At five minutes to two, as he stood behind the eternal counter in his
eternal dream, he had the inexpressible and delectable shock of seeing
her. He was shot by the vision of her as by a bullet. She came in,
hurried and preoccupied, apparently full of purpose.
"Have you got a Bradshaw?" she inquired, after the briefest greeting,
gazing at him across the counter through her veil, as though imploring
him for Bradshaw.
"I'm afraid we haven't one left," he said. "You see it's getting on for
the end of the month. I could-- No, I suppose you want it at once?"
"I want it now," she replied. "I'm going to London by the six express,
and what I want to know is whether I can get on to Brighton to-night.
They actually haven't a Bradshaw up there," half in scorn and half in
levity, "and they said you'd probably have one here. So I ran down."
"They'd be certain to have one at the Tiger," he murmured, reflecting.
"The Tiger!" Evidently she did not care for the idea of the Tiger.
"What about the railway station?"
"Yes, or the railway station. I'll go up there with you now if you
like, and find out for you. I know the head porter. We're just
closing. Father's at home. He's not very well."
She thanked him, relief in her voice.
In a minute he had put his hat and coat on and given instructions to
Stifford, and he was climbing Duck Bank with Hilda at his side. He had
forgiven her. Nay, he had forgotten her crime. The disaster, with all
its despair, was sponged clean from his mind like writing off a slate,
and as rapidly. It was effaced. He tried to collect his faculties and
savour the new sensations. But he could not. Within him all was
incoherent, wild, and distracting. Five minutes earlier, and he could
not have conceived the bliss of walking with her to the station. Now he
was walking with her to the station; and assuredly it was bliss, and yet
he did not fully taste it. Though he would not have loosed her for a
million pounds, her presence gave an even crueller edge to his anxiety
and apprehension. London! Brighton! Would she be that night in
Brighton? He felt helpless, and desperate. And beneath all this was
the throbbing of a strange, bitter joy. She asked about his cold and
about his father's indisposition. She said nothing of her failure to
appear on the previous day, and he knew not how to introduce it neatly:
he was not in control of his intelligence.
They passed Snaggs' Theatre, and from its green, wooden walls came the
obscure sound of humanity in emotion. Before the mean and shabby
portals stood a small crowd of ragged urchins. Posters printed by
Darius Clayhanger made white squares on the front.
"It's a meeting of the men," said Edwin.
"They're losing, aren't they?"