Ruthita was anxious to accompany me to the station.
“I don’t want you,” I told her. “Women always make a fuss over
partings.”
“But not sensible women,” she protested, smiling. “Let me come. There’s
a dear.”
“You’ll try to kiss me. You’ll make a grab at my neck just as the
train is moving. I shall feel embarrassed. You’ll probably slip off the
platform and get both your legs cut off. A nice memory to take with me
to London! No, thank you.”
“But I won’t try to kiss you, and I won’t grab at your neck. I’ll
be most careful about my legs. And I don’t think it’s nice of you to
mention them so callously, Dante.”
“I always tell folks,” put in my grandmother, “that, if there wer’n’t no
partin’s, there’d be no meetin’s. It’s just come and go in this life. If
he don’t want you, my dear, don’t bother ’im.”
“But he does want me,” Ruthita persisted. “I’ve always seen him off.
I used to run beside the trap till I was ready to drop when Uncle Obad
drove him away to the Red House. He’s only making fun.”
“No, really, Ruthie, I’d much rather say good-by to you here in the
shop.”
“If you’re going to catch the six-thirty-eight, you’ll have to run,”
said my grandmother.
Ruthita looked hurt. She could not understand me. She felt that
something was wrong. I picked up my bag. They hurriedly embraced and
followed me out on to the pavement to watch me down the road. I looked
back.
There they stood waving and crying after me, “Good-by. God bless you.
Good-by.”
In passing the chemist’s shop I glanced in at the clock. It was five
minutes faster than my watch. I turned into the High Street at something
between a trot and a walk.
On entering the station I saw that the London train was ready to depart.
The guard had the flag in his hand and the whistle to his lips, about to
give the signal. The porters were banging the doors of the carriages.
I had yet to buy my ticket. Rushing to the office, I pushed my money
through. “’Fraid you won’t get the six-thirty-eight,” said the clerk.
I reached the barrier, where the collector was standing, just as the
guard blew his whistle.
“Too late,” growled the collector, closing the gate in my face with all
the impersonal incivility of a man whose action is supported by law.
“There’s a lady and a little girl on board,” I panted; “they’re
expecting me.”
“Sorry,” said the man; “should ’ave got ’ere sooner.”
Just then the train began to move and I recognized the uselessness of
further argument. As the tail of it vanished out of the station,
the collector slid back the gate. Now that there was no danger of my
disobeying him, he could afford to be human. “It’s h’orders, yer know,
sir, else I wouldn’t ha’ done it.”
Friends who had been seeing their travelers off came laughing and
chatting toward the barrier. As the crowd thinned, half way down
the platform I caught sight of Vi. She was standing apart, with her
hand-baggage scattered beside her in disorder. Dorrie was hanging to her
skirts, looking up into her face, asking questions. Neither of them saw
me.
“Hulloa!”
When I spoke to her, Vi started. Her eyes brimmed. There shone through
her tears a doubtful gladness. “I thought--I thought you wer’n’t coming.
I thought----”
“Vi dearest! Was that likely?”
Her fingers closed about my arm warningly as I called her dearest. She
cast a scared look at Dorrie. “Not before her,” she whispered.
I shrugged my shoulders. The position was queer. For a man and a woman
in our situation there was no readymade standard of conduct. I began
to feel lost in the freedom we were making for ourselves. There were no
landmarks. Even now we were beyond the conventional walls of right and
wrong which divide society from the outcast. We were running away to
seek our happiness--and we were taking Dorrie!
I began to explain hurriedly how I happened to miss the train.
“Ruthita wanted to come to the station. I lost time in dissuading her.
When I got away, I discovered that my watch was slow by five minutes.
And then to crown all, when I could have caught the train, the man at
the gate...”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said generously. “How long before the next
train starts?”
“About half-an-hour.”
“That’ll do nearly as well. My boxes have gone on, but I can claim them
in London.”
“We don’t want to stand in this stuffy station,” I said. “Let’s go for a
walk.”
She began to speak, and then stopped.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Shan’t--shan’t we be recognized?”
“Not if we go round the harbor. We shan’t be likely to meet anyone there
who knows us.”
It was odd, this keeping up of respectable appearances to the last.
Ruthita, Grandmother Cardover, Sir Charles, my father--all the world
would know to-morrow. They would spread their hands before their faces
and look shocked, and peek out at us through their fingers.
“No one ever thpeaks to me.” Dorrie was reproachfully calling our
attention to her presence.
“We’ll both thpeak to you now,” I said. “Give me your hand, Dorrie.”
Leaving our baggage with a porter, we went out of the station to the
harbor, which lay just across the station-yard. Vi manouvered herself to
the other side of me, so that the child walked between us.
The heavy autumn dusk was falling. Lanterns were being run up the masts.
The town shone hospitably with street-lamps. Groping their way round
the pier-head came a part of the Scotch herring fleet. We could see
how their prows danced and nodded by the way the light from their lamps
lengthened and shortened across the water. Soon the ripple against the
piles near to where we were standing quickened with the disturbance
caused by their advance. Then we heard the creaking of ropes against
blocks as sails were lowered.
Leaning against the wall of the quay we watched them, casting furtive
glances now and then at the illumined face of the station-clock.
Dorrie asked questions, to which we returned indifferent answers. It
had begun to dawn on her that I was going up to London with them. She
construed our secretiveness to mean that our plot was for her special
benefit; people only acted like that with her when they were concealing
something pleasant. Her innocent curiosity embarrassed us.
Why were we going to London? she asked us. We had not dared to answer
that question even to one another. For my part I tried not to hear her;
she roused doubts--phantoms of future consequence. I pictured the scene
of long ago, when Ransby was rather more than twenty years younger, and
another man and woman had slipped away unnoticed, daring the world
for their love’s preservation. Had they had these same thoughts--these
hesitations and misgivings? Or had they gone out bravely to meet their
destiny, reckless in their certainty of one another?
Behind us, as we bent above the water, rose the shuffling clamor of
numberless feet. Up and down the harbor groups of fisher-girls were
sauntering abreast, in rows of three and four. Now and then we caught
phrases in broad Scotch dialect.. They had been brought down from their
homes in the north, many hundreds of them, for the kippering. They
paraded bareheaded, with rough woolen shawls across their shoulders,
knitting as they walked. I was thankful for them; they distracted
attention from ourselves. Vi and I said nothing to one another; our
hearts were too full for small-talk. The child was a barrier between us.
A man halted near us. He had a heavy box on his back, covered with
American-cloth. He set it down and became busy. In a short time he had
lighted a lantern and hung it on a pole. He mounted a stool, from which
he could command the crowd, raising the lamp aloft. Fisher-girls, still
knitting, stopped in their sauntering and gathered round him. Several
smacksmen and sailors, with pipes in their mouths, and hands deep in
pockets, loitered up.
The man began to talk, at first at random, like a cheap-jack, trying to
catch his hearers’ attention with a laugh. Then, when his audience was
sufficiently interested, he unrolled a sheet upon which the words of a
hymn were printed. He held it before him like a bill-board, so that all
could see and the light fell on it. He sang the first verse himself in
a strong, gusty baritone. One by one the crowd caught the air and joined
in with him.
They sang four verses, each verse followed by a chorus. The man allowed
the sheet to drop, and handed the pole with the lantern to a bystander.
His brows puckered. His eyes concentrated. His somewhat brutal jaw
squared itself. His face had become impassioned and earnest all of
a sudden. It had been coarse and rather stupid before; now a certain
eagerness of purpose gave it sharpness. He began to talk with vehemence,
making crude, forceful gestures, thrashing the air with his arms,
bringing down his clenched right-fist into the open palm of his
left-hand when a remark called for emphasis. His thick throat swelled
above the red knotted handkerchief which took the place of a collar. He
spoke with a kind of savage anger. He mauled his audience with brutal
eloquence. His way of talking was ignorant. He was displeasing, yet
compelling. There were fifteen minutes until the train started. I
watched him with cynicism as a diversion from my thoughts.
“Brothers and sisters,” he shouted, “we are ’ere met in the sight of
h’Almighty Gawd. It was ’im as brought us together. Yer didn’t know
that when yer started out this starlit h’evenin’ for yer walk. It was
’im as sent me ’ere ter tell yer this evenin’ that the wages o’ sin
is death. I know wot h’I’m a-saying of, for I was once a sinner. But
blessed be Gawd, ’e ’as saved me and washed me white h’in ’is
son’s precious blood. ’E can do that for you ter-night, an ’e sent
me’ere ter tell yer.”
Some of the Cornish Methodists, in Ransby for the herring season, began
to warm to the orator’s enthusiasm. They urged him to further fervor by
ejaculating texts and crying, “Amen!”
“Blessed be ’is name!”
“Glory!” etc.
The man sank his voice from the roaring monotone in which he had
started. “The wages o’ sin is death,” he repeated. “Oh, my friends, h’I
speak as a dyin’ man to dyin’ men. Yer carn’t h’escape them wages nohow.
The fool ’as said in ’is ’eart, ‘There ain’t no Gawd.’ ’Ave you
said that? Wot’ll yer say when yer ’ave ter take the wages? Now yer
say, ‘No one’s lookin’. They’ll never find out. H’everyone’s as bad as I
h’am, only they doan’t let me know it. I’ll h’injoy myself. There ain’t
no Gawd.’ I tells yer, my friends, yer wrong. ’E’s a-watchin’ yer now,
lookin’ down from them blessed stars. ’E looks inter yer ’eart
and sees the sin yer a-meditatin’ and a-planning. ’E knows the wages
yer’ll ’ave ter take for it. ’E sees the conserquences. And the
conserquences is death. Death ter self-respec’! Death ter ’uman
h’affection! Death ter the woman and children yer love! Death ter ’ope
and purity! Damnation ter yer soul! ’Ave yer thought o’ that? Death!
Death! Death!”
He hissed the words, speaking slower and slower. His voice died away in
an awestruck whisper. In the pause that followed, the quiet was broken
by a shrill laugh. All heads turned. On the outskirts of the crowd stood
“Lady Halloway.” She had evidently been drinking. A foolish smile played
about her mouth. Her lips were swollen. She mimicked the evangelist in a
hoarse, cracked voice, “Death! Death! Death!”
I signed to Vi. Going first, carrying Dorrie in my arms, I commenced to
force a passage. We had become wedged against the wall. Our going caused
a ripple of disturbance. Attention was distracted from “Lady Halloway”
to ourselves. She turned her glazed eyes on us. Stupid with drink, she
did not recognize me at first. I had to pass beneath the lantern quite
near her. As the light struck across my face, she saw who I was. “’E’s
got another gal,” she tittered so all could hear her. “It’s easy come
and easy go-a. Love ’ere ter-day and thar ter-morrer. Good-evenin’,
Sir Dante Cardover, that is ter be. And ’oo’s yer noo sweet-’art? Is
she as pretty h’as me? Let a poor gal ’ave a look at ’er.”
I pushed by her roughly. She would have followed, but some of the crowd
restrained her. She made a grab at Vi. I could hear Vi’s dress rending.
“So I ain’t good ’nough!” she shouted. “I ain’t good ’nough for yer!
And ’oo are you ter despise me, I’d like ter h’arsk?”
She said a lot more, but her voice was drowned in a protesting clamor.
I turned my head as I crossed the station-yard. Beneath the evangelist’s
lantern I saw her arms tossing. Her hair had broken loose. Her eyes
followed us. I entered the station and saw no more. Not until we had
slipped through the barrier on to the platform did we slacken. Even
while loathing her for her display of bestiality, my grandmother’s words
came back to me, “She was as nice and kind a little girl as there was in
Ransby, until that rascal, Lord Halloway, ruined her.”
We found that the porter, with whom we had left our luggage, had secured
three seats for us. Two of them were corners. I took mine with my back
to the engine, so that Vi and I sat facing one another. Dorrie sat
beside Vi for a few minutes, uncomfortably, with her legs dangling. Then
she slipped to the floor and climbing up my knees, snuggled herself down
in my arms.
“We’ll have fine timeth in London together, won’t we?” she questioned.
“I’m tho glad you’s toming.”
It was strange how difficult I found it to speak to Vi. I wanted to
say so much. I knew I ought to say something. Yet all I could think to
mention was some reference to what had happened beside the harbor--and
that was so contaminating that I wanted to forget it. Luckily, just
then, an old countrywoman bundled in with a basket on her arm.
“Gooing ter Lun’non, me dear?” she asked of Vi. “Well, ter be sure,
I intend ter goo ter Lun’non some day. I get out at Beccles, the nex’
stop.” Lowering her voice, “That your little gal, and ’usband, bor?
Not your ’usband! Well, ’e do seem fond o’ your little gal, now doan’t
’e, just the same as if ’e wuz ’er father?”
The train began to move. The lights of Ransby flashed by, twinkling
and growing smaller. We thundered across the bridge which separates the
Broads from the harbor.
Vi and the countrywoman were talking, or rather the countrywoman was
talking and Vi was paying feigned attention. Dorrie, her flaxen curls
falling across my shoulder, began to nod. Of the other passengers,
one was drowsing and the other, a fierce be-whiskered little man, was
reading a paper, leaning forward to catch the glimmering light which
fell from the lamp in the center of the carriage. I was left alone with
my thoughts.
They were not pleasant. The religious commonsense of the man by the
harbor disturbed me. The face of “Lady Halloway” proved the truth of his
assertions. His words would not be silenced. Strident and accusing,
they rose, above the rumbling of the train, and wove themselves into
a maddening chorus: “_The wages of sin is death; the wages of sin is
death; the wages of sin is death_.” A man whose intellect I despised,
to whose opinions I should ordinarily pay no attention, had spoken
truth--and I had heard it.
At Beccles the train stopped. The countrywoman alighted. The drowsy man
woke up and followed her. The fierce little man curled himself up in his
corner and spread his paper over his face to shut out the light. There
were four hours more until we reached London. The train resumed its
journey through the dark.
I dared not stir for fear of waking Dorrie.
“Comfortable, Vi?”
She nodded and leant her face against the cushioned back of the
carriage, closing her eyes. I watched her pure profile--the arched
eyebrows, the heavy eyelids, the straight nose, the full and pouting
mouth, the rounded chin, the long, sensuous curve of the graceful neck.
I traced the small blue veins beneath the transparent whiteness of
her temples. I studied her beauty, committing it to memory. Then
I commenced to compare her with Dorrie, discovering the likeness. I
wondered whether I had first felt drawn to her because she was so like
Dorrie, or only for herself.
I looked up from Dorrie, and found Vi gazing at me.
I had thought her sleeping.
“Just wakened?”
“I’ve been awake all the time. I’ve been thinking.”
“Of what?”
“Last night. How different it was! We didn’t have to hide. No one was
looking.”
“Then we’ll go again to where no one is looking.”
“We can’t always do that. But I was thinking of something else.”
“What was it this time?”
She pressed her cheek against the glass of the window, gazing out into
the night. Then she leant over to me, clasping her hands. “How cruel it
was, what he said to us!”
“Who?”
“The man there in Ransby.”
“But he didn’t speak to us. He was one of those people who shout at
street-corners because they like to hear their own voices.”
“He was speaking to me,” she said, “though he didn’t know it.”
“Vi, you’re not growing nervous?”
“That isn’t the word. I’m looking forward and thinking how horrid it
would be to have to hide always.”
“We shan’t.”
She looked at Dorrie, making no reply.
Presently she spoke again. “Dante, have you ever thought of it? I’m four
years older than you are.”
“No, I’ve never thought of it.”
“You ought to.”
“Why?”
“Because four years makes a lot of difference in a woman. You’ll look
still young when I’m turning forty.”
“Pooh!”
She ignored my attempt to turn from the topic. “If--if we should ever
do anything rash, people would say that I was a scheming woman; that
I’d taken advantage of you; that, being the elder, I ought to have known
better.”
The idea of Vi leading me astray was so supremely ridiculous that I
laughed outright. Dorrie stirred, and gazed up in my face. “Dear Dante!”
she muttered, and sank back again.
“Her father will be waiting for the cable,” said Vi.
I wondered if this was the kind of conversation my father and mother
had carried on all those years ago when they ran away. I felt that if my
arms were only free to place about her, all would be well.
“We shall have to tell him, Vi,” I whispered.
She pretended not to hear me. Her eyes were closed. One hand shaded them
from the light. She was again playing hide-and-seek with the purpose of
our errand.
The rumble of the wheels droned on. I planned for what I would do when
the train reached London and the moment of decision should arrive.
Perhaps two hours passed in silence. The glare of London was growing in
the distance. Towns and houses became more frequent. One had glimpses of
illumined windows and silhouettes against the blinds. Each house meant a
problem as large to someone as mine was to me. The fact that life was so
teeming and various robbed my crisis of its isolated augustness. Locals
met us with a crash like thunder. As we flashed by, I could glance into
their carriages and see men and women, all of whom, at some time
in their existence, would decide just such problems of love and
self-fulfilment--to each one of them the decision would seem vital to
the universe, and in each case it would be relatively trivial. How easy
to do what one liked unnoticed in such a crowded world! How preposterous
that theory of the man by the harbor! As if any God could have time to
follow the individual doings of such a host of cheese-mites!
Our fellow-traveler in the corner woke and removed the paper from before
his eyes.
“Wife tired?”
“Yes, it’s a tedious journey.”
It was too much trouble to correct him as to our exact relations.
He cleared the misty panes and looked out at a vanishing station.
“Stratford. We’ll be there in a quarter of an hour. Live in London?”
“Yes. At least, sometimes.”
He commenced to get his baggage together, keeping up his desultory
volley of questions.
We entered the last tunnel. I touched Vi’s hand.
“We’re pulling into Liverpool Street. Do you want to claim your boxes
to-night or to-morrow?”
“To-morrow’ll do,” she said.
A porter jumped on the step of our carriage. Our fellow-traveler
alighted, refusing his assistance. The man climbed in and, shouldering
our luggage, inquired whether we wanted a cab.
“Where to?” he asked.
I turned to Vi. “Where’ll we stay?”
She slipped her arm through mine and drew me aside. The porter went
forward to engage the cabby.
“Give me one more night alone with Dorrie,” she whispered. “Everything
has been so--so hurried. You understand, dearest, don’t you?”
I helped her into the four-wheeler and lifted Dorrie after her. Having
told the man to drive to the _Cecil_, I was about to enter. She checked
me. “We shall be able to get on all right.” Then, in the darkness of
the cab, her arms went passionately about my neck, and, all pretense
abandoned, I felt her warm lips pressed against my mouth.
As the door banged Dorrie roused. Seeing me standing on the platform,
she stretched her arms out of the window, crying, “Oh, I fought you was
toming wiv’ us, Dante.”
“Not to-night, darling,” said Vi.
“To-morrow,” I promised her. Then to Vi, “I’ll be round at the _Cecil_
shortly after ten. Will that do?”
She nodded. I watched them drive away, after which I jumped into a
hansom and set off to pay Pope Lane a surprise visit.
I could not sleep that night; was making plans. The haste with which
this step had been approached and taken had terrified Vi. I had been
unwise. Her sensitiveness had been shocked by the raw way in which a
desire takes shape in action. And the man by the harbor had upset her. I
must get her away to a cottage in the country, where we could be
alone, and where she would have time to grow accustomed to our altered
relations.
Next morning, full of these arrangements, I sought her at the _Hotel
Cecil_.
She was not there; the office had no record of her. I remembered that
her boxes had been left at Liverpool Street overnight. When I got there
and made inquiries of the clerk, I found that the lady I described had
been to the baggage-room an hour before me and had claimed them. After
much difficulty I hunted out the cabman who had driven her. He showed me
alcoholic sympathy, at once divining the irregularity of our relations,
and told me that the lady had countermanded my orders and instructed
him to drive her to the _Hotel Thackeray_. I arrived at the _Hotel
Thackeray_ in time to be informed that she had already left.
Four days later I received a letter which had been sent on from Ransby.
It was from Vi, despatched with the pilot from the ship on which she was
sailing to America.
She had not dared to see me again, she said. She was running away from
the temptation to be selfish. She had reckoned up the price which her
husband, Dorrie, and myself would have to pay that she might gain her
happiness; she had no right to exact it. As far as her husband and
Dorrie were concerned, if we had done what we had contemplated, we
should have shattered something for them which we could never replace.
She was going back to do her duty. That the task might not be made too
difficult, she begged me not to write.