HOW THE ADDRESS WAS LOST
And now the end of that journey, never altogether forgotten by either of
them, was close at hand. Tunnels became more frequent, the green fields
gave way to an interminable waste of houses, the gloom of the autumn
afternoon was deepened. The speed of the train decreased, the heart of
Douglas Jesson beat fast with anticipation. For now indeed he was near
the end of his journey, the beginning of his new life. What matter that
the outlook from where he sat was dreary enough. Beyond, there was a
glow in the sky; beyond was an undiscovered world. He was young, and he
came fresh to the fight. The woman who watched him wondered.
"Will you tell me," she said, "now that you are in London, what will you
do? You have money perhaps, or will you work?"
"Money," he laughed, gaily at first, but with a chill shiver immediately
afterwards. Yes, he had money. For the moment he had forgotten it.
"I have a small sum," he said, "just sufficient to last me until I begin
to earn some."
"And you will earn money--how?"
"With my pen, I hope," he answered simply. "I have sent several stories
to the _Ibex_. One they accepted, but it has not appeared yet."
"To make money by writing in London is very difficult they say," she
remarked.
"Everything in life is difficult," he answered confidently. "I am
prepared for disappointment at first. In the end I have no fears."
She handed him a card from her dressing-case.
"Will you come and see me?" she asked.
"Thank you," he answered hesitatingly. "I will come when I have made a
start."
"I know a great many people who are literary, including the editor of
the _Ibex_," she said. "I think if you came that I could help you."
He shook his head.
"The narrow way for me," he answered smiling. "I am very anxious for
success, but I want to win it myself."
Her face was clouded.
"You are a foolish boy," she said. "Believe me that I am offering you
the surest path to success. London is full of young men with talent,
and most days they go hungry."
He stood up, and, though she was annoyed, the fire in his eyes was good
to look upon.
"I must take my place with them," he said. "Whatever my destiny may be
I shall find it."
The final tunnel, and they were gliding into the station alongside the
platform. A tall footman threw open the door of the carriage, and a
lady's maid, with a jewel case in her hand, stared at him with
undisguised curiosity. The lady bade him goodbye kindly, yet with a
note of final dismissal in her tone. He had occupied her time for an
hour or two, and saved her from absolute boredom. The matter was ended
there. Nevertheless, from a quiet corner of the station he watched her
stand listlessly on the platform while her things were being
collected--a tall, distinguished looking figure, and very noticeable
amongst the motley crowd who were streaming from the train. Once he
fancied that her eyes strayed along the way by which he had left. A
moment later she was accosted by a man who had just driven into the
station. She seemed to greet him without enthusiasm. He, on the other
hand, was obviously welcoming her warmly. He too was tall, carefully
dressed and well groomed, middle aged, a type, he supposed, of the men
of her world. There was a few minutes' conversation, then they moved
across the platform to the carriage, which was drawn up waiting. He
handed her in, lingering hat in hand for a moment as though hoping for
an invitation to follow her, which, however, did not come. The carriage
drove off, passing the spot where Douglas had lingered, and it seemed to
him that her eyes, gazing languidly out of the window, met his, and that
she started forward in her seat as though to call to him. But the
carriage received no summons to stop. It rolled out of the station and
turned westwards. Douglas turned and followed it on foot.
* * * * *
He walked at first very much like a man in a dream, quite heedless as to
direction, even without any fixed purpose before him. Here he was,
arrived after all at the first stage in his new life. He was a free
man, a living unit in this streaming horde of humanity. Of his old
life, the most pleasant memory which survived was the loneliness of the
hills and moorland high above his village home. Here he had spent whole
nights with nothing but the wind and the stars and the distant sheep
bells to keep him company. Here he had woven many dreams of this future
which lay now actually within his grasp. He had stolen up the mountain
path whilst the little village lay sleeping, and watched the shadows
pass across the hills, and the darkness steal softly down upon the
landscape stretched out like patchwork below. Then with the night and
the absence of all human sounds had come that sweet and mystical sense
of loneliness which had so often brought him peace at a time when the
smallness of the day's events and the tyranny of his home life had
filled him with bitterness. It was here that courage had come to him to
plan out his emancipation, here that he had fed his brain with sweet but
forbidden fruits. Something of that delicious loneliness was upon him
now. He was a wanderer in a new world. What matter though the streets
were squalid, and the men and women against whom he brushed were, for
the most part, poorly dressed and ill looking? He was free. Even his
identity was gone. Douglas Guest was dead, and with his past Douglas
Jesson had nothing to do.
He wandered on, asking no questions, perfectly content. The great city
expanded before him. Streets became wider, carriages were more
frequent, the faces of the people grew more cheerful. He laughed softly
to himself from sheer lightness of heart. From down a side street he
came into the Strand, and here, for the first time, he noticed that he
himself was attracting some attention. Then he remembered his clothes,
shabby enough, but semi-clerical, and he walked boldly into a large
ready-made clothing establishment, where everything was marked in plain
figures, and where layfigures of gentlemen with waxy faces, attired in
the height of fashion, were gazing blandly out into the world from
behind a huge plate-glass window. He bought a plain blue serge suit,
and begged leave to change in the "trying-on" room. Half an hour later
he walked out again, with his own clothes done up in a bundle, feeling
that his emancipation was now complete.
The lights of Waterloo Bridge attracted him, and he turned down before
them. From one of the parapets he had his first view of the Thames. He
leaned over, gazing with fascinated eyes at the ships below, dimly seen
now through the gathering darkness, at the black waters in which flashed
the reflection of the long row of lamps. The hugeness of the hotels on
the Embankment, all afire with brilliant illuminations, almost took away
his breath. Whilst he lingered there Big Ben boomed out the hour of
six, and he realised with beating heart that those must be the Houses of
Parliament across on the other side. A cold breeze came up and blew in
his face, but he scarcely heeded it. It was the mother river which
flowed beneath him--the greatest of the world's cities into which he had
come, a wanderer, yet at heart one of her sons. Now at last he was in
touch with his kind. Oh, what a welcome present--how gladly he realised
that henceforth he must date his life from that day. He lifted his
parcel cautiously to the ledge and waited for a moment. There was no
one looking. Now was his time. He let it go, and heard the muffled
splash as it fell upon the water. Not until it had slipped from his
fingers and gone beyond recovery did he realise that the card which she
had given him was carefully tucked away in the breast pocket of the
coat. He knew neither her name nor where to look for her.