by George Moore
At that moment the curtain came down, and the young men moved out of the stalls. “There are two men I know,” she said, fixing her glass. “Do you see them? The elder of the two is Harding, the novelist, the other is Mr. Fletcher, an Irishman.”
“I know Fletcher — or, rather, I know of him. His father was a shopkeeper in Gort, the nearest town to Mount Rorke Castle.”
“He is a journalist, isn’t he? I hear he is doing pretty well.”
“In London, I know, you associate with that class, but in Ireland we wouldn’t think of knowing them.”
“I thought you were more liberal-minded than that. If they come up here, what shall I do? I mustn’t introduce you?”
“I don’t mind being introduced. I should like to know Harding.”
“I can’t introduce you to Harding and not to his friend.”
“I don’t mind being introduced to Fletcher; I’ll bow and slink off to smoke a cigarette. Is it true what they say about him, that he is irresistible, that no woman can resist him? I don’t think he is good-looking — a good figure, that’s all.”
“He has the most lovely hands and teeth.”
“I see; perhaps you are in love with him?”
A knock came at the door; the young men entered. Lady Seveley introduced them to Frank; he bowed coldly, and addressed Harding. But Lady Seveley said: “O Mr. Harding, I want to speak to you about your last novel; I have just finished reading it.”
“What do you think of this piece?” Fletcher asked Escott, in a hesitating and conciliatory manner.
“I am afraid he will not be able to tell you; he hasn’t ceased talking since we came into the theatre.”
“I should have done the same had I been in his place.”
Lady Seveley smiled, Frank thought the words presumptuous. “Who the devil would care to hear you talk — and that filthy accent.” And at that moment he remembered Lizzie Baker. Fletcher and Harding were now speaking to Lady Seveley, and taking advantage of the circumstance he slipped out, and, lighting a cigarette, entered the bar room. Behind the counter the young ladies stood in single file, and through odours of cigarettes and whisky their voices called “One coffee in order,” and the cry was passed on till it reached the still-room. Frank remembered having read a description of the place somewhere, he thought for a moment, and then he remembered that it was in one of Harding’s novels. He could detect no difference in the loafers that leaned over the counter talking to the barmaids; they were dingy and dull, whereas the young men from the stalls of the theatre were black and white and clean; but the keenest eye could note nothing further, and a closer inspection showed that even a first division rested on no deeper basis than the chance of evening dress. Civilisation has given us all one face and mind. He walked to where Lizzie was serving; soldiers were ordering drinks of her, so he was obliged to apply to the next girl to her for his brandy and soda. He drank slowly, hoping her admirers would leave her, but one soldier was stationery, and this spot of red grew singularly offensive in Frank’s eyes, from the clumsy, characterless boots, to the close-clipped hair set off with the monotonously jaunty cap. The man sprawled over the counter drinking a glass of porter. Frank tried to listen to what he was saying. Lizzie smiled, showing many beautifully shaped teeth, so beautifully shaped that they looked like sculpture. Behind her there were shelves charged with glasses and bottles, gilt elephants, and obelisks, a hideous decoration; she passed up and down with cups of coffee, she filled glasses from various taps, she saluted Frank.
“How are you this evening? Come to see the piece again?”
“Come to see you.”
“Get along; I don’t believe you,” she said, and she passed back to her place, and continued talking to the soldier as steadily as her many occupations would allow her.
A few moments after the bell rang, and Frank went upstairs annoyed.
“Oh, so it is you; you have come back,” said Helen, turning; “sit down here. Nellie Farren has just sung such an exquisitely funny song; they have encored it; just listen to it, do,” and Helen fixed her opera glass on the actress. The light and shadow played about her neck andarm in beautiful variations, but noticing nothing, Frank leaned forward.
“Isn’t it funny; isn’t it delightfully funny?”
“Yes, it is funny.”
Having heard one song they listened to the rest of the act. “Now give me my cloak. Thank you, and now give me your arm.” Frank complied. “You will come home to Green Street with me, and have some supper?”
“I am afraid, I am sorry I can’t; I must get home early to-night.”
“You have a key, you surely can get in at any hour.”
“Yes, but I am afraid — the fact is I am dreadfully tired.”
“Oh, just as you like.”
Then at the end of an irritating silence, “I am afraid you will have to wait, I do not think I shall be able to get your carriage yet awhile; in a few minutes this crowd will disperse. No use getting crushed to death! What became of Harding and Fletcher? Did they remain long with you?”
“No, not very, they went away just before you came. There is Mr. Harding. How did you like the piece, Mr. Harding?”
“I always enjoy these pieces, they are so conscientiously illiterate; what I can’t bear is unconscientious illiterateness. Nellie Farren has caught something of the jangle of modern life; she has something of the freshness of the music-hall about her that appeals to me very sharply.”
“Do you like music-halls? I have always heard they were so vulgar.”
“Vulgarity is surely preferable to popularity. The theatre is merely popular.”
While Harding was thus exerting himself with epigram, Fletcher stood tall and slender, with a grey overcoat hanging over his arm, and his intense eyes fixed on Lady Seveley. His gaze troubled her, and when he withdrew his eyes she looked at him, anticipant and fearing. He spoke to her until Frank, feeling that he was receding out of all interest and attention, said abruptly, “If you will come now, Lady Seveley, I think I shall be able to get you your carriage. May I see you home?” he said, holding the door.
“No thank you, I will not take you out of your way. Go home at once and get rested, and come and see me one of these days; don’t forget.” Lady Seveley smiled, but Frank felt that she was annoyed.
“I wonder if she wanted me to go home with her. That impertinent brute Fletcher daring to come up to speak to us! I was very nearly telling him to go and fetch the carriage.”
He pushed open the swinging doors with violence, nearly upsetting the fat porter. The bar was nearly empty, and he found Lizzie disengaged.
“You look very vexed. Has any one been pinching you?”
“I am not vexed.”
“What will you have to put you straight?”
“Well, that is a question. Let me see. I don’t care about another brandy and soda, and if I have coffee it may keep me awake.”
“Have half milk.”
“Very well.” He hesitated, but the inclination to speak soon overpowered him. “I call it bad form, when you are with a lady for another fellow to come up and speak to her.”
“Three of Irish, miss.”
“Why, didn’t he know her?”
“Of course he knew her, but that doesn’t give him a right to come up and enter into a long conversation when I am with her. I wish I had knocked him down.”
“He might have knocked you down.”
“A glass of bitter, miss.”
“I should have had to take my chance of that. In London people don’t seem to me to mind whom they speak to — a low-bred Irishman, who never spoke to a lady until he left his own country.”
“Oh! what a rage we are in.”
“No, I am not in a rage,” said Frank, who at that moment felt the folly of these confidences. “I don’t care a hang. It isn’t as if it were a woman I cared about. Had it been you—”
“Get along, don’t you tell me.”
“I assure you I speak only in a ge
neral way, and you must admit that if you go out with a fellow it would not be nice of you to begin talking to some one else.”
“Oh! I never do that.”
“There, then you admit I was right, I was sure you would; I don’t care a hang for the lady I was with, but I don’t intend to allow any one to insult me. But I wonder how you can speak to soldiers.”
“They are no worse than the others. Besides, in our business we have to be polite to every one.”
“Polite, yes — but I wanted to speak to you, I came down from my box on purpose to speak to you, and I couldn’t, you were so engaged with that soldier.”
“He was here before you; you would not like it if you were talking to me, and I were to rush off to speak to some one else.”
“One Scotch and three Irish, miss, and out of the bottle please, our friend here’s most particular, he would like it in a thin glass, too — wouldn’t you, Ted? and if he could have a go at that pretty mouth he would like it better still. A rare one after the ladies is Teddy. Aren’t you, old chap?”
Full of scorn Frank watched this noisy group. Lizzie remained talking with them for some little time, and she did not return until he called to her twice for a cigar.
“How very impatient you are,” she said, handing him the box.
“You were talking to me, and you go away to talk to those cads.”
“I must serve the customers, you naughty man. You can’t have me all to yourself. I believe you would like to.”
“That I should. I wish you would come out with me. I wish you would come to dinner.”
“And what would the lady say who you went to the theatre with to-night, and were so mad because some one spoke to her?”
“I assure you she is nothing to me, a mere acquaintance. I was angry because I thought it a piece of impertinence of the fellow to come intruding his conversation when it wasn’t wanted; but as for the woman I don’t care a snap for her; never did, I assure you: she is nothing to me. I suppose you don’t get out much here.”
“We are off duty for so many hours every day; but we must be in at a certain time.”
“But you have got Sundays.”
“We get Sunday in our turn.”
“When will your turn come?”
“I am going out next Sunday.”
“I wish you would come with me; I would take you up the river. You know the river?”
“No, I don’t know even what you mean.”
“You mean to say you have never been up the river, not even so far as Twickenham?”
“No.”
“Well, then, you have a treat. The most beautiful thing in England is the Thames — perhaps in the world. Last year I spent nearly three months at Marlow and Maidenhead — we positively lived in a boat. I have a beautiful boat. I should like to take you out — you would enjoy it. Are you fond of boating?”
“I love it. I haven’t been in a boat since I left Wales.”
“So you are a Welsh girl. My boat is now at Reading. If you could get away early in the morning we might manage to catch the nine o’clock express that takes us down in a little over the hour. I’d have the hamper packed, and we would have our lunch up in Pangbourne Woods. It would be so jolly. I wish you would come.”
“I should like it immensely; I don’t know if I could manage it.”
“Do you say you will come, do.”
Lizzie stood hesitating, her finger on her lip. A girl entered the bar and whispered something to her as she passed.
“I must go away now, I’m off duty.”
“Say you will come.”
“I can’t say yet; I shall see you again.”
As Frank turned to go he caught sight of Harding and Fletcher. He did not see that they had been watching him, and when they called him he went over to their table.
“What will you have?” said Harding.
“Nothing, thanks, I could not drink anything more.”
“Have a cigarette.”
“Thanks, I will; I cannot smoke this beastly cigar. I do not know why I asked for it.”
“Sit down.”
The conversation turned on the play, but at the first pause in the conversation, Harding said: “Pretty girl, that girl you were talking to at the bar.”
“Yes; is she not? I think she is one of the prettiest girls I ever saw in my life.”
“Far better looking than Lady Seveley.”
“I should rather think so; Lady Seveley is over thirty.”
“The choice would be a nice test of a young man’s moral character.”
“Did you write that this morning, or are you going to write it to-morrow morning?”
“You have not told me which, when you do—”
“I see you are not in a hurry to bring your book out.”
Harding laughed, and Frank was pleased at the idea of getting the better of Harding; Fletcher sat with his eyes glittering and his lips slightly parted. Who would hesitate between a lady of rank and a barmaid? She might be a pretty girl, but what of that? There are hundreds as pretty. He had never been the lover of a lady, and his heart was aflame. Soon after the men parted in the street, and Frank went from them, fearful of his lonely rooms, and longing for his friends at Southwick.
He lunched every day at the Gaiety, and he at length succeeded in persuading Lizzie to come to Reading with him.
Town was miserably Sunday when he drove up to Paddington at a quarter past eight. “If it should rain, if it should turn out a pouring wet day, what should I do? That would be too terrible!” He felt the boat alive beneath his oars, the river placid and gentle, and all the charm of the rushes, the cedars, the locks, and the blonde beautiful girl in the stern with the parasol he had bought her aslant. Let him have this day, and he didn’t care what happened! He wanted to show her the river, he wanted to joy for a day in her presence.
He was more than a half an hour in advance. Would she come? She had promised, but she might disappoint. That would be worse than the rain. He would wait till ten o’clock. There was another train at ten, but if they missed the ten to nine the day would be spoilt, lost. Supposing she did not come, what would he do? — drive back through dingy London and eat a lonely breakfast in that horrible brick Pump Court? He could scarcely do that. Would he go to Reading by himself? The light of the flowing stream, the secrets of the rushes and murmuring woods died; nature became voiceless.
“It will be a pity if she doesn’t come. We shall have a fine day, I am sure it is going to be a fine day, but we shall miss that train. I wonder if I can see anything of her. I don’t know what side she will come from. I suppose she’ll take a cab. Perhaps she won’t come at all; will she come? — she promised me. By Jove, twenty minutes to nine. If she isn’t here in five minutes we shall miss the train.” His passion grew in intensity, and hope was dead, when he heard sounds of running footsteps, and saw the great girl holding her hat with one hand and her dress with the other. The torture of expectation was worth the rapture of relief, and he said, delighted: “So you have come, have you? One minute more and you would have been late.”
“Why, were you going?”
“No, but the train is. We have three minutes. I’ll run and get the tickets. How is it that you are so late?”
“I just missed the train.”
“What train?”
“The Metropolitan.”
“The Metropolitan? What nonsense! Why didn’t you take a cab?”
She had been afraid of spending the money, fearing she might not see him after all; and out of breath she followed him along the platform. “No, not in there; I don’t like travelling alone with gentlemen.” Frank looked at her in amazement, and they got into a carriage where an old gentleman was sitting.
“So you thought I wouldn’t come, you naughty boy?”
“Oh, I should have been so disappointed. I don’t know what I should have done.”
Lizzie watched the young aristocratic face; his earnestness drew her towards him, and she wondered she
did not like him better. “Now tell me what we are going to do. I had such difficulty in getting away. It is against the rules; and the manageress (the fat woman who stands at the end of the bar and goes round and collects the money) hates me. She would have stopped me if she could, but I went to the manager; he is a friend of mine.”
“That fellow with the long fair moustache that walks about at the rate of seven miles an hour, with his frock-coat all unbuttoned. Harding the novelist — the fellow I was sitting with the other night, said such a good thing — he said he was a sort of apotheosis of sherry and bitters. I don’t know why it is good, but it is; whether it is the colour of his face and moustache—”
“He is very proud of his moustache, and your friend is quite right; he is very fond of sherry and bitters — too fond. I have served him with as many as three in an afternoon, and I am sure he wouldn’t have refused another if he could have found any one to stand it. Oh, look at the country! How pretty it is! — the cows, the corn growing, the birds and all the light clouds; we are going to have a lovely day. Shall we see much of the country at Reading? Tell me, where are you going to take me? Shall we go for a walk in the woods? Are there any woods? I hope there are.”
“The most beautiful woods in England — Pangbourne Woods. We shall arrive in Reading about a quarter to ten. We’ll walk down to the river, or drive if you like; it is only a few minutes to walk to the boat-house. My boat is there — such a beauty! We’ll row up to the — and that reminds me, I ordered the luncheon basket at the best place in London, you know; it was to have been at my place last night at eight o’clock, and they never sent it. We shall have to lunch at the hotel. Such a beautiful hotel, high up, overlooking the river; I hope you are not disappointed, it really wasn’t my fault. We shall have an excellent lunch, I assure you, at the hotel.”
The miles fled away, and in the comfort and speed of the broad gaugeline, an hour and a half seemed to them like a minute.
“What kind of town is Reading?” said Lizzie, springing from the carriage.