THE CASUAL ACQUAINTANCE
At that corner of Battersea Park which is near Albert Bridge there has
lain for more than twenty years a curious collection of architectural
fragments, chiefly dismembered columns, spread in order upon the
ground, and looking like portions of a razed temple. It is the
colonnade of old Burlington House, conveyed hither from Piccadilly who
knows why, and likely to rest here, the sporting ground for adventurous
infants, until its origin is lost in the abyss of time.
It was at this spot that Monica had agreed to meet with her casual
acquaintance, Edmund Widdowson, and there, from a distance, she saw his
lank, upright, well-dressed figure moving backwards and forwards upon
the grass. Even at the last moment Monica doubted whether to approach.
Emotional interest in him she had none, and the knowledge of life she
had gained in London assured her that in thus encouraging a perfect
stranger she was doing a very hazardous thing. But the evening must
somehow be spent, and if she went off in another direction it would
only be to wander about with an adventurous mind; for her conversation
with Miss Nunn had had precisely the opposite effect of that which
Rhoda doubtless intended; she felt something of the recklessness which
formerly excited her wonder when she remarked it in the other
shop-girls. She could no longer be without a male companion, and as she
had given her promise to this man—
He had seen her, and was coming forward. To-day he carried a
walking-stick, and wore gloves; otherwise his appearance was the same
as at Richmond. At the distance of a few yards he raised his hat, not
very gracefully. Monica did not offer her hand, nor did Widdowson seem
to expect it. But he gave proof of an intense pleasure in the meeting;
his sallow cheeks grew warm, and in the many wrinkles about his eyes
played a singular smile, good-natured but anxious, apprehensive.
“I am so glad you were able to come,” he said in a low voice, bending
towards her.
“It has been even finer than last Sunday,” was Monica’s rather vague
reply, as she glanced at some people who were passing.
“Yes, a wonderful day. But I only left home an hour ago. Shall we walk
this way?”
They went along the path by the river. Widdowson exhibited none of the
artifices of gallantry practised by men who are in the habit of picking
up an acquaintance with shop-girls. His smile did not return; an
extreme sobriety characterized his manner and speech; for the most part
he kept his eyes on the ground, and when silent he had the look of one
who inwardly debates a grave question.
“Have you been into the country?” was one of his first inquiries.
“No. I spent the morning with my sisters, and in the afternoon I had to
see a lady in Chelsea.”
“Your sisters are older than yourself?”
“Yes, some years older.”
“Is it long since you went to live apart from them?”
“We have never had a home of our own since I was quite a child.”
And, after a moment’s hesitation, she went on to give a brief account
of her history. Widdowson listened with the closest attention, his lips
twitching now and then, his eyes half closed. But for cheek-bones that
were too prominent and nostrils rather too large, he was not
ill-featured. No particular force of character declared itself in his
countenance, and his mode of speech did not suggest a very active
brain. Speculating again about his age, Monica concluded that he must
be two or three and forty, in spite of the fact that his grizzled beard
argued for a higher figure. He had brown hair untouched by any sign of
advanced life, his teeth were white and regular, and something—she
could not make clear to her mind exactly what—convinced her that he
had a right to judge himself comparatively young.
“I supposed you were not a Londoner,” he said, when she came to a pause.
“How?”
“Your speech. Not,” he added quickly, “that you have any provincial
accent. And even if you had been a Londoner you would not have shown it
in that way.”
He seemed to be reproving himself for a blunder, and after a short
silence asked in a tone of kindness,—
“Do you prefer the town?”
“In some ways—not in all.”
“I am glad you have relatives here, and friends. So many young ladies
come up from the country who are quite alone.”
“Yes, many.”
Their progress to familiarity could hardly have been slower. Now and
then they spoke with a formal coldness which threatened absolute
silence. Monica’s brain was so actively at work that she lost
consciousness of the people who were moving about them, and at times
her companion was scarcely more to her than a voice.
They had walked along the whole front of the park, and were near
Chelsea Bridge. Widdowson gazed at the pleasure-boats lying below on
the strand, and said diffidently,—
“Would you care to go on the river?”
The proposal was so unexpected that Monica looked up with a startled
air. She had not thought of the man as likely to offer any kind of
amusement.
“It would be pleasant, I think,” he added. “The tide is still running
up. We might go very quietly for a mile or two, and be back as soon as
you like.”
“Yes, I should like it.”
He brightened up, and moved with a livelier step. In a few minutes they
had chosen their boat, had pushed off, and were gliding to the middle
of the broad water. Widdowson managed the sculls without awkwardness,
but by no means like a man well trained in this form of exercise. On
sitting down, he had taken off his hat, stowed it away, and put on a
little travelling-cap, which he drew from his pocket. Monica thought
this became him. After all, he was not a companion to be ashamed of.
She looked with pleasure at his white hairy hands with their firm grip;
then at his boots—very good boots indeed. He had gold links in his
white shirt-cuffs, and a gold watch-guard chosen with a gentleman’s
taste.
“I am at your service,” he said, with an approach to gaiety. “Direct
me. Shall we go quickly—some distance, or only just a little quicker
than the tide would float us?”
“Which you like. To row much would make you too hot.”
“You would like to go some distance—I see.”
“No, no. Do exactly what you like. Of course we must be back in an hour
or two.”
He drew out his watch.
“It’s now ten minutes past six, and there is daylight till nine or
after. When do you wish to be home?”
“Not much later than nine,” Monica answered, with the insincerity of
prudence.
“Then we will just go quietly along. I wish we could have started early
in the afternoon. But that may be for another day, I hope.”
On her lap Monica had the little brown-paper parcel which contained her
present. She saw that Widdowson glanced at it from time to time, but
she could not bring herself to explain what it was.
“I was very much afraid that I should not see you to-day,” he said, as
they glided softly by Chelsea Embankment.
“But I promised to come if it was fine.”
“Yes. I feared something might prevent you. You are very kind to give
me your company.” He was looking at the tips of her little boots. “I
can’t say how I thank you.”
Much embarrassed, Monica could only gaze at one of the sculls, as it
rose and fell, the water dripping from it in bright beads.
“Last year,” he pursued, “I went on the river two or three times, but
alone. This year I haven’t been in a boat till to-day.”
“You prefer driving?”
“Oh, it’s only chance. I do drive a good deal, however. I wish it were
possible to take you through the splendid country I saw a day or two
ago—down in Surrey. Perhaps some day you will let me. I live rather a
lonely life, as you see. I have a housekeeper; no relative lives with
me. My only relative in London is a sister-in-law, and we very seldom
meet.”
“But don’t you employ yourself in any way?”
“I’m very idle. But that’s partly because I have worked very hard and
hopelessly all my life—till a year and a half ago. I began to earn my
own living when I was fourteen, and now I am forty-four—to-day.”
“This is your birthday?” said Monica, with an odd look the other could
not understand.
“Yes—I only remembered it a few hours ago. Strange that such a treat
should have been provided for me. Yes, I am very idle. A year and a
half ago my only brother died. He had been very successful in life, and
he left me what I regard as a fortune, though it was only a small part
of what he had.”
The listener’s heart throbbed. Without intending it, she pulled the
tiller so that the boat began to turn towards land.
“The left hand a little,” said Widdowson, smiling correctly. “That’s
right. Many days I don’t leave home. I am fond of reading, and now I
make up for all the time lost in years gone by. Do you care for books?”
“I never read very much, and I feel very ignorant.”
“But that is only for want of opportunity, I’m sure.”
He glanced at the brown-paper parcel. Acting on an impulse which
perturbed her, Monica began to slip off the loosely-tied string, and to
unfold the paper.
“I thought it was a book!” exclaimed Widdowson merrily, when she had
revealed a part of her present.
“When you told me your name,” said Monica, “I ought perhaps to have
told you mine. It’s written here. My sisters gave me this to-day.”
She offered the little volume. He took it as though it were something
fragile, and—the sculls fixed under his elbows—turned to the fly-leaf.
“What? It is _your_ birthday?”
“Yes. I am twenty-one.”
“Will you let me shake hands with you?” His pressure of her fingers was
the lightest possible. “Now that’s rather a strange thing—isn’t it?
Oh, I remember this book very well, though I haven’t seen it or heard
of it for twenty years. My mother used to read it on Sundays. And it is
really your birthday? I am more than twice your age, Miss Madden.”
The last remark was uttered anxiously, mournfully. Then, as if to
reassure himself by exerting physical strength, he drove the boat along
with half a dozen vigorous strokes. Monica was rustling over the pages,
but without seeing them.
“I don’t think,” said her companion presently, “you are very well
contented with your life in that house of business.”
“No, I am not.”
“I have heard a good deal of the hardships of such a life. Will you
tell me something about yours?”
Readily she gave him a sketch of her existence from Sunday to Sunday,
but without indignation, and as if the subject had no great interest
for her.
“You must be very strong,” was Widdowson’s comment.
“The lady I went to see this afternoon told me I looked ill.”
“Of course I can see the effects of overwork. My wonder is that you
endure it at all. Is that lady an old acquaintance?”
Monica answered with all necessary detail, and went on to mention the
proposal that had been made to her. The hearer reflected, and put
further questions. Unwilling to speak of the little capital she
possessed, Monica told him that her sisters might perhaps help her to
live whilst she was learning a new occupation. But Widdowson had become
abstracted; he ceased pulling, crossed his arms on the oars, and
watched other boats that were near. Two deep wrinkles, rippling in
their course, had formed across his forehead, and his eyes widened in a
gaze of complete abstraction at the farther shore.
“Yes,” fell from him at length, as though in continuation of something
he had been saying, “I began to earn my bread when I was fourteen. My
father was an auctioneer at Brighton. A few years after his marriage he
had a bad illness, which left him completely deaf. His partnership with
another man was dissolved, and as things went worse and worse with him,
my mother started a lodging-house, which somehow supported us for a
long time. She was a sensible, good, and brave woman. I’m afraid my
father had a good many faults that made her life hard. He was of a
violent temper, and of course the deafness didn’t improve it. Well, one
day a cab knocked him down in the King’s Road, and from that injury,
though not until a year after, he died. There were only two children; I
was the elder. My mother couldn’t keep me at school very long, so, at
fourteen, I was sent into the office of the man who had been my
father’s partner, to serve him and learn the business. I did serve him
for years, and for next to no payment, but he taught me nothing more
than he could help. He was one of those heartless, utterly selfish men
that one meets too often in the business world. I ought never to have
been sent there, for my father had always an ill opinion of him; but he
pretended a friendly interest in me—just, I am convinced, to make the
use of me that he did.”
He was silent, and began rowing again.
“What happened them?” asked Monica.
“I mustn’t make out that I was a faultless boy,” he continued, with the
smile that graved wrinkles about his eyes; “quite the opposite. I had a
good deal of my father’s temper; I often behaved very badly to my
mother; what I needed was some stern but conscientious man to look
after me and make me work. In my spare time I lay about on the shore,
or got into mischief with other boys. It needed my mother’s death to
make a more sensible fellow of me, and by that time it was too late. I
mean I was too old to be trained into profitable business habits. Up to
nineteen I had been little more than an errand and office boy, and all
through the after years I never got a much better position.”
“I can’t understand that,” remarked Monica thoughtfully.
“Why not?”
“You seem to—to be the kind of man that would make your way.”
“Do I?” The description pleased him; he laughed cheerfully. “But I
never found what my way was to be. I have always hated office work, and
business of every kind; yet I could never see an opening in any other
direction. I have been all my life a clerk—like so many thousands of
other men. Nowadays, if I happen to be in the City when all the clerks
are coming away from business, I feel an inexpressible pity for them. I
feel I should like to find two or three of the hardest driven, and just
divide my superfluous income between. A clerk’s life—a life of the
office without any hope of rising—that is a hideous fate!”
“But your brother got on well. Why didn’t he help you?”
“We couldn’t agree. We always quarrelled.”
“Are you really so ill-tempered?”
It was asked in Monica’s most naive tone, with a serious air of
investigation which at first confused Widdowson, then made him laugh.
“Since I was a lad,” he replied, “I have never quarrelled with any one
except my brother. I think it’s only very unreasonable people that
irritate me. Some men have told me that I was far too easy-going, too
good-natured. Certainly I _desire_ to be good-natured. But I don’t
easily make friends; as a rule I can’t talk to strangers. I keep so
much to myself that those who know me only a little think me surly and
unsociable.”
“So your brother always refused to help you?”
“It wasn’t easy for him to help me. He got into a stockbroker’s, and
went on step by step until he had saved a little money; then he
speculated in all sorts of ways. He couldn’t employ me himself—and if
he could have done so, we should never have got on together. It was
impossible for him to recommend me to any one except as a clerk. He was
a born money-maker. I’ll give you an example of how he grew rich. In
consequence of some mortgage business he came into possession of a
field at Clapham. As late as 1875 this field brought him only a rent of
forty pounds; it was freehold property, and he refused many offers of
purchase. Well, in 1885, the year before he died, the ground-rents from
that field—now covered with houses—were seven hundred and ninety
pounds a year. That’s how men get on who have capital and know how to
use it. If _I_ had had capital, it would never have yielded me more
than three or four per cent. I was doomed to work for other people who
were growing rich. It doesn’t matter much now, except that so many
years of life have been lost.”
“Had your brother any children?”
“No children. All the same, it astonished me when I heard his will; I
had expected nothing. In one day—in one hour—I passed from slavery to
freedom, from poverty to more than comfort. We never _hated_ each
other; I don’t want you to think that.”
“But—didn’t it bring you friends as well as comfort?”
“Oh,” he laughed, “I am not so rich as to have people pressing for my
acquaintance. I have only about six hundred a year.”
Monica drew in her breath silently, then gazed at the distance.
“No, I haven’t made any new friends. The one or two men I care for are
not much better off than I used to be, and I always feel ashamed to ask
them to come and see me. Perhaps they think I shun them because of
their position, and I don’t know how to justify myself. Life has always
been full of worrying problems for me. I can’t take things in the
simple way that comes natural to other men.”
“Don’t you think we ought to be turning back, Mr. Widdowson?”
“Yes, we will. I am sorry the time goes so quickly.”
When a few minutes had passed in silence, he asked,—
“Do you feel that I am no longer quite a stranger to you, Miss Madden?”
“Yes—you have told me so much.”
“It’s very kind of you to listen so patiently. I wish I had more
interesting things to tell, but you see what a dull life mine has
been.” He paused, and let the boat waver on the stream for a moment.
“When I dared to speak to you last Sunday I had only the faintest hope
that you would grant me your acquaintance. You can’t, I am sure, repent
of having done me that kindness—?”
“One never knows. I doubted whether I ought to talk with a stranger—”
“Rightly—quite rightly. It was my perseverance—you saw, I hope, that
I could never dream of giving you offence. The rule is necessary, but
you see there may be exceptional cases.” He was giving a lazy stroke
now and then, which, as the tide was still, just moved the boat
onwards. “I saw something in your face that _compelled_ me to speak to
you. And now we may really be friends, I hope?”
“Yes—I can think of you as a friend, Mr. Widdowson.”
A large boat was passing with four or five young men and girls who sang
in good time and tune. Only a song of the music-hall or of the nigger
minstrels, but it sounded pleasantly with the plash of the oars. A fine
sunset had begun to glow upon the river; its warmth gave a tone to
Monica’s thin cheeks.
“And you will let me see you again before long? Let me drive you to
Hampton Court next Sunday—or any other place you would choose.”
“Very likely I shall be invited to my friend’s in Chelsea.”
“Do you seriously think of leaving the shop?”
“I don’t know—I must have time to think about it—”
“Yes—yes. But if I write a line to you, say on Friday, would you let
me know whether you can come?”
“Please to let me refuse for next Sunday. The one after, perhaps—”
He bent his head, looked desperately grave, and drove the boat on.
Monica was disturbed, but held to her resolution, which Widdowson
silently accepted. The rest of the way they exchanged only brief
sentences, about the beauty of the sky, the scenes on river or bank,
and other impersonal matters. After landing, they walked in silence
towards Chelsea Bridge.
“Now I must go quickly home,” said Monica.
“But how?”
“By train—from York Road to Walworth Road.”
Widdowson cast a curious glance at her. One would have imagined that he
found something to disapprove in this ready knowledge of London transit.
“I will go with you to the station, then.”
Without a word spoken, they walked the short distance to York Road.
Monica took her ticket, and offered a hand for good-bye.
“I may write to you,” said Widdowson, his face set in an expression of
anxiety, “and make an appointment, if possible, for the Sunday after
next?”
“I shall be glad to come—if I can.”
“It will be a very long time to me.”
With a faint smile, Monica hurried away to the platform. In the train
she looked like one whose mind is occupied with grave trouble. Fatigue
had suddenly overcome her; she leaned back and closed her eyes.
At a street corner very near to Messrs. Scotcher’s establishment she
was intercepted by a tall, showily-dressed, rather coarse-featured
girl, who seemed to have been loitering about. It was Miss Eade.
“I want to speak to you, Miss Madden. Where did you go with Mr.
Bullivant this morning?”
The voice could not have been more distinctive of a London shop-girl;
its tone signified irritation.
“With Mr. Bullivant? I went nowhere with him.”
“But I _saw_ you both get into the bus in Kennington Park Road.”
“Did you?” Monica returned coldly. “I can’t help it if Mr. Bullivant
happened to be going the same way.”
“Oh, very well! I thought you was to be trusted. It’s nothing to me—”
“You behave very foolishly, Miss Eade,” exclaimed the other, whose
nerves at this moment would not allow her to use patience with the
jealous girl. “I can only tell you that I have never thought again of
Mr. Bullivant since he left the bus somewhere in Clapham Road. I’m
tired of talking about such things.”
“Now, see here, don’t be cross. Come and walk a bit and tell me—”
“I’m too tired. And there’s nothing whatever to tell you.”
“Oh, well, if you’re going to be narsty?”
Monica walked on, but the girl caught her up.
“Don’t be so sharp with me, Miss Madden. I don’t say as you wanted him
to go in the bus with you. But you might tell me what he had to say.”
“Nothing at all; except that he wished to know where I was going, which
was no business of his. I did what I could for you. I told him that if
he asked you to go up the river with him I felt sure you wouldn’t
refuse.”
“Oh, you did!” Miss Eade threw up her head. “I don’t think it was a
very delicate thing to say.”
“You are very unreasonable. I myself don’t think it was very delicate,
but haven’t you worried me to say something of the kind?”
“No, that I’m sure I haven’t! Worried you, indeed!”
“Then please never to speak to me on the subject again. I’m tired of
it.”
“And what did _he_ say, when you’d said that?”
“I can’t remember.”
“Oh, you _are_ narsty to-day! Really you are! If it had been the other
way about, I’d never have treated _you_ like this, that I wouldn’t.”
“Good-night!”
They were close to the door by which Messrs. Scotcher’s resident
employees entered at night. Monica had taken out her latchkey. But Miss
Eade could not endure the thought of being left in torturing ignorance.
“_Do_ tell me!” she whispered. “I’ll do anything for you I can. Don’t
be unkind, Miss Madden!”
Monica turned back again.
“If I were you, I wouldn’t be so silly. I can’t do more than assure you
and promise you that I shall never listen to Mr. Bullivant.”
“But what did he say about _me_, dear?”
“Nothing.”
Miss Eade kept a mortified silence.
“You had much better not think of him at all. I would have more pride.
I wish I could make you see him as I do.”
“And you did really speak about me? Oh, I do wish you’d find some one
to go out with. Then perhaps—”
Monica stood still, hesitated, and at length said,—
“Well—I _have_ found some one.”
“You have?” The girl all but danced with joy. “You really have?”
“Yes—so now don’t trouble me any more.”
This time she was allowed to turn back and enter the house.
No one else had yet come in. Monica ate a mouthful of bread and cheese,
which was in readiness on the long table down in the basement, and at
once went to bed. But no welcome drowsiness fell upon her. At half-past
eleven, when two of the other five girls who slept in the room made
their appearance, she was still changing uneasily from side to side.
They lit the gas (it was not turned off till midnight, after which hour
the late arrivals had to use a candle of their own procuring), and
began a lively conversation on the events of the day. Afraid of being
obliged to talk, Monica feigned sleep.
At twelve, just as the gas went out, another pair came to repose. They
had been quarrelling, and were very gloomy. After a long and
acrimonious discussion in the dark as to which of them should find a
candle—it ended in one of the girls who was in bed impatiently
supplying a light—they began sullenly to throw off their garments.
“Is Miss Madden awake?” said one of them, looking in Monica’s direction.
There was no reply.
“She’s picked up some feller to-day,” continued the speaker, lowering
her voice, and glancing round at her companions with a grin. “Or else
she’s had him all along—I shouldn’t wonder.”
Heads were put forward eagerly, and inquiries whispered.
“He’s oldish, I should say. I caught sight of them just as they was
going off in a boat from Battersea Park, but I couldn’t see his face
very well. He looked rather like Mr. Thomas.”
Mr. Thomas was a member of the drapery firm, a man of fifty, ugly and
austere. At this description the listeners giggled and uttered
exclamations.
“Was he a swell?” asked one.
“Shouldn’t wonder if he was. You can trust Miss M. to keep her eyes
open. She’s one of the sly and quiet “uns.””
“Oh, is she?” murmured another enviously. “She’s just one of those as
gets made a fool of—that’s _my_ opinion.”
The point was argued for some minutes. It led to talk about Miss Eade,
who was treated with frank contempt because of her ill-disguised
pursuit of a mere counter-man. These other damsels had, at present,
more exalted views, for they were all younger than Miss Eade.
Just before one o’clock, when silence had reigned for a quarter of an
hour, there entered with much bustle the last occupant of the bedroom.
She was a young woman with a morally unenviable reputation, though some
of her colleagues certainly envied her. Money came to her with
remarkable readiness whenever she had need of it. As usual, she began
to talk very loud, at first with innocent vulgarity; exciting a little
laughter, she became anecdotic and very scandalous. It took her a long
time to disrobe, and when the candle was out, she still had her richest
story to relate—of point so Rabelaisian that one or two voices made
themselves heard in serious protest. The gifted anecdotist replied with
a long laugh, then cried, “Good-night, young ladies!” and sank
peacefully to slumber.
As for Monica, she saw the white dawn peep at the window, and closed
her tear-stained eyes only when the life of a new week had begun
noisily in Walworth Road.