Ida Fenton did not shrink from the task of interviewing Lalage. Rather
otherwise, in fact, for her own conduct had always been so correct, both
her nature and her circumstances combining to keep her out of
temptation, that she felt a repulsion, verging almost on hatred, towards
those who had erred; consequently, she took a kind of grim pleasure in
chastening the sinner. Unconsciously, too, Joseph Fenton had made things
worse for Lalage by attempting a remonstrance.
"I think you and May are going too far, putting the police on her and so
on," he had said. "Why can't you be content to give Jimmy a warning, and
leave the girl alone. It looks bad, being so vindictive."
Whereupon Ida had turned on him in one of those cold outbursts of fury
which his rare attempts at independence always provoked. She had given
up her life to this man, whose natural, easy-going weakness of character
she knew so well; and now he actually dared to put in a good word for an
abandoned woman. As a rule, Joseph bowed to the storm, but on this
occasion he, too, had lost his temper, and then, suddenly Ida had
understood, or had thought she understood. Joseph knew Lalage's address.
Jealousy redoubled Ida's bitterness, and she went to the flat more than
ever determined to hunt its occupant out into the streets. A woman as
good as herself had a perfect right to be merciless.
When Lalage opened the door she realised instantly who her visitor must
be. That hard, beautiful face was as like Jimmy's in features as it was
unlike his in expression. Looking at it, Lalage understood that her own
cause was lost; it would be quite useless pleading to Ida Fenton.
The visitor swept in scornfully. Lalage closed the door and then stood,
waiting, white-faced and desperate.
"I have come for Mr. Grierson's things. Kindly pack them up and have
them taken down to my cab." Ida's quiet voice belied the savage anger
which the sight of this girl had aroused.
Lalage started. She had never thought of this. Could it be that Jimmy
was not coming back at all, even to say "Good-bye," that she would never
see him again?
"Did he send you?" she asked breathlessly.
In a good cause, Ida did not hesitate to strain the truth. "Of course,"
she answered impatiently, then she went a little too far, and added
something which she thought would hurt. "He is waiting down below now."
Lalage made a rapid mental calculation. Jimmy had only set out for the
City twenty minutes before, and could not have returned, so she laughed
bitterly. "I will give them to Mr. Grierson when he comes for them
himself," she answered.
Ida's steely eyes glittered. "He will not be such a fool as to come
back, weak and wicked though he has been."
The younger woman took a step forward so suddenly that Mrs. Fenton
recoiled. "He is not weak and wicked. It is abominable for you, his
sister, to say so. He is far too good for any of you, and whatever he
has done wrong, you are to blame for it. You never tried to understand
him or help him. You just left him drift away because he didn't fall in
with your narrow-minded ideas. I may have done wrong, I have done wrong;
but he has always been all that is good and true and honourable. He may
leave me, but he'll never go back to you, never, never, never." She
paused, breathless.
Ida Fenton had recovered her composure. "Perhaps it will alter your
point of view when I tell you that if my brother continues to know you,
he will never get anything from his family. We shall cut him off
entirely. I believe that is the kind of argument which appeals to
persons of your sort." She emphasised the last two words. "He may have
misled you with the idea that he could get money out of us; but that was
quite wrong; whilst, as for his own prospects, he is no good and never
will be."
"You shan't say that about him," Lalage broke in passionately. "It's
only your ignorance and your jealousy of his cleverness."
Ida shrugged her shoulders scornfully. "No doubt you are a judge of what
is correct and right. You should know my brother by now. But I think he,
too, will have learnt all about you this morning. That telegram which
trapped you a few nights back, calling you out to meet a man in the West
End, was sent by one of my brother-in-law's clerks. You were watched
then, and recognised by the police. You will get notice to leave here
to-day, and I do not think you will find another place in London. If you
can explain all that to my brother to his satisfaction, he must be such
a fool that you will be welcome to him."
Then she swept out, feeling she had vindicated the Grierson tradition.
It was an hour later, when Lalage heard Jimmy's key in the lock. She was
sitting huddled up in a big armchair, his favourite chair; but she did
not move when he came in, and stood in front of her, though she had
noticed that he was dragging his feet a little, and breathing heavily,
as though the stairs had exhausted him.
"Well?" he said at last.
She turned her head away. "Your sister came soon after you left," she
said, in a curious, dull voice.
Jimmy started. "Ida? Ida has been here already?" He passed his hand over
his forehead in a dazed sort of way, then tried to pull himself
together, as though to meet a blow. "Is it true, Lalage?" he asked.
She answered him with a nod.
On the second time that day, Jimmy steadied himself by the mantelpiece,
only now his head went down on to his arms, and Lalage heard him give a
sob.
In an instant she was on her feet, trying to turn his face towards hers.
"Oh, I did it all for you, Jimmy, I did it all for you. Do you believe
that, oh, you must believe that. You were ill and half-starving, and I
had to get you nourishment and clothes. It was the quickest way, the
only way I could think of; and it seemed so lovely to get you good food,
and make you stronger. It was awful, but it would have been more awful
to see you dying. Jimmy, believe me, you must believe me, every penny
went for you. I didn't want it for myself, only for you; and I thought
when the worry and the knocking at the door by the tradesmen were over,
you would soon get on, and then I would have stopped, oh, so gladly.
Jimmy, dear, Jimmy, sweetheart, say you understand, even if you don't
forgive."
The man looked up, and, for the first time, Lalage saw how he had
changed. He was livid and ghastly, and, when he tried to speak, he
caught his breath and coughed heavily. Lalage waited with pitiful
anxiety for his answer.
"I understand," he said, "but you ought not to have done it, after your
promising to marry me."
She turned away hopelessly, and sank into the chair again, knowing she
had lost him. "I did it for the best," she wailed. "I only thought of
you, Jimmy, only of you."
"You were wrong," he answered dully. "We were both wrong. It has all
been a mistake from the first. There is nothing but misery in this sort
of life, there can only be misery." He was talking in a detached kind of
way, as though the pain of the blow had been succeeded by a mental
numbness.
Lalage was sobbing very quietly in the chair; it was the end of
everything for her.
After a while, "What will you do now?" he asked.
She shook her head. "I don't know. I don't think I care, now I've lost
you." She waited a moment in a last, desperate hope he would correct
her, then went on, "Your people have been to the police, and they're
hunting me out. Already, the agent has been round to give me notice to
go immediately, and the hire-purchase people are sending for the
furniture back. Everything has gone. Still I shall manage."
In a flash, he was jealous again. "Do you mean to say----" he began; but
she cut him short.
"No, Jimmy, not that. You need never fear the old life again."
Her words gave him a new fear. "Will you promise you won't kill
yourself?" He had come nearer to her, and she thought he was going to
touch her.
For a moment she hesitated, confirming his suspicions.
"Promise," he said, almost sternly.
Then she looked up, and asked him a question in turn: "What will you do,
Jimmy?"
He had no reply ready, or, at any rate, he did not reply, and she went
on. "I will promise that, Jimmy, if you will promise me something.
Promise, on your word of honour, not to let this ruin your life, not to
go wrong and drink."
Jimmy did as she had done; he hesitated a moment. "I will promise, if
you will do as I want--go down into the country, away from this horrible
town, and live quietly. I will manage the money, somehow."
"And not see you again? Jimmy, you don't mean not see you again, just as
a friend, only as a friend?"
His silence answered her, and she fell to sobbing once more, very
quietly this time, whilst he stood at the window, staring out at
nothing. At last, she grew calm and stood up, drying her eyes.
"Very well," she said. "I will leave it all to you, because I can't help
myself. After a time, when I feel better, I shall get something to do,
perhaps, in a shop, or dressmaking. Only, the quieter the place the
better; and, Jimmy, whatever you do, you must not let your people know
where I am."
"It is hardly likely I shall see much of them," he answered grimly. "I
think you had better go to some quiet hotel to-night," he added. "Get
your things together, and I will see you to-morrow and arrange matters
then. You say they are seizing all this furniture and so on."
They had both got back to a kind of forced calmness now, and she
answered him quietly. "Yes, my poor little home is going. It's no good
protesting; your sisters have made that impossible; and these people can
do just as they like. I suppose the landlord telephoned to the furniture
people, and they are going shares. Yet I have already paid more than the
goods are worth."
Half an hour later, she came out of the bedroom with her hat on.
"I have packed your things as well, Jimmy. What are you going to do with
them? Will you take them away now, and then I can leave the keys at the
agent's office as we go past."
Jimmy started. He had forgotten they were both homeless now. "Yes, I
suppose so. I hadn't thought. I will go to the hotel I stayed at before,
and then take you down to another. I will go and get a cab."
Whilst he was out, Lalage hastily tidied up her little kitchen; then,
taking a dustpan and brush, she swept up a few scraps of mud which had
come off Jimmy's boots. In a drawer of the table she found his pen and a
scrap of blotting paper he had used, and thrust them hurriedly into her
dress. Then, during a final look round, she kissed in turn each article
of furniture he had been wont to use, heedless of the tears that were
dropping on them, coming last of all to his own chair, where she knelt
down and buried her face in the seat. She was still there when she heard
his step on the stairs; but she jumped up hastily and met him in the
little hall, whither she had dragged the luggage.
"It is all ready now," she said, and went out without looking back.
When Jimmy got down to the club a couple of hours later, he found a
telegram waiting for him in the rack, signed "Joseph Fenton."
It read: "Meet me any time to-night at the Grand Central Hotel. Shall be
alone."