It must not be supposed that his relations with Millicent had remained
unaffected by the remarkable incident that had brushed her with its
wing at the theatre. The whole occurrence had made a great impression
on the young lady from Pimlico; he never saw her, for weeks afterwards,
that she had not an immense deal to say about it; and though it
suited her to cultivate the shocked state at the crudity of such
proceedings and to denounce the Princess for a bold-faced foreigner,
of a kind to which any one who knew anything of what could go on in
London would give a wide berth, it was easy to see she enjoyed having
rubbed shoulders across the house with a person so splendid and having
found her own critical estimate of her friend confirmed in such high
quarters. She professed to draw her warrant for her low opinion of
the lady in the box from information given her by Captain Sholto as
he sat beside her—information of which at different moments she gave a
different version; her notes of it having nothing in common save that
they were alike unflattering to the Princess. Hyacinth had many doubts
of the Captain’s having talked indiscreetly; it would be in such a case
such a very unnatural thing for him to do. He _was_ unnatural—that was
true—and he might have told Millicent, who was capable of having plied
him with questions, that his distinguished friend was separated from
her husband; but, for the rest, it was more probable that the girl
had given the rein to a fine faculty of free invention of which he had
had frequent glimpses, under pressure of her primitive half-childish,
half-plebeian impulse of destruction, the instinct of pulling down what
was above her, the reckless energy that would, precisely, make her so
effective in revolutionary scenes. Hyacinth (it has been mentioned)
didn’t consider that Millicent was false, and it struck him as a proof
of positive candour that she should make up absurd, abusive stories
about a person as to whom she only knew that she disliked her and
could hope for no esteem, and indeed for no recognition of any kind,
in return. When people were fully false you didn’t know where you
stood with them, and on such a point as this Miss Henning could never
be accused of leaving you in obscurity. She said little else about the
Captain and didn’t pretend to repeat the remainder of his conversation,
taking on her air of grand indifference when Hyacinth amused himself
with repaying her criticism of his new acquaintance by drawing a
sufficiently derisive portrait of hers.
His line was that Sholto’s admiration for the high-coloured beauty
in the second balcony had been at the bottom of the whole episode:
he had persuaded the Princess to pretend she was a revolutionist and
should like therefore to confer with the little firebrand above in
order that he might slip into the seat of this too easily deluded
youth. At the same time it never occurred to our young man to conceal
the fact that the lady in the box had followed him up; he contented
himself with saying that this had been no part of the original plot,
but a simple result—not unnatural after all—of his showing so much
more charm than might have been expected. He described with sportive
variations his visit in South Street, conscious that he would never
feel the need, with his childhood’s friend, of glossing over that sort
of experience. She might make him a scene of jealousy and welcome—there
were things that would have much more terror for him than that; her
jealousy, with its violence, its energy, even a certain inconsequent,
dare-devil humour that played through it, entertained him, emphasised
the frankness, the passion and pluck he admired her for. He should
never be on the footing of sparing Miss Henning’s susceptibilities; how
fond she might really be of him he couldn’t take upon himself to say,
but her affection would never assume the form of that sort of delicacy,
and their intercourse was plainly foredoomed to be an exchange of
thumps and concussions, of sarcastic shouts and mutual _défis_. He
liked her, at bottom, strangely, absurdly; but after all it was only
well enough to torment her—she could bear so much—not well enough to
spare her. Of any actual ground for the girl’s jealousy of the Princess
he never thought; it couldn’t occur to him to weigh against each
other the sentiments he might excite in such opposed bosoms or those
that the spectacle of either emotion might have kindled in his own.
He had no doubt his share of fatuity, but he found himself unable to
associate mentally a great lady and a bouncing shop-girl in a contest
for a prize which should have anything of _his_ figure. How could they
show the least common mark—even so small a one as a desire to possess
themselves of Hyacinth Robinson? A fact he didn’t impart to Millicent
and could have no wish to impart to her was the different matter of his
pilgrimage to Belgrave Square. He might be in love with the Princess
(how could he qualify as yet the bewildered emotion she had produced
in him?) and he certainly never would conceive a passion for poor Lady
Aurora; yet it would have given him pain much greater than any he felt
in the other case to hear Milly make free with the ministering angel
of Audley Court. The distinction was perhaps somehow in her appearing
really not to touch or arrive at the Princess at all, whereas Lady
Aurora was within her range and compass.
After paying him that visit at his rooms Hyacinth lost sight of
Captain Sholto, who had not again reappeared at the “Sun and Moon,”
the little tavern which presented so common and casual a face to the
world, but offered in its unsuspected rear a security still unimpugned
to machinations going down to the very bottom of things. Nothing was
more natural than that the Captain should be engaged at this season in
the recreations of his class; and our young man took for granted that
if he were not hanging about the Princess on that queer footing as to
which one had a secret hope one should some day command more light,
he was probably buffeting breezy northern seas on a yacht or creeping
after stags in the Highlands; our hero’s acquaintance with the light
literature of his country being such as to assure him that in one or
other of these occupations people of leisure, during the autumn, were
necessarily immersed. If the Captain were giving his attention to
neither he must have started for Albania, or at least for Paris. Happy
Captain, Hyacinth mused, while his imagination followed him through
vivid exotic episodes and his restless young feet continued to tread,
through the stale flat weeks of September and October, the familiar
pavements of Soho, Islington and Pentonville, and the shabby sinuous
ways that unite these regions of labour. He had told the Princess he
sometimes had a holiday at this period and that there was a chance
of his escorting his respectable companion to the seaside; but as it
turned out at present the spare cash for such an excursion was wanting.
Hyacinth had indeed for the moment an exceptionally keen sense of the
lack of this convenience and was forcibly reminded that the society
of agreeable women was a direct and constant appeal to the pocket.
He not only hadn’t a penny, but was much in debt, owed pence and
shillings, as he would have largely put it, all over the place, and
the explanation of his pinched feeling was in a vague half-remorseful,
half-resigned reference to the numerous occasions when he had had not
to fail of funds under penalty of disappointing a young lady whose
needs were positive, and especially to a certain high crisis (as it
might prove to be) in his destiny when it had come over him that one
couldn’t call on a princess just as one was. So this year he didn’t
ask old Crook for the week which some of the other men took—Eustache
Poupin, who had never quitted London since his arrival, launched
himself precisely that summer, supported by his brave wife, into the
British unknown on the strength of a return ticket to Worthing—simply
because he shouldn’t know what to do with it. The best way not to spend
money, though no doubt not the best in the world to make it, was still
to take one’s daily course to the old familiar shabby shop, where, as
the days shortened and November thickened the air to a livid yellow,
the uncovered flame of the gas, burning often from the morning on,
lighted up the ugliness in which the hand of practice endeavoured to
disengage a little beauty—the ugliness of a dingy belittered interior,
of battered dispapered walls, of work-tables stained and hacked, of
windows opening into a foul drizzling street, of the bared arms, the
sordid waistcoat-backs, the smeared aprons, the personal odour, the
patient obstinate irritating shoulders and vulgar narrow inevitable
faces of his fellow-labourers. Our young friend’s relations with his
comrades would form a chapter by itself, but all that may be said of
the matter here is that the clever little operator from Lomax Place
had in a manner a double identity and that much as he lived in Mr.
Crookenden’s establishment he lived out of it still more. In this busy,
pasty, sticky, leathery little world, where wages and beer were the
main objects of consideration, he played his part in a way that marked
him as a queer lot, but capable of queerness in the line of equanimity
too. He hadn’t made good his place there without discovering that the
British workman, when animated by the spirit of mirth, has rather a
heavy hand, and he tasted of the practical joke in every degree of
violence. During his first year he dreamed, with secret passion and
suppressed tears, of a day of bliss when at last they would let him
alone—a day which arrived in time, for it is always an advantage to
be clever if one be only clever enough. Hyacinth was sufficiently so
to have invented a _modus vivendi_ in respect to which M. Poupin said
to him, “_Enfin vous voilà ferme!_” (the Frenchman himself, terribly
_éprouvé_ at the beginning, had always bristled with firmness and
opposed to insular grossness a refined dignity) and under the influence
of which the scenery of Soho figured a daily dusky exhibition of
projected shadows, confined to the passive part of life and giving
no hostages to reality, or at least to ambition, save an insufficient
number of shillings on Saturday night and stray spasmodic reminiscences
of delicate work that might have been more delicate still, as well as
of such applications of the tool as he flattered himself unsurpassed
unless by the supreme Eustache.
One evening in November he had after discharging himself of a
considerable indebtedness to Pinnie still a sovereign in his pocket—a
sovereign that seemed to spin there under the equal breath of a
dozen different lively uses. He had come out for a walk with a vague
intention of pushing as far as Audley Court; and lurking within this
nebulous design, on which the damp breath of the streets, making
objects seem that night particularly dim and places particularly far,
had blown a certain chill, was a sense of how nice it would be to take
something to Rose Muniment, who delighted in a sixpenny present and
to whom he hadn’t for some time rendered any such homage. At last,
after he had wandered a while, hesitating between the pilgrimage to
Lambeth and the possibility of still associating the two or three hours
with those perhaps in some lucky way or other at Millicent Henning’s
disposal, he reflected that if a sovereign was to be pulled to pieces
it was a simplification to get it changed. He had struck through
the region of Mayfair, partly with the preoccupation of a short cut
and partly from an instinct of self-defence; if one was in danger of
spending one’s money with a rush it was so much gained to plunge into
a quarter where, at that hour especially, there were no shops for
little bookbinders. Hyacinth’s victory, however, was imperfect when
it occurred to him to turn into a public-house in order to convert his
gold into convenient silver. When it was a question of entering these
establishments he selected in preference the most decent; he never knew
what unpleasant people he might find on the other side of the swinging
door. Those which glitter at intervals amid the residential gloom of
the large district abutting on Grosvenor Square partake of the general
gentility of the neighbourhood, so that our friend was not surprised
(he had passed into the compartment marked “private bar”) to see but a
single drinker leaning against the counter on which, with his request
very civilly enunciated, he put down his sovereign. He was surprised
on the other hand when, glancing up again, he became aware that this
lonely reveller was Captain Godfrey Sholto.
“Why, my dear boy, what a remarkable coincidence!” the Captain
exclaimed. “For once in five years that I come into a place like this!”
“I don’t come in often myself. I thought you were in Madagascar,”
Hyacinth said.
“Ah, because I’ve not been at the ‘Sun and Moon’? Well, I’ve been
constantly out of town, you know. And then—don’t you see what I mean?—I
want to be tremendously careful. That’s the way to get on, isn’t it?
But I daresay you don’t believe in my discretion!” Sholto laughed.
“What shall I do to make you understand? I say, have a brandy and
soda,” he continued as if this might assist Hyacinth’s comprehension.
He seemed a trifle flurried and, were it possible to imagine such
a thing of so independent and whimsical a personage, the least bit
abashed or uneasy at having been found in such a low place. Yet it was
not any lower than the “Sun and Moon.” He was dressed on this occasion
according to his station, without the pot-hat and the shabby jacket,
and Hyacinth looked at him with the pang of the felt charm that a good
tailor would add to life. Our hero was struck more than ever before
with his being the type of man whom, as he strolled about observing
people, he had so often regarded with wonder and envy—the sort of
man of whom one said to one’s self that he was the “finest white,”
feeling that he and his like had the world in their pocket. Sholto
requested the barmaid to please not dawdle in preparing the brandy
and soda Hyacinth had thought to ease off the situation by accepting:
this indeed was perhaps what the finest white would naturally do.
And when the young man had taken the glass from the counter didn’t he
appear to encourage him not to linger as he drank it and to smile down
at him very kindly and amusedly, as if the combination of so small a
bookbinder and so big a tumbler were sufficiently droll? The Captain
took time, however, to ask how he had spent his autumn and what was the
news in Bloomsbury; he further inquired about those jolly people across
the river. “I can’t tell you what an impression they made on me—that
evening you know.” After this he went on suddenly and irrelevantly:
“And so you’re just going to stay on for the winter quietly?” Our hero
stared: he wondered what other high course could be imputed to him;
he couldn’t reflect immediately that this was the sort of thing the
finest whites said to each other when they met after their fashionable
dispersals, and that his friend had only been guilty of a momentary
inadvertence. In point of fact the Captain recovered himself. “Oh, of
course you’ve got your work, and that sort of thing”; and as Hyacinth
didn’t succeed in swallowing at a gulp the contents of his big tumbler
he asked him presently if he had heard anything from the Princess. Our
youth replied that he could have no news except what the Captain might
be good enough to give him; but he added that he had been to see her
just before she left town.
“Ah, you did go? That was quite right—jolly right.”
“I went because she very kindly wrote me to come.”
“Ah, she wrote to you to come?” The Captain fixed him a moment with
his curious colourless eyes. “Do you know you’re a devilish privileged
mortal?”
“Certainly I know it.” Hyacinth blushed and felt foolish; the barmaid,
who had heard this odd couple talking of a princess, was staring at him
too with her elbows on the counter.
“Do you know there are people who’d give their heads that she should
write them to come?”
“I’ve no doubt of it whatever!”—and he took refuge in a laugh that
sounded less natural than he would have liked, and wondered if his
interlocutor weren’t precisely one of these people. In this case the
barmaid might well stare; for deeply convinced as our young man might
be that he was the son of Lord Frederick Purvis, there was really no
end to the oddity of his being preferred—and by a princess—to Captain
Sholto. If anything could have re-enforced at that moment his sense
of this anomaly it would have been the indescribably gentlemanly way,
implying all sorts of common initiations, in which his companion went
on.
“Ah well, I see you know how to take it! And if you’re in
correspondence with her why do you say you can hear from her only
through me? My dear fellow, I’m not in correspondence with her. You
might think I’d naturally be, but I’m not.” He subjoined as Hyacinth
had laughed again in a manner that might have passed for ambiguous:
“So much the worse for me—is that what you mean?” Hyacinth replied
that he himself had had the honour of hearing from the Princess but
once, and mentioned her having told him how her letter-writing came
on only in fits, when it was sometimes very profuse: there were months
together that she didn’t touch a pen. “Oh, I can imagine what she told
you!” the Captain knowingly returned. “Look out for the next fit! She’s
visiting about, you know—at a lot of great houses. It’s a great thing
to be somewhere with her—an immense comedy.” He remarked that he had
heard, now he remembered, that she either had taken or was thinking
of taking a place in the country for a few months, and he added that
if Hyacinth didn’t propose to finish his brandy and soda they might as
well turn out. Hyacinth’s thirst had been very superficial, and as they
turned out the Captain observed by way of explanation of his having
been found in a public-house (it was the only attempt of this kind he
made) that any friend of his would always know him by his love of rum
out-of-the-way nooks. “You must have noticed that,” he said—“my taste
for exploration. If I hadn’t explored I never should have known you,
should I? That was rather a nice little girl in there; did you twig her
good bust? It’s a pity they always have such beastly hands.” Hyacinth
had instinctively made a motion to go southward, but Sholto, passing
a hand into his arm, led him the other way. The house they had quitted
was near a corner, which they rounded, the Captain pushing forward as
if there were some reason for haste. His haste was checked, however,
by a prompt encounter with a young woman who, coming in the opposite
direction, turned the angle as briskly as themselves. At this moment
he gave his friend a great jerk, but not before Hyacinth had caught a
glimpse of the young woman’s face—it seemed to flash upon him out of
the dusk—and given quick voice to his surprise.
“Hullo, Millicent!” This was the simple cry that escaped from his lips
while the Captain, still going on, but threw off, “What’s the matter?
Who’s your pretty friend?” Hyacinth declined to go on and repeated Miss
Henning’s baptismal name so loudly that the young woman, who had passed
them without looking back, was obliged to stop. Then he saw he was not
mistaken, though Millicent gave no audible response. She stood looking
at him with her head very high, and he approached her, disengaging
himself from Sholto, who, however, hung back only an instant before
joining them. Hyacinth’s heart had suddenly begun to beat very fast;
there was a sharp shock in the girl’s turning up just in that place
at that moment. Yet when she began to laugh, and with violence, and
to ask him why he should look at her as if she were a kicking horse,
he recognised that there was nothing so very extraordinary, after
all, in a casual meeting between persons who were such frequenters of
the London streets. Millicent had never concealed the fact that she
“trotted about” on various errands at night; and once when he had said
to her that the less a respectable young woman took the evening air
alone the better for her respectability she had asked how respectable
he thought she pretended to be and had remarked that if he would
make her a present of a brougham or even call for her three or four
times a week in a cab she would doubtless preserve more of her social
purity. She could turn the tables quickly enough and she exclaimed now,
professing on her own side great astonishment:
“Whatever are you prowling about here for? You’re after no good, I’ll
be bound!”
“Good evening, Miss Henning; what a jolly meeting!” said the Captain,
removing his hat with a humorous flourish.
“Oh, how d’ye do?” Millicent returned as if not at once placing him.
“Where were you going so fast? What are you doing?” asked Hyacinth, who
had looked from one to the other.
“Well, I never did see such a manner—from one that knocks about like
_you_!” cried Miss Henning. “I’m going to see a friend of mine—a
lady’s-maid in Curzon Street. Have you anything to say to that?”
“Don’t tell us—don’t tell us!” Sholto interposed after she had
spoken—and she had not, however slightly, hesitated. “I at least
disavow the indiscretion. Where may not a charming woman be going when
she trips with a light foot through the deepening dusk?”
“I say, what are you talking about?” the girl demanded with dignity of
Hyacinth’s companion. She spoke as if with a resentful suspicion that
her foot had not really been felt to be light.
“On what errand of mercy, on what secret ministration?” the Captain
laughed.
“Secret yourself!” cried Millicent. “Do you two always hunt in couples?”
“All right, we’ll turn round and go with you as far as your friend’s,”
Hyacinth said.
“All right,” Millicent replied.
“All right,” the Captain added; and the three took their way together
in the direction of Curzon Street. They walked for a few moments in
silence, though the Captain whistled, and then Millicent suddenly
turned to Hyacinth.
“You haven’t told me where _you_ were going yet, you know.”
“We met in that public-house,” the Captain said, “and were each so
ashamed of being found in such a place by the other that we tumbled out
together without much thinking what we should do with ourselves.”
“When he’s out with me he pretends he can’t abide them houses,” Miss
Henning declared. “I wish I had looked in that one to see who was
there.”
“Well, she’s rather nice,” the Captain went on. “She told me her name
was Georgiana.”
“I went to get a piece of money changed,” Hyacinth said with the sense
of a certain dishonesty in the air and glad he at least could afford to
speak the truth.
“To get your grandmother’s nightcap changed! I recommend you to keep
your money together—you’ve none too much of it!” Millicent exclaimed.
“Is that the reason you’re playing me false?” Hyacinth flashed out.
He had been thinking with still intentness as they walked; at once
nursing and strangling a kindled suspicion. He was pale with the idea
that he had been bamboozled, yet was able to say to himself that one
must allow in life, thank goodness, for the element of coincidence,
and that he might easily put himself immensely in the wrong by making
a groundless charge. It was only later that he pieced his impressions
together and saw them—as it appeared—justify each other; at present, as
soon as he had uttered it, he was almost ashamed of his quick retort to
Millicent’s taunt. He ought at least to have waited to see what Curzon
Street would bring forth.
The girl broke out on him immediately, repeating “False, false?” with
high derision and wanting to know whether that was the way to knock a
lady about in public. She had stopped short on the edge of a crossing
and she went on with a voice so uplifted that he was glad they were
in a street apt to be empty at such an hour: “You’re a pretty one
to talk about falsity when a woman has only to leer at you out of an
opera-box!”
“Don’t say anything about _her_,” the young man interposed, trembling.
“And pray why not about ‘her,’ I should like to know? You don’t pretend
she’s a decent woman, I suppose?” Millicent’s laughter rang through the
quiet neighbourhood.
“My dear fellow, you know you _have_ been to her,” Captain Sholto
wonderfully smiled.
Hyacinth turned on him staring and at once provoked and baffled by
his ambiguous part in an incident it was doubtless possible to magnify
but not possible to treat as perfectly simple. “Certainly I’ve been to
the Princess Casamassima, thanks to you. When you came and pressed me
to go, when you dragged me, do you make it a reproach? Who the devil
are you, anyway, and what do you want of me?” our hero cried—his mind
flooded in a moment with everything in the Captain that had puzzled
and worried and escaped him. This swelling tide obliterated on the spot
everything that had beguiled.
“My dear fellow, whatever I am I’m not an ass,” this gentleman replied
with imperturbable good-humour. “I don’t reproach you with anything.
I only wanted to put in a word as a peacemaker. My good friends—my
good friends,” and he laid a hand in his practised way on Hyacinth’s
shoulder while with the other pressed to his heart he bent on the girl
a face of gallantry which had something paternal in it: “I’m determined
this absurd misunderstanding shall end as lovers’ quarrels ought always
to end.”
Hyacinth withdrew himself from the Captain’s touch and said to
Millicent: “You’re not really jealous of—of any one. You pretend that
only to throw dust in my eyes.”
To this sally Miss Henning returned him an answer which promised to be
lively, but the Captain swept it away in the profusion of his protests.
He declared them a dear delightful abominable pair; he pronounced
it rarely interesting to see how in people of their sort the prime
passions lay near the surface; he almost pushed them into each other’s
arms and then wound up with proposing that they should all terminate
their little differences by proceeding together to the Pavilion
music-hall, the nearest place of entertainment in that neighbourhood,
leaving the lady’s-maid in Curzon Street to dress her mistress’s wig
in peace. He has been presented to the reader as an accomplished man,
and it will doubtless be felt that the picture is justified by his
having eventually placed this idea in so attractive a light that his
companions entered a hansom with him and rattled toward the haunt
of pleasure, Hyacinth sandwiched, on the edge of the seat, between
the others. Two or three times our young man’s ears burned; he felt
that if there was an understanding between them they had now, behind
him, a rare opportunity for carrying it out. If this understanding
flourished at his expense the whole evening constituted for them indeed
an opportunity, and that thought rendered his diversion but scantly
absorbing, though at the Pavilion the Captain engaged a big private box
and ordered ices brought in. Hyacinth cared so little for his little
pink pyramid that he suffered Millicent to consume it after she had
disposed of her own. It was present to him, however, that if he should
make a fool of himself the folly would be of a very gross kind, and
this is why he withheld a question repeatedly on his lips—the impulse
to demand of his entertainer why the mischief he had hurried him so
out of the public-house if he had not been waiting there preconcertedly
for Millicent. We know that in Hyacinth’s eyes one of this young lady’s
compensatory merits had been that she was not deceitful, and he asked
himself if a girl could change that way from one month to the other.
This was optimistic, but, all the same, before leaving the Pavilion he
decided with one of his highest flights of intelligence that he could
quite well see what Lady Aurora had meant by calling Captain Sholto
vulgar.