She was gone, and Warburton stood biting his lips. Had he shaken hands
with her? Had he said good-night? He could not be sure. Nothing was
present to him but a sense of gawkish confusion, following on a wild
impulse which both ashamed and alarmed him, he stood in a bumpkin
attitude, biting his lips.
A hansom came crawling by, and the driver called his attention--"Keb,
sir?" At once he stepped forward, sprang on to the footboard,
and--stood there looking foolish.
"Where to, sir?"
"That's just what I can't tell you," he answered with a laugh. "I want
to go to somebody's house, but don't know the address."
"Could you find it in the Directory, sir? They've got one at the
corner."
"Good idea."
The cab keeping alongside with him, he walked to the public-house, and
there, midway in whisky-and-soda, looked up in the great red volume the
name of Strangwyn. There it was,--a house in Kensington Gore. He jumped
into the hansom, and, as he was driven down Park Lane, he felt that he
had enjoyed nothing so much for a long time; it was the child's delight
in "having a ride"; the air blew deliciously on his cheeks, and the
trotting clap of the horse's hoofs, the jingle of the bells, aided his
exhilaration. And when the driver pulled up, it was with an
extraordinary gaiety that Will paid him and shouted good-night.
He approached the door of Mr. Strangwyn's dwelling. Some one was at
that moment turning away from it, and, as they glanced at each other, a
cry of recognition broke from both.
"Coming to make inquiry?" asked Sherwood. "I've just been doing the
same thing."
"Well?"
"No better, no worse. But that means, of course, nearer the end."
"Queer we should meet," said Warburton. "This is the first time I've
been here."
"I can quite understand your impatience. It seems an extraordinary
case; the poor old man, by every rule, ought to have died weeks ago.
Which way are you walking?"
Will answered that he did not care, that he would accompany Sherwood.
"Let us walk as far as Hyde Park Corner, then," said Godfrey.
"Delighted to have a talk with you." He slipped a friendly hand under
his companion's arm. "Why don't you come, Will, and make friends with
Milligan? He's a splendid fellow; you couldn't help taking to him. We
are getting on gloriously with our work. For the first time in my life
I feel as if I had something to do that's really worth doing. I tell
you this scheme of ours has inconceivable importance; it may have
results such as one dare not talk about."
"But how long will it be before you really make a start?" asked
Warburton, with more interest than he had yet shown in this matter.
"I can't quite say--can't quite say. The details are of course full of
difficulty--the thing wouldn't be worth much if they were not. One of
Milligan's best points is, that he's a thoroughly practical
man--thoroughly practical man. It's no commercial enterprise we're
about, but, if it's to succeed, it must be started on sound principles.
I'd give anything if I could persuade you to join us, old fellow. You
and your mother and sister--you're just the kind of people we want.
Think what a grand thing it will be to give a new start to
civilisation! Doesn't it touch you?"
Warburton was mute, and, taking this for a sign of the impressionable
moment, Sherwood talked on, ardently, lyrically, until Hyde Park Corner
was reached.
"Think it over, Will. We shall have you yet; I know we shall. Come and
see Milligan."
They parted with a warm hand-grip, and Warburton turned toward Fulham
Road.
When Warburton entered the shop the next morning, Allchin was on the
lookout for him.
"I want to speak to you, sir," he said, "about this golden syrup we've
had from Rowbottom's--"
Will listened, or seemed to listen, smiling at vacancy. To whatever
Allchin proposed, he gave his assent, and in the afternoon, without
daring to say a word he stole into freedom.
He was once more within sight of Albert Bridge. He walked or
prowled--for half an hour close about Oakley Crescent. Then, over the
bridge and into the Park. Back again, and more prowling. At last, weary
and worn, to the counter and apron, and Allchin's talk about golden
syrup.
The next day, just before sunset, he sauntered on the Embankment. He
lifted up his eyes, and there, walking towards him, came the slim
figure in grey.
"Not like the other evening," said Rosamund, before he could speak, her
eyes turning to the dull, featureless west.
He held her hand, until she gently drew it away, and then was
frightened to find that he had held it so long. From head to foot, he
quivered, deliciously, painfully. His tongue suffered a semi-paralysis,
so that, trying to talk, he babbled--something about the sweetness of
the air--a scent from the gardens across the river--
"I've had a letter from Bertha Cross," said his companion, as she
walked slowly on. "She comes home to-morrow."
"Bertha Cross--? Ah, yes, your friend--"
The name sounded to Warburton as if from a remote past. He repeated it
several times to himself.
They stood with face turned toward the lurid south. The air was very
still. From away down the river sounded the bells of Lambeth Church,
their volleying clang softened by distance to a monotonous refrain,
drearily at one with the sadness of the falling night. Warburton heard
them, yet heard them not; all external sounds blended with that within
him, which was the furious beating of his heart. He moved a hand as if
to touch Rosamund's, but let it fall as she spoke.
"I'm afraid I must go. It's really raining--"
Neither had an umbrella. Big drops were beginning to splash on the
pavement. Warburton felt one upon his nose.
"To-morrow," he uttered thickly, his tongue hot and dry, his lips
quivering.
"Yes, if it's fine," replied Rosamund.
"Early in the afternoon?"
"I can't. I must go and see Bertha."
They were walking at a quick step, and already getting wet.
"At this hour then," panted Will.
"Yes."
Lambeth bells were lost amid a hollow boom of distant thunder.
"I must run," cried Rosamund. "Good-bye."
He followed, keeping her in sight until she entered the house. Then he
turned and walked like a madman through the hissing rain--walked he
knew not whither--his being a mere erratic chaos, a symbol of Nature's
prime impulse whirling amid London's multitudes.