Here the old man who smelled of beer tramped heavily upon the gentleman’s toes in the act of forcing his way through the packed passengers to the door, and the gentleman made a pained face. Opening his eyes, which he had closed in the access of agony, he met the eyes of Hilda, who was laughing, and he smiled back.
It was a well-bred smile, simple, human and friendly (he saw to that), and there was no eagerness in it. He found it delightful to smile at this nymph, hatless as nearly all of them were nowadays, and radiantly young, and he wondered if the next station were hers as well as his, and hoped very much that it was. He almost decided to speak to her.
Up the moving staircase they went together; the gentleman overcoming his inclination to stand still and be borne restfully along because Hilda was walking briskly ahead of him. They passed the ticket-collector almost together and hurried up the slope which led to the exit. When they reached it, Hilda paused, and searched in her handbag. Outside the dimly lit entrance there was impenetrable darkness, and the air was full of fog, floating in visible wreaths in front of the subdued lights. The gentleman paused also, and produced from his brief-case a large and handsome torch which he tested and found in order. People were crowding about the entrance exclaiming in dismay at the thickness of the fog, which had come down over London in all the muffling, deadening density of ‘a regular old-fashioned pea-souper’ during the time they had spent in the train coming from the City.
He heard Hilda give an exclamation of annoyance. Her torch refused to work. He waited, lurking in the background and congratulating himself upon his luck. He was excited and full of hope. The truly romantic heart is ever young, and goes on being a nuisance to all its friends long after its owner has reached what in most people are years of discretion.
At last Hilda shrugged her shoulders crossly and stepped out from the entrance into the blackout. The gentleman followed. People were flashing their torches in the blackness on all sides, but they only shone on the greasy pavement, for the fog was so thick that no light could penetrate it further than a foot or so. Hilda moved confidently forward, trying to make her way by the light from other people’s torches, but suddenly she gave a cry and stumbled as she missed the edge of the curb.
The gentleman was at her side in an instant.
‘Are you all right?’ he exclaimed in a frank hearty tone, grasping her arm and switching on his torch.
‘Yes, thanks, I didn’t see the curb,’ she answered, rubbing her ankle. ‘My torch has given out. It would.’
‘I have been sent by Providence especially to escort you,’ he answered, relapsing into the whimsical, mocking tone which he always used with common little girls. ‘My torch, as you see, is in excellent order,’ and he flashed it over her feet, observing with satisfaction that they were pretty.
‘Yes. It’s a young searchlight,’ retorted Hilda, still rubbing. He thought it best to relax his hold upon her arm. ‘Aren’t you lucky!’
‘Very,’ he answered gravely, but putting a smile into his voice. ‘You see, this hasn’t happened by chance. We were fated to meet.’
‘You sound like Lyndoe,’ sighed Hilda, standing upright. ‘Well, since you have got a torch and you want to escort me – do you live near here? I don’t want to take you out of your way.’
He laughed. ‘I don’t live anywhere. When I have seen you home I shall vanish into the fog, and you will never see me again.’
‘I can’t see you now, so it’s all the same to me, but as you’ve got a torch and I haven’t, and I’ve got to get home somehow, I shall just have to take a chance.’
‘I assure you I am respectable,’ he said playfully.
‘Well, you would say that, wouldn’t you? Here, do you know where we’re going? I want to get to Alderney Gardens; it’s at the bottom of Simpson’s Lane.’
‘I haven’t the pleasure of knowing Alderney Gardens, but I know Simpson’s Lane well, and I will take you there and doubtless we can find our way after that.’
‘I hope so,’ said Hilda doubtfully. ‘I say, isn’t this awful. My mother will be having fits.’
‘Oh, you have a mother?’
‘Of course I’ve got a mother! Well, I had when I left home this morning and I s’pose they’d have let me know. What on earth do you mean?’
‘I mean your eyes. They look as if your mother might have been Thetis.’
‘Who’s she when she’s at home. Oh, gosh, there I go again!’ and she stumbled once more and clutched at him.
‘Would you care to take my arm?’
‘I wouldn’t care to, but I suppose I shall have to,’ and she put her own firm young one through his. His heart beat faster. There was silence for a little while. Now and then he flashed his torch upon a house to make sure that they were on the right road. Occasionally they passed a street-lamp, but its tiny glimmer was hidden in the fog that floated high above their heads. At last he coughed and said, ‘Don’t you want to know who Thetis was?’
‘I can’t wait.’
‘She was a sea-goddess,’ he said, frowning slightly.
‘Aren’t we nearly there?’ said Hilda, coughing.
‘We are about half-way down Simpson’s Lane,’ and he flashed the torch upon some wrought-iron gates set in an ancient brick wall which they were at that moment passing. The light shone on the name of the house, Westwood.
‘Thank heaven for that,’ sighed Hilda. ‘We shan’t be long now. I say, I do hope I haven’t taken you much out of your way?’
‘I don’t know yet.’
‘Isn’t it a bit early in the evening to be feeling like that?’
‘I don’t know how far you may have taken me out of my way. You may have set my feet upon a strange and enchanted path.’
Hilda was beginning to feel annoyed. She was not used to this sort of talk, and for Thetis and enchanted paths she could not have cared less. She said suddenly:
‘Are you on the B.B.C?’
‘Good heavens, no!’ he replied, shuddering. ‘You odd child, why do you ask?’
‘You talk like one of the announcers; Robert Robinson, I think his name is. And you sound like one, too,’ she added darkly.
‘No,’ he said, after a pause, ‘no, I have nothing to do with that institution for perverting the taste and moulding the opinion of the masses. If I told you my name I doubt if you would know it.’
‘No, I don’t expect I should. Be funny if I did, wouldn’t it? Shall I have three guesses?’
She knew that they were nearly at the end of Simpson’s Lane and that in a few moments she would be home, and this made her feel better-tempered.
‘As you please, Primavera.’
I’m getting some names to-night, thought Hilda. Aloud she said, ‘Archibald Screwy?’
He was not sufficiently acquainted with contemporary slang to realize how pert this was, but he shook his head. ‘Nowhere near it.’
‘Freddie Grisewood?’
‘No.’
‘Dr Goebbels? – No, you don’t limp. I give up.’
There was a pause while they made their way across the road. He flashed the light upon a wall and saw the words, ‘Alderney Gardens.’
‘I suppose you wouldn’t be Frank Phillips?’ said Hilda. ‘I live at number fourteen.’
He said suddenly, ‘I would like you to think of me as Marcus.’
‘Anything you say. I say, I am sorry, I’m sure I’ve brought you simply miles out of your way. It’s very kind of you. Marcus what?’
‘It has been the purest of pleasures.’
‘Marcus what?’ repeated Hilda.
‘Just Marcus. Or Marcus Antonius, if you prefer it.’
Hilda shook her head. ‘Life’s too short. Well, Marcus, here we are, and thanks for the buggy-ride. If it hadn’t been for you I should still be at Highgate Station.’
He stood looking down at her, hat in hand.
‘May I see you again one day?’ he asked simply. ‘Say “yes” … please.’
Hilda paused with one hand on
the gate and spoke impressively:
‘Marcus, if I saw every boy again who asked me to, I should never go to business or have time for a perm, or get any meals, and if you’re looking for a girl friend it’s just too bad you should have picked on me, because I’ve got so many boys now I don’t know which way to turn. But it was nice of you to suggest it. Aren’t you married?’ she ended suddenly.
He shook his head.
‘Oh. I thought you might be. You look as if you were.’
He winced.
‘Well, at least may I know your name?’ he asked.
‘With pleasure. It’s Hilda Wilson.’
He shook his head. ‘I would sooner think of you as Daphne.’
‘Yes, so would I, but I was called Hilda after Mother’s only sister. It’s an awful name, I quite agree with you, but I manage somehow. Now you run along home, Marcus. Good night, and thanks again,’ and she waved gaily and went in at the gate. He raised his hat and turned away. Suddenly the front door was flung open, regardless of the blackout, and a woman stood peering out anxiously into the fog.
‘Hilda? Is that you? My goodness, we have been worried about you. Dad’s just changing his shoes to come out after you with a torch. We thought yours might have given out. Isn’t it awful?’
‘I’m all right, Mother. Who do you think saw me home?’ Then, raising her voice so that the gentleman, who was not yet out of earshot, might hear, she carolled joyously, ‘Freddie Grisewood!’ and ran in and shut the door.
‘Hilda, don’t be so absurd!’ said Mrs Wilson delightedly, beginning to help her off with her coat. ‘It’s all right, Dad, here she is,’ she called. ‘Are you very cold, dear? There’s a lovely fire in the dining-room, and I’ve got an extra-nice supper waiting.’
Hilda hugged her. ‘I’m all right, ducky. No, I don’t suppose it was Freddie Grisewood, really; it was an old guy I clicked with in the Tube; quite bats, but rather sweet; he came all the way home with me.’
‘That was unselfish of him,’ said Mr Wilson dryly, coming into the hall and surveying his daughter’s glowing face and brilliant eyes. ‘A real sacrifice that must have been, poor chap.’ He put out his cheek and Hilda dropped a kiss on it. ‘Ted Russell just rang you up, Hildie. He’s got forty-eight hours’ leave and he’ll be round after supper.’
‘Oh, goody! No,’ said Hilda, following her father into the dining-room and laughing, ‘I don’t think he was trying to get fresh. I think he was just lonely, poor old thing.’
7
The gentleman calling himself Marcus walked briskly homewards, the unpleasantness of his journey and the acrid fumes of the fog alike forgotten. The little adventure had awakened all the romance in his nature, without which he found life savourless and dreary. He had not seen so attractive a face and form for many months, and her cool manner only added to her charm for him. He had known one or two with that manner, and it had been a pleasant task to break it down into shyness and then into warmth, and to reach at last the sensitiveness of the youthful soul and heart within. He had every intention of seeing Daphne (he really could not endure to think of her as Hilda) again, and soon, but he would have to think out the safest plan for their meeting; meanwhile it was delightful that she lived near, for he would never go out now without the hope of encountering her by accident. Later on, of course, when the affair was over, it might be awkward, but that moment was not yet.
Here it is time to explain to the more suspicious among our readers that all that this gentleman required from the pretty young girls whom he picked up was romantic and spiritual sustenance; manna, so to speak, from the heaven of their youth which should feed the yearnings of his soul. It was true that they often became tiresomely importunate, and that he had to end the relationship abruptly (with pain to himself, for his was a nature that disliked giving pain to others), but that was never his fault.
There had been Peter, who lived in one room in Hampstead and earned three pounds a week as bookkeeper to a small firm which made meat paste in Islington. Peter’s dark eyes had shone at the music of Bach and John Ireland, and he had met her in a crowd, coming out of the Queen’s Hall. Music had been the bond between them, until Peter grew clamorous and wanted him to leave the wife she was sure that he must have, and he had been forced to end the affair. Iris had been fair and shy, with a job as receptionist in a photographer’s in Baker Street, and had adored modern poetry, but she had gone the same way as Peter, in tears where Peter had stormed. And these were only two of many affairs; so romantic when we read of their like in the pages of Proust (that other admirer of girls seen in the street) and so pathetic and sordid and such a waste of time and energy when viewed in terms of human happiness.
He would have said that as he did not finally possess their persons, no harm was finally done, which was an odd conclusion for such a connoisseur in spiritual values to have reached.
As he walked home he wondered if Hilda were musical or stage-struck or poetry-mad? He assumed that she must have some aesthetic taste, for he could never have been attracted to a girl who possessed none, and a girl could not look like a nymph and have the soul of a typist. (That was how he put it to himself.)
Yet as he opened the gates of his home he recalled certain words, certain phrases of hers, which jarred upon him in a way to which he was not accustomed, and a doubt passed over his mind. It could not be possible that for the first time in his life he had been attracted by merely a pretty face? No; there is spiritual passion there, he thought, shutting the iron gates behind him and looking up at the long, dim shape of the mansion. That manner is merely defensive. I will see her again, and soon.
‘Darling, would that be you?’ inquired Mrs Gerard Challis, seated that same evening before her mirror. She referred to sounds proceeding from behind the door of the bathroom into which her bedroom opened.
‘Of course,’ answered Mr Challis, after a pause. He was sitting on the bathroom floor with nothing on, doing his yoga exercises. He sat cross-legged, only it was more complicated than that, and he looked beautiful; he was more than fifty years old, but his tall person retained the slenderness and much of the suppleness of youth, and his serious deep-blue eyes had the tranquillity belonging to people who have always done what they wanted to without arguing with their consciences.
‘Whom did you think it was?’ he asked a moment later, almost good-humouredly. The exercises induced calm and well-being.
‘I thought it was probably you. It’s ages since I’ve really seen you. How are you?’
‘My cold has gone, thank you.’
‘So glad, sweetie,’ murmured Mrs Challis. She slipped off her house-coat and stood looking at herself in the glass. She was large and lovely, with the high bosom and long slender waist of a goddess. Twenty years ago such amplitude had been unfashionable and had forced her to adopt a rigid diet, and now her loveliness was a little old, and her neck and hands were beginning to go, but she still had the childlike look that had enslaved people in the Gay Twenties. She had been one of the legendary Bright Young People, and as Seraphina Braddon had appeared upon the front page of the London evening papers more frequently than any of her set. And now in her conversation, in her attitude to life, she was as faintly and charmingly and inexorably dated as a novel by Michael Arlen.
‘Hebe’s got her ration book back,’ she said, beginning to get into a dark-blue dinner-dress with gold sequins encrusted upon the bosom.
‘I did not know that she had lost it,’ said Mr Challis, appearing at the bathroom door in a dressing-gown of yellow and purple Persian silk, and brushing his thick silver hair.
‘Darling, I told you. Weeks ago. We decided Alex must have dropped it when you and he were charging over the Heath that afternoon.’
‘I seem to remember now.’
‘Grantey was hopping. She said it was your fault – just when Hebe needs all her extra milk and stuff.’
‘Absurd. How could it be my fault when Alex dropped it?’
‘I expect you were talking.�
�
‘I dare say. How unpleasant this hair-tonic smells.’
‘I know; too lousy. It’s the war as usual.’
‘I wish you would not use that expression, Seraphina. If only you had imagination –’
‘Too sorry, darling.’
There was silence for a moment, then he said, ‘How did she get it back?’
‘Someone picked it up. A schoolmistress, Grantey said. She took it back to the cottage.’
Mr Challis yawned and stepped into his trousers.
‘Nice of her.’
‘She spent the afternoon there, looking after the children. The schoolmarm, I mean.’
Mr Challis was silent. The subject of his grandchildren was distasteful to him.
‘Blast, there goes my stocking,’ murmured Seraphina.
‘Haven’t you any more of those things, points, whatever they’re called?’
‘No, my angel, I have not. Hebe has had most of mine. I shall have to pinch some more of Barnabas’s.’
‘Who are these Americans who are coming to-night?’ demanded Mr Challis, reclining on his wife’s bed and opening a typed manuscript with corrections in a dashing female hand.
‘Earl and Lev, darling.’
‘That tells me nothing. They do not sound like the names of human beings.’
‘You remember. Alex picked them up in a milk bar. He’s painting Lev.’
‘Do you mean that portrait of a Jew?’
‘Alex says he’s amusing. I hope he’ll make me laugh,’ said Mrs Challis, who enjoyed laughing.
Mr Challis, who had been married for twenty-five years, was again silent. He was fond of his wife, though he had long ago decided that her nymph’s face had led him up a garden path where the flowers were not spiritual enough for his taste, and he deplored her frivolity. Her grandfather had made a large fortune out of beer, and something of the delicate yet sturdy open-air grace of the hops seemed to cling about Seraphina: she was not a complex woman.
Westwood (Vintage Classics) Page 10
