“I am weary of this place, and I long to see you. My longing is such
that I can resist it no longer. Besides, nothing would be gained by
remaining here. Mount Rorke will not say more than he has said. In a
few days--think of that--I shall be with you. With what eagerness I look
forward. How gladly I shall see the train leave the dreary bogs and the
blue mountains of the West and pass into the pasture lands of Meath; how
gladly I shall hail the brown, slobber-faced city of Dublin; with what
delight I shall step on board the packet--I shall not think of sea
sickness--and watch the line of the low coast disappear, then the
Welsh mountains and castles, looking so like an illustrated history of
England. I must spend two days in London, alas! I must order some
new clothes. Victoria Station, with all its doors and cab stands, and
book-stalls, the Sussex scenery, the woodlands, the Downs, the plunging
through tunnels, and then you. Darling, I cannot believe that such
happiness is in store for me.”
All happened as he had anticipated. At Victoria the usual difficulties
had arisen about the dog. Triss was growling, the guard was cringing,
and, with reference to no stoppage before we come to Redhill, the
necessity of a muzzle was being argued.
“I am certain it is she,” and he followed with his eyes the tall,
swinging figure in the black cloth dress. Then he saw the clear plump
profile, so white, of Lizzie Baker.
“Here, give me the chain, I'll tie the dog up.”
“But the muzzle, sir.”
A muzzle was procured, and Frank ran to the third class carriage where
he had seen Lizzie enter.
“Lizzie! Lizzie!”
“Oh, Mr. Escott, who would have thought of seeing you! It is such a
time--”
“Yes, isn't it; how long? But are you going to Brighton?”
“Yes.”
“So am I; but--let me get you a first-class ticket. Guard, have I time
to change my ticket?”
“No, sir, the train is going to start; get in.”
“Do you get out, Lizzie; I'll pay the difference at Brighton.”
“No time for changing now, sir; are you getting into this carriage?”
He could not forego the pleasure of being with Lizzie. An old woman with
a provision basket on her lap drew her skirts aside and made way for
him; there were three dirtily dressed girls--probably shop girls; they
sat whispering together, a little troubled by the publicity; there were
two youths, shabbily dressed, their worn boots and trousers covered with
London mud. He was surprised, and he did not for a moment understand
or realise his company. Frank had never been in a third-class carriage
before.
“I'm afraid you won't be comfortable here.”
“Oh, yes, I shall; I'd just as soon travel in one class as another--much
sooner when it means being with you.”
“None of your nonsense; I see you haven't changed. Well, who'd have
thought it? Just fancy meeting you, and after all this time.”
“How long is it? It must be nearly two years. I haven't seen you
sincethat day we went up the river.”
“Yes, you have.”
“No; where did I see you since?”
“At the bar; I didn't leave the 'Gaiety' for several days after.”
“No more you did; I remember now. But why did you leave without letting
me know where you were going?”
“I didn't know I was leaving till the morning, and I left in the
afternoon. A lot of us were changed suddenly. The firm couldn't get
enough young ladies to do the work at the Exhibition.”
“But you didn't leave an address.”
“Yes, I did.”
“No, you didn't; I asked the manager, and he told me you had left no
address. They didn't know where you had gone.”
“Did he say so? You mean Mr. Fairlie, I suppose--now I come to think of
it, it is the rule of the firm not to give information about the young
ladies. I am sorry.”
“Are you?”
“I am, really. We had a very pleasant day up the river--Reading; you
took me to Reading.”
“Yes; but you would never come again.”
“Wouldn't I? I suppose I couldn't find time--I did enjoy myself. What a
lovely day it was.”
“Yes; and do you remember how like a beautiful smile the river lay? And
do you remember the bulrushes? I rowed you in among the rushes; you wet
the sleeve of your dress plunging your arm in. I remember it, that white
plump arm.”
“Get along with you.”
“I wanted to make a sketch of you leaning over the boatside with your
lapful of water-lilies; I wish I had.”
“I wish you had, too; you wrote a little poem instead. It was very
pretty, but I should have liked the picture better. You gave me the poem
next day when you came in to lunch. You had lunch at the bar, and I was
so cross with you because you said I hadn't wiped the glass. It was all
done to annoy me because I had been talking to that tall, rather stout
young man, with the dark moustache, whom you were so jealous of. Don't
you remember?”
“Yes, I remember; and I believe it was that fellow who prevented you
from coming out with me again.”
“No, it wasn't; but don't speak so loud, all these people are listening
to you.”
Frank met the round stare of the girls; and, turning from the dormant
curiosity of the old woman, he said--
“Do you remember the locks, how frightened you were; you had never been
through a lock before; and the beautiful old red brick house showing
upon the lofty woods; and coming back in the calm of the evening,
passing the different boats, the one where the girls lay back in the
arms of the young men, the flapping sail, and the dreamy influences of
the woods where we climbed and looked into space over the railing?”
“At the green-table--don't you remember?”
“Yes, I remember every hour of that day; we had lunch at the 'Roebuck.'”
“You haven't spoken of the lady we saw there. Lady Something--I forget
what you said her name was; you said she had been making up to you.”
“I dined with her one night, and we went to the theatre.”
“You may do that without it being said that you are making up to a
gentleman.”
“Of course; I should never think of saying you made up to me.”
“I should hope not, indeed.”
“I should never think of accusing you of having made up to me; you have
always treated me very badly.”
Lizzie did not answer. He looked at her, puzzled and perplexed, and he
hoped that neither the girls nor the old lady had understood.
“I am sorry; I really didn't mean to offend you. All I meant to say
was that the lady we saw at the 'Roebuck' had been rather civil to me;
had--well I don't know how to put it--shown an inclination to flirt with
me--will that suit you?--and that I had not availed myself of my chances
because I was in love with you.”
Encouraged by a sunny smile, Frank continued: “You wouldn't listen to
me; you were very cruel.”
“I am sure I didn't mean to be cruel; I went out on the river with you,
and we had a very pleasant day. You didn't say then I was cruel.”
“No, you were very nice that day; it was the happiest day of my life.
I was in love with you; I shall never care for any one as I cared for
you.”
“I don't believe you.”
“I swear it is true. When you left the 'Gaiety' I searched London for
you. If you had only cared for me we might have been very happy. As sure
as a fellow loves a woman, so sure is she to like some other chap. Tell
me, why did you go away and leave no address?”
“I did leave an address.”
“Well, we won't discuss that. Why didn't you write to me? You knew my
address. It's no use saying you didn't.”
“Well, I suppose I was in love with some one else.”
“Were you? You always denied it. Ah! so you were in love with some one
else? I knew it--I knew it was that thick-set fellow with the black
moustache. I wonder how you could like him--the amount of whisky and
water he used to drink.”
“Yes, usen't he? I have served him with as many as six whiskies in an
afternoon--Irish, he always drank Irish.”
“How could you like a man who drank?”
“But it wasn't he--I assure you; I give you my word of honour. It really
wasn't. I'd tell you if it was.”
“Well, who was it, then? It couldn't be the old man with the beard and
white teeth?”
“No.”
“Was it that great tall fellow, clean shaven?”
“No, it wasn't; you'll never guess; There's no use trying. However, it
is all over now.”
“Why? Did he treat you badly? Whose fault was it?”
“His. And the chances I threw away. He behaved like a beast. I had to
give up keeping company with him.”
“Why?”
“Oh, I don't know. He changed very much towards me lately; he went
messing about after other girls, and we had words, and I left.”
“You will make it up. Perhaps you are mistaken.”
“Mistaken--no; I found their letters in his pocket.”
“There are always rows between sweethearts; and then they kiss and make
it up, and love each other the more.”
“No, I shall not see him again. We were going to be married; no, it is
all over. It was a little hard at first, but I am all right now.”
“I am sorry. Do you think there is no chance of making it up?”
“I should have thought that you would be glad; men are so selfish they
never think of any one but themselves.”
“How do you mean? Why should I be glad that your marriage was broken
off?”
“You said just now that you liked me very much, I thought--”
“So I do like you very much. Once I was in love with you--that day when
we walked up the steep woods together.”
“And you don't care for me any longer?”
“I don't say that; but I am engaged to be married.”
“Oh!”
“Had you not snubbed me so I might have been married to you.”
“Who are you going to be married to--to the lady we saw that day?”
“Oh, no, not to her.”
“I don't believe you. You mean to say you haven't been to see her
since.”
“I assure you---”
“You mean to say you haven't seen her?”
“I don't say that. I've just come from Ireland. I've been staying with
my uncle. She spent a week with us; that's all I have seen of her. I am
going now to see the young lady whom I am engaged to.”
“And when will you be married?”
“I don't know; there are a great many difficulties in the way. Perhaps I
shall never marry her.”
“Nonsense. I know better. You think it will take me in. I'll never be
taken in again, not if I know it.”
“I don't want to take you in.”
“I don't know so much about that. Is she very pretty? I suppose you are
very much in love with her?”
“Yes, I love her very much. Dark, not like you a bit--just the
opposite.”
“And you met her since you saw me?”
“No.”
“Ah, I thought as much, and yet you told me the day we went up the river
together that you never had and couldn't care for any one elsebut me.
Men are all alike--they never tell the truth.”
“Wait a minute; wait a minute. I knew her long before I knew you; I have
known her since I was a boy, but that doesn't mean that I have been in
love with her since I was a boy. I never thought of her until you threw
me over, until long after; it was last summer I fell in love with her.”
Lizzie's eyes were full upon him, and it seemed to them that each could
see and taste the essence of the other's thought.
“What have you been doing ever since? You have told me nothing about
yourself.”
“Well, after trying vainly to find you--having searched, as I thought,
all Speirs and Pond's establishments in London, I tried to resign myself
to my fate. I assure you, I was dreadfully cut up--could do nothing.
My life was a burden to me. You have been in love, and you know what an
ache it is; it used to catch me about the heart. There was no hope; you
were gone--gone as if the earth had swallowed you. I got sick of going
to the 'Gaiety' and asking those girls if they knew anything about you;
so to cure myself I went to France, and I worked hard at my painting. In
such circumstances there is only one thing--work.”
“You are right.”
“Yes; nothing does you any good but work. I worked in the
_atelier_--that's the French for studio--all the morning, and in the
afternoon I painted from the nude in a public studio. I had such a
nice studio--such a jolly little place. I was up every morning at
eight o'clock, my model arrived at nine, and I worked without stopping
(barring the ten or twelve minutes' rest at the end of every hour) till
twelve. Then I went to the cafe to have breakfast--how I used to enjoy
those breakfasts--fried eggs all swimming in butter, a cutlet, after,
nice bread and butter, then cock your legs up, drink your coffee, and
smoke your cigarette till one.”
“Did you like the French cafe better than the 'Gaiety'?”
“It is impossible to compare them. I made a great deal of progress. I
began one picture of a woman in a hammock, a recollection of you.
You remember when we passed under those cedar branches, close to the
'Roebuck,' we saw a hammock hung by the water's edge, and I said I would
like to see you in it, and stand by and rock you. I had intended to send
it to the Academy, but I never could finish it, the French model was not
what I wanted--I wanted you; and I was obliged to leave France, and I
could get no one in Southwick. Once a fellow changes his model he is
done for; he never can find his idea again.”
“Where's Southwick?”
“A village outside Brighton, three or four miles, not more. I have a
studio there; you must come and see it.”
“You must paint me. But what would your lady love say if she found me in
your studio? She'd have me out of it pretty quick. Tell me about her; I
want to hear how you fell in love.”
“It happened in the most curious, quite providential way. I have told
you that I knew them since I was a boy. Maggie has often sat on my
knee.”
“Maggie is her name, then?”
“Yes, don't you like the name? I do. Her brother was a school-fellow of
mine. We were at Eton together, and one time when Mount Rorke was away
travelling they asked me to spend my holidays at Southwick. That's how I
got to know them. One day Maggie and Sally were at my studio; Sally has
a sweetheart--”
The sentence was cut short by a sudden roar. The train had entered a
tunnel, and the speakers made pause, seeing each other vaguely in the
dim light, and when they emerged into the cold April twilight Frank told
the story of Triss and Berkins, Mr. Brookes struggling with the door,
and the girls rushing screaming from their hiding-place; and Frank's
imitation of Berkin's pomposity amused Lizzie, and she laughed till she
cried. He continued till the joke was worn bare; then, fearing he had
been talking too much of himself, he said: “Now, I have been very candid
with you, tell me about yourself.”
“There is nothing to tell; I think I have told you all.” Then she
said, slipping, as she spoke, into minute confidences: “When I left the
'Gaiety' I went for a few days to the Exhibition, but _he_ wanted to
leave London, so I applied to the firm to remove me to Liverpool (not
Liverpool Street; the girl--I suppose it was Miss Clarke, for I wrote to
her--made a mistake, or you misunderstood her). We remained in Liverpool
a year, and then we came back to London, and I went to the 'Criterion,'
but I couldn't stop there long; he was so awfully jealous of me; he
used to catechise me every evening--who had I spoken to? How long I
had spoken to this man? Once I slapped a man's face in fun because he
squeezed my hand when I handed him the change across the counter. There
was such a row about it. I don't know how _he_ heard of it. I think he
must have got some one to watch me. I often suspected the porter--the
bigger one of the two; but you don't know the 'Criterion.' You used to
go to the 'Gaiety.'”
“Perhaps he saw you himself. I suppose he used to come to the bar?”
“No, not unless--no, not very often. He banged me about.”
“Banged you about, the brute! Good heavens! How could you like a man
who would strike a woman? Who was he? Was he a gentleman--I mean, was he
supposed to be a gentleman? Of course he wasn't really a gentleman, or
he wouldn't have struck you.”
“He was in a passion, he was very sorry for it afterwards. Then I left
the firm and went to live in lodgings; he allowed me so much a week.”
“He was a man of some means?”
“No, but it didn't cost him much, he knew the people. We were going to
be married, but he got ill, and we thought we had better wait; and I
went to the 'Gaiety' again. I was a fool, of course, to think so much
about him, for I had plenty of chances. One man who used to lunch there
three times a week wanted me to marry him, and take me right away. I
think he was in the printing business--a man who was making good money;
but I could not give Harry up.”
“Harry is his name, then?”
“Yes; but it all began over again. It was just the same at the 'Gaiety'
as it was at the 'Criterion.' He would never leave me alone, but kept
on accusing me of flirting with the gentlemen that came to the bar.
Now, you know as well as I do what the bar is. You must be polite to the
gentlemen you serve. There are certain gentlemen who always come to me,
and don't care to be served by any one else, and if I didn't speak to
them they wouldn't come to the bar. The manager is very sharp, and would
be sure to mention it.”
“Whom do you mean? That fellow with the yellow moustache that walks
about with his frock-coat all open--a sort of apotheosis of sherry and
bitters?”
“That's what you called him once before. You see I remember. He is very
fond of sherry and bitters. But I was saying that Harry would keep on
interfering with me, pulling me over the coals. We had such dreadful
rows. He accused me of having gone with gentlemen to their rooms--a
thing I never did. I could stand it no longer, and we agreed to part.”
“How long is that ago?”
“About three weeks. I could stand it no longer, I couldn't remain at the
'Gaiety,' so I resolved to leave.”
“Why couldn't you remain at the 'Gaiety,' the manager didn't know
anything about it?”
“No, he knew nothing about it, it wouldn't have mattered if he had, but
after a break up like that you can't remain among people you know--you
want to get right away; there's nothing like a change. Besides I
mightn't get such a good chance again; I had the offer of a very good
place in Brighton, and I took it--a new restaurant, they open to-morrow.
I get thirty pounds a year and my food.”
“And lodging?”
“No, they are very short of accommodation, and I have taken a room in
one of the streets close by--Preston Street. Do you know it?”
“Perfectly, off the Western Road.”
“The lady who has the house knew my poor mother--a very nice woman--will
let me have a bedroom for five shillings a week, and I shall be allowed
to use her sitting-room when I want it, which, of course, won't be very
often, for I shall be at business all day.”
The train rolled along the platform; Frank asked the porter when there
would be a train for Southwick, and was told he would have half an hour
to wait.
“I shall have time to drive you to Preston Street.”
“Oh, no, please don't! She will be waiting for you--you will miss your
train.”