"There are other women going down," she insisted. "I can't resist the
temptation."
It was an average type of City lunching place, but Lady Betty had never
before tried the sort of thing, so Wyndham fell in with her whim. Down
the stairs they went into a spacious cellar, lighted with jets of gas,
though the sun was still shining outside. Wreaths and clouds of smoke
floated in the atmosphere, and a clatter of dominoes and crockery
dominated the buzz of voices that rose from the chaos of people at the
marble tables. The central tables seemed given up to chess-play, each
game surrounded by onlookers, all with patient cups of coffee beside
them. And here and there an exceptional table, laid with a napkin, and
in possession of vigorous eaters, gave the note of the restaurant.
Wyndham and Lady Betty found a snug place on one side from which they
could survey the room; and a neat little waitress, scarcely more than a
child, came briskly forward to serve them, handing them with a sweet
professional smile a long slip headed "Bill of Fare." They were glad to
note that their entrance had attracted no attention. Lady Betty studied
the bill excitedly. They made their decision, and Wyndham imparted it to
the waitress.
"Thank you, sir," she said; "And what'll you have to drink, please?"
Again an eager colloquy, with the prosaic result of "two ginger-beers."
"A true old English beverage," declared Lady Betty, and her approval
seemed to flash the aesthetic quality into it, to invest it with rank and
nobility. "Small or large?" persisted the waitress, her tone and
demeanour of the gravest.
"Oh, large," said Lady Betty, and the girl's face brightened at the
definiteness of the information.
"Two large ginger-beers--thank you, ma'am," she said, and went off
sharply, leaving them to their amusement.
Whilst waiting, they surveyed the place at their leisure. "I like it
here," exclaimed Lady Betty again. "Look at the old chess player there,
with the bald pate and the eagle's nose. Watch him considering his move,
with his hand hovering in the air, hesitating, yet ready to swoop down
to capture a piece."
But the hand did not capture the piece. Instead, the shoulders shrugged,
an expression of disgust overclouded the face, and the hand descended,
dashing all the pieces from the board with one sweep. A roar of delight
broke from the onlookers, and mingling with it from another part of the
room came a sudden fresh clatter of dominoes, rapidly shuffled.
"What fresh, frank enjoyment! So this is the strenuous commercial life
of London--gingerbeer and dominoes!"
"A strange set of people!" commented Wyndham. "Study these faces--from
each shines a different life. I almost want to put my enormous
accumulation of art theories on the fire, and to paint only human faces
for the rest of my life."
"Wonderful! There seem at least fifty different races here--to judge
from the shapes of the skulls and the varying types of features."
"The thought often strikes me as I watch people in the streets or in
omnibuses," said Wyndham. "No matter how dull or repulsive a human face
at first sight, I believe it can always be painted so as to be
interesting, and that without departing from truth."
The waitress reappeared with their lunch which had been simply chosen so
as to admit of no possible failure, and in their present mood they were
charmed with it. Lady Betty was enraptured by the experience, and
chatted in an undertone, every now and then breaking into a spontaneous
"I am so happy to-day," and flashing him a glance of light and radiance.
They wound up with black coffee, and then the little waitress made out
the account, which, after leaving her demurely astonished with her big
silver tip, Wyndham paid to the nice old man in the box at the top of
the stairs.
"The sun is still shining--look!" she exclaimed.
Wyndham stepped after her into the air gratefully. "It is fresh and
almost summery. Heaven smiles at us. Shall we stroll down this winding
lane? I fancy it must lead to the water-side."
"Hurrah for the winding lane!" she said, and stepped out merrily. At the
bottom they entered a street full of black brick warehouses with cranes
at work, and huge carts with ponderous horses. "An antediluvian breed!"
whispered Lady Betty. They strolled along, peering into dim doorways at
vast interiors where a strange universe of life flourished in the glooms
amid prodigious collections of barrels and boxes.
"We are almost on Tower Hill," he said suddenly.
"An unexpected fantasy!" she exclaimed, as the Tower of London itself
came into view at the end of the narrow street, the grey far-stretching
ramparts looming up ghost-like and romantic. "A mediaeval mirage amid all
this grimy commerce. I wonder if it will vanish presently! But let us
try the opposite direction now--are we not vowed to-day to the
unfamiliar and unknown?"
They retraced their steps, and, ere long, lighted on an iron gate that
led visibly to the water-side.
"The gate is inviting," she said. "I hope it isn't forbidden."
"Ah, here is a notice. I see we shall not be trespassers."
They entered, and, passing through the preliminary alley, found
themselves on a broad, open gravelled space beyond which flowed the
water. Save for a couple of pigeons wandering about, they had the place
all to themselves.
"This is a discovery," declared Lady Betty. "It is as interesting here
in its way as the Rialto at Venice."
And indeed they had reason to admire. To the right lay the Bridge of
Bridges, whose endlessly rolling traffic was at this distance softened
to an artistic suggestion that by no means disturbed their sense of
solitude. At the adjoining wharf on the left a Dutch boat was being
unladen, actively, yet with a strange sense of stillness and calm. And
over all the river and shipping hung a faint grey-blue mist, muffling
and enveloping all things out of proportion to its density, and
absorbing the sunlight into a haze that already seemed to foretell the
chills of the coming twilight of the winter's day. They saw the sun, a
large red ball, hanging extraordinarily low in the sky over a long squat
warehouse with symmetrical rows of windows. And across the river, under
the shadow of the opposite structures, lay strange families of craft and
barges, moored in the water, or high on the mud; rusty and silent, some
half-broken up, some swinging lazily, touched with the mellow decay of
the centuries.
Lady Betty thought it would be ideal to stay here awhile, so they
settled down on one of the garden-seats, and sat in quiet happiness,
unheeding of the sharp touch of the afternoon air. More pigeons flew
down from neighbouring roofs and walked tamely around them. And from all
the mighty activity of surrounding London, that beat strenuous,
feverish, far-reaching, there flowed to them only a serenity, an almost
phantasmal calm: they were alone, supremely alone--far from their world
of everyday existence.
The time slipped by deliciously. Their enjoyment was as spontaneous as
of two children at play. And children they were in the perfect
simplicity of their happiness. They watched the afternoon deepen, the
haze of sunshine weaken and yield to greyer moods; they rose, too, and
moved along the edge of the waters, and examined the shipping and
barges. They spoke to the pigeons, gave them names, endowed them with
romances; they spoke to each other endearingly, yet still as the two
children who had played together always, who had wandered into this
strange world, and were as enchanted with it as with each other.
At last they realised the light was already fading; the mist on all
things was ghostlier, and damp in the throat and nostrils. Now and again
a spasmodic wind caught up dry leaves and swirled them around playfully.
Lady Betty gave a little shiver.
"Night will soon be on us," she said. "A million points of light will be
springing up as by magic. It would be enchanting to stay and watch the
darkness deepen and the river-fog steal down; to sit here through the
mysterious hours, and study the shadows and silhouettes, and listen to
all the strange sounds of the night, and watch all those lights glimmer
on and on, till at last they show yellow in the pale dawn, and life
again is swarming over the bridges. Must we go back, dear?--we have left
our world ever so far away--and years ago, was it not, dear?"
A sadness had descended on them both. With the approach of evening, they
could not but feel the precious time was fleeting; they could no longer
immerse themselves with such wholeheartedness in the simple appreciation
of the moment. The terror of the parting to come rose in the hearts of
both. Yet they made a brave resistance.
"Come, darling," she said at last; "the hours still belong to us. We
have indulged our day-mood. Let us search for something fresh now; our
good star shall watch over us and send us happy adventures."
So they passed again into the street, and, absorbed in their talk, were
scarcely aware whither they were turning. They knew they were in a
network of by-ways, flanked by warehouses and offices, and sometimes
they stumbled on terraces of decrepit old dwelling-houses. They were
vaguely conscious that they were leaving the river far behind, and that
they must have crossed Eastcheap again at some narrower part without
recognising it. After some leisurely wandering they came into a more
important thoroughfare with pretentious edifices, yet with archaic
touches here and there, the relics of another epoch, worn and decaying,
yet more suggestive of coming stone buildings to supplant them than of
the glory of their own century.
At a street-corner, under the light of a lamp that was still pale in the
gathering dusk, a shivering flower-seller with a red shawl over her
shoulders stood with a basket of deliciously fresh violets, and Wyndham
stopped to get a big bunch of them put together for his companion. Lady
Betty was immensely gratified; she breathed in the odour of the violets
with rapture, then fastened them in her bosom. She was herself again
now, overflowing with good fellowship, and amused at every trifle. He
caught her exhilaration. "We shall fill our evening with a whirl of
gaiety!" he cried. "Rockets and fireworks; I wonder if the good star you
spoke of will be kind enough to set down in our path some unheard-of
theatre."
She suggested they should study the hoardings as they went along, and
both undertook to keep a look-out. But they were absorbed again in each
other, having only a vague pleasurable sense of the crowded roads into
which their steps now took them. Eventually they were in a main
thoroughfare, with bustling shops brilliantly alight, and endless lines
of stalls a-blazing; the roadway full of traffic and tram-cars and
amazingly gigantic hay-carts, the pavements thick with a working
population pressing forward and forward in multitudes. It was night now,
absolutely; but it had stolen on them so gradually, they were astonished
it was so definitely manifest. The hours of light were fresh and vivid
in their minds, they could almost hear and feel the unending clatter of
the omnibus that had carried them across the town, and the riverside
picture was still before them. The change that had come over the world,
this transition to absolute darkness illumined by street-lamps and
flaring naphtha, seemed mystic and amazing. And a subtle warmth from
all this illumination and from all this press and bustle, from all these
close-packed moving vans and cars and hay-carts, pervaded the wintry
air; a sense of exhilaration, too; a sense of life in all its unrefined,
joyous reality, intense and vigorous, accepting itself unquestioningly,
too sure of the worth of the gift ever to doubt it--even as the hungry
ploughboy does not speculate metaphysically about the fat pork on his
plate, but simply falls thereon and devours it.
"Book-stalls!" cried Lady Betty, "and piled up ever and ever so high.
And look, rusty Wellington boots on the one hand, and rusty tools and
bits of iron on the other."
They stayed a few minutes, and turned over some of the books, as
interesting and varied as those in any more pretentious bookman's
paradise. They both grew selfishly absorbed, each striking out an
individual path, though remembering the other's existence at moments of
extraordinary interest. In the end each became the possessor of a
volume. Wyndham's was a facsimile of the first edition of the "Pilgrim's
Progress," a fattish octavo with the loveliest of wide margins, and the
exact reproduction of the original engravings. Lady Betty's treasure was
an old copy of the Dramatic Poems of Browning. Each paid the same
one-and-sixpence, and as they bore away their prizes they discovered
that each had been inspired by the same motive--of giving the other a
memento of this wonderful day. Laughingly they exchanged their volumes,
and the presentations thus formally carried out, Wyndham took possession
of the Bunyan again in the mere capacity of carrier.
At last a hoarding with a great glare of light on it.
Wyndham let his eye roam over the posters. "The very thing," he cried.
"A fine old-fashioned melodrama!"
"Splendid!" echoed Lady Betty, gazing at the many-coloured scenes that
promised a generous measure of thrills and emotions.
"We shall have a box to ourselves," said Wyndham. "As you see, it is not
so very extravagant. Only there is the problem of dining."
"What healthy little children we are!" she laughed.
"Oh, we must dine," he protested.
"I have faith," she declared. "Our good star has served us till now, it
is not going to desert us. We shall light upon some quaint place
presently."
The confident prediction justified itself, for, later on, they stopped
before a Jewish restaurant that proudly announced itself as "kosher."
And it proved immediately irresistible to the wanderers, who entered
straightway, and found themselves in a simple sort of room with freshly
papered walls, full of neatly laid tables, the very antithesis of the
familiar formal restaurant of ornate intention. The place was empty of
diners as yet--no doubt it was early for the usual clients; but the
proprietor, a grave bearded personage in spotless broad-cloth and with
the air of an ambassador, come forward bowing profoundly, and escorted
them to a choice corner. Through a half-open door at the back they had a
glimpse of a neat, comely Jewish woman busy amid pots and pans, whilst a
boy and a girl, who both looked good and intelligent, were industriously
doing their lessons at a side-table. The host waited on the adventurers
in person, taking the dishes from a younger and shyer assistant who
brought them from behind the scenes.
Despite the magnificent gravity of his presence, their host turned out
to be an unaffected human being, whom they encouraged to talk of his own
affairs, and who was pleased at their manifest interest in his homely
establishment and in his little family. His wife and he worked together,
and it was her cooking on which they were now being regaled. Their
favourable verdict gave him an almost naive gratification; a radiance
and an illumination broke brilliantly across his features. He told them
the Jewish names of the various dishes, but though they repeated them
sedulously, the strange, charming words would not remain in their heads
a moment. Meanwhile the kitchen was being stimulated to a display of
delicate skill and finesse; the fish was as good, declared Lady Betty,
as anything she had tasted at the Maison d'Or. A few other clients began
to appear--a long-bearded Russian, carefully dressed, accompanied by a
simple, buxom daughter of rosy complexion and deep, serious, aspiring
eyes; then a middle-aged man, with a leonine mane that was dashed with
grey and suggested the poor composer of genius; and finally a spectacled
German in a threadbare cut-away coat, carefully brushed, who suggested
unrequited scholarship. But all these, after the first distinguished bow
and salutation on the part of the host, were left to the attentions of
the assistant; the host himself being magnetised by the unaccustomed
guests with whom he was deep in conversation. But, though he waited on
them perfectly, there was yet conveyed in his bearing such a touch of
distinction and courteous affability that they were sensible as of an
honour that was being bestowed upon them. And that he was no mere
small-souled tradesman was abundantly evident when he brought them a
bottle of claret with the romantic recommendation that it had been grown
on Palestine soil, and that, in its passage from the wine-press to their
table here, it had never left the hands of his compatriots. He handled
the bottle with pride and certainly emotion, and begged them to accept
of it, and to allow him to fill their glasses. They were touched by the
invitation, though they were naturally unwilling to accept such a gift
from a poor man, but he understood their doubts and laughingly explained
that, as he did not possess a wine licence, he could not possibly accept
payment; a piece of reasoning which drew them into the laugh and
disposed of their hesitations.
They made him join them, however, and they drank to the prosperity of
the Palestine colonies, irrelevantly but charmingly coupling the toast
with that of their host and hostess, the children and the restaurant.
The other visitors smiled quietly, and, with conspicuous good breeding,
scarcely turned their eyes towards this convivial table, the Russian
conversing in an undertone with his daughter, and the musician with the
scholar.
And at the end the host did not give himself any false airs, but made
out their modest reckoning and handed Wyndham the change, all with the
same courtesy and with a distinction of manner which seemed to lift
trade to a higher plane than it occupies in Occidental prejudice. And as
the wife appeared hovering with a shy smile in the kitchen doorway, she
was invited to join the group, and warmly complimented on her culinary
skill. Then Lady Betty asked for the children, and presently their
bright faces were illumining the room with a warmer and sweeter light.
Wyndham and Lady Betty spoke to them a little, then Lady Betty slipped a
fragile ring with a single small fine pearl off her finger, and put it
on the girl's. The little thing blushed and hung down her head. But the
jewel became the tiny hand immensely. Meanwhile the boy's eyes were
glued on the books.
"I can see you like books, little man," said Wyndham.
"Yes, sir," said the child, "better than anything else."
"His ambition is to become a scholar," put in his father proudly.
"He is to have the Browning as a memento," said Lady Betty. She handed
it to the child. "Keep this volume carefully. When you are older, I am
sure you will love and treasure it." Then she unfastened her big bunch
of violets and pressed the flowers on his mother, who took them shyly
but coloured with pleasure.
When they were in the street again they walked on silently for a while.
Wyndham saw that Lady Betty had been deeply touched; that something
wonderful had been revealed to her of which, perhaps, she had never
caught a glimpse in her whole existence. Presently she turned to Wyndham
with a quiet smile that was the natural reflection of her thought.
"You do forgive me, dear," she asked, "for my arbitrary disposal of
your Browning, my own present to you!"
"You sacrificed my gift of violets, so we are quits."
"After this we shall scarcely need any memento of the day--who could
ever forget?" Then with a little thrill of joy: "But I've my Pilgrim all
the same." She touched the book lovingly as he held it, and he was aware
of her movement as of a caress. It was his gift to her, and what a world
of affection in this implication of the value she set on it!