray shadow of the Tower loomed against the boiling and gaseous skies, and the formless bulk of the Houses of Parliament crouched over the city like a great beast. He was in the area of shops, of draperers’ establishments, of tailors, hatters and booters. Always, they had fascinated him. But now he did not see them.
At length he hailed a hansom, and flung himself onto the damp leather seat. He smelled its mustiness. The horse clopped in the gutters, spraying cataracts of dirty water into the air. John stared blindly before him, glanced through the windows.
He was consumed with a wild heat and fever. Sometimes he felt that he could not restrain himself, that he must leap from the cab and hurl himself furiously through the streets again. At these moments his hands would clench, and he would beat them impotently on his knees. Then he was overcome with a febrile exhaustion, and he would lean back and close his eyes. But always he was pervaded by the most savage and desperate excitement. Remorseless hands seemed to be clutching his throat, cutting off his breath, accelerating his tumultuous heart. Sometimes he was overcome with a voiceless and formless grief and passionate desire. At these moments he saw the face of Eugenia, whom he loved unrestrainedly with all the depths of his uncontrolled nature. But he could curse her now, with dry weeping. She had betrayed him, abandoned him. He saw her cool gray eyes, those curious bright and steadfast eyes, which seemed the portholes of a shining but mute spirit standing on tiptoe to peer out on a world she dared not invade. Never had he desired her or loved her as he did now, when he felt that she had left him forever.
“I cannot stay in this abominable place!” he cried out, aloud. The coachman, hearing him, thought him quite mad.
When he cried out like this, he was suddenly and abruptly silent. He stared out at the passing streets and throngs, holding his breath, his lower lip caught between his teeth. Now the tremendous excitement seized on him again. Sweat appeared on his brow and on his upper lip. He took off his hat, and his tight black curls rose upward like a vital crest over his broad dark brow. He rolled his neck in his stock, and panted. But now his eyes were glittering and feverish. He smiled a little, and the smile was grim and resolute. He began to beat a tattoo on his instep with his cane. He seemed to hear strange far voices and strange vehement sounds.
He must have given some destination to the coachman, for he saw that they were approaching the section where he lived. He opened the flap of the cab and ordered the coachman to drive him into Soho. He could not see his father, yet. There was some immense and clamorous purpose rising in him which he wished to explore further. He moved restlessly and feverishly on the seat, biting his lip again, grimacing and smiling, nodding. He was frightened, but terribly exhilarated also.
He had talked wildly to his cousin, only half believing his own impetuous words. But now they came back to him, inexorable and demanding. Always, in his life, he had lived by instinct and intuition, rather than by cold and arid reason. Nor were instinct and intuition wild and vagrant things in him, a momentary or blind passion, forgotten almost as soon as felt. Rather, they were like great purposes in him, solidifying moment by moment, so that they became unshakable resolution. He was assailed by storms. But he seemed to absorb the very essence of these storms. The fury passed, but the resolution remained.
The next steps were not quite clear in his mind. However, he knew where they led. He left the details for a future but near date. He tapped on the flap and ordered the coachman again to drive him to Soho.
Through the dark and lowering city came the long rumble and clamouring of bells. John withdrew his repeater and stared at the round white face. It was three o’clock. Dr. Carruthers’ would have been dismissed; the young gentlemen were either homeward bound, or gathering in favourite grogshops and taverns for a last convivial beer or ale together. He would be certain to encounter his old companions in one of them. Now he felt an enormous healthy hunger, and a desire for human communication. He was no solitary. He loved companionship. The turbulent excitement and impetuousness of his nature languished, became frantic, in solitude. He must always communicate; he must always feel the warmth of others about him. Without them, he was a tempest in a vacuum, whirling soundlessly and impotently.
Arriving in Soho, that boiling pot of a hundred noisy races, he paid the coachman and rushed rapidly through the narrow crowded streets. He loved the smell of this part of the city, its foreign salty smell, its hot close smell, its loud voices and loud noises. Here he was no alien, among these aliens. He felt foreign and ostracised only among his own people. He smiled brilliantly at Jew and Latin, at Portuguese and Spaniard, and they returned his smile with the warm comforting recognition of brother to brother. Now he began to walk less hurriedly. He breathed deeply of the dark wet air. He looked into the windows of narrow dirty shops. It had begun to rain again. But here the rain had the mysterious quality of rain in far places, not the soaking cold effluvia of London.
He turned into the door of his favourite tavern. It was warm and close in here. The panelled walls of dark wood, impregnated by smoke and age, were the walls of home. The oak tables and benches were ancient, and gleaming in candlelight. At the end of the long narrow room a fire burned heartily in a smoke-blackened fire-place, and tossed its ribbons and streamers of rosy light on low beamed ceiling as cured with smoke as a rich ripe ham. Above the stained black counter were rows upon rows of copper and pewter tankards. A sweet yet sourish smell of beer, ale and spirits pervaded the tavern. The tankards twinkled in the candle-and-firelight; the fire chuckled. It was very quiet and warm and consoling.
John entered with a gay smile. But the tavern was empty. It was still very early. Mine host was sitting before the fire in his stocking feet, toasting his toes and smoking. He was a tiny but very fat man with a bald head. He was in his shirtsleeves, his cravat hanging about his throat, for until the young gentlemen came in any numbers he did not resume his coat. He was an Irishman, shrewd, good-natured and obscene. When he saw John, he stood up and bowed genially.
“It’s early you are, sir,” he said, in his hoarse thick voice.
John flung himself on his favourite bench and leaned back against the wooden wall. He threw his hat down beside him. He looked about him and smiled.
“A foul day, Tim,” he replied. The dark excitement was still vivid on his face. His voice had a quick timbre in it.
“I have been over the whole world,” said Tim, leaning his hands on the table and bending towards John, “and never have I seen such a climate. Fit only for geese and Englishmen.”
John laughed his usual loud and boisterous laugh. He ordered a tankard of ale. His temperament was nervous and high-pitched, and now it was vibrating in an ev
en higher key than usual. Tim brought him a large and foaming tankard, and John drank it as eagerly as a desert wanderer might drink. He put down the tankard and beamed at the host. Tim beamed in return. The heartiest good-fellowship prevailed between them.
“I am going to America,” announced John.
Tim raised his eyebrows. “So, it’s to America you’ll be going,” he said, thoughtfully. “A fine land. But strange. A land for men.”
He knew John’s extravagances. He had no doubt that the young gentleman would be a visitor to this tavern for many years to come, growing older and staider, the life slowly dying from him, until he would come no more. Tim had seen this happen so often. He sighed gustily. It seemed very sad to him, and very dolorous. It made him quite melancholy. He liked John better than he liked the other young gentlemen, the Englishmen. He never thought of John as being English. There was a strange blood kinship between them. Those violent dark eyes, that turbulent smile, those tempestuous and undisciplined gestures, did not come from calm, slow English blood. It seemed very sorrowful to him that such a young man must degenerate into slowness and heaviness, the fire and virility forever quenched, the eagerness drowned forever in London rains and London fogs.
The door at the back, leading to Tim’s living quarters, where he led a comforting domestic life with his fat shrewd English wife, opened and a girl emerged. John stared. He had never seen her before. She entered with demure and provocative steps, her eyes downcast, her hair covered with a fluted cap, and took up her place decorously behind the counters. She began to wipe the dark and gleaming surface with a white cloth.
“My niece, Lilybelle,” said Tim, casting a fond glance over his shoulder. “Or, I should say, my wife’s niece. Lilybelle Botts. The old woman hurts in her joints, and the colleen has come to help us.”
But John stared, more and more delighted and intrigued. Lilybelle was a very pretty girl, flamboyant, and of colours that would appear vulgar to more reserved eyes. She was tall and slender, not more than fourteen, with a neat waist and a little high bosom, pointed and perfect. Her hips, too, were youthfully full under the long gathered black skirt, which was protected by a white ruffled apron. Her black bodice possessed short sleeves with ruffles of lace, revealing white round arms with dimpled elbows, and pretty white hands. Her face was round and plump, with a naughty arch expression for all its demureness. Her cheeks, full and pink, were very dewy and dimpled. She had a round pink mouth, with little white teeth which showed when she smiled her empty but mischievous smile. Her nose, tilted and pointed at the tip, had an impudent air, saucy and provoking. When she shyly lifted her eyes and glanced swiftly at John, he saw that they were brightly blue and full of laughter between thick yellow lashes. The mob cap only partly concealed shining auburn curls, as wiry and vital as John’s own hair. One curl peeped from behind her little white ear, with much impertinence. She had a long slender white neck, with two little auburn curls falling over it in a most entrancing manner.
It was not only this obvious and pleasing prettiness which attracted John so intensely. The girl had a lusty and healthy appearance, warm and strong. She swung her hips naughtily; her step was high and dancing. The round mouth, though with a looseness at the corners, appeared about to burst into laughter at the slightest excuse. While she polished the counters, her arms thrust and moved with graceful energy, the black bombazine of her bodice straining in a most luscious fashion about her bosom and shoulder. John suddenly had the keenest desire to touch that young breast; he had no doubt that it would be firm and full under his seeking fingers. He could not look away from the girl. She delighted and excited him more every instant. What a figure that would be, divested of that long black skirt, stays and petticoats! He could see it as clearly as though she stood before him, naked. There would be the long line of waist and hip, smooth and white and gleaming, the dimpled knees, the slender ankles, the little white feet. But even more than all this, he felt the flash of hot recognition between him and the girl, the kinship of lustiness and turbulence, the wild life and vitality and lack of restraint. What a girl for a man’s bed! There would be no fearful demureness, no coyness nor modesty, no pretenses or foolish whimperings.
He forgot Eugenia as though she had never lived. He leaned his elbows on the table and stared at the girl with all his zest for life, for flesh and colour and warmth, violent and unashamed in his restless black eyes. And the girl maintained her pretense that she was only a demure and innocent maiden, embarrassed by the stare of the young gentleman across the tavern. But in her every motion, every sway of her hips, every exaggerated swing of her arms which drew the black bodice tautly across her breast, there was saucy and impudent invitation and teasing.
“Fetch Mr. Turnbull another tankard, Lily, my love,” said Tim, quite aware of what was going on under his nose. The girl obeyed. She approached John with downcast eyes, the dimple at the corner of her mouth twinkling. She did not glance at him. But she smiled discreetly, then retreated.
“A forward wench, and stupid,” said Tim, in a low indulgent tone. “But a good hand for the old woman, and neat and quick. Lancastershire lass, where the old woman was born. Pert and naughty with her tongue, too, but good-hearted. The old woman fetched her two days ago, after her mother died. No controlling her. The old woman thinks to teach her her sums, and to read, but there’s no need of that in a wench with such a face, eh, Mr. John?”
But John neither heard nor answered. The girl had just flashed an improper smile at him, and he was responding. His big compact body was thrilling with waves of warmth and desire. He felt that he had known Lilybelle all his life. Apparently feeling that he had seen enough of her for a while, she flounced and swayed out of the room and disappeared in the rear. He became angry at this, with a sense that he had been deprived. When he looked about him, antagonistically, Tim had retired to the fire again, and his meditations.
There was a riotous sound outside, and many laughing male voices, and the doors burst open. Several young gentlemen, joking and sparring, entered the tavern. When they saw John, they swore, then laughed again, boisterously, and swarmed about him. He rose with a sheepish smile, and shook hands with every one, suffering their crude jests. They hurled questions at him. He answered that he was finished with Carruthers. They flung themselves on the benches at the tables, pounded their fists and called for their favourite beverages. The quiet and cosy air of the tavern disappeared in tempestuous noise, laughter, shouting and jests. It was alive with gay young faces, fashionable costumes, the sparkling of youthful and arrogant eyes.
Andrew Bollister, John’s particular friend, sat beside him, and questioned him smilingly. There was no obvious snobbishness in young Bollister, or consciousness of caste. He liked John, or so John believed. He was a slender youth, with a narrow and clever face, narrow slits of pale eyes, a long bony nose, and a thin mobile mouth which even in repose seemed to possess a restrained sneer and cynicism. He had a narrow and delicate skull, on which the pale fine hair seemed painted by the smooth gleaming strokes of a careful brush. He appeared much older than his twenty years, for there was a cold and quiet arrogance about him, a firmness of his thin broad shoulders, a certainty in the tilt of his sharp chin and the disingenuous glance of his hard and secretive eye. Whereas the body of John was compact and strong with muscle, the body of Andrew Bollister was carved and sharp in all its angles, inherent with assurance and elegance. His movements, though quiet and controlled, were quick, almost feline in their swiftness. His hand was small and narrow, and the lines of the pale quiet fingers had a certain delicate cruelty in them; the fingernails were colourless, almost livid. Everything about him was pale; he affected pale colours. He wore a light buff coat, with darker buff pantaloons. His studs were moonstones. There was no doubt that he was a great gentleman, reserved and polished, bloodless and accomplished. Even the lobes of his ears were bloodless and transparent, small and bony and pressed close against his fragile skull.
Andrew Bollister was never known to b
e crude or guilty of bad taste. He displayed no pettinesses or malice in his temperament. A disdainful smile, a shrug, alone expressed any disgust or aversion or dislike that he might feel. He was reputed to be honourable and discriminating, a master of good taste, an authority on fashion, a scholar and an artist. No one had ever heard him lie, or had seen him display bad temper or angry emotion. Well-bred and aristocratic (he was the third son of Lord Brewster) he exuded that ineffable and indescribable English atmosphere of caste and birth and position. He was witty and subtle, and his epigrams, spoken in a low and withering voice, were jewels of acrid understatement and cleverness. He did all things easily. His prowess on the playing fields was famous. Moreover, he displayed no less genius in the class-rooms. He was the undisputed leader of Dr. Carruthers’.
No one, not even his adoring mother, knew the cold violence, the bloodless cruelty, the monstrous vanity, the gigantic malignance, which lived in him. For he revealed himself to no one. And no one, even his victims, could guess at the immeasurable mercilessness which was part of his nature. They only knew that something in him made them tremble and shrink before that narrow and hidden eye.
At the present time, he seemed to be fond of John Turnbull, though two less congenial characters could not have been found in juxtaposition anywhere else in England. It was known that Andrew Bollister drank heavily, and that at times he could become coldly riotous. But during these occasions his face would become narrow and wizened, frozen in its intense control. The contrast between his acts and his facial expression was mysteriously appalling. Perhaps the bitter and icy violence in him found something congenial in the hot and innocent violence in John Turnbull.
John had been amazed and excessively flattered when the favour of Andrew Bollister had fallen upon him. He could hardly believe it. It had at first inspired his suspicion, for, intuitively, John was no fool.
The Turnbulls Page 5
