John had met Eleanor at their customary trysting-place, in front of the
bookstall at Charing Cross Road, and they had walked along the
Embankment towards Blackfriars. The theme of his tragedy was very
present in his mind and he told the story to Eleanor as they walked
along the side of the river in the glowing dusk. They stood for a
while, with their elbows resting on the stone balustrade, and looked
down on the dark tide beneath them. The great, grim arches of Waterloo
Bridge, made melancholy by the lemon-coloured light of the lamps which
surmounted them, cast big, black shadows on the water. They could hear
little lapping waves splashing against the pillars, and presently a tug
went swiftly down to the Pool. Neither of them spoke. Behind them the
tramcars went whirring by, and once when John looked round, he felt as
if he must cry because of the beauty of these swift caravans of light,
gliding easily through the misty darkness of a London night. He had
turned quickly again to contemplate the river, and as he did so,
Eleanor stirred a little, moving more closely to him, demanding, so it
seemed, his comfort and protection, and instantly he put his arm about
her and drew her tightly to him. He did not care whether anyone saw
them or not. It was sufficient for him that in her apprehension she had
turned to him. Both his arms were about her, and his lips were on her
lips. "Dear Eleanor," he said....
Then she released herself from his embrace. "I felt frightened," she
said. "I don't know why. It's so lovely to-night ... and yet I felt
frightened!"
"Will we go?" he asked.
"Yes!"
He put his arm in hers and she did not resist him. "You're my
sweetheart now, aren't you, Eleanor?" he whispered to her, as they
walked along towards Westminster.
She did not answer.
"My dear sweetheart," he went on, "and presently you'll be my dear
wife, and we'll have a little house somewhere, and we'll love each
other for ever and ever. Won't we?" He pressed her arm in his. "Won't
we, Eleanor? Every night when I come home from work and we have had our
supper, we'll go for a walk like this, and I'll talk and you'll listen,
and we'll be very happy, and we'll never be lonely again. Oh, I pity
the poor men who don't know you, Eleanor!..."
She smiled up at him, but still she did not speak.
"I couldn't have believed I should be so happy as I am," he continued.
"I wonder if it's right for one woman to have so much power over a
man ... to be able to make him happy or miserable just as the fancy takes
her ... but I don't care whether it's right or wrong. I'm content so
long as I have you. We're going to be married, aren't we, Eleanor?
Aren't we?"
He stopped and turned her round so that they were facing each other.
"Aren't we, Eleanor?" he repeated.
"Don't let's talk about that," she murmured. "I'm so happy to-night,
and I don't want to think about what's past or what's to come. I only
want to be happy now!"
"With me?"
"Yes," she replied.
"Then you do love me?..."
"I don't know. I can't tell. But I'm frightfully happy. I expect I
shall feel that I've made a fool of myself ... in the morning, but just
now I don't care whether I'm fool or not. I'm like you. I'm content.
Let's go on walking!"
They turned back at Boadicea's statue, and when they were in the
shadows again, he took his arm from hers and put it about her waist.
"Let's pretend there's nobody else here but us," he said.