His hands upon the counter, Warburton stared at the door by which first
Rosamund, then Bertha Cross, had disappeared. His nerves were
a-tremble; his eyes were hot. Of a sudden he felt himself shaken with
irresistible mirth; from the diaphragm it mounted to his throat, and
only by a great effort did he save himself from exploding in laughter.
The orgasm possessed him for several minutes. It was followed by a
sense of light-heartedness, which set him walking about, rubbing his
hands together, and humming tunes.
At last the burden had fallen from him; the foolish secret was blown
abroad; once more he could look the world in the face, bidding it think
of him what it would.
They were talking now--the two girls, discussing their strange
discovery. When he saw Rosamund this evening--of course he would see
her, as she had promised--her surprise would already have lost its
poignancy; he had but to tell the story of his disaster, of his
struggles, and then to announce the coming moment of rescue. No chance
could have been happier than this which betrayed him to these two at
the same time; for Bertha Cross's good sense would be the best possible
corrective of any shock her more sensitive companion might have
received. Bertha Cross's good sense--that was how he thought of her,
without touch of emotion; whilst on Rosamund his imagination dwelt with
exultant fervour. He saw himself as he would appear in her eyes when
she knew all--noble, heroic. What he had done was a fine thing, beyond
the reach of ordinary self-regarding mortals, and who more capable than
Rosamund of appreciating such courage? After all, fate was kind. In the
byways of London it had wrought for him a structure of romance, and
amid mean pursuits it exalted him to an ideal of love.
And as he thus dreamt, and smiled and gloried--very much like an
aproned Malvolio--the hours went quickly by. He found himself near
Albert Bridge, pacing this way and that, expecting at every moment the
appearance of the slim figure clad in grey. The sun set; the blind of
Rosamund's sitting-room showed that there was lamplight within; and at
ten o'clock Warburton still hung about the square, hoping--against his
reason--that she might come forth. He went home, and wrote to her.
In a score of ways he explained to himself her holding aloof. It was
vexation at his not having confided in her; it was a desire to reflect
before seeing him again; it was--and so on, all through the night,
which brought him never a wink of sleep. Next morning, he did not go to
the shop; it would have been impossible to stand at the counter for ten
minutes, he sent a note to Allchin, saying that he was detained by
private affairs, then set off for a day-long walk in the country, to
kill time until the coming of Rosamund's reply. On his return in the
afternoon, he found it awaiting him.
An hour later he was in Oakley Crescent. He stood looking at the house
for a moment, then approached, and knocked at the door. He asked if
Miss Elvan was at home.
"She's gone away," was the reply of the landlady, who spoke distantly,
her face a respectable blank.
"Left for good?"
"Yes, sir," answered the woman, her eyes falling.
"You don't know where she has gone to?"
"It's somewhere abroad, sir--in France, I think. She has a sister
there."
This was at five o'clock or so. Of what happened during the next four
hours, Will had never a very distinct recollection. Beyond doubt, he
called at the shop, and spoke with Allchin; beyond doubt, also, he went
to his lodgings and packed a travelling bag. Which of his movements
were performed in cabs, which on foot, he could scarce have decided,
had he reflected on the matter during the night that followed. That
night was passed in the train, on a steamboat, then again on the
railway. And before sunrise he was in Paris.
At the railway refreshment-room, he had breakfast, eating with some
appetite; then he drove to the terminus of another line. The streets of
Paris, dim vistas under a rosy dawn, had no reality for his eyes; the
figures flitting here and there, the voices speaking a foreign tongue,
made part of a phantasm in which he himself moved no less
fantastically. He was in Paris; yet how could that be? He would wake
up, and find himself at his lodgings, and get up to go to business in
Fulham Road; but the dream bore him on. Now he had taken another
ticket. His bag was being registered--for St. Jean de Luz. A long
journey lay before him. He yawned violently, half remembering that he
had passed two nights without sleep. Then he found himself seated in a
corner of the railway carriage, an unknown landscape slipping away
before his eyes.
Now for the first time did he seem to be really aware of what he was
doing. Rosamund had taken flight to the Pyrenees, and he was in hot
pursuit. He grew exhilarated in the thought of his virile energy. If
the glimpse of him aproned and behind a counter had been too great a
shock for Rosamund's romantic nature, this vigorous action would more
than redeem his manhood in her sight. "Yes, I am a grocer; I have lived
for a couple of years by selling tea and sugar--not to speak of
treacle; but none the less I am the man you drew on to love you. Grocer
though I be, I come to claim you!" Thus would he speak and how could
the reply be doubtful? In such a situation, all depends on the man's
strength and passionate resolve. Rosamund should be his; he swore it in
his heart. She should take him as he was, grocer's shop and all; not
until her troth was pledged would he make known to her the prospect of
better things. The emotions of the primitive lover had told upon him.
She thought to escape him, by flight across Europe? But what if the
flight were meant as a test of his worthiness? He seized upon the idea,
and rejoiced in it. Rosamund might well have conceived this method of
justifying both him and herself. "If he loves me as I would be loved,
let him dare to follow!"
To-morrow morning he would stand before her, grocerdom a thousand miles
away. They would walk together, as when they were among the Alps. Why,
even then, had his heart prompted, had honour permitted, he could have
won her. He believed now, what at the time he had refused to admit,
that Franks' moment of jealous anger was not without its justification.
Again they would meet among the mountains, and the shop in Fulham Road
would be seen as at the wrong end of a telescope--its due proportions.
They would return together to England, and at once be married. As for
the grocery business--
Reason lost itself amid ardours of the natural man.
He paid little heed to the country through which he was passing. He
flung himself on to the dark platform, and tottered drunkenly in search
of the exit. _Billet_? Why, yes, he had a _billet_ somewhere. Hotel?
Yes, yes, the hotel,--no matter which. It took some minutes before his
brain could grasp the idea that his luggage cheque was wanted; he had
forgotten that he had any luggage at all. Ultimately, he was thrust
into some sort of a vehicle, which set him down at the hotel door.
Food? Good Heavens, no; but something to drink, and a bed to tumble
into--quick.
He stood in a bedroom, holding in his hand a glass of he knew not what
beverage. Before him was a waiter, to whom--very much to his own
surprise--he discoursed fluently in French, or something meant for that
tongue. That it was more than sixty hours since he had slept; that he
had started from London at a moment's notice; that the Channel had been
very rough for the time of the year; that he had never been in this
part of France before, and hoped to see a good deal of the Pyrenees,
perhaps to have a run into Spain; that first of all he wanted to find
the abode of an English lady named Mrs. Cap--Cop--he couldn't think of
the name, but he had written it down in his pocket-book.
The door closed; the waiter was gone; but Warburton still talked French.
"Oui, oui--en effet--tres fatigue, horriblement fatiguee! Trois nuits
sans sommeil--trois nuits--trois!"
His clothes fell in a heap on the floor; his body fell in another
direction. He was dead asleep.