As for Johnny, finding Butson ceasing, so far as he could see, from active offence, he gave thought to other things; though watching still. His drawing was among the other matters that claimed his care; but chief of them all was a different thing altogether.
For at the Institute he had found the girl he first saw on the dark morning when he set out to be an engineer. He had seen her since — once as he was on his way to a ship-launch, and twice a little later; then not at all for eighteen months at least, till he began to forget. But now that he saw her again and found her a woman — or grown as much a woman as he was grown a man — he wondered that he could ever have forgotten for a moment; more, when he had seen her twice or thrice, and knew the turn of her head and the nearing of her step, he was desperately persuaded that nothing in the world, nor time nor tide, could make him forget again. So that he resolved to learn to dance.
But the little society that danced at the Institute saw nothing of her, this radiant unforgettable. She came twice a week to the dressmaking class; wherein she acted as monitor or assistant to the teacher, being, as Johnny later discovered — by vast exertions — a dressmaker herself, in her daily work. She made no friendships, walked sedately apart, and was in some sort a mystery; being for these reasons regarded as “stuck-up” by the girls of the class, and so made a target for many small needle-thrusts of spite. Johnny had a secret notion that she remembered him; because she would pass him with so extreme an unconsciousness in her manner, so very blank an unacquaintance in her eyes. Neat and grey in her dress, she had ever a placid gravity of air, almost odd by contrast with the unceasing smirk and giggle of the rest of the girls of the Institute. And her name — another happy discovery, attained at great expense of artless diplomacy — was Nora Sansom.
And now for awhile the practice of orthographic projection suffered from neglect and abstraction of mind. Long Hicks, all ignorant of the cause, was mightily concerned, and expostulated, with a face of perplexed surprise, much poking of fingers through the hair, and jerking at the locks thus separated. But it was a great matter that tugged so secretly at Johnny’s mind, and daily harder at his heart-strings, till he blushed in solitude to find himself so weak a creature. Nora Sansom did not come to the dancing. She knew nobody that he knew. She was unapproachable as — as a Chinese Empress. How to approach Nora Sansom? And at the thought he gulped and tingled, and was more than a little terrified. He was not brought to a stand by contemplation of any distinct interposing labyrinth of conventional observance, such as he who can see can pick his way through in strict form; but by a difficulty palpable to instinct rather than figured in mind: an intangible barrier that vexed Johnny to madness, so that he hammered the Institute punching-ball with blind fury. And again, because the world was now grown so many heavens wider, he would sit and dream of things beyond its farthest margin yet. And between plan and section, crank-shaft and piston, he would wake to find himself designing monograms of the letters N. S. and J. M. Altogether becoming a sad young fool, such as none of us ever was in the like circumstances.
But an angel — two angels, to be exact, both of them rather stout — came one night to Johnny’s aid. They came all unwitting, in a cab, being man and wife, and their simple design was to see for themselves the Upraising of the Hopeless Residuum. They had been told, though they scarce believed, that at the Institute, far East — much farther East than Whitechapel, and therefore, without doubt, deeper sunk in dirt and iniquity — the young men and women danced together under regular ball-room conventions, neither bawling choruses nor pounding one another with quart pots. It was even said that partners were introduced in proper form before dancing — a thing so ludicrous in its incongruity as to give no choice but laughter. So the two doubters from the West End (it was only Bayswater, really) took a cab, to see these things for themselves.
But, having taken no pains to inform themselves of the order of things at the Institute, they arrived on an evening when there was no dancing. This was very annoying, and they said so, with acerbity. They were, indeed, so very indignant at the disconformity of the arrangements to their caprice, and so extremely and so obviously important, and the lady waggled her gilt-handled lorgnon with such offended majesty, that it was discussed among those in direction whether or not something might be done to appease them. And in the end, after a few hasty inquiries, the classes were broken up for the evening and an off-hand dance was declared, to the music extracted from the Institute piano and the fiddle of a blushing young amateur.
The girls came in gay and chattering from the dressmaking class, and the lads rushed to exchange gymnasium-flannels for the clothes they had come in — all unconscious that they were to be made a show of. They who kept their dancing-shoes on the premises triumphed in their foresight, and Johnny was among them. As for him, he had seen Nora Sansom coming in with the others, alone and a little shy, and he resolved to seize occasion with both hands.
And he did so very gallantly, with less trepidation than at a calmer moment he would have judged possible. First a quadrille was called, and Johnny’s courage rose — for as yet he had no great confidence in his dancing in general, but he did know the figures of a quadrille, having learned them by rote, as most boys learn Euclid, He laid hands on the mild young shopman who had unexpectedly found himself appointed master of ceremonies, and in two minutes he was standing in a set with Nora Sansom at his side. The sheer pride of it disorganised his memory, so that it was lucky they were a side couple, or there would have been a rout in the first figure. Johnny’s partner knew very little or nothing of dancing, but she was quick to learn, and Johnny, a rank beginner himself, had a proud advantage in his knowledge of the figures — unstable as it was. So that the thing went very joyfully, and the girl’s eyes grew brighter and her face gayer each moment to the end. For her life had been starved of merriment, and here was merriment in plenty, of the sort a girl loves.
Four or five dances were all there were, for the place shut at ten. To dance them all with Nora Sansom were impossible and scandalous, for everybody was very “particular” at the Institute. But Johnny went as far as two and a “sit out,” and extracted a half-promise that she would come and dance some other time. More, he walked two streets of the way home with her, and the way was paved with clouds of glory. Why he might go no farther he could not guess, but there he was dismissed, quite unmistakably, though pleasantly enough.
Fair, very fair were the poor little streets in the moonlight as Johnny walked home, and very sweet the air. It was a good world, a kind world, a world as one may see it who has emptied a bottle of good champagne. Johnny would have shaken hands with anybody on the way — probably even with Butson if he had met him; but nobody made the offer, and even the baked-chestnut man — he was still there, by the high wall — growled merely when Johnny gave him good night. And so Johnny went to dreams of gentle grey eyes in a dimpled face with brown hair about it. For few of the song-book beauties were Nora Sansom’s. Her hair was neither golden nor black, but simple brown like the hair of most other people, and her eyes were mere grey; yet Johnny dreamed.
As for the two angels from Bayswater who caused all these things to come to pass, they looked at the dancing from the gallery, and said that it was really very creditable, considering; quite surprising, indeed, for people of that class, and they hoped it didn’t lead to immorality. And they went home virtuously conscious of having done their duty toward the Submerged. But the lady left her gilt-handled lorgnon in the cab, whereof the gentleman hadn’t thought to take the number. And the lady said a great many times before they went to bed (and after) that it was Just Like a Man.
CHAPTER XXV.
THE weeks went, and the time neared when dancing at the Institute would end for the season — would end with a bang and a dazzle in a “long night,” when dancing would be kept up shamelessly till something nearer one o’clock than twelve. Johnny counted, first the weeks, then the days, and last the hours. Not because of the dancing, although that was amusing,
but because he was to take Nora Sansom with his double ticket. For herself, she may have counted days and hours, or may not; but true it was that she sat up late on several nights, with nun’s veiling and ribbons, making a dress for the occasion — the first fine frock that had been hers. And every night she hid it carefully.
Each dressmaking-class night of late it had been Johnny’s privilege to guard her home-going to the end of that second street — never farther. Twice she had come to dancing, and by that small practice was already Johnny’s superior at the exercise; for a big-shouldered novice of eleven stone two is a slower pupil than any girl of eighteen in the world. And they were very welcome one to the other, and acquaintance bettered day by day. Once Johnny ventured a question about the adventure of the morning, now more than three years ago, but learned little from Miss Sansom’s answer. The lady who was ill was her relation, she said, and she found her; and then she talked of something else.
And so till the evening before the “long night.” It was the rule at the Institute to honour the long night with gloves and white ties, by way of compromise with evening dress; and Johnny bought his gloves with discretion and selected his tie with care. Then he went to the Institute, took a turn or two at the bars, climbed up the rope, and gave another member a lesson with the gloves. Thus refreshed, he dressed himself in his walking clothes, making sure that the tie and the gloves were safe in his pocket, and set out for home. There was no dressmaking class that night, so that he need not wait. But outside and plainly waiting for him, was Nora Sansom herself. Johnny thought she had been crying: as in fact she had.
“Oh, Mr. May,” she said. “I’m very sorry, but — I thought you might be here, and — and — I’m afraid I shan’t be able to come to-morrow!”
“Not come! But — but why?”
“I’m sorry — I’m very sorry, Mr. May; but I can’t tell you — really.”
There was a quiver of the lip, and her voice was a little uneven, as though there were danger of more tears.
But Johnny was not disappointed merely; he was also angry, and it was hard to conceal the fact. So he said nothing, but turned and walked a few steps by her side.
“I — hope you won’t mind,” she pursued, uneasy at his silence. “I’m very much disappointed — very much indeed.” And it was plain that she was. “But there’ll be a good many there. And you’ll have plenty of partners.” This last she found a hard thing to say.
“I don’t care how many’ll be there,” Johnny replied. “I shan’t go.”
It was said curtly, almost angrily, but Nora Sansom heard it with an odd little tremor of pleasure. Though she merely said, “But why not? There’s no reason why you should be disappointed too.”
“Anyhow, I’m not going,” he said; and after a pause added: “Perhaps you might ha’ gone if I hadn’t asked you!”
“Oh, I shouldn’t!” she answered, with tears in eyes and voice. “You know I shouldn’t! I never go anywhere!”
Johnny instantly felt himself a brute. “No,” he said. “I know you don’t. I didn’t mean anything unkind. But I won’t go.”
“Do you really mean it?”
“Of course. I’m not going without you.” He might have said something more, but a little group of people came straggling past. And the girl, with her eyes on this group, said the first thing that came to her tongue.
“Where will you go then?”
“Oh anywhere. I don’t know. Walk about, perhaps.”
She looked shyly up in his face, and down again. “I might go for a walk,” she said.
Johnny’s heart gave a great beat. “Alone?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Perhaps.”
But she would be questioned into nothing definite. If she took a walk, she might go in such and such a direction, passing this or that place at seven o’clock, or half-past. That was all. And now she must hurry away, for she had already been too long.
What mattered the dance to Johnny now? A fig for the dance. Let them dance that liked, and let them dance the floor through if it pleased them. But how was it that Nora Sansom could take a walk tomorrow evening, yet could not come to the Institute? That was difficult to understand. Still, hang the dance!
For Nora it would be harder to speak. Howbeit indeed the destruction of the looked-for evening’s gladness, in her first fine frock, had been a bitter thing.
But that day her hiding-place had been discovered, and now the dress that had cost such thoughtful design and such hopeful labour was lying, rolled and ticketed, on a pawnbroker’s shelf.
CHAPTER XXVI.
THAT they must come to Blackwall Pier was assured. For there were no streets, no crowds, no rumbling waggons; there were the wide sky and the unresting river, the breeze, the ships, and the endless train of brown-sailed barges. No unseamanlike garden-seats dishonoured the quay then, and strolling lovers sat on bollards or chains, or sat not at all.
Here came Johnny and Nora Sansom when the shrinking arc of daylight was far and yellow in the west, and the Kentish hills away to the left grew dusk and mysterious. The tide ran high, and tugs were busy. A nest of them, with steam up, lay under the wharf wall to the right of the pier-barge, waiting for work; some were already lighted, and, on the rest, men were trimming the lamps or running them up, while a cheerful glow came from each tiny cabin and engine-room. Rascal boys flitted about the quays and gangways — the boys that are always near boats and water, ever failing to get drowned, and ever dodging the pestered men who try to prevent it.
The first star of the evening steadied and brightened, and soon was lost amid other stars. Below, the river set its constellations as silently, one after another, trembling and blinking; and meteor tugs shot across its firmament, in white and green and red. Along shore the old Artichoke Tavern, gables and piles, darkened and melted away, and then lit into a little Orion, a bright cluster in the bespangled riverside. Ever some new sail came like a ghost up reach out of the gloom, rounded the point, and faded away; and by times some distant voice was heard in measured cry over water.
They said little; for what need to talk? They loitered awhile near the locks, and saw the turning Trinity light with its long, solemn wink, heard a great steamer hoot, far down Woolwich reach. Now the yellow in the sky was far and dull indeed, and a myriad of stars trembled over the brimming river. A tug puffed and sobbed, and swung out from the group under the wharf, beating a glistering tail of spray, and steaming off at the head of a train of lighters. Out from the dark of Woolwich Reach came a sailing-ship under bare spars, drawn by another tug. In the middle of the river the ship dropped anchor, and the tug fell back to wait, keeping its place under gentle steam.
They walked on the wharf, by the iron cranes, and far to the end, under the windows of the abandoned Brunswick Hotel. Here they were quite alone, and here they sat together on a broad and flat-topped old bollard.
Presently said Johnny, “Are you sorry for the dance now — Nora?” And lost his breath at the name.
Nora — he called her Nora; was she afraid or was she glad? What was this before her? But with her eyes she saw only the twinkling river, with the lights and the stars.
Presently she answered. “I was very sorry,” she said slowly...”of course.”
“But now — Nora?”
Still she saw but the river and the lights; but she was glad; timid, too, but very glad. Johnny’s hand stole to her side, took hers, and kept it...”No,” she said, “not sorry — now.”
“Say Johnny.”
What was before her mattered nothing; he sat by her — held her hand...”Not sorry now — Johnny!”
Why came tears so readily to her eyes? Truly they had long worn their path. But this — this was joy...He bent his head, and kissed her. The wise old Trinity light winked very slowly, and winked again.
So they sat and talked; sometimes whispered. Vows, promises, nonsense all — what mattered the words to so wonderful a tune? And the eternal stars, a million ages away, were nearer, all nearer, th
an the world of common life about them. What was for her she knew now and saw — she also: a new heaven and a new earth.
Over the water from the ship came, swinging and slow, a stave of the chanty: —
“I’m a flying-fish sailor straight home from Hong-Kong — . Aye! Aye! Blow the man down!. Blow the man down, bully, blow the man down — . O give us some time to blow the man down!
Ye’re a dirty Black-Baller just in from New York — . Aye! Aye! Blow the man down!. Blow the man down, bully, blow the man down — . O give us some time to blow the man down!”
Time went, but time was not for them. Where the tug-engineer, thrusting up his head for a little fresh air, saw but a prentice-lad and his sweetheart on a bollard, there sat Man and Woman, enthroned and exultant in face of the worlds.
The ship swung round on the tide, bringing her lights square and her stem for the opening lock. The chanty went wailing to its end: —
“Blow the man down, bully, blow the man down — . To my Aye! Aye! Blow the man down!. Singapore Harbour to gay London town — . O give us some time to blow the man down!”
The tug headed for the dock and the ship went in her wake with slow state, a gallant shadow amid the blue.
Soon the tide stood, and stood, and then began its ebb. For a space there was a deeper stillness as the dim wharves hung in mid-mist, and water and sky were one. Then the air stirred and chilled, stars grew sharper, and the Thames turned its traffic seaward.
CHAPTER XXVII.
HAPPINESS never stayed long with Nora Sansom. Little, indeed, had been her portion, and it was a poor sort at best. But this new joy was so great that it must needs be short of life; and in truth she saw good reason. From the moment of parting with Johnny doubts had troubled her; and doubts grew to distress — even to misery. She saw no end — no end but sorrow. She had been carried away; she had forgotten. And in measure as her sober senses awoke she saw that all this gladness could but end in heart-break and bereavement. Better, then, end all quickly and have done with the pang. But herein she misjudged her strength.
Delphi Complete Works of Arthur Morrison Page 105