Richard's Sabbaths had become days of dismal torpor. A year ago, on
first arriving in London, he had projected a series of visits to
churches famous either for architectural beauty or for picturesque
ritual. A few weeks, however, had brought tedium. He was fundamentally
irreligious, and his churchgoing proceeded from a craving, purely
sensuous, which sought gratification in ceremonial pomps, twilight
atmospheres heavy with incense and electric with devotion, and dim
perspectives of arching stone. But these things he soon discovered lost
their fine savour by the mere presence of a prim congregation secure in
the brass armour of self-complacency; for him the worship was spoilt
by the worshippers, and so the time came when the only church which he
cared to attend--and even to this he went but infrequently, lest use
should stale its charm--was the Roman Catholic oratory of St. Philip
Neri, where, at mass, the separation of the sexes struck a grateful
note of austerity, and the mean appearance of the people contrasted
admirably with the splendour of the priests' vestments, the elaborate
music, and the gilt and colour of altars. Here deity was omnipotent
and humanity abject. Men and women of all grades, casting themselves
down before the holy images in the ecstatic abandonment of repentance,
prayed side by side, oblivious of everything save their sins and the
anger of a God. As a spectacle the oratory was sublime.
He visited it about once a month. The mornings of intervening Sundays
were given to aimless perambulation of the parks, desultory reading,
or sleep; there was nothing to prevent him leaving town for the day,
but he was so innocent of any sort of rural lore that the prospect of a
few hours in the country was seldom enticing enough to rouse sufficient
energy for its accomplishment. After dinner he usually slept, and in
the evening he would take a short walk and go early to bed. For some
reason he never attempted to work on Sundays.
It had rained continuously since he left Parson's Green station on the
previous night, till midday on Sunday, and in the afternoon he was
lounging half asleep with a volume of verse on his knee, considering
whether or not to put on his hat and go out, when Lily entered; Lily
was attired for conquest, and with her broad velvet hat and pink
bows looked so unlike a servant-girl that drowsy Richard started up,
uncertain what fairy was brightening his room.
"Please, sir, there's a young gentleman as wants to see you."
"Oh!--who is it?" No one had ever called upon him before.
"I don't know, sir; it's a young _gentleman_."
The young gentleman was ushered in. He wore a new black frock coat, and
light grey trousers which fell in rich folds over new patent-leather
boots. The shortcomings of his linen, which was dull and bluish in
tint, were more than atoned for by the magnificence of a new white silk
necktie with heliotrope spots. He carried a silk hat and a pair of
unworn kid gloves in one hand, and in the other a half-smoked cigar and
a stick, with whose physiognomy Richard was quite familiar.
"Hello, Jenkins!"
"Good afternoon, Mr. Larch. I was just passing this way, and I thought
I'd look you up." With an inclination of the head more ridiculous even
than he intended, Jenkins placed his hat, stick, and gloves on the bed,
and, nicely adjusting the tails of his coat, occupied a chair.
The quarrel between Richard and Jenkins had been patched up a few days
before.
"So this is your digs. Nice large windows!"
"Yes, decent windows."
Although these two were on terms of almost brutal familiarity during
office hours, here each felt slightly uncomfortable in the other's
presence. Jenkins wiped his pallid, unhealthy face with a cambric
handkerchief which he unfolded for the purpose.
"Been to church this morning?"
Meditatively Jenkins flicked some cigar-ash into the fire-grate, and
then answered, "Yes."
"I thought so."
"Why?"
"Because you're such a swell."
"Ain't I, just!" Jenkins spoke with frank delight. "Two guineas the
suit, my boy! Won't I knock 'em in the Wal--worth Road!"
"But where's your ring?" Richard asked, noticing the absence of the
silver ring which Jenkins commonly wore on his left hand.
"Oh! I gave it to my sister. She wanted to give it to her young man."
"She's engaged, is she?"
"Yes--at least I suppose she is."
"And when are you going to get engaged?"
Jenkins emitted a sound expressive of scorn. "You don't catch me
entering the holy bonds. Not this child! It ain't all lavender, you
bet. I say, you know Miss Roberts at the veg--red-haired tart." Jenkins
was unaware that Richard had been going regularly to the Crabtree. "I
was passing the place last night just as they were closing, and I
walked down to Charing Cross with her. I asked her to meet me to-day
somewhere, but she couldn't."
"You mean she wouldn't. Well, and what sort's she?"
"Devilish nice, _I_ tell you. But not my style. But there's a girl
I know--lives down the Camberwell New Road. She is a treat now,--a
fair treat. About seventeen, and plump as a pigeon. I shall see her
to-night."
"Oh, indeed!" said Richard, for the hundredth time marvelling that he
should be on a footing of intimacy with Albert Jenkins. The girl at
Carteret Street, whatever her imperfections, did not use the Cockney
dialect. And her smile was certainly alluring. Moreover, she had
dignity. True, she liked "East Lynne" and Hope Temple's songs, but
it occurred to Richard that it might be pleasanter to listen even to
these despised melodies than to remain solitary at Raphael Street or
to accompany Jenkins on a _prowl_. Why should he not go down that
afternoon to see Mr. Aked--and his niece? He immediately decided that
he would do so.
"It's turned out fine," said Jenkins. "What are you up to to-night?
Will you come and have a turn round with me?"
"Let me see.... The fact is, I can't." He fought desperately against
the temptation to mention that he proposed to call on a lady, but in
vain. Forth it must come. "I'm going to see a girl."
"Aha!" exclaimed Jenkins, with a terribly arch look. "So that's the
little game, eh! Who's the mash?"
Richard smiled reticently.
"Well, I'll be off." Jenkins rose, and his eye caught Richard's little
bookcase; he scanned the titles of the volumes.
"Oh! Likewise ah! Zola! Now we're getting at the secret. No wonder
you're so damn studious. Zola, indeed! Well, so long. See you
to-morrow. Give my love to the girl.... I say, I suppose you haven't
got Zola in English, have you?"
"No."
"Never mind. So long."