He found the evening very long. He was restless. The memory of her
kiss was exquisite, but it did not make for repose. It seemed to him
intolerably stupid that he was boring himself in the billiard-room of
the Grand when Corporation Road was so near. Still she had taken leave
of him--if he went he might be unwelcome to her, she might be
disappointing to him.
Early next afternoon he received the line she had promised. It arrived
with letters from the Company. They were such deeply grateful letters
that they hurt him a little when he read them, but he guessed which was
hers, and he opened that one first. Mixed with the pleasure with which
he opened it there was the curiosity, even the--he would have refused
to acknowledge it--even the slight touch of apprehension with which a
man who likes a woman better than he knows her always opens her first
letter.
He smiled--he heard her speaking.
"If you ever write, the address is 'Miss Tattie Lascelles, c/o Madame
Hermiance, 42 bis Great Titchfield Street, W.' You understand? You
aren't to put my name on the outside envelope at all. Blithepoint is
blessing you.--R.D."
If he ever wrote, did she say? By his halidom he was going to write
immediately! His impulse was to beg her to dine with him, but probably
she would find it easier to meet him during the day. Luncheon then.
But where? The choice of a restaurant bothered him--she might be
afraid of acquaintances seeing her. He bethought himself of the Café
Anonyme in Soho, and entreated her to lunch with him on Thursday at two
o'clock. As a postscript he scribbled, "You won't say you can't, will
you? If I don't hear from you, I shall be waiting for you at the
door." To enable her to reply, though he prayed that no reply would
come, he added that he should stay at the Carlton.
He was glad to leave Blithepoint; when the woman one liked there has
gone, a place is always distressing. In the train it was agreeable to
reflect that she had read his note by this time. Again he imagined her
as she read it--looking down, looking up, putting it in her pocket.
The little Café Anonyme had been a good idea. They would do their best
for him there, and their soles à la Marguery were unequalled in London.
The private rooms, too, were not unhomely, they hit the happy
medium--there was no riot of red velvet and gilding, nor were there rag
roses hanging askew in dusty glass epergnes. It would have been
unappreciative--it would have been an insult--to ask Rosalind to be
made love to in a vulgar room.
He wandered about the Carlton after dinner until the last post was
delivered, and was relieved to find there was nothing for him. He was
sure that if she hadn't meant to go, she would have declined at once.
She wouldn't raise his hopes only to dash them to the parquetry as the
clock was preparing to strike; she wouldn't be thoughtless, unfeeling.
Oh no, she wasn't like that!
And there was no letter on Thursday either, and he sallied to Soho with
delight.
The exterior of the Café Anonyme when he reached it looked to him a
shade less ingenuous than it had been, but upstairs all was well. The
view of the grim houses opposite was screened by lace, firelight
flashed on the Dutch hearth cheerfully, and the little white table, set
for tête-à-tête, invited confidences. He forced his attention upon the
menu, and lounged back into the street. It was a fine day for London.
The sky was funereal, and the pavements were muddy, but there was no
rain falling. He loitered before the restaurant happily, and glanced
at his watch. At five minutes to two, expectation began to swell.
At two o'clock he couldn't hold back a smile--at any instant now her
face might irradiate the blank. He wondered which way she would come,
and if she would drive, or walk. He could see for some distance, both
to right and left, and his only regret was that he couldn't see both
ways at once. He kept turning his head, fearful that he might miss a
second's joy.
There was a leaping moment in which a figure suggested her as it hove
in sight. The girl proved offensively plain, and he was furious with
her as she passed. Somehow he did not rebound from the mistake--it was
the first fall in the temperature; the girl had killed his elation. He
watched now eagerly, but he repressed no smile.
She was late. Oh, of course she would come, but the fish would be
spoilt. Rather stupid of her! There was nothing more irritating than
to have a careful luncheon ruined because a woman took twenty minutes
to tie her veil. A melancholy church clock boomed the quarter. He
began to feel that he was looking a fool, traversing these twelve
paving-stones. He was annoyed with her--he should be at no pains to
conceal it!
Constantly hansoms rattled into view, with disappointing people in
them. There appeared to him discouragement in the gaze of the portier
now, and a pair of loafers outside the public-house at the corner were
taking interest in him.... He supposed she _would_ come? Into the
tension of his mood there entered the first sick qualm of doubt.
And the church clock boomed again. Hope was breathing its last in him.
Annoyance had melted into despair--he longed for her too intensely to
be reproachful if she came. He would rejoice over her, he would
unbutton her gloves, he would say how pretty her frock was, and that
the chef was delighted to have been given more time!
Five-and-twenty minutes to three! ... Well, he had better see what he
had to pay; it was no use hoping any longer. Well, just five
minutes!--the last stake. If she weren't here then, she wouldn't come
at all; she wouldn't expect him to wait at the door all day.... "At
the door!"--his heart stopped--the words bore suddenly a new
significance. In Blithepoint "at the door" might have meant at the
door of her lodgings. Could it be possible she had misunderstood--had
she thought he would be on the doorstep in Great Titchfield Street?
No! how could she? she had told him she was married. But the address
was Tattie's--yes, she might have thought so! Good heavens! had _she_
been waiting there for _him_? Perspiration broke out on him. What was
he to do? Look at the time!--she had given him up long ago, she had
gone away! ... Oh, how could she have thought it? he had named the
restaurant! ... Still it was very odd she hadn't come. He must find
her, he must explain! But--but--but she was a married woman, he
couldn't go and peal the bell and ask for her. Wait a moment, what had
she said? Was she to stay with Tattie, or was Tattie to stay with her?
... Anyhow Tattie _was_ there. Yes, he _could_ go--he could go there
and ask for Tattie! His head was spinning. What the devil had become
of all the cabs?
Two minutes later the portier had blown his whistle, and Soho was
behind.
The pace was reckless, but to Conrad's fevered stare even the omnibuses
seemed to mock his hansom. Alternately he threw bribes and
objurgations through the trap. Where was Great Titchfield Street
hidden? Were they making a tour of the West End slums? The cab jerked
to a stoppage at last, and he leapt out, and hesitated. Nothing but
shops confronted him. Had he forgotten the number--wasn't it "42 bis?"
The next moment he saw the name, painted over a window--"Madame
Hermiance, French Laundress."
It was very warm inside. Three girls, and a moist loosely clothed
woman, whose opulent bosom was partially concealed, stood at work
behind a long table. It fluttered with aerial frills and scraps of
pink tissue paper; one of the girls was folding things up, and making
them look pretty. He said, "Bonjour, madame," and the woman said,
"Good afternoon, sare."
"Miss Lascelles, is she staying here? Is she in?"
"Oh no, sare, she is gone."
"Gone?" ejaculated Conrad.
"She did lodge 'ere," added the laundress; "I let 'er a room upstairs;
but she go away--she get an engagement. You mean an actress, isn't it?"
"Yes, yes," he said, "I know all about the engagement, but she came
back. She came back the day before yesterday, didn't she?"
"Mais non, monsieur." She shook her head. "She is not come back."
"Damn," he faltered. "Er--but there was a letter sent here for her--it
must have been delivered yesterday morning. What has become of the
letter?"
"Ah, letters?" She banged an iron about a shirt with double cuffs;
perturbed as he was, he shuddered to see the havoc she was wreaking.
"Mees Lascelles 'as writ me a post carte--she ask if 'er letters come,
I send 'em on. I zink she gives up ze _théâtre_, I zink she takes a
situation wiz a lady of title. Julie!" she called; "zat letter zat
come yesterday for Mees Lascelles, it go to ze post, hein?"
"J'-n'-sais-_pas_!" called Julie. She sent a button flying off a
waistcoat without turning a hair.
"Ameliarran?"
"Yes'm?"
"Ze letter for Mees Lascelles, where ees it?"
"There yer are!" replied "Ameliar Ann." She was sewing a red cotton
hieroglyphic into a customer's "tying bow"--near one of the ends. Her
nod indicated a shelf piled with packages, and Conrad perceived his
letter lying neglected among the washing.
"Ah," said Madame Hermiance. "Alors, I post it to-night myself."
"But this is no trifling matter," exclaimed Conrad, trembling with
rage. "Miss Lascelles may lose a very large salary through this.
That's a business letter--from an impresario. It should have been
forwarded without delay."
"Tiens!" said Madame Hermiance calmly. "Julie! pack up ze collars."
He tramped across the shop, and the three girls' heads turned to the
left. This much was certain: Rosalind had said that she and Tattie
would be together. Sheer babble, that about the situation! If the
note reached Tattie at once, there was hope yet. He strode back, and
the three girls' heads turned to the right.
"Madame!"
"Monsieur?"
"I must apologise for occupying your time, but----"
"Ça ne fait rien," said the laundress. "Julie! pack up ze shirts."
"But I want you to do me a kindness--I want you to be good enough to
send the letter to Miss Lascelles now, by a messenger. I suppose it
won't take very long?"
"Mais, monsieur, I 'ave nobody to send."
"Well, but my dear lady," he said--and talked to her persuasively of
paying for the service and the hansom that was outside.
"Alors!" said Madame Hermiance.
Expectancy bubbled in him anew. He would scrawl a line explaining what
he had suffered, beseeching Rosalind to meet him still! Would Madame
have the kindness to provide him with an envelope?
It was provided.
And a sheet of note-paper? he was abased by the trouble he was causing
her.
Alas! her note-paper was not in the shop, but she could offer him a
price-list--it was very long, and the back was blank.
This was no moment to finick; the case was urgent. He put his foot on
a laundry basket, and the price-list on his knee; and at the back of
"Blouses," "Bodices" and "White petticoats from 6d," he pencilled his
appeal.
When "Ameliarran" had cast off her apron, he promised her a sovereign
to buy feathers. She was given the post-card bearing the address, and
he let her depart without a question. It was evident now that Rosalind
had withheld her address very deliberately; to ascertain where she
lived wouldn't be playing the game! But would the appeal find her at
home? She might be shopping, visiting, taking an aimless, fatal walk!
Hope tottered in him again. The girls who remained eyed him
sympathetically; he was conscious that they placed no credence in his
narrative of the impresario, and he withdrew to wait where he would be
less interesting.
The street was not picturesque; for the scene of a lover's impatience
it might be called "preposterous." The narrow pavements were so busy
that he was forced to choose the narrow road; and the road was made
narrower by stalls of vegetables and tin pots. "Ameliarran," he had
heard, might accomplish her mission in half an hour. He escaped from
the marketing, and lit a cigar in a grey thoroughfare of comparative
seclusion.
"Would she be at home?" When he turned back he braced himself to meet
the crisis. He had consulted his watch frequently, but he had not
returned before "Ameliarran" might be expected. Nevertheless he was
too soon. He withdrew again, and fumed once more among the cabbages
and pans.
The next time he was not too soon. He found her in the shop, and she
had a note for him. From Rosalind, or Tattie? Rosalind! he knew the
writing. Let the girls gape! he wasn't going outside to read it among
the vegetables. He opened it with elaborate listlessness. She had not
protracted his pain while she framed graceful messages. Her response
consisted of eight words; but they sufficed:
"Wait at the laundry. Throwing on my hat."
He doubled the girl's sovereign, and drove no bargain with her
mistress. But the laundry cooped him now. He closed the door, and
loitered gratefully on the step. Yes, indeed, he would wait; in the
sweetness of relief he was scarcely impatient. A little drizzle was in
the air, but he did not heed it. The day, and the morrow, and a
hundred days broke into smiles before him. And while he lingered
there--on the laundress's step, in the squalid street, under the
rain--Conrad suddenly awoke to the exhilaration that sparkled in him,
was startled by its freshness. He realised that fizzing in his pulses
and his mind was the zest, the buoyancy that he had mourned as dead.
It was here, alive! He reviewed with gusto his emotions of the
afternoon, the hope, the suspense, the desperation--the quiver of
rejoicing. It had been good! he had lived and felt this afternoon; he
would not have abated those emotions by a jot! The immoral truth was
clear to him, he had made his great discovery--that a man is young as
often as he falls in love. That Rosalind had beauty, was an
irrelevance. Again, to her lover a woman _is_ what she makes _him
feel_. Whether she is fair or ill-favoured, whether she is worthy or
worthless, whether she is formed like Venus, or clasps him in arms as
thin as penholders, to him she is supreme, and while he adores her he
is Young.
The rain was pattering more smartly, and he waited under his umbrella.
Exultation was in his heart, her promise was in his pocket, ten years
of his age had been shed behind the door. And at this point it may be
discreet of us to take leave of Conrad--as Rosalind's cab comes
jingling round the corner.
THE END
* * * * *
_BY LEONARD MERRICK_
THE POSITION OF PEGGY
CONRAD IN QUEST OF HIS YOUTH
THE MAN WHO UNDERSTOOD WOMEN: STORIES
WHISPERS ABOUT WOMEN: STORIES
LYNCH'S DAUGHTER
THE MAN WHO WAS GOOD
THIS STAGE OF FOOLS
CYNTHIA
ONE MAN'S VIEW
THE ACTOR MANAGER
THE WORLDLINGS
WHEN LOVE FLIES OUT O' THE WINDOW
THE QUAINT COMPANIONS
_Several of Mr. Merrick's books are at present unpublished in America.
Mitchell Kennerley will publish new volumes from time to time._
End of Project Gutenberg's Conrad in Quest of His Youth, by Leonard Merrick