She stood with her hand on the knob of the door. "If you want anythink
else," she said, "just 'oller down, the stairs for it. An' you needn't
'urry to get up. I know wot travellin's like. I've travelled a bit
myself in my time. That 'addick ain't as niffy as it smells!..."
She closed the door behind her and he could hear her quick steps all
the way down the stairs to the ground floor.
"That's a queer sort of woman," he said to himself.
As he ate his breakfast, he wondered at Lizzie's lack of embarrassment
as she stood in his bedroom and saw him lying in bed. She had behaved
as coolly as if she had been in a dining-room and he had been
completely clothed. What would his mother say if she knew that a girl
had entered his bedroom as unconcernedly as if she were entering a
tramcar? Never in all his life had such a thing happened to him before.
He had been very conscious of his bare neck, for the collar of his
night-shirt had come unfastened. He had tried to fasten it again, but
in his desire to do so without drawing Lizzie's attention to his state,
he had merely fumbled with it, and had, finally, to abandon the
attempt. What astonished him was that Lizzie appeared to be totally
unaware of anything unusual in the fact that she was in the bedroom of
a strange man. She did not look like a Bad Woman ... and surely Mr.
Hinde would not live in a house where Bad Women lived!... Perhaps
Englishwomen were not so particular about things as Irishwomen!...
Anyhow the haddock was good and the coffee tasted nice enough, although
he would much rather have had tea.
He finished his meal, and then dressed himself and went downstairs to
the sitting-room which he was to share with Hinde. It was less dreary
than the bedroom from which he had just emerged, but what brightness it
had was not due to any furnishing provided by Miss Squibb, but to a
great case full of books which occupied one side of the room. "He's as
great a man for books as my Uncle Matthew," John thought, examining a
volume here and a volume there. He opened a book of poems by Walt
Whitman. "That's the man he was telling me about last night," he said
to himself, as he turned the pages. He read a passage aloud:
_Come, Muse, migrate--from Greece and Ionia,
Cross out, please, those immensely overpaid accounts,
That matter of Troy and Achilles' wrath, and Aeneas',
Odysseus' wanderings,
Placard "Removed" and "To Let" on the rocks of your snowy
Parnassus,
Repeat at Jerusalem, place the notice high on Jaffa's gate and
on Mount Moriah,
The same on the walls of your German, French and Spanish castles,
and Italian collections,
For know a better, fresher, busier sphere, a wide, untried domain
awaits, demands you_.
"That's strange poetry," he murmured, turning over more of the pages.
"Queer stuff! I never read poetry like that before!" He began to read
"The Song of the Broad Axe," at first to himself, and then aloud:
_What do you think endures?
Do you think a great city endures?
Or a teeming manufacturing State? or a prepared Constitution? or
the best built steamships?
Or hotels of granite and iron? or any chefs d'oeuvre of engineering,
forts, armaments?
Away! these are not to be cherished for themselves,
They fill their hour, the dancers dance, the musicians play for them,
The show passes, all does well, of course,
All does very well till one flash of defiance.
A great city is that which has the greatest men and women,
If it be a few ragged huts, it is still the greatest city in the world.
How beggarly appear arguments before a defiant deed!
How the floridness of the materials of cities shrivels before a man's
or woman's look!_
He re-read aloud the last four lines, and then closed the book and
replaced it on the shelf. "That man must have been terribly angry," he
said to himself.
Lizzie came into the room. "I 'eard you," she said, "syin' poetry to
yourself. You're as bad as Mr. 'Inde, you are. 'E's an' awful one for
syin' poetry. Why down't you go out for a walk? You 'aven't seen
nothink of London yet, an' 'ere you are wystin' the mornin' syin'
poetry. If I was you, now, I'd go and see the Tahr of London where they
used to be'ead people. An' the Monument, too! You can go up that for
thruppence. An' the view you get! Miles an' miles an' miles! Well, you
can see the Crystal Palace anywy! I do like a view! Or if you down't
like the Tahr of London, you could go to the Zoo. Ow, the monkeys! Ow,
dear! They're so yooman, I felt quite uncomfortable. Any'ow, I should
go out if I was you, an' 'ave a look at London. Wot's the good of
comin' to London if you don't 'ave a look at it!"
"I think I will," said John.
"I should," Lizzie added emphatically. "I don't suppose we'll see you
until dinner time. Seven o'clock, we 'ave it!"
"I always had my dinner in the middle of the day at home," John
replied.
"Ow, yes, in Ireland," said Lizzie tolerantly. "But this is London.
London's different from Ireland, you know. You'll find things very
diff'rent 'ere from wot they are in Ireland. I've 'eard a lot about
Ireland. Mr. 'Inde ... 'e does go on about it. Anybody would think to
'ear 'im there wasn't any other plyce in the world!..." She changed the
subject abruptly, speaking in a more hurried tone. "I ought reely to be
dustin' this room ... only of course you're in it!"
John apologised to her. "I'm interfering with your work," he murmured
in confusion.
"Ow, no you ain't. It don't matter if it's dusted or not ... reely.
Only Aunt goes on about it. Mr. 'Inde wouldn't notice if it was never
dusted. I think he likes dust reely. I suppose you're goin' to do some
work now you're 'ere, or are you a writer, too, like Mr. 'Inde?"
"I want to be a writer," John shyly answered.
"Well, there's no 'arm in it," Lizzie said, "But it ain't reg'lar. I
believe in reg'lar work myself. Of course, there's no 'arm in bein' a
writer, but you'd be much better with a tryde or a nice business, I
should think. Reely!"
"Oh, yes," John murmured. "Well, I think I'll go out now!"
"Are you goin' to the Tahr, then?" "No," he answered. "No, I hadn't
thought of that. I want to see Fleet Street!..."
"Fleet Street!" Lizzie exclaimed. "Wotever is there to see there."
"Oh, I don't know. I want to see it. That's all!"
"You 'ave got funny tyste. I should, 'ave thought you'd go to see the
Tahr reely!..." She broke off as she observed him moving to the door.
"Mind, be back at seven sharp. I 'ate the dinner kep' 'angin' about. I
don't get no time to myself if people aren't punctual. Mr. 'Inde's
awful, 'e is. 'E don't care about no one else, 'e don't. Comes in any
time, 'e does, an' expects a 'ot dinner just the syme. Never thinks
nobody else never wants to go nowhere!..."
"I'll be back in time," said John, hurrying from the room.
"Well, mind you are," she called after him.