Jenny received a post card from Maurice in answer to her letter. She was
glad he made no attempt to argue a point of view which his absence had
already modified more persuasively than any pleading. During the summer,
perhaps on one of those expeditions long talked of, she would make him
her own with one word; having sacrificed much on account of her mother,
she was not prepared to sacrifice all; and when Maurice came back, when
she saw his blue eyes quick with love's fires, and knew again the
sorcery of hands and breathless enfolding of arms, it would be easy upon
his heart to swoon out of everything except compliance. Aglow with
tenderness, she wrote a second letter hinting that no chain was wanting
but the sight of him to bind her finally and completely. Yet, with
whatever periphrasis she wrapped it round, the resolve was not to be
expressed with a pen. Recorded so, it seemed to lose something vital to
its beauty of purpose. However thoughtfully she wrote and obliterated
and wrote again, at the end it always gave the impression of a bargain.
She tore the letter up. No sentence she knew how to write would be heavy
with the velvet glooms of summer nights, prophetic of that supreme
moment now at hand when girlhood should go in a rapture.
A week went by, and Jenny received another post card, postponing the
date of his return to May 1. She was much disappointed, but took the
envelope he had given her at Waterloo, and altered, half in fun, half
seriously, April 23 to May 1.
The night before she was to meet Maurice, there was a heavy fall of
rain reminding her of the night they first drove home together. She lay
awake listening to the pervading sound of the water and thinking how
happy she was. There was no little sister to cuddle now; but with the
thought of Maurice on his way home to her kisses, her imagination was
full of company. It was a morning of gold and silver when she was first
conscious of the spent night. The room was steeped in rich
illuminations. Sparrows twittered very noisily, and their shadows would
sometimes slip across the dingy walls and ceiling. "To-day," thought
Jenny, as, turning over in a radiancy of dreams and blushes and
murmurous awakenings, she fell asleep for two more slow hours of a
lover's absence. The later morning was passed in unpicking and
re-shaping the lucky green hat which had lain hidden since the autumn.
There was no time, however, to perfect its restoration; and Jenny had to
be content with a new saxe-blue dress in which she looked very trim and
eager under a black mushroom hat a-blow with rosebuds.
It was about two o'clock when she went down the steps of 43 Stacpole
Terrace in weather fit for a lovers' meeting. Great swan-white clouds
breasted the deepening azure of May skies. The streets were dazzlingly
wet with the night's rain, and every puddle was as blue as a river. In
front gardens tulips burned with their fiery jets of color and the lime
tree buds were breaking into vivid green fans through every paling,
while in the baskets of flower-women cowslips fresh from chalky pastures
lay close as woven wool. Every blade of grass in the dingy squares of
Camden Town was of emerald, and gardeners were strewing the paths with
bright orange gravel. Children were running against the wind, pink
balloons floating in their wake. Children solemnly holding paper
windmills to catch the breeze were wheeled along in mail-carts and
perambulators. Surely of all the lovers that went to keep a May-day
tryst, none ever went more sweet and gay than Jenny.
She left the Tube at Charing Cross and, being early, walked along the
Embankment to Westminster Bridge. As she crossed the river, she looked
over the splash and glitter of the stream towards Grosvenor Road and up
at Big Ben, thinking, with a sigh of content, how she and Maurice would
be sitting in the studio by four o'clock. At Waterloo there was half an
hour to wait for the train; but it was not worth while to buy a stupid
paper when she could actually count the minutes that were ticking on
with Maurice behind them. It was 3.25. Her heart began to beat as the
enormous clock hand jerked its way to the time of reunion. Not because
she wanted to know, but because she felt she must do something during
that last five minutes, Jenny asked a porter whether this were the right
platform for the 3.30 from Claybridge.
"Just signaled, miss," he said.
Would Maurice be looking out of the window? Would he be brown with three
weeks of Spanish weather? Would he be waving, or would he be....
The train was curling into the station. How much happier it looked than
the one which curled out of it three weeks ago. Almost before she was
aware of its noise, it had pulled up, blackening the platforms with
passengers that tumbled like chessmen from a box. Maurice was not
immediately apparent, and Jenny in search of him worked her way against
the stream of people to the farther end of the train. She felt an
increasing chill upon her as the contrary movement grew weaker and the
knots of people became more sparse; so that when beyond the farthest
coach she stood desolate under the station roof and looked back upon the
now almost empty line of platform, she was frozen by disappointment.
"Luggage, miss?" a porter asked.
Jenny shook her head and retraced her steps regretfully, watching the
satisfied hansoms drive off one by one. It was impossible that Maurice
could have failed her: she must have made a mistake over the time. She
took the envelope from her bag and read the directions again. Could he
have come on the 23rd after all? No, the post card was plain enough.
The platform was absolutely empty now, and already the train was backing
out of the station.
With an effort she turned from the prospect and walked slowly towards
the exit. Then she had an idea. Maurice must have missed the 3.30 and
was coming by the next. There was another in half an hour, she found out
from a porter, but it came in to a platform on the opposite side of the
station. So she walked across and sat down to wait, less happily than
before, but, as the great hand climbed up towards the hour, with
increasing hopefulness.
Again the platform was blackened by emerging crowds. This time she took
up a position by the engine. A cold wave of unfamiliar faces swept past
her. Maurice had not arrived. It was useless to wait any longer.
Reluctantly she began to walk away, stopping sometimes to look back.
Maurice had not arrived. With throbbing nerves and sick heart Jenny
reached York Road and stood in a gray dream by the edge of the pavement.
A taxi drew up alongside, and she got in, telling the man to drive to
422 Grosvenor Road.
The river still sparkled, but Big Ben had struck four o'clock without
them sitting together in the studio. The taxi had a narrow escape from a
bad accident. Ordinarily Jenny would have been terrified; but now,
bitterly and profoundly careless, she accepted the jar of the brakes,
the volley of recriminations and the gaping of foot passengers with
remote equanimity. Notwithstanding her presentiment of the worst, as the
taxi reached the familiar line of houses by which she had so often
driven passionate, sleepy, mirthful, sometimes one of a jolly party,
sometimes alone with Maurice in ecstasies unparagoned, Jenny began to
tell herself that nothing was the matter, that when she arrived at the
studio he would be there. Perhaps, after all, he thought he had
mentioned another train: his post card in alteration of the date had not
confirmed the time. Already she was beginning to rail at herself for
being upset so easily, when the taxi stopped and Jenny alighted. She
let the man drive off before she rang. When he was out of sight she
pressed the studio bell three times so that Maurice should not think it
was "kids"; and ran down the steps and across the road looking up to the
top floor for the heartening wave. The windows were closed: they seemed
steely and ominous. She rang again, knowing it was useless; yet the bell
was often out of order. She peered over at the basement for a glimpse of
Mrs. Wadman. Hysterical by now, she rang the bells of other floors.
Nobody answered; not even Fuz was in. Wings of fire, alternating with
icy fans, beat against her brain. The damnable stolidity of the door
enraged her, and, when she knocked its impassiveness made her numb and
sick. Her heart was wilting in a frost, and, as the last cold ache died
away in oblivion, arrows of flame would horribly restore it to life and
agony. She rang the bells again, one after another; she rang them slowly
in studied permutations; quickly and savagely she pressed them all
together with the length of her forearm. The cherubs on the carved porch
turned to demons, and from demons vanished into nothing. The palings on
either side of the steps became invalid, unsubstantial, deliquescent
like material objects in a nightmare. A catastrophe of all emotion
collapsed about her mind, and when gladly she seemed to be fainting,
Jenny heard the voice of Castleton a long way off.
"Oh, Fuz, where is he? Where's Maurice?"
"Why, I thought you were meeting him. I've been out all day."
Then Jenny realized the door was still shut.
"He wasn't there. Not at Waterloo."
She was walking slowly upstairs now beside Castleton. The fever of
disappointment had left her, and outwardly tranquil, she was able to
explain her reeling agitation. The studio looked cavernously empty;
already on the well-remembered objects lay a web of dust. The jars still
held faded pink tulips. The fragments of The Tired Dancer still littered
the grate.
"Wait a minute," Castleton said; "I'll see if there's a letter for me
downstairs."
Presently he came back with a sheet of crackling paper.
"Shall I read you what he says?"
Jenny nodded, and, while he read, wrote with her finger, "3.30
Claybridge," many times in the dust that lay thick on the closed lid of
the piano.
This was the letter:
Dear Castleton,
I've settled not to come back to England for a while. One makes
plans and the plans don't come off. I can't work in England and am
better out of it. Let me hear that Jenny is all right. I think she
will be. I didn't write to her. I just sent a post card saying I
should not be at Waterloo on the first of May. I expect you'll
think I'm heartless, but something has gone snap inside me and I
don't honestly care what you think. I'm going to Morocco in two or
three days. I want adventures. I'll send you a check for my share
of the rent in June. If you write, write to me at the English Post
Office, Tangiers.
Yours,
Maurice Avery.
"Is that what he says?" Jenny asked.
"That's all."
"And he wants to hear I'm all right?"
"He says so."
"Tell him from me this little girl's all right," said Jenny. "There's
plenty more mothers got sons. Plenty. Tell him that when you write."
Her sentences rattled like musketry.
Castleton stared vaguely in the direction of the river as if a
friendship were going out on the tide.
"But I don't want to write," he said. "I couldn't. Still, there's one
thing. I don't believe it's another woman."
"Who cares if it is?" There was a wistfulness about her brave
indifference. "Men are funny. It might be."
"I don't somehow think it is. I'd rather not. I was very fond of him."
"So was I," said Jenny simply. "Only he's a rotter like all men."
It was strange how neither of them seemed able to mention his name.
Already he had lost his individuality and was merged in a type.
"What will you do?" Castleton asked.
"There's a question. How should I know?"
Before her mind life like a prairie rolled away into distance infinitely
dull.
"It was a foolish question. I'm sorry. I wish you'd marry me."
Jenny looked at him with sad eyes screwed up in perplexity.
"I believe you would, Fuz."
"I would. I would."
"But I couldn't. I don't want to see any of you ever again."
Castleton seemed to shrink.
"I'm not being rude, Fuz, really. Only I don't want to."
"I perfectly understand."
"You mustn't be cross with me."
"Cross! Oh, Jane, do I sound cross?"
"Because," Jenny went on, "if I saw you or any of his friends, I should
only hate you. Good-bye, I must run."
"You're all right for money?" Castleton stammered awkwardly. "I
mean--there's--oh, damn it, Jenny!"
He pounded over to the window, huge and disconsolate.
"Why ever on earth should I want money? What's the matter with next
Friday's Treasury?"
"Perhaps, Jenny, you would come out with me once, if I waited for you
one night?"
"Please don't. I should only stare you out. I _wouldn't_ know you. I
don't ever ever want to see any of you again."
She ran from the studio, vanishing like a flame into smoke.
That night when Jenny went back alone to Stacpole Terrace, she saw on
the table in the cheerless parlor the post card from Maurice, and close
beside it the green hat bought in September still waiting to be
re-shaped for the spring. She threw it into a corner of the room.