When Warburton reached his lodging the next evening he found a letter
on his table. Again the fine feminine hand; it was the second time that
Rosamund had written to him. A vague annoyance mingled with his
curiosity as he tore the envelope. She began by telling him of a
drawing she had made in Camberwell Grove--not bad, it seemed to her,
but she wished for his opinion. Then, in a new paragraph:
"I have seen Norbert again. I call him Norbert, because I always think
of him by that name, and there's an affectation in writing 'Mr.
Franks.' I felt that, when we talked of him, and I really don't know
why I didn't simply call him Norbert then. I shall do so in future.
You, I am sure, have little respect for silly social conventions, and
you will understand me. Yes, I have seen him again, and I feel obliged
to tell you about it. It was really very amusing. You know, of course,
that all embarrassment was over between us. At Ashtead we met like the
best of friends. So, when Norbert wrote that he wanted to see me, I
thought nothing could be more natural, and felt quite glad. But, as
soon as we met, I saw something strange in him, something seemed to
have happened. And--how shall I tell you? It's only a guess of
mine--things didn't come to foolish extremities--but I really believe
that the poor fellow had somehow persuaded himself that it's his duty
to--no, I can't go on, but I'm sure you will understand. I was never so
amused at anything.
"Why do I write this to you? I hardly know. But I have just a suspicion
that the story may not come to you quite as a surprise. If Norbert
thought he had a certain duty--strange idea!--perhaps friends of his
might see things in the same way. Even the most sensible people are
influenced by curious ideas on one subject. I need not say that, as
soon as the suspicion dawned upon me, I did my best to let him
understand how far astray he was going. I think he understood. I feel
sure he did. At all events he got into natural talk again, and parted
in a thoroughly reasonable way.
"I beg that you won't reply to this letter. I shall work on, and hope
to be able to see you again before long."
Warburton threw the sheet of paper on to the table, as if dismissing it
from his thoughts. He began to walk about the room. Then he stood
motionless for ten minutes. "What's the matter with me?" this was the
current of his musing. "I used to think myself a fellow of some energy;
but the truth is, I know my mind about nothing, and I'm at the mercy of
every one who chooses to push me this way or that."
He took up the letter again, and was about to re-read it, but suddenly
altered his mind, and thrust the folded paper into his pocket.
Eight days went by. Will had a visit from Sherwood, who brought news
that the whisky distiller had seemed a little better, but could not
possibly live more than a week or two. As regards the vegetarian colony
all went well; practical men were at work on the details of the scheme;
Sherwood toiled for ten hours a day at secretarial correspondence. Next
day, there came a postcard from Rosamund.
"Work ready to show you. Could you come and have a cup of tea to-morrow
afternoon?"
At the conventional hour Will went to Oakley Crescent. Not, however, as
he had expected, to find Miss Elvan alone; with her sat Mrs. Pomfret,
in London for the afternoon. The simple and kindly lady talked as
usual, but Will, nervously observant, felt sure that she was not quite
at her ease. On the other hand, nothing could have been more naturally
graceful than Rosamund's demeanour; whether pouring out tea, or
exhibiting her water-colours, or leading the talk to subjects of common
interest, she was charming in her own way, a way which borrowed nothing
from the every-day graces of the drawing-room. Her voice, always
subdued, had a range of melodious expression which caressed the ear, no
matter how trifling the words she uttered, and at moments its slightly
tremulous murmur on rich notes suggested depths of sentiment lying
beneath this familiar calm. To her aunt she spoke with a touch of
playful affection; when her eyes turned to Warburton, their look almost
suggested the frankness of simple friendship, and her tone was that of
the largest confidence.
Never had Will felt himself so lulled to oblivion of things external;
he forgot the progress of time, and only when Mrs. Pomfret spoke of the
train she had to catch, made an effort to break the lazy spell and take
his leave.
On the morrow, and on the day after that, he shirked business during
the afternoon, excusing himself with the plea that the heat of the shop
was insufferable. He knew that neglect of work was growing upon him,
and again he observed that Allchin seemed rather pleased than vexed by
these needless absences. The third day saw him behind the counter until
five o'clock, when he was summoned as usual to the back parlour to tea.
Laying before him a plate of watercress and slices of brown bread and
butter, Mrs. Allchin, a discreetly conversational young woman, remarked
on the continued beauty of the weather, and added a hope that Mr.
Jollyman would not feel obliged to remain in the shop this evening.
"No, no, it's your husband's turn," Will replied good-naturedly. "He
wants a holiday more than I do."
"Allchin want a 'oliday, sir!" exclaimed the woman. "Why he never knows
what to do with himself when he's away from business. He enjoys
business, does Allchin. Don't you think of him, sir. I never knew a man
so altered since he's been kept to regular work all the year round. I
used to dread the Sundays, and still more the Bank holidays when we
were here first; you never knew who he'd get quarrelling with as soon
as he'd nothing to do. But now, sir, why I don't believe you'll find a
less quarrelsome man anywhere, and he was saying for a joke only
yesterday, that he didn't think he could knock down even a coster, he's
so lost the habit."
Will yielded and stole away into the mellowing sunshine. He walked
westward, till he found himself on the Embankment by Albert Bridge;
here, after hesitating awhile, he took the turn into Oakley Street. He
had no thought of calling to see Miss Elvan; upon that he could not
venture; but he thought it barely possible that he might meet with her
in this neighbourhood, and such a meeting would have been pleasant.
Disappointed, he crossed the river, lingered a little in Battersea
Park, came back again over the bridge,--and, with a sudden leap of the
heart, which all but made his whole body spring forward, saw a slim
figure in grey moving by the parapet in front of Cheyne Walk.
They shook hands without speaking, very much as though they had met by
appointment.
"Oh, these sunsets!" were Rosamund's first words, when they had moved a
few steps together.
"They used to be my delight when I lived there," Will replied, pointing
eastward.
"Show me just where it was, will you?"
They turned, and went as far as Chelsea Bridge, where Warburton pointed
out the windows of his old flat.
"You were very happy there?" said Rosamund.
"Happy--? Not unhappy, at all events. Yes, in a way I enjoyed my life;
chiefly because I didn't think much about it."
"Look at the sky, now."
The sun had gone down in the duskily golden haze that hung above the
river's vague horizon. Above, on the violet sky, stood range over range
of pleated clouds, their hue the deepest rose, shading to purple in the
folds.
"In other countries," continued the soft, murmuring voice, "I have
never seen a sky like that. I love this London!"
"As I used to," said Warburton, "and shall again."
They loitered back past Chelsea Hospital, exchanging brief,
insignificant sentences. Then for many minutes neither spoke, and in
this silence they came to the foot of Oakley Street, where again they
stood gazing at the sky. Scarcely changed in form, the western clouds
had shed their splendour, and were now so coldly pale that one would
have imagined them stricken with moonlight; but no moon had risen, only
in a clear space of yet blue sky glistened the evening star.
"I must go in," said Rosamund abruptly, as though starting from a dream.