One of the French artists he had met in Rome wrote to him from Paris.
Why should he not go there? There was nothing for him to do in London;
Lizzie Baker had disappeared, and in the year and a half that he spent
in Paris learning to draw he forgot her and his friends in Southwick.
Nor did he remember them when he returned to London; not until one
evening, strolling down Regent Street, he came upon Willy Brookes
suddenly.
“How do you do, my dear Willy? I haven't seen you for--for--how long?”
“I should think it must be now, let me see, I have got it down
somewhere; when I get home I'll look it up.”
“Hang the looking up; better come and look me up.”
The young men laughed.
“It must be nearly a year and a half.”
“I should think it must. Where are you staying? I am staying at Morley's
Hotel, Trafalgar Square. Come and dine with me to-night.”
Willy reflected. He stroked his moustache reflectively.
“No,” he said, “I am afraid I can't. I have something to do.”
“Nonsense! I don't believe you. What have you to do?”
“I have some cheques to write.”
“That won't take you a moment. You can do that at my place.”
“I couldn't, I assure you. I must have my books and my own pen. I
wouldn't write a cheque in that way for worlds.”
“Why not? We'll go to a music-hall afterwards.”
“I am very sorry, but I really couldn't--not to-night.”
“You never go in for amusing yourself.”
“Yes, I do; but what amuses you doesn't amuse me. I assure you I would
sooner stay at home, write my cheques, and enter them carefully, than go
to a music-hall.”
Frank looked at Willy for a moment in mute amazement. Then he said: “But
what's that you have under your arm in that brown paper parcel?”
Willy laughed. “A leg of mutton; I have just been to the stores.”
“You mean to say you buy legs of mutton at the stores, and carry them
home? Supposing you met some one, if we were to--”
“Not very likely, a foggy night like this. I have a small house in
Notting Hill. I take the 'bus at the Circus. I shall be very glad if you
will come with me; so will the missus.”
“I forgot to ask about her, how is she?”
“Very well. Come and see for yourself. Come and dine with us to-morrow.
I can't give you one of your restaurant dinners, but if leg of mutton
will suit, all I can say is that I shall be very happy.”
“I'll come whenever you like.”
“Can you come to-morrow?”
“Yes. We might go to the theatre afterwards.”
“We might. Be at my place at half-past six, that will give us plenty of
time.”
“What a queer fish he is,” thought Frank, as he walked down Regent
Street, looking at the women. “Can't come and dine with me because he
has two or three cheques to write, must have all his books out to make
entries--what a clerk for the Government--an ideal clerk! What a genius
for red tape!”
Willy was standing on the steps of the little house, and he commented on
his friend's extravagances as he welcomed him.
“You might have come here for ninepence, third class. You paid that
cabman three shillings, and you took, I don't mind betting, half an
hour longer. Now, don't make a mess, do wipe your feet; we don't keep a
servant, and it gives the missus a lot of trouble cleaning up.”
Not a book nor a picture nor a single flower, and every worn carpet
suggested the bare necessaries of life. There was the drawing-room, kept
for show, never entered, barren and blank; there was the room--a little
more alive--where Willy smoked his pipe and kept his accounts, but there
the crumbs, three or four, seemed to speak of the dry, bread-like days
that wore themselves away; life there was too obviously dry and bare,
joyless and mean.
Had Frank's mind been philosophic and deep-seeing, he would have mused
on the admirable patience of the woman who lived here, seeing no one,
making entire sacrifice of her life; he would have contrasted the
humbleness, nay, the meanness, of this unknown house with the reception
rooms of the Manor House; one life wasting in darkness and poverty,
another burning out in light and riches; timeworn truths float on the
surface of this little pool of life, and so modernised are they that
they appear for a moment “new and original.” But further than a regret
that there were no flowers in the window, and a sense of the horrible
when his eyes fell on a piece of Swiss scenery, his thoughts did not
wander; they soon were fixed and absorbed in the consideration of the
happiness that Willy had attained by “doing the right thing by the
woman.” He was hers, she was his. Dreams of things marital, the
endearments of husband and wife, are the essence of the being of some
men and women, and are to them a perennial delight. Frank was such a
one.
He had brought Cissy a doll, and the child came and sat on his knees,
and put her arms round his neck. He kissed the long face, hollow-eyed,
and stroked the beautiful gold ringlets that cloaked the shoulders.
They went to the theatre in a 'bus. Frank carried Cissy, and he called
indignantly to the crowd not to press him. “Did they not see that he
was carrying a child?” He did not think that his friends might recognise
him, nor would he have felt any shame had he caught sight of some face
in the stalls he knew. He would not have put Cissy aside; nor would he
have pretended that he was not with the pale, worn, shabbily-dressed
woman by his side. He was wholly filled with his friends, their
interests and concerns; so complete was the investment of himself that
Lizzie Baker did not snatch a fugitive thought from them; and it was not
until he sat smoking with Willy in the back parlour that he said:
“I wonder what has become of her? She was a nice girl.”
“You mean Lizzie Baker? You lost sight of her all of a sudden, didn't
you? Do you think she went off to live with some one?”
“No, I don't think she was a girl who would do that. By Jove, she was a
pretty girl! Once I took her up the river, up to Reading. We had such
a jolly day in the woods and on the water--amid the water-lilies and
bulrushes, or the shade of the cedars. I wonder you never go up the
river.”
“I have no time. Besides, I hate the water. I never go on the water if I
can help it--I am too nervous.”
“How odd! Oh, we had a jolly day!”
“But I never understood how it was you lost sight of her. You said in
your letter that she had left the bar; but she must have gone somewhere.
I am sure you didn't make sufficient enquiries. You are too impatient.”
“I did all I could. One girl told me that a lot of them--Lizzie among
the number--had suddenly been transferred to Liverpool Street. That was
true, for I saw at Liverpool Street several girls I had known previously
at the 'Gaiety.' Those poor bar girls, how pitiful they look! all over
London they stand behind their bars! Breathing for hours tobacco smoke,
fumes of whisky and beer, listening to abominable jokes, the subjects of
hideous flirtations; and then the little comedy, the effort to appear as
virtuous young ladies--'young ladies of the bar.' It is very pitiful. In
such circumstances how do you expect a girl to keep straight? I do
not think it is the men who do the harm. There are, of course, a few
blackguards who crack filthy jokes over the counter, but if a girl likes
she needn't listen--a girl can always keep a man in his place. Then if
a man flirts with a girl he always loves her, likes her, if you
think 'like' a better word; but you must admit that in the most
beery flirtation there must be a certain amount of liking. There is,
therefore, something to save a girl. I feel sure that it is girls, not
men, who lead innocent girls astray. Those poor bar girls are quite
unprotected; they have a sitting-room into which they may not bring a
friend--a man, I mean. In the bedrooms there is always a lot of illicit
talking and drinking going on. A girl who has gone wrong herself is
never content until she has persuaded another girl to go wrong; a girl
is so mean! I feel very much on this subject. I am thinking of writing
a book on the subject. Did I ever tell you about the novel I intended to
write?”
“You told me once in Brighton about a novel you intended to write. I
forget what it was about, but you said you were going to call it 'Her
Saviour.'”
“Oh, that is another book. I was thinking of writing the story of a
woman who is led into vice. They get her to throw over the man who loves
her; he follows her, never loses sight of her until at last, determined
to save her, and although he knows that he is wrecking his own life, he
marries her. What do you think?”
Being pressed for an answer, Willy stroked his moustache with great
gravity. “I really can't say, my dear fellow; you know I never like
giving opinions on questions I do not understand.”
The conversation came to a pause, and Willy began to whistle.
“Just a little flat--quarter of a note wrong there and there!”
“Do you whistle it? Oh, yes, that's it! I can hear the difference! I
wish you had your violin. I should like to hear you play it.”
“What, with the missus overhead?”
“She doesn't know anything about it. How prettily _she_ used to sing it;
a pretty tune, isn't it? Good old days they were! Do you remember when
you used to come to the Princess's with me? Didn't she look pretty?”
“You never told me why you didn't marry her; I never heard the end of
that story.”
“There is nothing to tell. It's all over now. Do you remember how I
used to dress myself up to go to the theatre? We used to go to supper at
Scott's afterwards. I did not mind what I ate in those days.”
“You hardly ever go to the theatre now, do you?”
“Hardly ever. I shouldn't have gone to-night if it had not been for you.
I don't know how it is, but I don't seem to enjoy myself as I used to.”
The men ceased talking. Presently Frank broke the silence.
“I hope you are getting on all right on the Stock Exchange. You haven't
mentioned the subject.”
“I don't know that there is much to say. Times are very bad just now. I
don't think any one is doing much good.”
“But you are with a very good firm. Nothing is going wrong, I hope.”
“I don't think any one is making money. We have all been hard hit
lately--war scares. But I daresay it will all come right.”
“I never understood what you ever wanted to go into the business for.
What do you, with your handsome place at Southwick, and your father with
his thousands and thousands, want to turn yourself into a city clerk
for?”
“You see, you don't care about making money; I do--it was bred in me.
Besides, I am an unselfish fellow. I never think of myself; I like to
think of others. If I were to make a good thing out of this, I should be
able to leave the missus independent.” Then, after a slight pause, Willy
said: “But, by the way, I was forgetting. I got a letter this morning
saying that if I met you in London I was to tell you that you were to
come to Southwick for a ball.”
“What ball?”
“A subscription ball at Henfield--a county ball. Will you come?”
“Yes, I don't mind. It should be rather fun. Are you going?”
“Yes, I must go, worse luck, to chaperon my sisters.”
“How do you go? Will the governor let you have the horses?”
“Not he! We generally have a large 'bus. I am going down to-morrow by
the twelve o'clock train. Will that be too early for you?”
“Not if I go home now and pack up.”
“You won't like that. You had better sleep here and get up early in the
morning; your room is all ready.”
“I couldn't manage it. I never could get back to the Temple, pack up,
and meet you at twelve at London Bridge.”
“It will be rather a cold walk for you; you are too late for the train,
and the last 'bus, I am afraid, has gone.”
“I shall have a hansom. The only thing that worries me is not being able
to say good-bye to the missus.”
“She's fast asleep. She won't mind--I'll make that all right.”
“Then, at twelve o'clock at London Bridge!”