George Gissing
Will Warburton
CHAPTER 32
August came, and Strangwyn, the great whisky distiller, was yet alive. For very shame, Will kept his thoughts from that direction. The gloomy mood had again crept upon him, in spite of all his reasons for hope; his sleep became mere nightmare, and his day behind the counter a bilious misery.
Since the occasion last recorded, Bertha Cross had not been to the shop. One day, the order was brought by a servant; a week later, Mrs. Cross herself appeared. The querulous lady wore a countenance so nearly cheerful that Warburton regarded her uneasily. She had come to purchase tea, and remarked that it was for use during a seaside holiday; you could never depend on the tea at seaside places. Perhaps, thought Will, the prospect of change sufficed to explain her equanimity. But for the rest of the day he was so glum and curt, that Allchin frequently looked at him with pained remonstrance.
At home, he found a telegram on his table. He clutched at it, rent the envelope. But no; it was not what he expected. Norbert Franks asked him to look in that evening. So, weary and heartsick as he was, he took the train to Notting Hill Gate.
"What is it?" he asked bluntly, on entering the studio.
"Wanted a talk, that was all," replied his friend. "Hope I haven't disturbed you. You told me, you remember, that you preferred coming here."
"All right. I thought you might have news for me."
"Well," said Franks, smiling at the smoke of his cigarette, "there's perhaps something of the sort."
The other regarded him keenly.
"You've done it."
"No—o—o; not exactly. Sit down; you're not in a hurry? I went to Walham Green a few days ago, but Bertha wasn't at home. I saw her mother. They're going away for a fortnight, to Southwold, and I have a sort of idea that I may run down there. I half promised."
Will nodded, and said nothing.
"You disapprove? Speak plainly, old man. What's your real objection? Of course I've noticed before now that you have an objection. Out with it!"
"Have you seen Miss Elvan again?"
"No. Have you?"
"Two or three times."
Franks was surprised.
"Where?"
"Oh, we've had some walks together."
"The deuce you have!" cried Franks, with a laugh.
"Don't you want to know what we talked about," pursued Warburton, looking at him with half-closed eyelids. "Principally about you."
"That's very flattering—but perhaps you abused me?"
"On the whole, no. Discussed you, yes, and in considerable detail, coming to the conclusion that you were a very decent fellow, and we both of us liked you very much."
Franks laughed gaily, joyously.
"Que vous etes aimables, tous-les-deux! You make me imagine I'm back in Paris. Must I round a compliment in reply?"
"That's as you like. But first I'll tell you the upshot of it all, as it shapes itself to me. Hasn't it even dimly occurred to you that, under the circumstances, it would be—well, say a graceful thing—to give that girl a chance of changing her mind again?"
"What—Rosamund?"
"It never struck you?"
"But, hang it all, Warburton!" exclaimed the artist. "How should I have thought of it? You know very well—and then, it's perfectly certain she would laugh at me."
"It isn't certain at all. And, do you know, it almost seems to me a point of honour."
"You're not serious? This is one of your solemn jokes—such as you haven't indulged in lately."
"No, no. Listen," said Will, with a rigid earnestness on his face as he bent forward in the chair. "She is poor, and doesn't know how she's going to live. You are flourishing, and have all sorts of brilliant things before you; wouldn't it be a generous thing—the kind of thing one might expect of a fellow with his heart in the right place—? You understand me?"
Franks rounded his eyes in amazement.
"But—am I to understand that she expects it?"
"Not at all. She hasn't in the remotest way betrayed such a thought—be assured of that. She isn't the sort of girl to do such a thing. It's entirely my own thought."
The artist changed his seat, and for a moment wore a look of perturbed reflection.
"How the deuce," he exclaimed, "can you come and talk to me like this when you know I've as good as committed myself—?"
"Yes, and in a wobbling, half-hearted way which means you had no right even to think of committing yourself. You care nothing about that other girl—"
"You're mistaken. I care a good deal. In fact—"
"In fact," echoed Warburton with good-natured scorn, "so much that you've all but made up your mind to go down to Southwold whilst she is there! Bosh! You cared for one girl in a way you'll never care for another."
"Well—perhaps—yes that may be true—"
"Of course it's true. If you don't marry her, go in for a prize beauty or for an heiress or anything else that's brilliant. Think of the scope before a man like you."
Franks smiled complacently once more.
"Why, that's true," he replied. "I was going to tell you about my social adventures. Who do you think I've been chumming with? Sir Luke Griffin—the great Sir Luke. He's asked me down to his place in Leicestershire, and I think I shall go. He's really a very nice fellow. I always imagined him loud, vulgar, the typical parvenu. Nothing of the kind—no one would guess that he began life in a grocer's shop. Why, he can talk quite decently about pictures, and really likes them."
Warburton listened with a chuckle.
"Has he daughters?"
"Three, and no son. The youngest, about seventeen, an uncommonly pretty girl. Well, as you say, why shouldn't I marry her and a quarter of a million? By Jove! I believe I could. She was here with her father yesterday. I'm going to paint the three girls together. —Do you know, Warburton, speaking without any foolish vanity, what astonishes me is to think of the enormous choice of wives there is for a man of decent appearance and breeding who succeeds in getting himself talked about. Without a joke, I am convinced I know twenty girls, and more or less nice girls, who would have me at once, if I asked them. I'm not a conceited fellow—am I now? I shouldn't say this to any one else. I'm simply convinced of its being a fact."
Warburton declared his emphatic agreement.
"Seeing that," he added, "why are you in such a hurry? Your millionaire grocer is but a steppingstone; who knows but you may soon chum with dukes? If any man living ought to be cautious about his marriage, it's you."
The artist examined his friend with a puzzled smile.
"I should like to know, Warburton, how much of this is satire, and how much serious advice. Perhaps it's all satire—and rather savage?"
"No, no, I'm speaking quite frankly."
"But, look here, there's the awkward fact that I really have gone rather far with the Crosses."
Will made a movement of all but angry impatience.
"Do you mean," he asked quickly, "that she has committed herself in any way?"
"No, that she certainly hasn't," was Franks, deliberate reply, in a voice as honest as the smile which accompanied it.
"My advice then is—break decently off, and either do what I suggested, or go and amuse yourself with millionaire Sir Luke, and extend your opportunities."
Franks mused.
"You are serious about Rosamund?" he asked, after a glance at Warburton's set face.
"Think it over," Will replied, in a rather hard voice. "I saw the thing like that. Of course, it's no business of mine; I don't know why I interfere; every man should settle these matters in his own way. But it was a thought I had, and I've told it you. There's no harm done."
CHAPTER 33
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.
CHAPTER 34
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.
