BY THE WAYSIDE
"So there ends another chapter. How many more to the end of the story?
How many more scenes till the farce is played out? There is something
flattering to one's vanity in this careless playing with fate; it is
edifying, moreover, to set circumstances at defiance in this way, now
and then, to assert one's freedom. Freedom! What a joke the word must
be to whoever is pulling the wires and making us poor puppets dance at
his pleasure. Pity that we have to pay the piper so heavily for our
involuntary jigging!"
A passage from the letter Waymark wrote to his friend Casti, on the
evening when his school-work came to an end. That night he sought rest
early, and slept well. The sensations with which he woke next morning
were such as he had not experienced for a long time. He was at
liberty,--with six pounds ten in his pocket. He could do what he liked
and go whither he liked,--till lack of a dinner should remind him that
a man's hardest master is his own body. He dressed leisurely, and,
having dressed, treated himself to an egg for breakfast. Absolutely no
need for hurry; the thought of school-hours dismissed for ever; a
horizon quite free from the vision of hateful toil; in the real sky
overhead a gleam of real sunshine, as if to make credible this sudden
change. His mood was still complete recklessness, a revolt against the
idea of responsibility, indifference to all beyond the moment.
It was Thursday; the morrow would be Good Friday; after that the
intervention of two clear days before the commencement of a new week In
the meantime the sun was really shining, and the fresh spring air
invited to the open ways. Waymark closed the door of his room behind
him, and went downstairs, whistling to himself. But, before reaching
the bottom, he turned and went back again. It seemed warm enough to sit
in one of the parks and read. He laid his hand on a book, almost at
haphazard, to put in his pocket. Then he walked very leisurely along
Kennington Road, and on, and on, till he had crossed the river.
Wondering in which direction he should next turn, he suddenly found
himself repeating, with unaccountable transition of thought, the words
"South Bank, Regent's Park." In all likelihood, he said to himself
presently, they were suggested by some inscription on a passing
omnibus, noted unconsciously. The address was that he had read in Miss
Enderby's note-book. Why not ramble in that direction as well as
another, and amuse himself by guessing which house it was that the
governess lived in? He had not seen her since the uproar which had
terminated his connection with the young Tootles. Was it true that she
had then already decided to give up her position? If not, his outbreak
of temper had doubtless resulted unpleasantly for her, seeing that Mrs.
Tootle would almost certainly dismiss her out of mere spite. Several
times during the last two days he had thought of conveying to her a
note by some means, to express in some way or other this fear, and the
regret it caused him; the real motive, he knew well enough, would be a
hope of receiving a reply from her. But now she had perhaps left the
school, and he did not know her exact address. He made his way across
the Park in the direction of St. John's Wood, and had soon reached
South Bank.
He had walked once the length of the road, and was looking at the
nearest houses before he turned, when a lady came round the corner and
paused to avoid him, as he stood in the middle of the pavement. It was
Miss Enderby herself. Her embarrassment was apparently not as great as
his own. She smiled with friendliness; seemed indeed in a happier frame
of mind than any in which Waymark had as yet seen her. But she did not
offer her hand, and the other, having raised his hat, was almost on the
point of passing on, when he overcame his diffidence and spoke.
"I came here to try and discover where you lived, Miss Enderby."
There was something grotesque in this abruptness; his tone only saved
it from impertinence. The girl looked at him with frank surprise.
"Pray don't misunderstand me," he went on hurriedly. "I wished, if
possible, to--well, to tell you that I feared I acted thoughtlessly the
other day; without regard, I mean, to any consequences it might have
for yourself."
"Rather I ought to thank you for defending me. It made no difference in
the way you mean. It had already been decided that I should leave. I
did not suit Mrs. Tootle."
It was very pleasant to look down into her earnest face, and watch it
as she spoke in this unrestrained way. She seemed so slight and frail,
evidently thought so depreciatingly of herself, looked as though her
life had in it so little joy, that Waymark had speedily assumed a
confident attitude, and gazed at her as a man does at one whom he would
gladly guard and cherish.
"You were certainly unsuited for the work, in every way," he said, with
a smile. "Your efforts were quite wasted there. Still, I am sorry you
have left."
"I am going into a family," were her next words, spoken almost
cheerfully. "It is in the country, in Essex. There are only two
children, quite young. I think I shall succeed better with them; I hope
so."
"Then I suppose," Waymark said, moving a little and keeping his eyes
fixed on her with an uneasy look, "I shall--I must say good-bye to you,
for the last time?"
A scarcely heard "yes" fell from her lips. Her eyes were cast down.
"I am going to make a bold request," Waymark exclaimed, with a sort of
recklessness, though his voice expressed no less respect than hitherto.
"Will you tell me where you are going to?"
She told him, without looking up, and with a recurrence to the timid
manner which had marked her in the schoolroom. This gave Waymark
encouragement; his confidence grew as hers diminished.
"Will you let me write to you--occasionally? Would you let me keep up
our acquaintance in this way,--so that, if you return to London, I
might look forward to meeting you again some time?"
The girl answered timidly--
"I shall be glad to keep up our acquaintance. I shall be glad to hear
from you."
Then, at once feeling that she had gone too far, her confusion made her
pale. Waymark held out his hand, as if to take leave.
"Thank you very much," he said warmly. "I am very grateful."
She gave him a quick "good-bye," and then passed on. Waymark moved at
once in the opposite direction, turning the corner. Then he wished to
go back and notice which house she entered, but would not do so lest
she should observe him. He walked straight forwards.
How the aspect of the world had changed for him in these few minutes;
what an incredible revolution had come to pass in his own desires and
purposes! The intellectual atmosphere he breathed was of his own
creation; the society of cultured people he had never had an
opportunity of enjoying. A refined and virtuous woman had hitherto
existed for him merely in the sanctuary of his imagination; he had
known not one such. If he passed one in the street, the effect of the
momentary proximity was only to embitter his thoughts, by reminding him
of the hopeless gulf fixed between his world and that in which such
creatures had their being. In revenge, he tried to soil the purity of
his ideals; would have persuaded himself that the difference between
the two spheres was merely in externals, that he was imposed upon by
wealth, education, and superficial refinement of manners. Happily he
had never really succeeded in thus deceiving himself, and the effort
had only served to aggravate his miseries. The habit of mind, however,
had shown itself in the earlier stages of his acquaintance with Miss
Enderby. The first sight of her had moved him somewhat, but scarcely
with any foreshadowing of serious emotion. He felt that she was
different from any woman with whom he had ever stood on an equal
footing; but, at the same time, the very possibility of establishing
more or less intimate relations with her made him distrustful of his
judgment. In spite of himself, he tried to disparage her qualities. She
was pretty, he admitted, but then of such a feeble, characterless type;
doubtless her understanding corresponded with the weakness of her
outward appearance. None the less, he had continued to observe her
keenly, and had noted with pleasure every circumstance which
contradicted his wilful depreciation of her. His state of mind after
the thrashing he gave to young Tootle had been characteristic. What had
been the cause of his violence? Certainly not uncontrollable anger, for
he had in reality been perfectly cool throughout the affair; simply,
then, the pleasure of avenging Miss Enderby. And for this he had
sacrificed his place, and left himself without resources. He had acted
absurdly; certainly would not have repeated the absurdity had the scene
been to act over again. This was not the attitude of one in love, and
he knew it. Moreover, though he had thought of writing to her, it would
in reality have cost him nothing if she had forthwith passed out of his
sight and knowledge. Now how all this had been altered, by a mere
chance meeting. The doubts had left him; she was indeed the being from
a higher world that he would have liked to believe her from the first;
the mysterious note of true sympathy had been struck in that short
exchange of words and looks, and, though they had taken leave of each
other for who could say how long, mutual knowledge was just beginning,
real intercourse about to be established between them. He might write
to her, and of course she would reply.
He walked without much perception of time or distance, and found
himself at home just before nightfall. He felt disposed for a quiet
evening, to be spent in the companionship of his thoughts. But when he
had made his coffee and eaten with appetite after the day's rambling,
restlessness again possessed him. After all, it was not retirement that
he needed; these strange new imaginings would consort best with motion
and the liveliness of the streets. So he put out his lamp, and once
more set forth. The night air freshened his spirits; he sang to himself
as he went along. It was long since he had been to a theatre, and just
now he was so hopelessly poor that he could really afford a little
extravagance. So he was soon sitting before the well-known drop of a
favourite play-house, as full of light-hearted expectancy as a boy who
is enjoying a holiday. The evening was delightful, and passed all too
quickly.
The play over, he was in no mood to go straight home. He lit a cigar
and drifted with the current westward, out of the Strand and into Pall
Mall. A dispute between a cabdriver and his fare induced him to pause
for a moment under the colonnade, and, when the little cluster of
people had moved on, he still stood leaning against one of the pillars,
enjoying the mild air and the scent of his cigar. He felt his elbow
touched, and, looking round with indifference, met the kind of greeting
for which he was prepared. He shook his head and did not reply; then
the sham gaiety of the voice all at once turned to a very real misery,
and the girl began to beg instead of trying to entice him in the
ordinary way. He looked at her again, and was shocked at the ghastly
wretchedness of her daubed face. She was ill, she said, and could
scarcely walk about, but must get money somehow; if she didn't, her
landlady wouldn't let her sleep in the house again, and she had nowhere
else to go to. There could be no mistake about the genuineness of her
story, at all events as far as bodily suffering went. Waymark
contrasted her state with his own, and took out what money he had in
his pocket; it was the change out of a sovereign which he had received
at the theatre, and he gave her it all. She stared, and did not
understand.
"Are you coming with me?" she asked, feeling obliged to make a hideous
attempt at professional coaxing in return for such generosity.
"Good God, no!" Waymark exclaimed. "Go home and take care of yourself."
She thanked him warmly, and turned away at once. As his eye followed
her, he was aware that somebody else had drawn near to him from behind.
This also was a girl, but of a different kind. She was well dressed,
and of graceful, rounded form; a veil almost hid her face, but enough
could be seen to prove that she had good looks.
"That a friend of yours?" she asked abruptly, and her voice was
remarkably full, clear, and sweet.
Waymark answered with a negative, looking closely at her.
"Then why did you give her all that money?"
"How do you know what I gave her?"
"I was standing just behind here, and could see."
"Well?"
"Nothing; only I should think you are one out of a thousand. You saved
me a sovereign, too; I've watched her begging of nearly a dozen people,
and I couldn't have stood it much longer."
"You would have given her a sovereign?"
"I meant to, if she'd failed with you."
"Is she a friend of yours?"
"Never saw her before to-night."
"Then you must be one out of a thousand."
The girl laughed merrily.
"In that case," she said, "we ought to know each other, shouldn't we?"
"If we began by thinking so well of each other," returned Waymark,
smiling, "we should not improbably suffer a grievous disappointment
before long."
"Well, _you_ might. You have to take my generosity on trust, but I have
proof of yours."
"You're an original sort of girl," said Waymark, throwing away the end
of his cigar. "Do you talk to everybody in this way?"
"Pooh, of course not. I shouldn't be worth much if I couldn't suit my
conversation to the man I want to make a fool of. Would you rather have
me talk in the usual way? Shall I say--"
"I had rather not."
"Well, I knew that."
"And how?"
"Well, _you_ don't wear a veil, if I do."
"You can read faces?"
"A little, I flatter myself. Can you?"
"Give me a chance of trying."
She raised her veil, and he inspected her for some moments, then looked
away.
"Excellently well, if God did all," he observed, with a smile.
"That's out of a play," she replied quickly. "I heard it a little time
ago, but I forget the answer. I'd have given anything to be able to cap
you! Then you'd have put me down for a clever woman, and I should have
lived on the reputation henceforth and for ever. But it's all my own,
indeed; I'm not afraid of crying."
"_Do_ you ever cry? I can't easily imagine it."
"Oh yes, sometimes," she answered, sighing, and at the same time
lowering her veil again. "But you haven't read my face for me."
"It's a face I'm sorry to have seen."
"Why?" she asked, holding her hands clasped before her, the palms
turned outwards.
"I shall think of it often after tonight, and imagine it with all its
freshness gone, and marks of suffering and degradation upon it."
"Suffering, perhaps; degradation, no. Why should I be degraded?"
"You can't help yourself. The life you have chosen brings its
inevitable consequences."
"Chosen!" she repeated, with an indignant face. "How do you know I had
any choice in the matter? You have no right to speak contemptuously,
like that."
"Perhaps not. Certainly not. I should have said--the life you are
evidently leading."
"Well, I don't know that it makes so much difference. I suppose
everybody has a choice at all events between life and death, and you
mean that I ought to have killed myself rather than come to this.
That's my own business, however, and--"
A man had just passed behind them, and, catching the sound of the
girl's voice, had turned suddenly to look at her. She, at the same
moment, looked towards him, and stopped all at once in her speech.
"Are you walking up Regent Street?" she asked Waymark, in quite a
different voice. "Give me your arm, will you?"
Waymark complied, and they walked together in the direction she
suggested.
"What is the matter with you?" he asked. "Why are you trembling?"
"Don't look round. It's that fellow behind us; I know he is following."
"Somebody you know?"
"Yes, and hate. Worse than that, I'm afraid of him. Will you keep with
me till he's gone?"
"Of course I will. What harm can he do you though?"
"None that I know of. It's a strange stupid feeling I have. I can't
bear the sight of him. Don't look round!"
"Has he been a--a friend of yours?"
"No, no; not in that way. But he follows me about. He'll drive me out
of London, I know."
They had reached Piccadilly Circus.
"Look back now," she said, "and see if he's following still."
Waymark turned his head; the man was at a little distance behind. He
stopped when he saw himself observed, and stood on the edge of the
pavement, tapping his boot with his cane. He was a tall and rather
burly fellow, well dressed, with a clean-shaven face.
"Let's make haste round the corner," the girl said, "and get into the
restaurant. You must have some supper with me."
"I should be very happy, had I a penny in my pocket."
"See how easily good deeds are forgotten," returned the other, laughing
in the old way. "Now comes my turn to give proof of generosity. Come
and have some supper all the same."
"No; that's out of the question."
"Fiddlestick! Surely you won't desert me when I ask your protection?
Come along, and pay me back another time, if you like."
They walked round the corner, then the girl started and ran at her full
speed. Waymark followed in the same way, somewhat oppressed by a sense
of ridiculousness. They reached the shelter of the restaurant, and the
girl led the way upstairs, laughing immoderately.
Supper was served to them, and honoured with due attention by both.
Waymark had leisure to observe his companion's face in clearer light.
It was beautiful, and, better still, full of character.
He presently bent forward to her, and spoke in a low voice.
"Isn't this the man who followed us just coming in now? Look, he has
gone to the table on the right."
She looked round hastily, and shuddered, for she had met the man's eyes.
"Why did you tell me?" she exclaimed impatiently. "Now I can't finish
my supper. Wait till he has given his order, and then we will go."
Waymark examined this mysterious persecutor. In truth, the countenance
was no good one, and a woman might well dislike to have such eyes
turned upon her. It was a strong face; coarse originally, and, in
addition to the faults of nature, it now bore the plainest traces of
hard living. As soon as he perceived Waymark and his companion, he
fixed them with his eyes, and scarcely looked away as long as they
remained in the room. The girl seemed shrinking under this gaze, though
she sat almost with her back to him. She ceased talking, and, as soon
as she saw that Waymark had finished, made a sign to him to pay quickly
(with a sovereign she pushed across the table) and let them be gone.
They rose, accordingly, and left. The man watched them, but remained
seated.
"Are you in a hurry to get home?" the girl asked, when they were in the
street again.
"No; time is of no consequence to me."
"Do you live far off?"
"In Kennington. And you?"
"If you like, I'll show you. Let us walk quickly. I feel rather cold."
She led the way into the Strand. At no great distance from Temple Bar
she turned off into a small court.
"This is a queer place to live in," observed Waymark, as he looked up
at the dark houses.
"Don't be afraid," was the good-humoured reply, as she opened the door
with a latch-key. They went up two flights of stairs, then entered a
room where a bright fire was burning. Waymark's conductor held a piece
of paper to the flame, and lit a lamp. It was a small, pleasantly
furnished sitting-room.
"Do you play?" Waymark asked, seeing an open piano, with music upon it.
"I only wish I could. My landlady's daughter is giving me lessons. But
I think I'm getting on. Listen to me do this exercise."
She sat down, and, with much conscientious effort, went over some
simple bars. Then she looked up at her companion and caught him smiling.
"Well," she exclaimed, in a pet, "you must begin at the beginning in
everything, mustn't you? Come and let me hear what you can do."
"Not even so much."
"Then don't laugh at a poor girl doing her best. You have such a queer
smile too; it seems both ill-natured and good-natured at the same time.
Now wait a minute till I come back."
She went into an inner room, and closed the door behind her. In five
minutes it opened again. She appeared in a dressing gown and with her
feet in slippers. Her fine hair fell heavily about her shoulders; in
her arms she held a beautiful black cat, with white throat and paws.
"This is my child. Don't you admire him? Shake hands, Grim."
"Why Grim?"
"It's short for Grimalkin. The name of a cat in a book of fairy tales I
used to be fond of reading. Don't you think he's got a beautiful face,
and a good deal more intelligent than some people we could mention? I
picked him up on our door-step, two months ago. Oh, you never saw such
a wretched little object, dripping with rain, and with such a poor
starved little face, and bones almost coming through the skin. He
looked up at me, and begged me as plain as plain could be to have pity
on him and help him; didn't you, Grimmy? And so I brought him upstairs,
and made him comfortable, and now we shall never part.--Do you like
animals?"
"Yes."
The door of the room suddenly opened, and there sprang in a
fresh-coloured young girl in hat and jacket, short, plump, pretty, and
looking about seventeen. She started back on seeing that the room was
occupied.
"What is it, Sally?" asked Grim's mistress, with a good-natured laugh.
"Why, Mrs. Walter told me you wasn't in yet; I'm awful sorry, I beg
your pardon."
She spoke with a strong south-west-country accent.
"Do you want me?"
"It's only for Grim," returned Sally, showing something which she held
wrapped up in paper. "I'd brought un home a bit o' fish, a nice bit
without bone; it'll just suit he."
"Then come and give it he," said the other, with a merry glance at
Waymark. "But he mustn't make a mess on the hearthrug."
"Oh, trust un for that," cried Sally. "He won't pull it off the paper."
Grim was accordingly provided with his supper, and Sally ran away with
a "good-night."
"Who's that?" Waymark asked. "Where on earth does she come from?"
"She's from Weymouth. They talk queerly there, don't they? She lives in
the house, and goes to business. Sally and I are great friends."
"Do you come from the country?" Waymark inquired, as she sat down in an
easy-chair and watched the cat eating.
"No, I'm a London girl. I've never been out of the town since I was a
little child."
"And how old are you now?"
"Guess."
"Not twenty."
"Eighteen a month ago. All my life before me, isn't it?"
Waymark kept silence for a moment.
"How do you like my room?" she asked suddenly, looking round.
"It's very comfortable. I always thought there were nothing but
business places all about here. I should rather like to live in the
very middle of the town, like this."
"Should you? That's just what I like. Oh, how I enjoy the noise and the
crowds! I should be ill if I had to live in one of those long, dismal
streets, where the houses are all the same shape, and costermongers go
bawling about all day long. I suppose you live in a place like that?"
"Very much the same."
In taking his handkerchief out, Waymark just happened to feel a book in
his overcoat-pocket. He drew it forth to see what it was, having
forgotten entirely that he had been carrying the volume about with him
since morning.
"What's that?" asked the girl. "Will you let me look? Is it a tale?
Lend it me; will you?"
"Do you read books?"
"Oh yes; why not? Let me keep this till you come again. Is this your
name written here--Osmond Waymark?"
"Yes. And what is your name?"
"Ida Starr."
"Ida? That's a beautiful name. I was almost afraid to ask you, for fear
it should be something common."
"And why shouldn't I have a common name?"
"Because you are by no means a common girl."
"You think not? Well, perhaps you are right. But may I keep the book
till I see you again?"
"I had better give it you, for it isn't very likely you will see me
again."
"Why not?"
"My acquaintance would be anything but profitable to you. I often
haven't enough money to live on, and--"
Ida stooped down and played for a few moments with Grim, who turned
over lazily on to his back, and stroked his mistress's hands delicately
with his soft white paws.
"But you are a gentleman," she said, rising again, and rustling over
the pages of the book she still held. "Are you in the city?"
"The Lord deliver me!"
"What then?"
"I am nothing."
"Then you must be rich."
"It by no means follows. Yesterday I was a teacher in a school. To-day
I am what is called out of work."
"A teacher. But I suppose you'll get another place."
"No. I've given it up because I couldn't endure it any longer."
"And how are you going to live?"
"I have no idea."
"Then you must have been very foolish to give away your money like that
to-night."
"I don't pretend to much wisdom. If I had had another sovereign in my
pocket, no doubt I should have given it you before this, and you
wouldn't have refused it."
"How do you know?" she asked sharply. "Why should you think me selfish?"
"Certainly I have no reason to. And by the by, I already owe you money
for the supper. I will send it you to-morrow."
"Why not bring it?"
"Better not. I have a good deal of an unpleasant quality which people
call pride, and I don't care to make myself uncomfortable
unnecessarily."
"You can't have more pride than I have. Look." She held out her hands.
"Will you be my friend, really my friend? You understand me?"
"I think I understand, but I doubt whether it is possible."
"Everything is possible. Will you shake hands with me, and, when you
come to see me again, let us meet as if I were a modest girl, and you
had got to know me in a respectable house, and not in the street at
midnight?"
"You really wish it? You are not joking?"
"I am in sober earnest, and I wish it. You won't refuse?"
"If I did I should refuse a great happiness."
He took her hand and again released it.
"And now look at the time," said she, pointing to a clock on the
mantelpiece. "Half-past one. How will you get home?"
"Walk. It won't take me more than an hour. May I light my pipe before I
start?"
"Of course you may. When shall I see you again?"
"Shall we say this night next week?"
"Very well. Come here any time you like in the evening. I will be at
home after six. And then I can give you your book back."
Waymark lit his pipe, stooped to give Grim a stroke, and buttoned up
his coat. Ida led the way downstairs. They shook hands again, and
parted.