The morning post consisted of a manuscript returned from the _Daily
Herald_. Jimmy tossed the package on to the side table, with an
exclamation of disgust, not even troubling to ascertain if there were
any enclosure beyond the ordinary printed slip. Then, suddenly, he
decided to go up to town to see if he could find Douglas Kelly.
"Will you be late again, sir?" Mrs. Benn asked, severely.
"I think not," Jimmy answered, then, remembering his former experience
with Kelly, he added, "still you might let me have a latchkey on the
chance. I meant to have asked you for one before."
Mrs. Benn sighed, fumbled in a pocket, took a key off her own bunch, and
handed it to her lodger with an air of resignation.
"Mrs. Marlow said as you would always be in early." She repeated her
remark of the previous evening. "But if you are going to be late, sir, I
must ask you to be very careful with the candle. One does read of such
awful things, folks burnt in their beds. I'm sure I'm afraid to look at
the papers in these days."
Jimmy tried to laugh, but the sound spoke of irritation rather than of
amusement. "I don't think you need be afraid of me, Mrs. Benn, though I
did twist my ankle on that loose piece of carpet last night."
The landlady sniffed, and descended to the basement, where she relieved
her feelings, and conveyed a moral lesson, by smacking the head of her
youngest son, who was not wearing his Band of Hope ribbon.
"Poor children, can't they keep sober without joining a temperance
society?" a young lady lodger had once said, with a show of sympathy,
and since then the badges had not been greatly in evidence; but now they
should be brought out again as a rebuke to Mrs. Marlow's brother.
Jimmy went to the club which he knew Kelly used most, but the journalist
was not there. The waiter on duty surveyed the caller critically through
a window, then, having grown grey and wise in the ways of literary men,
he decided that Jimmy was not a creditor, and volunteered some
information. "Mr. Kelly's not been in yet, sir; but he's sure to come to
get his letters. So you might call again."
Jimmy strolled about until two o'clock--he was not of the kind which
calls just before lunch-time--then went back to the club.
"Not in yet, sir," the waiter said. "But he may come about four o'clock
for a cup of tea. He usually does, if he's in town."
Jimmy sighed. He was sick of waiting about; but he craved for the
society of someone he knew, and the idea of going back to spend the rest
of the day in those suburban lodgings seemed intolerable. So he decided
to wait, and walked down the narrow side street into the Strand, and
thence westwards, in more or less aimless fashion. He had never known
town sufficiently well to note the changes which the last ten years had
brought; possibly, they would not have interested him greatly in any
case, for he was a Londoner by birth, and the true Londoner looks at the
people and ignores the buildings.
He walked slowly, up to Piccadilly Circus, and thence along Regent
Street to Oxford Circus, where he turned eastwards again.
"Are you saved?" A tall gaunt man, in shabby clerical costume and black
woollen gloves, whispered the words in his ear, endeavoured to thrust a
tract into his hand, then hurried on towards the Circus. Jimmy looked
round quickly to see him repeat the process with an obviously astonished
German, then forgot all about the crank and his ways, for, coming up
behind him, clad just as she had been the night he saw her getting into
the cab in the Strand, was the tall girl whose face had been haunting
his memory.
Jimmy turned aside quickly and stared into a shop whilst she was
passing, then started to follow her at a little distance, not with the
least idea of making her acquaintance, but because some curious instinct
seemed to compel him to do so. She was walking rather fast, holding her
head erect, and looking neither to the right nor to the left; and, a
moment later, Jimmy saw the reason, for, just behind her, obviously
dogging her steps, was a great, overdressed African native, typical of
those who are sent by scores to England, to have a so-called education
wasted on them, sensual and lickerous savages, who may be quite
admirable as carriers in the West Coast jungles, but are wholly
abominable when allowed loose in the streets of London.
In common with every sane Englishman who has travelled, Jimmy had no
illusions left on the colour question. To him, the bare idea of a
coloured man speaking to a white woman was horrible, and here was the
worst form of coloured man, the son of the cannibal and the
devil-worshipper, trying to force himself on a white girl. Jimmy went
hot suddenly, a woman who was passing gave a little gasp as she saw the
look in his eyes; then he quickened his pace to catch up the two in
front, coming behind them in time to see the native deliberately jostle
the girl, then raise his glossy silk hat with a lascivious smile and
begin an apology. With flaming cheeks, the girl turned quickly, coming
face to face with Jimmy; but her persecutor's blood was up, and he
followed, still hat in hand. In a moment, Jimmy saw red, and, almost
before he knew what he was doing, he had caught the other on the point
of the jaw with his fist. The black man staggered, but recovered
himself, and for an instant it looked as though he were going to show
fight; but his colour told, and he looked round for a line of retreat,
just as a policeman, seeing the rapidly-gathering knot of spectators,
came up to investigate.
Jimmy, white-faced and fierce-eyed, listened in contemptuous silence
whilst the coloured man was giving his version, which was corroborated
by a rather long-haired person with a small white tie, who professed to
have seen the incident.
"This person"--he indicated Jimmy with a wave of a podgy hand--"this
person struck the dark gentleman a most cruel blow, entirely unprovoked.
I shall be most happy to give evidence," and he produced a card, a
printed one, stating that he was the Rev. Silas Lark, whilst the
address indicated that his business was the conversion of the heathen.
The constable gave him a keen look, and took the slip of pasteboard
rather doubtfully. "I see," he said, then he turned to Jimmy. "What have
you got to say to it all, sir?"
Jimmy told his story in a few words, then he glanced round to where the
girl had been standing; but, with a mingled sense of disappointment and
relief, he saw that she had slipped away. "I don't want to bring the
lady's name into it, of course," he added, as he gave his own name and
address.
"Now, then, move on there." The constable closed his notebook and
dispersed the little crowd; then he turned to Jimmy again, "I don't
expect you'll hear any more of this, sir. We've had one or two
complaints about that black man and his friends, and as for the Reverend
Mr. Silas," he smiled, grimly, "we've been told to watch him as a
pickpocket." He glanced at Jimmy again. "You look as if you've come from
abroad, sir, or else I shouldn't have told you so much. Take it from me,
Oxford Street is just alive with wrong 'uns in the afternoon, women as
well as men." Then he drew himself up, and went on to superintend the
raising of a fallen cab-horse, which served also to draw off the few who
were still staring at Jimmy. He was looking for the tall girl; and, a
moment later, he was rewarded by seeing her coming out of a tea-shop
with a paper-bag in her hand. She gave him a frank little smile of
recognition, and, emboldened, he raised his hat and went up to her.
"Thank you so much," she said. "I--I hope there won't be trouble for
you. I couldn't be in it, you see, so I slipped in there on the excuse
of buying a bun."
"Oh, it'll be all right," Jimmy answered lightly. "I don't mind paying a
fine for the pleasure of teaching a nigger manners," then, seeing she
looked tired and upset, he asked suddenly, "Will you come and have some
tea in here?" indicating a large restaurant they were passing.
The girl nodded. "Thank you. I should like some," she answered simply.
Her voice was sweet and refined, and, seeing her closely, Jimmy found
that she was even better-looking than he had imagined, whilst her
carriage was perfection.
Nothing more was said until they were seated at one of the little tables
in the palm court, then, suddenly, "Oh, how I loathe those black men."
She brought the words out with a little shudder. "There are three or
four of them haunt Oxford Street."
"Are you often about town?" Jimmy asked. She looked at him with a kind
of grave surprise; then she turned away as she answered, "I am always
about town. I have to be. You understand?" Her voice was very low, but
the words were perfectly distinct.
Unconsciously, Jimmy twisted his gloves in his two hands so fiercely
that one of them tore nearly in half. The daylight seemed to have gone
suddenly, leaving the gilding of the place dull and heavy. He
understood. Her words had killed all the romance of their meeting; yet,
when he looked at her again, he could hardly believe she was speaking
the truth.
The waiter brought the tea, and she poured it out, with far more grace
of manner and movement than Mrs. Marlow would have shown. Moreover, she
made no affectation about not wanting the dainty little sandwiches and
cakes. "They are so delicious that I feel it's a sin to leave them," she
said, when he declared he would have no more.
"What is your name?" he asked abruptly, breaking what had been rather a
long silence. She was dusting some minute crumbs off her dress, and she
answered without looking up, "Penrose, Lalage Penrose."
She did not ask for his name, but he volunteered it; then, "May I come
and see you?" he added.
The girl hesitated a moment. "Why not?" she asked at last, but she
flushed at her own words, and her hand was unsteady as she wrote down
the address, which was one of a block of flats near Baker Street.
"Can I come to-morrow afternoon?"
She nodded and got up. At the entrance of the restaurant she stopped and
held out her hand. "Good-bye, and thank you."
"It's only _au revoir_, isn't it?" he answered, as he raised his hat,
then without looking back, for fear she would think he was watching her,
he walked away rapidly, his feelings a mixture of elation and of
something very nearly akin to misery.
Douglas Kelly was in when Jimmy called again at the club. "The waiter
gave me your card and I supposed you would come along soon. You look a
bit doleful. What are you going to drink?... That was a good article of
yours in the _Whitehall Gazette_ this evening."
Jimmy set his glass down suddenly. "I haven't seen it; in fact, I was
expecting to find the manuscript waiting for me when I got back."
Kelly laughed. "So that's the reason of the dumps? The postman drops 'em
through the letter-box with a kind of sickening thud, and you feel
there's nothing left to live for, unless it's to kill the editor. I went
through it all, until I made 'em understand they must have my signature
at my own price. Still, you haven't done so badly in the few days you've
been home. Dodgson tells me they've got another article of yours in
type. Here, Romsey," he hailed a man who had just come in, whose face
somehow seemed familiar to Jimmy, "I want to introduce you to an old
colleague of mine, Grierson, who is going to knock spots out of you
all."
The new-comer grinned. "I've seen him knocking spots out a nigger in
Oxford Street already. It'll be in the next edition of the _Evening
Post_, 'Outrageous assault on an African Prince.' I happened to be
passing and got seven shillings-worth of copy out of it," he added,
turning to Jimmy. "I left your name out, though. But, you see, the
_Evening Post_ believes in a man and a brother, and sacks its boys if it
finds they have been vaccinated; so the story exactly suited them. The
Prince, too, has just sold the gold-mining rights of his native swamp,
and has held a reception in Exeter Hall, so he in himself was good stuff
for us." Then he gave Kelly a moderately truthful account of what had
occurred.
Kelly did not laugh. "It won't go down here, Jimmy, that sort of thing.
Of course you were right; it's an abominable scandal to let these
niggers loose; but at home people'll never understand it. If your name
were to come out, you would be done, right away. And," he looked at him
keenly, "your lady friends should know better than to be alone in that
part of Oxford Street. Well, Romsey, are you going to pay for the drinks
out of your seven shillings, or am I? Then I'm going to put Jimmy up for
the club, and you can second him."