Well, and what then? Preston Street was dark and lonely. The wind
charged furiously through it, panting towards the downs. He was in
Preston Street, but what could he do? She was behind the black walls of
one of those houses. But what then? Could he knock at the door in the
night and say: "I've come. I don't know why?"
He said: "I shall walk up and down this street once, and then I shall go
back to the hotel. That's the only thing to do. I've gone off my head,
that's what's the matter with me! I ought to have written to her. Why
in the name of God didn't I begin by writing to her? ... Of course I
might write to her from the hotel ... send the letter by messenger,
to-night ... or early to-morrow. Yes, that's what I'll do."
He set himself to make the perambulation of the street. Many of the
numbers were painted on the fanlights over the doors and showed plain
against illumination. Suddenly he saw the large figures `59.' He was
profoundly stirred. He had said that the matter with him was that he
had gone off his head; but now, staring at that number on the opposite
side of the street, he really did not know what was the matter with him.
He might have been dying. The front of the house was dark save for the
fanlight. He crossed over and peered down into the area and at the black
door. A brass plate: "Cannon's Boarding-House," he could read. He
perspired. It seemed to him that he could see her within the house,
mysteriously moving at her feminine tasks. Or did she lie in bed? He
had come from Bursley to London, from London to Brighton, and now he had
found her portal; it existed. The adventure seemed incredible in its
result. Enough for the present! He could stand no more. He walked
away, meaning not to return.
When he returned, five minutes later, the fanlight was dark. Had _she_,
in the meantime, come into the hall of the house and extinguished the
gas? Strange, that all lights should be out in a boarding establishment
before ten o'clock! He stood hesitant quite near the house, holding
himself against the wind. Then the door opened a little, as it were
stealthily, and a hand and arm crept out and with a cloth polished the
face of the brass plate. He thought, in his excited fancy, that it was
her hand and arm. Within, he seemed to distinguish a dim figure. He
did not move; could not. The door opened wider, and the figure stood
revealed, a woman's. Surely it was she! She gazed at him suspiciously,
duster in hand.
"What are you standing there for?" she questioned inimically. "We've
had enough of loiterers in this street. Please go away."
She took him for a knave expectant of some chance to maraud. She was
not fearful, however. It was she. It was her voice.