She saw her in fact, and only ten days later; but this time not alone,
and that was exactly a part of the luck of it. Not unaware—as how could
her observation have left her so?—of the possibilities through which it
could range, our young lady had ever since had in her mind a dozen
conflicting theories about Everard’s type; as to which, the instant
they came into the place, she felt the point settled with a thump that
seemed somehow addressed straight to her heart. That organ literally
beat faster at the approach of the gentleman who was this time with
Cissy, and who, as seen from within the cage, became on the spot the
happiest of the happy circumstances with which her mind had invested
the friend of Fritz and Gussy. He was a very happy circumstance indeed
as, with his cigarette in his lips and his broken familiar talk caught
by his companion, he put down the half-dozen telegrams it would take
them together several minutes to dispatch. And here it occurred, oddly
enough, that if, shortly before the girl’s interest in his companion
had sharpened her sense for the messages then transmitted, her
immediate vision of himself had the effect, while she counted his
seventy words, of preventing intelligibility. _His_ words were mere
numbers, they told her nothing whatever; and after he had gone she was
in possession of no name, of no address, of no meaning, of nothing but
a vague sweet sound and an immense impression. He had been there but
five minutes, he had smoked in her face, and, busy with his telegrams,
with the tapping pencil and the conscious danger, the odious betrayal
that would come from a mistake, she had had no wandering glances nor
roundabout arts to spare. Yet she had taken him in; she knew
everything; she had made up her mind.
He had come back from Paris; everything was re-arranged; the pair were
again shoulder to shoulder in their high encounter with life, their
large and complicated game. The fine soundless pulse of this game was
in the air for our young woman while they remained in the shop. While
they remained? They remained all day; their presence continued and
abode with her, was in everything she did till nightfall, in the
thousands of other words she counted, she transmitted, in all the
stamps she detached and the letters she weighed and the change she
gave, equally unconscious and unerring in each of these particulars,
and not, as the run on the little office thickened with the afternoon
hours, looking up at a single ugly face in the long sequence, nor
really hearing the stupid questions that she patiently and perfectly
answered. All patience was possible now, all questions were stupid
after his, all faces were ugly. She had been sure she should see the
lady again; and even now she should perhaps, she should probably, see
her often. But for him it was totally different; she should never never
see him. She wanted it too much. There was a kind of wanting that
helped—she had arrived, with her rich experience, at that
generalisation; and there was another kind that was fatal. It was this
time the fatal kind; it would prevent.
Well, she saw him the very next day, and on this second occasion it was
quite different; the sense of every syllable he paid for was fiercely
distinct; she indeed felt her progressive pencil, dabbing as if with a
quick caress the marks of his own, put life into every stroke. He was
there a long time—had not brought his forms filled out but worked them
off in a nook on the counter; and there were other people as well—a
changing pushing cluster, with every one to mind at once and endless
right change to make and information to produce. But she kept hold of
him throughout; she continued, for herself, in a relation with him as
close as that in which, behind the hated ground glass, Mr. Buckton
luckily continued with the sounder. This morning everything changed,
but rather to dreariness; she had to swallow the rebuff to her theory
about fatal desires, which she did without confusion and indeed with
absolute levity; yet if it was now flagrant that he did live close at
hand—at Park Chambers—and belonged supremely to the class that wired
everything, even their expensive feelings (so that, as he never wrote,
his correspondence cost him weekly pounds and pounds, and he might be
in and out five times a day) there was, all the same, involved in the
prospect, and by reason of its positive excess of light, a perverse
melancholy, a gratuitous misery. This was at once to give it a place in
an order of feelings on which I shall presently touch.
Meanwhile, for a month, he was very constant. Cissy, Mary, never
re-appeared with him; he was always either alone or accompanied only by
some gentleman who was lost in the blaze of his glory. There was
another sense, however—and indeed there was more than one—in which she
mostly found herself counting in the splendid creature with whom she
had originally connected him. He addressed this correspondent neither
as Mary nor as Cissy; but the girl was sure of whom it was, in Eaten
Square, that he was perpetually wiring to—and all so irreproachably!—as
Lady Bradeen. Lady Bradeen was Cissy, Lady Bradeen was Mary, Lady
Bradeen was the friend of Fritz and of Gussy, the customer of
Marguerite, and the close ally in short (as was ideally right, only the
girl had not yet found a descriptive term that was) of the most
magnificent of men. Nothing could equal the frequency and variety of
his communications to her ladyship but their extraordinary, their
abysmal propriety. It was just the talk—so profuse sometimes that she
wondered what was left for their real meetings—of the very happiest
people. Their real meetings must have been constant, for half of it was
appointments and allusions, all swimming in a sea of other allusions
still, tangled in a complexity of questions that gave a wondrous image
of their life. If Lady Bradeen was Juno it was all certainly Olympian.
If the girl, missing the answers, her ladyship’s own outpourings,
vainly reflected that Cocker’s should have been one of the bigger
offices where telegrams arrived as well as departed, there were yet
ways in which, on the whole, she pressed the romance closer by reason
of the very quantity of imagination it demanded and consumed. The days
and hours of this new friend, as she came to account him, were at all
events unrolled, and however much more she might have known she would
still have wished to go beyond. In fact she did go beyond; she went
quite far enough.
But she could none the less, even after a month, scarce have told if
the gentlemen who came in with him recurred or changed; and this in
spite of the fact that they too were always posting and wiring, smoking
in her face and signing or not signing. The gentlemen who came in with
him were nothing when he was there. They turned up alone at other
times—then only perhaps with a dim richness of reference. He himself,
absent as well as present, was all. He was very tall, very fair, and
had, in spite of his thick preoccupations, a good-humour that was
exquisite, particularly as it so often had the effect of keeping him
on. He could have reached over anybody, and anybody—no matter who—would
have let him; but he was so extraordinarily kind that he quite
pathetically waited, never waggling things at her out of his turn nor
saying “Here!” with horrid sharpness. He waited for pottering old
ladies, for gaping slaveys, for the perpetual Buttonses from Thrupp’s;
and the thing in all this that she would have liked most unspeakably to
put to the test was the possibility of her having for him a personal
identity that might in a particular way appeal. There were moments when
he actually struck her as on her side, as arranging to help, to
support, to spare her.
But such was the singular spirit of our young friend that she could
remind herself with a pang that when people had awfully good
manners—people of that class,—you couldn’t tell. These manners were for
everybody, and it might be drearily unavailing for any poor particular
body to be overworked and unusual. What he did take for granted was all
sorts of facility; and his high pleasantness, his relighting of
cigarettes while he waited, his unconscious bestowal of opportunities,
of boons, of blessings, were all a part of his splendid security, the
instinct that told him there was nothing such an existence as his could
ever lose by. He was somehow all at once very bright and very grave,
very young and immensely complete; and whatever he was at any moment it
was always as much as all the rest the mere bloom of his beatitude. He
was sometimes Everard, as he had been at the Hôtel Brighton, and he was
sometimes Captain Everard. He was sometimes Philip with his surname and
sometimes Philip without it. In some directions he was merely Phil, in
others he was merely Captain. There were relations in which he was none
of these things, but a quite different person—“the Count.” There were
several friends for whom he was William. There were several for whom,
in allusion perhaps to his complexion, he was “the Pink ‘Un.” Once,
once only by good luck, he had, coinciding comically, quite
miraculously, with another person also near to her, been “Mudge.” Yes,
whatever he was, it was a part of his happiness—whatever he was and
probably whatever he wasn’t. And his happiness was a part—it became so
little by little—of something that, almost from the first of her being
at Cocker’s, had been deeply with the girl.