"The good theatres are closed now."
"Well, the music-halls. I've never been in one, and if they are very naughty, then I want to go very much. Besides, there are lots of theatres open. I've read all the theatrical advertisements in the 'Telegraph,' and there must be plenty of things to see. You mayn't think them worth seeing, but I should enjoy any theatre."
"I believe you would," he said. "I used to be like that."
"Up to now I've had no real pleasure – what I call pleasure – and I'm just going to have it. I'll settle down afterwards."
"Didn't your uncle take you out much?"
"I should say he didn't. He took me to a concert once. That was all – in nearly two years. I suppose it never occurred to him that I was leading a dull life."
She made a movement with her hands, as if to put away from her all the drab dailiness of her existence in Carteret Street.
"You can soon recover lost time," Richard said cheerfully.
His fancy was in the rosy future, vividly picturing the light-hearted gaieties, Bohemian, unconventional, artistic, in which he and she should unite. He saw himself and Adeline becoming dearer to each other, and still dearer, her spirit unfolding like a flower, and disclosing new beauties day by day. He saw her eyes glisten when they met his; felt the soft pressure of her hand; heard her voice waver with tenderness, expectant of his avowal. And then came his own bold declaration: "I love you, Adeline," and her warm, willing lips were upon his. God! To dream of such beatitudes!
She had slightly quickened her step. The quays were silent and deserted, save for these two. Presently masts rose vaguely against the sky, and they approached a large ship. Richard leaned over the parapet to decipher the name on her bows. "Juliane," he spelt out.
"That is Norwegian or Danish."
They lingered a few moments, watching the movements of dim figures on deck, listening to the musical chatter of an unknown tongue, and breathing that atmosphere of romance and adventure which foreign vessels carry with them from strange lands; then they walked on.
"Hush!" exclaimed Adeline, stopping, and touching Richard's arm.
The sailors were singing some quaint modern strain.
"What is it?" she asked when they had finished a verse.
"It must be a Norwegian folk-song. It reminds me of Grieg."
Another verse was sung. It began to rain, – warm, summer drops.
"You will be wet," Richard said.
"Never mind."
A third verse followed, and then a new air was started. It rained faster.
"Come under the shelter of the wall here," Richard urged, timidly taking her arm. "I think I see an archway."
"Yes, yes," she murmured, with sweet acquiescence; and they stood together a long time under the archway in silence, while the Norwegian sailors, heedless of weather, sang song after song.
The next morning the sky had cleared again, but there was a mist over the calm sea. They walked idly on the level sands. At first they were almost alone. The mist intensified distances; a group of little children paddling in a foot of water appeared to be miles away. Slowly the mist was scattered by the sun, and the beach became populous with visitors in Sunday attire. In the afternoon they drove to Angmering, Adeline having found no preferable haunt.
"You have no train to catch to-night," she said; "what a relief! Shall you start very early to-morrow?"
"I'm not particular," he answered. "Why?"
"I was thinking that Lottie and I would go up by the same train as you, but perhaps you won't care to be bothered with women and their luggage."
"If you really intend to return to-morrow, I'll wire to Curpet not to expect me till after lunch, and we'll go at a reasonable hour."
He left her at her lodging as the clock was striking eleven; but instead of making direct for his hotel, he turned aside to the river to have a last look at the "Juliane." Curiously, it began to rain, and he sheltered under the archway where he had stood with Adeline on the previous night. Aboard the "Juliane" there was stir and bustle. He guessed that the ship was about to weigh anchor and drop down with the tide. Just after midnight she slid cautiously away from the quay, to the accompaniment of hoarse calls and the rattling of chains and blocks.
CHAPTER XX
During the journey to town Adeline would talk of nothing but her intention to taste all the amusements which London had to offer. She asked numberless questions with the persistency of an inquisitive child, while Lottie modestly hid herself behind a copy of "Tit Bits," which had been bought for her.
"Now I will read out the names of the plays advertised in the 'Telegraph,'" she said, "and you must tell me what each is like, and whether the actors are good, and the actresses pretty, and things of that kind."
Richard entered with zest into the conversation. He was in a boisterous mood, and found her very willing to be diverted. Once, when he used a technical term, she stopped him: "Remember, I have never been to a theatre." On Sunday she had made the same remark several times. It seemed as if she liked to insist on the point.
The morning was delicious, full of light and freshness, and the torpid countryside through which the train swept at full speed suggested a gentle yet piquant contrast to the urban, gaslight themes which they were discussing. Though the sun shone with power, Adeline would not have the blinds drawn, but sometimes she used the newspaper for a shade, or bent her head so that the broad brim of her hat might come between her eyes and the sunshine. After an hour the talk slackened somewhat. As Richard, from his seat opposite, looked now at Adeline and now at the landscape, a perfect content stole over him. He wished that the distance to London could have been multiplied tenfold, and rejoiced in every delay. Then he began to miss the purport of her questions, and she had to repeat them. He was examining his heart. "Is this love?" his thoughts ran. "Do I actually love her now, —now?"
When the train stopped at New Cross, and Richard said that they would be at London Bridge in a few minutes, she asked when he would go down to Carteret Street.
"Any time," he said.
"To-morrow night?"
He had hoped she would fix the same evening. "When is the theatre-going to commence?" he queried.
She laughed vaguely: "Soon."
"Suppose I book seats for the Comedy?"
"We will talk about it to-morrow night."
It appeared that her desire for the relaxations of town life had suddenly lost its instancy.
Immediately he reached the office he wrote a note to Mr. Clayton Vernon. Some three hundred pounds was coming to him under the will of William Vernon, and he had purposed to let Mr. Clayton Vernon invest this sum for him; but the letter asked that a cheque for £25 should be sent by return of post. Later in the afternoon he went to a tailor in Holborn, and ordered two suits of clothes.
He grew restless and introspective, vainly endeavouring to analyse his feeling towards Adeline. He wished that he had himself suggested that he should call on her that night, instead of allowing her to name Tuesday. When he got home, he looked at the letter which he had received from her a fortnight before, and then, enclosing it in a clean envelope, put it away carefully in his writing-case. He felt that he must preserve all her letters. The evening dragged itself out with desolating tedium. Once he went downstairs intending to go to the theatre, but returned before he had unlatched the front door.
Mrs. Rowbotham laid his supper that evening, and he began to tell her about his holiday, mentioning, with fictitious naïveté, that he had spent it in the company of a young lady. Soon he gave the whole history of his acquaintance with the Akeds. She warmly praised his kindness towards Adeline.
"My Lily is keeping company with a young man," she said, after a pause; "a respectable young chap he is, a bus-conductor. This is his night off, and they're gone to the Promenade Concert. I didn't like her going at first, but, bless you, you have to give in. Young folk are young folk, all the world over… But I must be getting downstairs again. I have to do everything myself to-night. Ah! when a girl falls in love, she forgets her mother. It's natural, I suppose. Well, Mr. Larch, it will be your turn soon, I hope." With that she left the room quickly, missing Richard's hurried disclaimer.
"So you're engaged, Lily," he said to the girl next morning.
Lily blushed and nodded; and as he looked at her eyes, he poignantly longed for the evening.
CHAPTER XXI
They sat by the window and talked till the day began to fade and the lamplighter had passed up the street. Several matters of business needed discussion, – the proving of Mr. Aked's will, the tenancy of the house and the opening of a new banking-account. Richard, who was acting informally as legal adviser, after the manner of solicitors' clerks towards their friends, brought from his pocket some papers for Adeline's signature. She took a pen immediately.
"Where do I put my name?"
"But you must read them first."
"I shouldn't understand them a bit," she said; "and what is the use of employing a lawyer, if one is put to the trouble of reading everything one signs?"
"Well – please yourself. To-morrow you will have to go before a commissioner for oaths and swear that certain things are true; you'll be compelled to read the affidavits."
"That I won't! I shall just swear."
"But you simply must."
"Sha'n't. If I swear to fibs, it will be your fault."
"Suppose I read them out to you?"
"Yes, that would be nicer; but not now, after supper."
For a few moments there was silence. She stood up and drew her finger in fanciful curves across the window-pane. Richard watched her, with a smile of luxurious content. It appeared to him that all her movements, every inflection of her voice, her least word, had the authenticity and the intrinsic grace of natural phenomena. If she turned her head or tapped her foot, the gesture was right, – having the propriety which springs from absolute self-unconsciousness. Her mere existence from one moment to the next seemed in some mysterious way to suggest a possible solution of the riddle of life. She illustrated nature. She was for him intimately a part of nature, the great Nature which hides itself from cities. To look at her afforded him a delight curiously similar to that which the townsman derives from a rural landscape. Her face had little conventional beauty; her conversation contained no hint either of intellectual powers or of a capacity for deep feeling. But in her case, according to his view, these things were unnecessary, would in fact have been superfluous. She was and that sufficed.
Mingled with the pleasure which her nearness gave him, there were subordinate but distinct sensations. Except his sister Mary, he had never before been upon terms of close familiarity with any woman, and he realised with elation that now for the first time the latencies of manhood were aroused. His friendship – if indeed it were nothing else – with this gracious, inscrutable creature seemed a thing to be very proud of, to gloat upon in secret, to contemplate with a dark smile as one walked along the street or sat in a bus… And then, with a shock of joyful, half-incredulous surprise, he made the discovery that she – she – had found some attractiveness in himself.
Their loneliness gave zest and piquancy to the situation. On neither side were there relatives or friends who might obtrude, or whom it would be proper to consult. They had only themselves to consider. Not a soul in London, with the exception of Lottie, knew of their intimacy, – the visit to Littlehampton, their plans for visiting the theatres, her touching reliance upon him. Ah, that confiding feminine trust! He read it frequently in her glance, and it gave him a sense of protective possession. He had approached no closer than to shake her hand, and yet, as he looked at the slight frame, the fragile fingers, the tufts of hair which escaped over her ears, – these things seemed to be his. Surely she had donned that beautiful dress for him; surely she moved gracefully for him, talked softly for him!
He left his chair, quietly lighted the candles at the piano, and began to turn over some songs.
"What are you doing?" she asked, from the window.
"I want you to sing."
"Must I?"
"Certainly. Let me find something with an easy accompaniment."
She came towards him, took up a song, opened it, and bade him look at it.
"Too difficult," he said abruptly. "Those arpeggios in the bass, – I couldn't possibly play them."
She laid it aside obediently.
"Well, this?"
"Yes. Let us try that."
She moved nearer to him, to miss the reflection of the candles on the paper, and put her hands behind her back. She cleared her throat. He knew she was nervous, but he had no such feeling himself.
"Ready?" he asked, glancing round and up into her face. She smiled timidly, flushing, and then nodded.
"No," she exclaimed the next second, as he boldly struck the first chord. "I don't think I'll sing. I can't."
"Oh, yes, you will – yes, you will."
"Very well." She resigned herself.
The first few notes were tremulous, but quickly she gained courage. The song was a mediocre drawing-room ballad, and she did not sing with much expression, but to Richard's ear her weak contralto floated out above the accompaniment with a rich, passionate quality full of intimate meanings. When his own part of the performance was not too exacting, he watched from the corner of his eye the rise and fall of her breast, and thought of Keats's sonnet; and then he suddenly quaked in fear that all this happiness might crumble at the touch of some adverse fate.
"I suppose you call that a poor song," she said when it was finished.
"I liked it very much."
"You did? I am so fond of it, and I'm glad you like it. Shall we try another?" She offered the suggestion with a gentle diffidence which made Richard desire to abase himself before her, to ask what in the name of heaven she meant by looking to him as an authority, a person whose will was to be consulted and whose humours were law.
Again she put her hands behind her back, cleared her throat, and began to sing… He had glimpses of mystic, emotional deeps in her spirit hitherto unsuspected.
Lottie came in with a lamp.
"You would like supper?" Adeline said. "Lottie, let us have supper at once."
Richard remembered that when Mr. Aked was alive, Adeline had been accustomed to go into the kitchen and attend to the meals herself; but evidently this arrangement was now altered. She extinguished the candles on the piano, and took the easy-chair with a question about Schubert. Supper was to be served without the aid of the mistress of the house. She had been training Lottie, – that was clear. He looked round. The furniture was unchanged, but everything had an unwonted air of comfort and neatness, and Adeline's beautiful dress scarcely seemed out of keeping with the general aspect of the room. He gathered that she had social aspirations. He had social aspirations himself. His fancy delighted to busy itself with fine clothes, fine furniture, fine food, and fine manners. That his own manners had remained inelegant was due to the fact that the tireless effort and vigilance which any amelioration of their original crudity would have necessitated, were beyond his tenacity of purpose.
The supper was trimly laid on a very white tablecloth, and chairs were drawn up. Lottie stood in the background for a few moments; Adeline called her for some trifling service, and then dismissed her.
"Won't you have some whisky? I know men always like whisky at night."
She touched a bell on the table.
"The whisky, Lottie – you forgot it."
Richard was almost awed by her demeanour. Where could she have learnt it? He felt not unlike a bumpkin, and secretly determined to live up to the standard of deportment which she had set.
"You may smoke," she said, when Lottie had cleared the table after supper; "I like it. Here are some cigarettes – 'Three Castles' – will they do?" Laughing, she produced a box from the sideboard, and handed it to him. He went to the sofa, and she stood with one elbow resting on the mantelpiece.
"About going to the theatre – " she began.
"May I take you? Let us go to the Comedy."
"And you will book seats, the dress circle?"
"Yes. What night?"
"Let us say Friday… And now you may read me those documents."
When that business was transacted, Richard felt somehow that he must depart, and began to take his leave. Adeline stood erect, facing him in front of the mantelpiece.
"Next time you come, you will bring those Schubert songs, will you not?"
Then she rang the bell, shook hands, and sat down. He went out; Lottie was waiting in the passage with his hat and stick.
CHAPTER XXII
Seven or eight weeks passed.
During that time Richard spent many evenings with Adeline, at the theatre, at concerts, and at Carteret Street. When they were going up to town, he called for her in a hansom. She usually kept him waiting a few minutes. He sat in the sitting-room, listening to the rattle of harness and the occasional stamp of a hoof outside. At length he heard her light step on the stairs, and she entered the room, smiling proudly. She was wonderfully well dressed, with modish simplicity and exact finish, and she gave him her fan to hold while she buttoned her long gloves. Where she ordered her gowns he never had the least notion. They followed one another in rapid succession, and each seemed more beautiful than the last. All were sober in tint; the bodices were V-shaped, and cut rather low.
Lottie carefully placed a white wrap over her mistress's head, and then they were off. In the hansom there was but little conversation, and that of a trivial character. In vain he endeavoured to entice her into discussions. He mentioned books which he had read; she showed only a perfunctory interest. He explained why, in his opinion, a particular play was good and another bad; generally she preferred the wrong one, or at least maintained that she liked all plays, and therefore would not draw comparisons. Sometimes she would argue briefly about the conduct of certain characters in a piece, but he seldom found himself genuinely in agreement with her, though as a rule he verbally concurred. In music she was a little less unsympathetic towards his ideals. They had tried over several of his favourite classical songs, and he had seen in her face, as she listened, or hummed the air, a glow answering to his own enthusiasm. She had said that she would learn one of them, but the promise had not been kept, though he had reminded her of it several times.
These chagrins, however, were but infinitesimal ripples upon the smooth surface of his happiness. All of them together were as nothing compared to the sensations which he experienced in helping her out of the cab, in the full glare of a theatre façade. Invariably he overpaid the driver, handing him the silver with an inattentive gesture, while Adeline waited on the steps, – dainty food for the eyes of loiterers and passers-by. He offered his arm, and they passed down the vestibule and into the auditorium. With what artless enjoyment she settled herself in her seat, breathing the atmosphere of luxury and display as if it had been ozone, smiling radiantly at Richard, and then eagerly examining the occupants of the boxes through a small, silver-mounted glass! She was never moved by the events on the stage, and whether it happened to be tragedy or burlesque at which they were assisting, she turned to Richard at the end of every act with the same happy, contented smile, and usually began to make remarks upon the men and women around her. It was the play-house and not the play of which she was really fond.
After the fall of the curtain, they lingered till most of the audience had gone. Sometimes they supped at a restaurant. "It is my turn," she would say now and then, when the obsequious waiter presented the bill, and would give Richard her purse. At first, for form's sake, he insisted on his right to pay, but she would not listen. He wondered where she had caught the pretty trick of handing over her purse instead of putting down the coins, and he traced it to a play which they had seen at the Vaudeville theatre. Yet she did it with such naturalness that it did not seem to have been copied. The purse was small, and always contained several pounds in gold, with a little silver. The bill paid, he gave it back to her with a bow.
Then came the long, rapid drive home, through interminable lamp-lined streets, peopled now only by hansoms and private carriages, past all the insolent and garish splendours of Piccadilly clubs, into whose unveiled windows Adeline eagerly gazed; past the mysterious, night-ridden Park; past the dim, solemn squares and crescents of Kensington and Chelsea, and so into the meaner vicinage of Fulham. It was during these midnight journeys, more than at any other time, that Richard felt himself to be a veritable inhabitant of the City of Pleasure. Adeline, flushed with the evening's enjoyment, talked of many things, in her low, even voice, which was never raised. Richard answered briefly; an occasional reply was all she seemed to expect.
Immediately, on getting out of the cab, she said good-night, and entered the house alone, while Richard directed the driver back to Raphael Street. Returning thus, solitary, he endeavoured to define what she was to him, and he to her. Often, when actually in her presence, he ventured to ask himself, "Am I happy? Is this pleasure?" But as soon as he had left her, his doubtfulness vanished, and he began to long for their next meeting. Little phrases of hers, unimportant gestures, came back vividly to his memory; he thought how instinct with charm they were. And yet, was he really, truly in love? Was she in love? Had there been a growth of feeling since that night at Carteret Street after the holiday at Littlehampton? He uncomfortably suspected that their hearts had come nearer to each other that night than at any time since.
He tried to look forward to the moment when he should invite her to be his wife. But was that moment approaching? At the back of his mind lay an apprehension that it was not. She satisfied one part of his nature. She was the very spirit of grace; she was full of aplomb and a delicate tact; she had money. Moreover, her constant reliance upon him, her clinging womanishness, the caressing, humouring tone which her voice could assume, powerfully affected him. He divined darkly that he was clay in her hands; that all the future, even the future of his own heart, depended entirely upon her. If she chose, she might be his goddess… And yet she had sharp limitations…
Again, was she in love?
When he woke up of a morning he wondered how long his present happiness would continue, and whither it was leading him. A scrap of conversation which he had had with Adeline recurred to him frequently. He had asked her, once when she had complained of ennui, why she did not become acquainted with some of her neighbours.
"I don't care for my neighbours," she replied curtly.
"But you can't live without acquaintances all your life."
"No, not all my life," she said with significant emphasis.