“Willy, make haste, I beg of you; I shall miss my train. It is now
exactly half-past nine.”
“You had better go without me; I cannot start now. I haven't nearly got
my things together.”
“Very well, very well.”
Willy walked from room to room tying and untying brown paper parcels in
his most methodical and most dilatory manner. His sisters stood watching
him from the drawing-room door.
“Did father tell you nothing when Berkins left? They had a row, hadn't
they? It isn't off, is it?”
“I wish you would not speak so loud, Sally; you can be heard all over
the house.”
“Do tell us.”
“But I don't know. Father was very much upset. I couldn't speak to him
about my own business, I know that.”
“Well, I suppose we shall hear about it to-night. You are going to meet
Frank in Brighton, aren't you?”
“Yes; he is coming to lunch with me.”
“Don't keep him all day; send him on here, we might have a game of
tennis.”
Willy did not answer; and he thought as he went upstairs, what a trouble
young girls were in a house. “They think of nothing but pleasure,
nothing but pleasure.”
One, two, or three more delays, and he was ready, and with his brown
paper parcel tucked under his arm he set forth. Upon the young blue of
the sky, the fresh green of the buds melted. There were a few elms, but
hardly enough to constitute an avenue. The house looked as if it had
been repeatedly altered. It ran into unexpected corners and angles; but
it was far enough from the road to justify a gate lodge. The swards were
interspersed with shrubs in the most modern fashion, and the sumptuous
glass-houses could be seen gleaming in the sun. It was a hot day,
and the brick wall was dappled with hanging foliage, and further out,
opposite the windows of the “Stag and Hounds,” where Steyning's ales
could be obtained, the over-reaching sprays of a great chestnut tree
fell in delicate tracery on the white dust. The road led under the
railway embankment, and looking through the arched opening, one could
see the dirty town, straggling along the canal or harbour, which runs
parallel with the sea. A black stain was the hull of a great steamer
lying on her side in the mud, but the tapering masts of yachts were
beautiful on the sky, and at the end of a row of slatternly houses
there were sometimes spars and rigging so strange and bygone that they
suggested Drake and the Spanish main.
Southwick is half a suburb, half a village. In the summer months the
green seems a living thing. It is there the children talk and tumble
when school is over. They are told to go to the green, they are
forbidden to go to the green, and it is from the green the eldest girl
leads the naughty boy howling. When they are a little older they avoid
the green, it is too public then. It is to the green that elevens come
from far and near to play their matches. All the summer through the
green is a _fete_ of cricket. It is to the green the brass bands come on
Saturday. On the green, bat and trap is played till the ball disappears
in shadow. The green is common; horses and cows are turned out there.
All profit by the green. It is on the edge of the green the housewives
come to talk in the limpid moonlight. It is on the green the fathers
smoke when the little cottage rooms are unbearable with summer heat. It
is on the green that Mrs. Horlock walks with her pugs and the chemist's
wife, to the enormous scandal of the neighbourhood.
To the right, facing the embankment, and overlooking some fields, is
the famous Southdown road, and parallel with the green is Mr. Brookes's
property--a solid five acres, with all modern improvements and
embellishments, and surrounded by a brick wall over six feet high.
Willy hated Southwick. He thought it ugly and vulgar; he regretted
deeply that his father would make no advances, and that they were as far
from county society to-day as when they came to live in the place thirty
years ago. “I knew the best people when I was at Oxford, why can I
not know them now? Here we are doing the same thing from year's end
to year's end; why, with our money we ought to be hob-nobbing with
the duke.” In moments of dejection this was one of Willy's commonest
thoughts. “I did my best, but I was opposed. Father doesn't care, and
as for the girls, they'll take up with any man so long as he is young.
Still, in spite of them I should have got on if I hadn't lost my nerve
and had to give up hunting; and without hunting there is no way of
making acquaintances.”
Willy had relied on a hunter as Berkins had on pheasants and
glass-houses. But he hated hunting, and finding he got no further than a
few breakfasts, he had told a story of a heavy fall and sold his horses.
He had then insisted on dinner-parties, and some few people more or less
“county” had been collected; the pretext was politics, but Willy and
politics were but a doleful mixture, and the scheme collapsed. The
family was not endowed with any social qualifications, Willy least of
all, and having failed to advance himself individually, and his family
collectively, he threw up the game.
We rarely cultivate for long things in which we may not succeed in--the
lady with a small waist pinches it, the man with pretty feet wears
pretty shoes, and in no circumstances could Willy have shone in society.
He failed to interest the ladies he met on the King's Road, he knew
this; and to sum up his deficiencies, let us say he was lacking in “go.”
He was too timid to succeed with the more facile loves whom he met in
the evenings on the pier. All the same he had had his love affair.
Oh! men of inferior aspect and speech, often in you a true heart abides;
you, and you only, are faithful to the end.
To this unromantic person a shred of pure romance was attached.
None knew the whole story, and none spoke of it now; but his sisters
remembered that Willy had fallen in love with a girl whom he had seen
play “Sweet Anne Page.” They remembered long letters, tears and wild
looks. He had sent her diamonds; and one night he had attempted suicide.
All was now forgotten; at least it was the past, and nothing remained
but one little melody which he had heard her sing, and which he
sometimes whistled out of tune.
But sooner or later a man's talents, and if not his talents, his tastes,
appear through the mists of youth, and henceforth they lead him. Willy's
efforts in society had resulted in abortive dinner-parties, his efforts
in sport had been cut short by nerves, his efforts in dissipation had
left him with a tolerably well-filled wardrobe, his efforts in love
had brought him tears and a commonplace mistress, whom he kept in the
necessaries of life in various lodging-houses. So his youth had passed;
but in all this mediocrity a certain spirit of resistance endured.
His taste for figures grew more pronounced; he surrounded himself with
account books, letter books, and diaries; he took note of every
penny that passed through his hands. Money-making, profitable
investments--that was to be his aim in life; and as each year closed his
thoughts fixed themselves more definitely and entirely on it; and it was
natural that it should be so, since all other outlets for the passion of
life were barred to him. His forced retirement from the distillery did
not worry him. No one could please his father in business; his uncle
had once threatened to throw his brother out of the window. Besides, the
business was a declining one, and twelve thousand pounds for a junior
partnership was not bad. Nor did his failure to make a success of the
manure agency discourage him; the shop was a different matter, that was
his own idea, he had thought of a fortune, and had lost two thousand
pounds. It had crippled him for life. True enough, there were other
things to do. Some stockbrokers make twenty per cent. on their money,
not in wild speculation, but in straightforward genuine business. He
might go up to London and learn the business--he had heard that it would
not take more than six months or a year to pick it up--and start on his
own account. A thousand pounds would be sufficient to begin with; or he
might buy a partnership--he could do that for three or four thousand.
Either of these courses would suit him, the latter for preference, but
a certain amount of capital would be necessary before he could take
either, and that he hadn't got, and to all appearances it would be very
difficult to persuade his father to consent to drawany more money out of
the distillery.
So Willy's thoughts ran as he ascended the flight of wooden steps that
led to the platform of the little country station. “The folk down here
think there is nothing in me, that I am good for nothing but walking up
and down the King's Road, but they little know what I have in my head.
I'll make them open their eyes one of these days.” The sting of vanity
is in us all. Our heads may be greed, our bellies lust, our limbs
charity, faithfulness, truth, and goodwill, but in some cranny of our
tails vanity always lies, only it may be marvellously well hidden, as in
Willy. The keenest observer would not have detected it in him, and
when he came out of his habitual reserve and lamented that bad luck had
always followed him and spoke of his projects, one might have suspected
him of greed, but hardly of vanity. Now he stood leaning on the wooden
paling, and his movements showed the back and loins in strong outline,
marking the thick calves. Without taking any heed, his eyes followed the
cricket ball, which was in turn slogged into the horse-pond and cottage
gardens. Through long familiarity, the green had faded from his notice,
nor did the burnt-up crops on the Downs attract his thoughts, nor yet
the sinuous lines of the hills. From the platform one saw the whole of
Southwick. The green with its cricket match, Mrs. Horlock and her dogs,
the forge, the stile, the various cottages, the long fields full of
green wheat, and, far away, the carriages passing like insects along
the road under the Downs; then on the right were the back gardens of the
cottages, a large inscription announcing the different branches of the
grocery business, a few fields with cows leaning their muzzles over the
rough palings, some more cottages, a barn, and then the magnificent five
acres of the Manor House, rich with glass-houses, and beautiful in a
cloud of trees. From the platform of the station one could see the sea,
not much of it, but one could see the sea; the slates of the street that
went along the water's edge did not quite bar the view. The very small
presence of Southwick contrived to hide the sea; even when one walked to
the water's side the great mass of shingle which forms the outer bank of
the canal allowed only one narrow rim of blue to appear. The inhabitants
forget they live by the sea, and when the breeze fills their gardens
with a smell of boats and nets they think of the sea with surprise.
Tired of the monotonous running to and fro of the cricket players, Willy
walked up the platform. Arrow-like, the line lay in front of him, and
in the tinted distance, in faint lines and flashes of light and shade,
Brighton stretched from hill to hill. Morning was still in the sky, and
the sea was deep blue between the yellow chimney-pots. A puff of steam
showed up upon a distant field, and the train came along from Portslade,
one of the links of the great chain of towns that binds the south coast.
“I hope Frank won't arrive in Brighton before me,” thought Willy.
They had been big boy and little boy at school. The vivacity of the Celt
amused the good-natured south Saxon, and when Lord Mount Rorke called to
see his nephew, he found him talking with Brookes. Once Willy had been
invited to spend part of his holidays at Mount Rorke. Afterwards they
visited each other's rooms, and so their friendship had been decided,
and, in spite of--or, perhaps, on account of--a very marked difference
in their characters and temperaments, gathered strength as it matured.
Another link between the men was that Escott had accompanied Willy to
the theatre when he went to see the actress whom he had loved so madly.
Frank had heard her sing the song which Willy whistled when his thoughts
went wandering. Willy confided in no one--great sorrows cannot be and
never are confided; but Frank had seen her, and he played her songs on
the piano, and that was enough for Willy.
The young men had not seen each other for two years. Frank had shown
some taste for painting, and his uncle, whose heir he was, had sent him,
if not to study, at least to think about art in Italy. From Italy he had
gone to Greece and Russia, he had returned home through Germany, he had
visited Holland and France.
“Is the London train come in?” Willy asked when he arrived in Brighton.
“Yes, sir, just come in, about five minutes,” said the man as he opened
the door. Willy waited until the train had stopped dead, he got out
carefully, and, looking through the confusion of luggage and bookstall
trade, he saw Escott questioning a porter and hailing a carriage. “By
Jove! I shall miss him,” cried Willy, and he hastened his steps and
broke into a sharp trot. “Frank! Frank!” he cried.
“Oh, there you are!” cried Frank, and he lifted his stick, and called
sharply to a large black and white bull-dog that paddled about on its
bow legs, saliva dripping from its huge jaws, looking in its hideousness
like something rare and exquisite from Japan. He dismissed the porter
and the carriage, which he had hailed with an arrogant wave of his
stick. He was tall and he was thin. His trousers were extremely elegant,
a light cloth, black and white check, hung on his legs in graceful
lines, and he wore tiny boots with light brown cloth tops. The jacket
and waistcoat were in dark brown cloth, and the odour of the gardenia
in his buttonhole contrasted with that of the sachet-scented silk
pocket-handkerchief which lay in his side pocket. His throat showed
white and healthy in the high collar tied with a white silk cravat in a
sailor's knot, fastened with a small diamond. His hands were coarse and
brown; he wore two rings, and a bracelet fell out of his cuff when he
dropped his arm. His chest was broad and full, but the shoulders were
too square; the coat was padded. There was little that could be called
Celtic in his face or voice, the admixture of race was manifested in
that dim blue stare, at once vague and wild, which the eyes of the Celt
so often exhibit. The nose was long, low, and straight, the nostrils
were cleanly marked, the mouth was uncertain, the chin was uncertain,
the face was long, deadly pale, rather large, the forehead was high,
receding at the temples. The hair (now he removes his hat, for the air
is heavy and hot, and the sun falls fiercely on the pavement) is pale
brown, and it waves thinly over the high forehead, so expressive of a
vague and ill-considered idealism. Frank Escott was of Saxon origin on
his father's side, but the family had been in Ireland for the last two
hundred years, and had married into many Irish families that had at
different times received direct contributions of Celtic blood. Long
residence in England had removed all Irish accent and modes of
speech; but in hook, and book, and cook he lengthened the vowel sound.
Occasionally a something strange grated on the ear, and declared him not
of the south of England, suggested the north, and insinuated
Cumberland; an actor could not reproduce these trifling differences with
caricaturing them. He was absolutely good-looking, and he was too well
dressed. He laughed a good deal, and his conversation was sprinkled with
cynical remarks and cutting observations.
“You don't seem to go in for dress now as you used to.”
“I haven't the money to spend on it; but tell me, don't you like this
suit?”
“Well, pretty well; whose is it? Did Walpole make it? Do you deal with
him still?”
“Yes, it is one of Walpole's, but I have had it turned.”
“Had it turned? I have heard of turning an overcoat, but a morning coat!
I did not know it could be done; that's what makes it look so shaky.”
“Now don't you get laughing at my coat, it looks very well indeed. I
suppose you think I am not fit to walk with you. I daresay it doesn't
look as smart as yours, which has just come out of Walpole's shop.”
The young men had so much to say, and were so genuinely glad to see each
other, that their thoughts hesitated and they were embarrassed.
“I suppose you enjoyed your trip abroad very much,” Willy said drily and
punctiliously; “you were more than a year away--nearly eighteen months,
I think.”
“About that. I enjoyed myself. I think I liked Italy best; it has
been more painted and described than any country, and yet it is quite
different from what one imagines; it is grey and dim and green and
dusty. It looks--how shall I put it?--it looks worn out and faded.”
“The women aren't worn out and faded if all one hears is true,” said
Willy, with a short laugh.
“The women are right enough. I must tell you about them one of these
days, lots of stories. There was a little Italian girl I met at Milan.
It was a job to get away from her; she followed me, 'pon my word, she
did; she declared she would commit suicide. I was awfully frightened.
Naples is really too shocking. I'm not a prude, but Naples is really--”
“I suppose it is the same all over the Continent. One of these days I
must go abroad and have a look round. You were a long time in Rome?”
“No, only a few weeks, but I was too taken up with the pictures to think
of anything else. The Michael Angelos are beyond anything any one can
imagine. He is the only one who can compare with the Greeks, and I don't
see why one shouldn't say he is as great. Of course there are things,
the daughters of--I forget the name--the group of two women leaning back
in each other's arms in the British Museum. But I don't know, Michael
Angelo is quite different, and I can't see that anything can be said
to be finer than the figures of Day and Night--how often I have drawn
them--the figure of Night, the heavy breasts to show that she has
suckled the Day.”
“But which way are we going? I must go to Truefitt's to have my hair
cut.”
“You haven't forgotten the old place, I see. Do you still keep up your
subscription?”
“I suppose mine has run out, I have been abroad so long. Nothing like a
good shampoo; for a guinea a year you can have it done as often as you
like.”
“I haven't subscribed lately. There used to be such a pretty girl at the
counter. Do you remember?”
“You dog, always thinking of them,” and laughing loudly they passed
through the shop, and it was Frank that stared most at the young lady.
They read _Punch_ aloud to each other; they cracked jokes with the
hairdressers; they snorted and laughed through the soap and jets of hot
and cold water. Frank allowed scent and ivories to be pressed upon him
by the young lady at the counter; Willy declined to be led into such
extravagances.
As he stepped out into the shine of the street, and took step from his
friend, he said: “By George! it makes me feel young again. It is just
like old times.”
“Yes, it does make one feel jollier, doesn't it?”
“How jolly it is here; not too warm, just nice. What shall we do? Sit
down on that bench in front of the pier?”
“I'm agreeable. How jolly it is. Just look at those boats! One could
make a picture of that.”
Over the sea hung a white veil of mist, but the sun glowed through and
melted into it, and harmonised it with the water green and translucent.
The sea sucked about the shingle with little sudden sighs; the sails
of the pleasure boat waved in the fairy-like depths, and all the
little brown fishing-boats lay becalmed, heaving tremulously like
tired butterflies upon the breast of a blue flower. The nursemaids lay
together on the shingle, and their novels slipped down the stones to
their feet. The children played with the tide and the sand. There were
crowds of women--Jewesses with loud dresses: and the strange world of
bath chairs! Ladies so old that they seem certain to fall to pieces when
they are taken out; ladies with chestnut curls soft and fresh--why were
they in bath chairs? General officers, mounted on white Arabs; acrobats
and songs.
The young men sat facing the sea. Frank called, “Triss, Triss. Splendid
dog that is. If I were to let him he would guzzle the other dog in about
two minutes.”
“He looks a ferocious brute.”
“You don't like dogs? You couldn't see a handsomer dog than that;
unfortunately, he's the wrong colour; if he were brindle or white, he'd
take a first prize. Come here, you brute.”
Amid some little excitement and anxious looks, Triss came up, growling
and showing his teeth. Frank explained that it was only his manner.
Frank took the paw that was extended to him, but Triss's friendliness
seemed somewhat dubious, for he still further uncovered his formidable
fangs.
“I really don't care to sit here with that ferocious brute.”
“I assure you he won't bite, it is only his manner. Isn't it, Triss?
Kiss me, kiss me at once,” and amid many growls of almost subterranean
awfulness, the dog licked his master's face.
“I wish you would tie him up--to oblige me.”
Highly pleased at the fear and wonder his dog had struck in the gaudy
Jewesses and the shaky generals, Frank threatened and finally forced
the dog to lie down. He continued to expatiate on the dog's points--the
number of wrinkles, the bandiness of the legs, etc. The conversation
dropped in heat and glare, and the picturesqueness of the sea.
“How horribly out of tune you do whistle--you go into a different key;
this is more like it.”
“Yes, how sweetly she used to sing it. Do you remember the night we went
to see her, the last time the piece was played? I threw her a bouquet,
a splendid one it was, too, cost me three guineas in Covent Garden. We
went afterwards and had supper at Scott's in the Haymarket. How jolly
those days were. I don't seem to be able to enjoy myself now as I used
to then.”
“What has become of her? One never hears of her.”
“She died soon after.”
“I am sorry I spoke of her; I didn't know.”
“Oh, it doesn't matter.” Then after a long silence, Willy said: “I hear
your engagement is broken off.”
“Yes.” Frank drew a long and expressive breath, and, with melodramatic
movements of the shoulders, he sighed. “I have not seen you since. Oh,
I had terrible scenes with the father. They had a house up the river.
I followed them, and put up at the Angler's Hotel. She told her father
that I must be allowed to come to the house, and he had to give way. You
don't know the river? Well, it is wonderful to awake at Maidenhead in
the morning and hear the sparrows twittering in a piece of tangled vine;
to see that great piece of water flowing so mildly in all the pretty
summer weather. We used to live in flannels, and spent long afternoons
together in the boat--we had such a spiffing boat, as light and as clean
in the water as a fish--and we used to linger in the bulrushes, and come
back when the moon was rising with our hands full of flowers.”
“But why was it broken off?”
“My uncle, old Mount Rorke, wants me to marry an heiress, and I have
nothing except what he allows me, or scarcely anything. She used to wear
a broad-brimmed straw hat, and the shadow fell over her face. I made a
lot of sketches. I must show them to you one of these days when you come
up to town, and I filled an album with verses. I used to write them at
night. My window was right in front of the river, and the moon used
to sail past, and in the morning I used to read her the poems I made
overnight beneath the branches of the cedar, where we used to run the
boat. But the father was a brute. I got the best of him once though. It
was a private view day at the Academy, and he had forbidden Nellie to
speak to me--even to notice me. I went straight up to her, and took her
away under his very nose before he could stop us. We walked about all
day. Oh! he was mad.”
“If she was willing to brave her father in that way, why was your
engagement broken off?”
“My uncle was so very difficult to deal with. I didn't see her for some
time.” Frank did not say--perhaps, he did not know--that his engagement
had been broken off through his own instability and weakness of
character. The young lady, whom he called Nellie, had told him she would
wait if he would elect a profession and work for a place in it. But
Frank had not been able to forego late hours and restaurants, and Nellie
had married some one who could. “You know I converted her. Doesn't her
father hate me for that! We used to go to high mass at the oratory. I
explained to her the whole of the Catholic religion.”
“But I thought you didn't believe in it yourself?”
“I am talking of some time ago; besides, a woman, it isn't quite the
same thing; and if I have saved her soul! I don't know if I told you
that I was writing a novel; I don't think I did. The idea of it is
this: A young man has loved three women. The first charmed him by her
exceeding beauty; he lives with her for a time. The second captivates
him, or rather holds him through his senses; his love for her is merely
a sensuality; then he falls in love with a fair young girl as pure as
falling snow of any stain in deed or in thought; he is engaged to marry
her--or, I don't know, I haven't made up my mind on that point, perhaps
it would be better if he did marry her. Well, the woman whom he has
loved with a merely sensual passion comes back, and to revenge herself
she tries to tempt the good girl to go wrong; she talks to her of men
and pleasures; this is a good idea, I think, for I feel sure it is women
far more than men who lead women astray. Then the first woman whom
he has loved for her beauty merely, comes along and continues
the diabolical work of the first, by suggesting--I don't know,
anything--that the young girl should go in for dress; the young man
finds out the scheme, and to save the girl he murders her, he is thrown
into prison, he is tried, and in the crowded Court he makes a great
speech--he tells how he murdered her to save her from sin, he tells the
judge that on the Judgment Day a pure white soul will plead for him.
What an opportunity for a piece of splendid writing! The Court would be
filled with fashionable women, that weep and sob, they cannot contain
themselves, the judge would wish to stop the young man, but he cannot.
What a splendid scene to describe! And the young man goes to execution
confident, and assured that he has done well. What do you think of it?”
“It is really difficult for me to say; I never like giving an opinion on
a subject I don't understand.”
“I know; but what do you think?”
Fortunately for Willy's peace, the conversation was at this moment
violently interrupted by Triss. He rushed forth, and Frank was only in
time to prevent a pitched battle. He returned leading the dog by his
silk handkerchief, amid the murmur of nurse-maids and Jewesses.
“That's the worst of him; he never can see a big dog without wanting to
go for him. Down, sir, down--I won't have you growl at me.”
“I can't see what pleasure you can find in a brute like that.”
“I assure you he's very good-tempered; he has a habit of growling, but
he does not mean anything by it. What were we talking about?”
“I think we were talking about the ladies. Have you seen anything nice
lately? What's the present Mrs. Escott like, dark or fair?”
“There isn't one, I assure you. I met rather a nice woman at my uncle's,
about two months ago, a Lady Seely. I don't know that you would call her
a pretty woman; rather a turned-up nose, a pinched-in waist, beautiful
shoulders. Hair of a golden tinge, diamonds, and dresses covered with
beads. She flirted a great deal. We talked about love, and we laughed at
husbands, and she asked me to come and see her in rather a pointed way.
It is rather difficult to explain these things, but I think that if I
were to go in for her--”
“That you would pull it off?”
The young men laughed loudly, and then Frank said: “But somehow I don't
much care about her. I met such a pretty girl the other day at the
theatre. There were no stalls, and as I wanted to see the piece very
much, I went into the dress circle. There was only one seat in the
back row. I struggled past a lot of people, dropped into my place, and
watched the piece without troubling myself to see who was sitting next
to me. It was not until the _entr'acte_ that I looked round. I felt my
neighbour's eyes were fixed upon me. She was one of the prettiest girls
you ever saw in your life--a blonde face, pale brown hair, and such
wonderful teeth--her laughter, I assure you, was beautiful. I asked her
what she thought of the piece. She looked away and didn't answer. It
was rather a slap in the face for me, but I am not easily done. I
immediately said: 'I should have apologised before for the way I
inconvenienced you in crushing into my seat, but, really, the place is
so narrow that you don't know how to get by.' This rather stumped her,
she was obliged to say something. The girl on the other side (not half a
bad looking girl, short brown curly hair, rather a roguish face) was the
most civil at first. She wasn't as pretty as the one next to me, but
she spoke the more willingly; the one next to me tried to prevent her.
However, I got on with them, one thing led to another, and when the
piece was over, I fetched their hats and coats and we walked a little
way up the street together. I tried to get them to come to supper; they
couldn't do that, for they had to be in at a certain time, so we went
to Gatti's and had some coffee. I couldn't make out for a long time what
they were; they were evidently not prostitutes, and they did not seem to
me to be quite ladies. What do you think they were?”
“I haven't an idea--actresses?”
“No. They wouldn't tell me for a long time. I got it out of them at
last; they're at the bar in the Gaiety Restaurant.”
“Bar girls?”
“Yes.”
“Some of those bar girls are very pretty; rather dangerous, though, I
should think.”
“They seemed to me to be very nice girls; you would be surprised if you
heard them talk. I assure you the one that sat next to me spoke just
like a lady. You know in these hard times people must do something. Lots
of ladies have to buckle to and work for their bread.”
Frank lapsed into silence. Willy sat apparently watching the blue and
green spectacle of the sea. Frank knew that it interested him not the
least, and he wondered if his friend had heard what he had been saying.
Triss, seeing that smelling and fighting were equally vain endeavours,
had laid himself out in the sun, and he returned his master's caresses
by deep growls. One more menacing than the others woke Willy from his
meditation, and he said: “What's the time? It ought to be getting on to
lunch time.”
“I daresay it is.”
“Where shall we go? Do you know of a good place? What about that
restaurant opposite the pier?”
“Well,” said Willy, with a short, abrupt laugh, “the fact is, I must
lunch at my office; but I shall be very glad if you will come.”
“I didn't know you had an office--an office for what?”
“I started an agency at the beginning of the year for artificial manure,
but I think I shall drop it. I am arranging to go on the Stock Exchange.
The difficulty is whether I shall be able to get my father to allow me
to take enough money out of the business.”
“What business?”
“The distillery.”
“Oh, but what about this office? Why are you obliged to lunch at your
office? Are you expecting customers? I know nothing about that sort of
thing.”
“No, I wish I were. The fact is, my missis is staying in Brighton for a
few weeks. The child has been ailing a good deal lately, and the doctor
ordered change of air.”
“Child! Missis! I know nothing of this.”
“A very nice woman, I think you'll like her. She is devoted to me. We've
been together now two years or more, I can't say exactly, I should have
to refer to my diary.”
“But the child?”
“The child isn't mine. She had the child before I knew her.”
“And what is the matter with it?”
“Curvature of the spine. The doctor says she will outgrow it. Cissy will
be quite strong and healthy although she may never have what you would
call a good figure. But there is a matter on which I want to speak to
you. The fact is, I am going to be married.”
“To whom?”
“To the lady whom you will see at lunch, Cissy's mother.”
Frank said: “If you really love her I have nothing to say against it.”
Willy did not answer. Frank waited for an answer and then broke the
silence: “But do you love her?”
“Yes, I am very fond of her; she is a very good sort.”
Frank was implacable. “Do you love her like the other one?” The question
wounded, but Frank was absorbed in his own special sentimentalities.
“I was younger then, it is not the same; I am getting old. How many
years older am I than you--seven, I think? You are three-and-twenty, I
am thirty. How time flies!”
“Yes, I am three-and-twenty--you don't look thirty.”
“I feel it, though; few fellows have had so much trouble as I have. Your
life has been all pleasure.”
“If a man really loves a woman he is always right to marry her. Why
should we suppose that a woman may not reform--that true love may
not raise her? I was talking to a novelist the other day; he told me
thestory of a book he is writing. It is about a woman who leaves the
husband she has never loved for the man she adores; she goes away with
him, he marries her, and she sinks lower and lower, until she becomes a
common prostitute.”
“You are quite mistaken. I am sure that when you see the missis--”
“My dear fellow, pray do not misunderstand me. I would not for worlds.
I am only telling you about a book, if you will only listen. I told him
that I thought the story would be ten times as interesting if, instead
of being degraded, the woman were raised by the love of the man who
took her away from her husband. He made the husband a snivelling little
creature, and the lover good-looking--that's the old game. I would have
made the lover insignificant and the husband good-looking. Nevertheless
she loved the lover better. I know of nothing more noble than for a man
to marry the woman he loves, and to raise her by the force of his love;
he could teach her, instruct her. Nellie will never forget me. I gave
her a religion, I taught her and explained to her the whole of the
Catholic faith--”
“I hope you won't try to convert my sisters.”
“You do pull me up so! Don't you understand that I was very young then?
I was only twenty, not much more; besides, I was engaged to Nellie.”
“Come back to what we were talking about.”
“Well, I have said that if you love her I believe you are quite right to
marry her. But do you love her?”
“Yes, I do; how many times more do you want me to say I do?”
“Of _course_ if you are going to be rude--”
“No--you understand what I mean, don't you? I am very fond of the
missis; if I weren't I shouldn't marry, that goes without saying, but
one likes to have things settled. I have been with her now more thantwo
years. I've thought it out. There's nothing like having things settled.
I'm sure I'm right.”
The young men looked at each other in silence--Frank quite at a loss;
he could nowise enter into the feelings of a man whom an undue sense of
order and regularity compelled to marry his mistress, as it did to waste
half his life in copying letters and making entries in a diary.
“Then why did you consult me?” he said, for he came to the point sharply
when his brain was not muddled with sentiment.
“I am not heir to an entailed estate, like you.”
“I am not heir to an entailed estate. Mount Rorke might marry
to-morrow.”
“He is not likely to do that. It is an understood thing that you are
heir. My father might cut me off with a shilling if he were to hear
I had married without his consent, and I should be left with the few
hundreds which I draw out of the distillery, a poor man all my life.”
“If that is so, why marry? You are not in love with her--at least not
what I should call being in love.”
“But can't you understand--”
“No, I can't, unless you mean that you are down with marriage fever.”
“I have considered the matter carefully, and am convinced I am right,”
he answered, looking at Frank as if he would say, but didn't dare,
“don't let's talk about it any more, it only distresses me.” “The
marriage must be kept a secret. If my father were to hear of it I should
be ruined, whereas if Mary will consent to go on living as we are living
now, one of these days she will be a rich woman. I daresay my share of
his money will come to at least fifteen hundred a year, and then I shall
be able to recompense her for the years she has waited for it. Do you
understand?”
“Perfectly. The only thing I don't see is how I am to influence
her. You've no doubt told her and fully explained to her what the
consequences would be if you were to publish the banns.”
“I have, but it would strengthen my hand if you were to tell her all you
know of my father. Tell her that he is very obstinate, pig-headed, and
would certainly cut me off; tell her that he is sixty-six, that it is
a hundred to one against his living till he is eighty, even if he did
there would be only fourteen years to wait for fifteen hundred a year;
tell her if she tells that I have married her it is just as if she threw
fifteen hundred a year out of the window.”
“And when shall I tell her all this?”
“Now. We are going to have lunch at my offices, she'll be there. We'll
talk the matter over after lunch.”
“Very well, let's start. Come along, Triss.”
With Triss tugging dangerously at the silk handkerchief whenever he saw
a likely pair of legs or a dog that he fancied, the young men sauntered
up West Street.
“But tell me: how do you manage to have so many people to lunch in your
office; your premises must be pretty extensive?”
“I have the whole house; I was obliged to take it. I couldn't get
another place that would suit me, and I thought I should be able to
let the upper part; I did have a tenant for a little while, but he was
obliged to leave. I believe I am the unluckiest fellow alive. Here's the
place.”
“Agency for Artificial Manure” was printed over the door. Willy asked
the office-boy if there were any letters, and they went upstairs. The
windows of the front room were in view of a church spire, and overlooked
a little shadowy cemetery; and at one window Cissy sat, the little
crutches by her side, watching the children playing amid the tombs.
“Where's your mother, Cissy?”
“In the back room cooking herrings, uncle.”
Mrs. Brookes was a homely, honest-eyed woman, with dingy yellow hair.
“Let me introduce you. This is my friend, Mr. Escott, you have often
heard me speak of him.”
“You must excuse my shaking hands with you, sir, I have been cooking.”
“She is an excellent cook, too. Just you wait and see. What have we
got?”
“Some herrings and a piece of steak.”
“Is that good enough for you?”
“I love herrings.”
“I am glad of that, these are quite fresh; they were caught this
morning. You must excuse me, I must go back; they want a deal of
attending to.” Presently she appeared with a tray and a beer jug. Willy
called to the office-boy. “We have no cheese,” said Mrs. Brookes.
Cissy begged to be allowed to fetch the cheese and beer.
“No, dear, I am afraid you aren't well enough.”
“Yes, I am, uncle; give me a shilling, and let me go with Billy.” Then,
breaking off with the unexpected garrulity of children, she continued:
“I am getting quite strong now; I was down on the beach this morning,
and watched the little boys and girls building mounds. When I am quite
well, uncle, won't you buy me a spade and bucket, and mayn't I build
sand mounds, too?”
“We'll see when the time comes.”
“Well, let me go with Billy and fetch the cheese.”
“No, you can't go now, dear, there are too many people about; this is
not like London.”
Cissy had the long sad face of cripples, but beautiful shining curls
hung thickly, hiding the crookedness of the shoulders. She was nine
years old, and was just beginning to awake to a sense of the importance
of her affliction.
After lunch she was sent downstairs to the office-boy. Willy sat rubbing
his hands slowly and methodically. After some hesitation he introduced
the subject they had come to speak on. “Mr. Escott will tell you, Mary,
how important it is that our marriage should be kept secret; he will
tell you how the slightest suspicion of it would ruin my prospects.”
He then spoke of his position in the county, and the necessity of
sustaining it. Frank thought this rather bad taste; but he assured Mrs.
Brookes, with much Celtic gesticulation, that her marriage must be kept
a secret till her father-in-law's death. The young men and Mrs. Brookes
remained talking till the rays trailed among the green grass of the
graves, and the blue roofs that descended into the valley, and clung
about the sides of the opposite hill. It had been arranged that Willy
and Mrs. Brookes should go to London to-morrow to be married. Frank was
convinced that she would not break her promise, and he hoped they would
be very happy. She had only raised one objection. She had said: “What
is the use of my being married if I shall have to live with him as his
mistress?”
“A great deal of good. Your position will be secured. Willy will not be
able to leave you, even if he felt inclined, and you will know that only
one life, that of an old man, stands between you and fifteen hundred a
year.”
“I want no assurance that my dear Willy will not leave me,” she said,
going over and putting her arms about him; “but as you like. I shall
never say anything about the marriage till Willy tells me. I hope I
shall never do anything but what he tells me.” And she went over and sat
on his knees.
“You are a dear old thing,” he said, squeezing and planting a vigorous
kiss on her neck.
Frank's eyes filled with hot tears, his heart seemed like bursting.
“What a beautiful thing love is!” he said to himself, and the world
melted away from him in the happiness he drew from the contemplation of
these who were about to bind themselves together for life.
“Be most careful what you say to my sisters. I would not trust them.
The temptation to get me cut out of everything might--I ought not to say
that, but one never knows. I dare say no such accident could happen to
any one else, but if I leave the smallest thing to chance I am sure to
come to grief. They will question you. They will want to know what we
did all day.”
“I'll say we sat on the beach.”
“That's it. Good-bye. I shall be home the day after to-morrow.”