SHE was going to meet her lover. And the fact that she was to meet him
at Cannon Street Station would almost, she feared, make the meeting
itself banal, sordid. She would have liked to meet him in some green,
cool orchard, where daffodils swung in the long grass, and primroses
stood on frail stiff little pink stalks in the wet, scented moss of the
hedgerow. The time should have been May. She herself should have been a
poem--a lyric in a white gown and green scarf, coming to him through the
long grass under the blossomed boughs. Her hands should have been full
of bluebells, and she should have held them up to his face in maidenly
defence as he sprang forward to take her in his arms. You see that she
knew exactly how a tryst is conducted in the pages of the standard
poets and of the cheaper weekly journals. She had, to the full limit
allowed of her reading and her environment, the literary sense. When she
was a child she never could cry long, because she always wanted to see
herself cry, in the glass, and then of course the tears always stopped.
Now that she was a young woman she could never be happy long, because
she wanted to watch her heart's happiness, and it used to stop then,
just as the tears had.
He had asked her to meet him at Cannon Street; he had something to say
to her, and at home it was difficult to get a quiet half-hour because of
her little sisters. And, curiously enough, she was hardly curious at all
about what he might have to say. She only wished for May and the
orchard, instead of January and the dingy, dusty waiting-room, the
plain-faced, preoccupied travellers, the dim, desolate weather. The
setting of the scene seemed to her all-important. Her dress was brown,
her jacket black, and her hat was home-trimmed. Yet she looked
entrancingly pretty to him as he came through the heavy swing-doors. He
would hardly have known her in green and white muslin and an orchard,
for their love had been born and bred in town--Highbury New Park, to be
exact. He came towards her; he was five minutes late. She had grown
anxious, as the one who waits always does, and she was extremely glad to
see him, but she knew that a late lover should be treated with a
provoking coldness (one can relent prettily later on), so she gave him a
limp hand and no greeting.
"Let's go out," he said. "Shall we walk along the Embankment, or go
somewhere on the Underground?"
It was bitterly cold, but the Embankment was more romantic than a
railway carriage. He ought to insist on the railway carriage: he
probably would. So she said--
"Oh, the Embankment, please!" and felt a sting of annoyance and
disappointment when he acquiesced.
They did not speak again till they had gone through the little back
streets, past the police station and the mustard factory, and were on
the broad pavement of Queen Victoria Street.
He had been late: he had offered no excuse, no explanation. She had done
the proper thing; she had awaited these with dignified reserve, and now
she was involved in the meshes of a silence that she could not break.
How easy it would have been in the orchard! She could have snapped off a
blossoming branch and--and made play with it somehow. Then he would have
had to say something. But here--the only thing that occurred to her was
to stop and look in one of the shops till he should ask her what she was
looking at. And how common and mean that would be compared with the
blossoming bough; and besides, the shops they were passing had nothing
in the windows except cheap pastry and models of steam-engines.
Why on earth didn't he speak? He had never been like this before. She
stole a glance at him, and for the first time it occurred to her that
his "something to say" was not a mere excuse for being alone with her.
He had something to say--something that was trying to get itself said.
The keen wind thrust itself even inside the high collar of her jacket.
Her hands and feet were aching with cold. How warm it would have been in
the orchard!
"I'm freezing," she said suddenly; "let's go and have some tea."
"Of course, if you like," he said uncomfortably; yet she could see he
was glad that she had broken that desolate silence.
Seated at a marble table--the place was nearly empty--she furtively
watched his face in the glass, and what she saw there thrilled her. Some
great sorrow had come to him. And she had been sulking! The girl in the
orchard would have known at a glance. _She_ would gently, tenderly, with
infinite delicacy and the fine tact of a noble woman, have drawn his
secret from him. She would have shared his sorrow, and shown herself
"half wife, half angel from heaven" in this dark hour. Well, it was not
too late. She could begin now. But how? He had ordered the tea, and her
question was still unanswered. Yet she must speak. When she did her
words did not fit the mouth of the girl in the orchard--but then it
would have been May there, and this was January. She said--
"How frightfully cold it is!"
"Yes, isn't it?" he said.
The fine tact of a noble woman seemed to have deserted her. She resisted
a little impulse to put her hand in his under the marble table, and to
say, "What is it, dearest? Tell me all about it. I can't bear to see you
looking so miserable," and there was another silence.
The waitress brought the two thick cups of tea, and looked at him with a
tepid curiosity. As soon as the two were alone again he leaned his
elbows on the marble and spoke.
"Look here, darling, I've got something to tell you, and I hope to God
you'll forgive me and stand by me, and try to understand that I love you
just the same, and whatever happens I shall always love you."
This preamble sent a shiver of dread down her spine. What had he done--a
murder--a bank robbery--married someone else?
It was on the tip of her tongue to say that she would stand by him
whatever he had done; but if he had married someone else this would be
improper, so she only said, "Well?" and she said it coldly.
"Well--I went to the Simpsons' dance on Tuesday--oh, why weren't you
there, Ethel?--and there was a girl in pink, and I danced three or four
times with her--she was rather like you, side-face--and then, after
supper, in the conservatory, I--I talked nonsense--but only a very
little, dear--and she kept looking at me so--as if she expected me
to--to--and so I kissed her. And yesterday I had a letter from her, and
she seems to expect--to think--and I thought I ought to tell you,
darling. Oh, Ethel, do try to forgive me! I haven't answered her
letter."
"Well?" she said.
"That's all," said he, miserably stirring his tea.
She drew a deep breath. A shock of unbelievable relief tingled through
her. So that was all! What was it, compared with her fears? She almost
said, "Never mind, dear. It was hateful of you, and I wish you hadn't,
but I know you're sorry, and I'm sorry; but I forgive you, and we'll
forget it, and you'll never do it again." But just in time she
remembered that nice girls must not take these things too lightly. What
opinion would he form of the purity of her mind, the innocence of her
soul, if an incident like this failed to shock her deeply? He himself
was evidently a prey to the most rending remorse. He had told her of the
thing as one tells of a crime. As the confession of a crime she must
receive it. How should she know that he had only told her because he
feared that she would anyhow hear it through the indiscretion of the
girl in pink, or of that other girl in blue who had seen and smiled? How
could she guess that he had tuned his confession to the key of what he
believed would be an innocent girl's estimate of his misconduct?
Following the tingle of relief came a sharp, sickening pinch of jealousy
and mortification. These inspired her.
"I don't wonder you were afraid to tell me," she began. "You don't love
me--you've never loved me--I was an idiot to believe you did."
"You know I do," he said; "it was hateful of me--but I couldn't help
it."
Those four true words wounded her more than all the rest.
"Couldn't help it? Then how can I ever trust you? Even if we were
married I could never be sure you weren't kissing some horrid girl or
other. No--it's no use--I can never, never forgive you--and it's all
over. And I _believed_ in you so, and trusted you--I thought you were
the soul of honour."
He could not say, "And so I am, on the whole," which was what he
thought. Her tears were falling hot and fast between face and veil, for
she had talked till she was very sorry indeed for herself.
"Forgive me, dear," he said.
Then she rose to the occasion. "Never," she said, her eyes flashing
through her tears. "You've deceived me once--you'd do it again! No, it's
all over--you've broken my heart and destroyed my faith in human nature.
I hope I shall never see you again. Some day you'll understand what
you've done, and be sorry!"
"Do you think I'm not sorry now?"
She wished that they were at home, and not in this horrible tea-shop,
under the curious eyes of the waitresses. At home she could at least
have buried her face in the sofa cushions and resisted all his
pleading,--at last, perhaps, letting him take one cold passive hand and
shower frantic kisses upon it.
He would come to-morrow, however, and then-- At present the thing to
compass was a dignified parting.
"Good-bye," she said; "I'm going home. And it's good-bye for ever.
No--it's only painful for both of us. There's no more to be said; you've
betrayed me. I didn't think a decent man could do such things." She was
pulling on her gloves. "Go home and gloat over it all! And that poor
girl--you've broken _her_ heart too." This really was a master stroke of
nobility.
He stood up suddenly. "Do you mean it?" he said, and his tone should
have warned her. "Are you really going to throw me over for a thing like
this?"
The anger in his eyes frightened her, and the misery of his face wrung
her heart; but how could she say--
"No, of course I'm not! I'm only talking as I know good girls ought to
talk"?