Richard was soon forced to the conclusion that the second writing
of his novel was destined to be a failure. For a few days he stuck
doggedly to the task, writing stuff which, as he wrote it, he knew
would ultimately be condemned. Then one evening he stopped suddenly, in
the middle of a word, bit the penholder for a moment, and threw it down
with a "Damn!" This sort of thing could not continue.
"Better come up and see my new arrangements at Raphael Street
to-night," he said to Jenkins the next day. He wanted a diversion.
"Any whisky going?"
"Certainly."
"Delighted, I'm sure," said Jenkins, with one of his ridiculous polite
bows. He regarded these rare invitations as an honour; it was more than
six months since the last.
They drank whisky and smoked cigars which Jenkins had thoughtfully
brought with him, and chattered for a long time about office matters.
And then, as the cigar-ash accumulated, the topics became more
personal and intimate. That night Jenkins was certainly in a serious
vein; further, he was on his best behaviour, striving to be sympathetic
and gentlemanly. He confided to Richard his aspirations. He wished
to learn French and proposed to join a Polytechnic Institute for the
purpose. Also, he had thoughts of leaving home, and living in rooms,
like Richard. He was now earning twenty-eight shillings a week; he
intended to save money and to give up all intoxicants beyond half a
pint of bitter a day. Richard responded willingly to his mood, and
offered sound advice, which was listened to with deference. Then the
talk, as often aforetime, drifted to the subject of women. It appeared
that Jenkins had a desire to "settle down" (he was twenty-one). He knew
several fellows in the Walworth Road who had married on less than he
was earning.
"What about Miss Roberts?" Richard questioned.
"Oh! She's off. She's a bit too old for me, you know. She must be
twenty-six."
"Look here, my boy," said Richard, good-humouredly. "I don't believe
you ever had anything to do with her at all. It was nothing but
boasting."
"What will you bet I can't prove it to you?" Jenkins retorted, putting
out his chin, an ominous gesture with him.
"I'll bet you half-a-crown--no, a shilling."
"Done."
Jenkins took a leather-case from his pocket, and handed Richard a
midget photograph of Miss Roberts. Underneath it was her signature,
"Yours sincerely, Laura Roberts."
Strange to say, the incident did not trouble Richard in the least.
He walked down to Victoria with Jenkins towards midnight, and on
returning to his lodging, thought for the hundredth time how futile was
his present mode of existence, how bare of all that makes life worth
living. Of what avail to occupy pretty rooms, if one occupied them
alone, coming into them at night to find them empty, leaving them in
the morning without a word of farewell? In the waste of London, Laura
Roberts made the one green spot. He had lost interest in his novel. On
the other hand, his interest in the daily visit to the Crabtree was
increasing.
As day succeeded day he fell into a practice of deliberately seeking
out and magnifying the finer qualities in her nature, while ignoring
those which were likely to offend him; indeed he refused to allow
himself to be offended. He went so far as to retard his lunch-hour
permanently, so that, the rush of customers being past, he should
have better opportunity to talk to her without interruption. Then
he timidly essayed the first accents of courtship, and finding his
advances accepted, grew bolder. One Sunday morning he met her as she
was coming out of the Wesleyan chapel at Munster Park; he said the
encounter was due to accident. She introduced him to her relations, who
were with her. Her father was a big, stout, dark man, dressed in black
faced-cloth, with a heavy beard, huge chubby fingers, and jagged grey
finger-nails. Her mother was a spare woman of sorrowful aspect, whose
thin lips seldom moved; she held her hands in front of her, one on the
top of the other. Her brother was a lank schoolboy, wearing a damaged
mortar-board hat.
Shortly afterwards he called on her at Carteret Street. The schoolboy
opened the door, and after inviting him as far as the lobby, vanished
into a back room only to reappear and run upstairs. Richard heard his
loud, agitated whisper: "Laura, Laura, here's Mr. Larch come to see
you."
They strolled to Wimbledon Common that night.
His entity seemed to have become dual. One part of him was willingly
enslaved to an imperious, headstrong passion; the other stood calmly,
cynically apart, and watched. There were hours when he could foresee
the whole of his future life, and measure the bitter, ineffectual
regret which he was laying up; hours when he admitted that his passion
had been, as it were, artificially incited, and that there could be
no hope of an enduring love. He liked Laura; she was a woman, a balm,
a consolation. To all else he obstinately shut his eyes, and, casting
away every consideration of prudence, hastened to involve himself more
and more deeply. Swiftly, swiftly, the climax approached. He hailed it
with a strange, affrighted joy.