CHAPTER VI
Sundaywas another pouring day. Bridget spent it in solitude. By the time evening came, she was desperate enough to put on her waterproof, and go to the nearest church for the sake of seeing some human beings. It was a Presbyterian church, dimly lighted, and filled with reeking fog. The woman who sat on her right, sniffed violently throughout the lessons, and sang the hymns in a loud voice with a pronounced cockney accent.
“The strine uprise, of joy and prise: Alleluia!” Bridget repeated the words after her to herself over and over again, repressing an hysterical desire to laugh as she did so. The man who preached had a monotonous, dreary voice, and his face looked blurred and indistinct in the heavy atmosphere. She gathered that the sermon was on the subject of the Last Judgment. As she left the pew when the service was over, her cloak brushed the hymn-book of her right-hand neighbor from the bench in front. She stooped at once to pick it up; but the woman had already pounced upon it. She turned a sour, disagreeable face towards thegirl, and ignored her murmured apology. The stupid little incident seemed to Bridget the last drop in her cup of misery. She left the church struggling with her rising tears, trembling from head to foot. She was wet through by the time she reached the house; but she went straight to her bedroom. The day had been long enough.
When she awoke, the sun was shining, and she suddenly determined to spend her holiday in town. With this resolve, she hurried over breakfast, and by half-past ten, was on the top of an omnibus, riding towards the West End. The air was warm and balmy as spring, and the sunshine filled her with joy. Her spirits rose, as the omnibus turned into less dreary roads, and Oxford Street was at last reached. Everything amused and interested her,—the crowded pavements, the hurried glimpses of shops, the hoardings with flaring posters, the chaff of the cab-drivers and bus conductors.
“Wot yer witin’ for, Jim?” called the driver to a friend, who, though his bus was full, continued to sit stolidly, reins in hand. “Got yer number, ain’t yer? Want one on the whip, I s’pose!”
Bridget laughed aloud, and the driver turned round to her with a grin of delight. They passed a small ragged boy presently, sitting on the edge of the pavement. He turned an impudentlittle face up towards the man, who bent down, and struck at him playfully with his whip. The child sprang up with a whoop of mingled excitement and terror, the huge shoe he wore slipping off his dirty little foot as he moved.
“Frightened ’is boot off!” exclaimed the jubilant driver with a chuckle, and a glance over his shoulder at his appreciative listener.
Bridget got down at the Circus, and wandered along Regent Street, stopping to gaze at nearly every shop. Liberty’s window was in the key of blue. She stood a long time before it, entranced, her eyes wandering from one delicious dreamy shade to another.
The flower-shop she came to soon, was another ecstasy of color. In imagination she touched the leaves of the heavy pink roses caressingly, and smelt the purple violets. Feathery chrysanthemums—tawny, pink, and white—made a bower of delight, like the entrance to an enchanted garden, leading oddly enough out of the bustling street.
She lunched frugally, at an ærated bread shop, off a scone and a cup of coffee; and then, because she was tired with walking, took another omnibus towards the city.
The roar of the Strand fell pleasantly on her ears, and filled her with an indefinable excitement.It was wonderful to be in the midst of all this teeming life. London was no longer the cruel, heartless, indifferent city it had seemed last night. It was alive, full of human pulsation; she was part of its life—in the heart of things.
From Ludgate Hill she walked past St. Paul’s, where, before the railed-in churchyard, she stopped a moment to watch the children playing amongst heaps of yellowing leaves. She noticed a flash of white wings against the sky, as the pigeons wheeled overhead, then settled, some on the path, some on the grass under the trees, close to the feet of the children. The little green oasis in the heart of the city gave her a thrill of pleasure. She walked on, and turned into Cheapside, threading her way along the crowded pavement. The many faces, the roar of the streets, the jostling crowd, bewildered her, but it was long before she felt that she was tired. Then, at last, she slowly retraced her steps, till she once more reached St. Paul’s churchyard. It was striking a quarter to four as she passed the great door of the cathedral. A few people were going up the steps and entering the building. Bridget followed them into the gloom of the church. She walked wearily up the nave, and sank with a sigh into one of the lines of chairs placed under the dome. The clear amber gleam from the long rows of lamps in the choir, mingledstrangely with the dying fire of the sunset streaming in through the west windows. The chancel, thus lighted, had the effect of a great white flower mystically illumined by an inner radiance of its own. Bridget lay back in her chair, too tired to think, dreamily conscious of its beauty. The white-robed choristers entered presently, and she sat still with closed eyes listening to their thrilling voices. There was a sweet-faced hospital nurse beside her. Bridget noticed the ebony cross on her breast, and supposed she was High Church. She watched her serious, rapt face during the lessons with a sudden pang of envy.
“I haven’t even the consolation of religion to help me through,” she thought; and her desolate mood surged once more around her, and all the gladness of the morning was gone.
She followed the stream of departing worshippers after the service, feeling too tired and dispirited to care much for the thought of the concert, yet unwilling to return to her rooms and face the long evening alone.
A cup of tea, which she got at a pastry-cook’s, took away her headache, however, and she made her way soon after to Piccadilly. It was very early; but St. James’s Hall would do to rest in, and she had nowhere else to go. She paid her half-crown, and climbed the narrow stone staircaseinto the orchestra, which was almost empty. She went right up to the top row, where there was a wall to lean against, and sat down with a sigh to wait. The hall gradually filled. All the seats in the rows below Bridget were speedily taken. She watched each fresh comer with interest,—strange-faced men, with long hair and spectacles carrying thescore; women with lank hair and strange gowns, and intense expressions. One man turned the corner at the head of the staircase, and stood there a moment, scanning the well-filled lines with bright, alert eyes. Bridget watched him a little curiously. She liked his tall, lithe figure and air of genial determination. After a moment’s pause, he began to mount the giant steps between the rows of seats, making straight for the place at the back his quick eyes had discovered to be still vacant. She watched the quiet deliberateness of his ascent, with amusement, and noticed that every one made way for him without demur. The woman next to her moved closer to her girl friend, as she saw him making for the last row, and a seat was thus left, next to Bridget. He took it quietly, putting his hat down on the floor at his feet, and Bridget resumed her watching of the new-comers. The orchestra was on the platform by this time, and the air was full of the vibration of strings, as the men tunedtheir instruments. The sound, and the buzz of talk, and the sight of the great lighted hall, with its swaying sea of faces, excited her. Her weariness had gone. She sat with eyes alight, and clasped hands, in breathless expectancy. Presently a burst of clapping rose from the stalls, and was taken up by the galleries and orchestra, till it spread from end to end of the hall in a great wave of sound. Herr Richter stood bowing, first towards the body of the hall, then in the direction of the orchestra. There was a lull, the sharp click of the baton, a sudden pause; and then the rocking, breathless rush and swing of theWalkürenritt. Bridget sat motionless, her color coming and going, her heart beating wildly. It was wonderful, thrilling, almost terrible. She found herself praying for it to cease, yet dreading to hear the last note. The magnetism of the vast silent audience seized her, and set all her pulses vibrating. It was over. She drew a deep breath as the storm of applause swept the hall, and leaned back exhausted, her color fading.
“Here is the programme, if you care to see it,” the man at her elbow said.
He gave it to her, and she put out a trembling hand for it. “Thank you,” she said, in a low tone, bending over it. The man glanced at her swiftly. He had been watching her through theWalkürenritt.
“You are a Wagnerite, I see,” he said, as she returned the programme.
“I never heard any of his music before,” Bridget answered. Her voice was not firm yet.
“But you like it?”
“I never imagined anything so wonderful, soawful.”
“Wait till you hear theSiegfried Idyllfor beauty. It comes next. We are too close, really; but I came here because I wanted to see Richter conduct. Ah,now!” Once more the breathless hush fell on the swaying crowd, and the long, low wail of the violins broke the silence.
Carey glanced at the girl once, and saw that the tears were dropping down her cheeks. He turned his head sharply away. When the applause died, he turned to her.
“You look very tired,” he said gently. “Are you alone? Perhaps you ought not to have come.”
Bridget made a great effort for self-control.
“I’m—oh!—I’m quite well, thank you. It’s so stupid of me,” she said in a shamefaced voice. “I didn’t know Wagner was likethis, or I wouldn’t have come when I was tired. I’ve been walking rather far, and—”
“And existing on buns and tea all day, no doubt,” Carey thought, mentally concluding the sentence.
During the remaining part of the concert Bridget sat silent, and outwardly composed, though she was very pale. When it was over, and she rose to go, Carey put out his hand to help her down the steep steps. As they went down the stone staircase together in silence, he noticed that she rested her hand against the wall now and again, to steady herself.
The light from a lamp in the street outside fell on her face as they reached the outer door.
Carey hesitated.
“You will let me put you into a cab, won’t you?” he said. “You ought to get home as quickly as possible.”
“Oh no, no!” Bridget forced herself to say. “The—the air is so strong, it made me feel giddy for a moment; but it will be good for me. I will go home by train.”
The idea of a cab all the way to Wentworth Street was out of the question—ruinous; but she felt so shaken that she dreaded the long, jolting omnibus ride. It would perhaps be quicker by train.
“But you will have to walk—to Charing Cross, is it?—and you don’t look fit to do that.” He paused a moment. “If you really won’t have a cab, may I walk with you a little way? I’m going towards Charing Cross, and you oughtn’t to be alone.”
Bridget glanced at him; he met her look gravely. There was nothing in his face but solicitude for her, and she felt too ill and tired to argue the question.
“Thank you,” she said, moving from the door; “but you mustn’t go out of your way for me.”
“Take my arm,” he said gently, looking down at her white face.
Bridget put up her hand, and laid it on his arm at once. It was shaking, he felt.
“This comes of a long day’s shopping, and no lunch!” said Carey, as they turned into Waterloo Place.
“How do you know?” She looked up at him a moment, and smiled. “Oh, it’s sostupidof me! I never felt like this before!” she cried.
“You won’t make me believe you never went without your lunch before. All women do when they are left to their own devices; they think it’s so economical.”
“There’s no denying that itis,” Bridget replied. The fresh air had revived her already, and the miserable feeling of faintness was passing off.
“Oh, until the doctor’s bill comes in, no doubt. For my part, I’d rather spend half-a-crown on a glass of claret, and a decent sized cutlet in the middle of the day, than fourpencein an ærated bread shop, and a guinea subsequently on tonics. But though I spake with the tongue of men and of angels, I shouldn’t hope to convince a woman on this point. I know it’s hopeless.”
Bridget smiled faintly. She wondered for how long eighty pounds a year would stand half-a-crown lunches.
“It might have been advisable to bring a mother, to-night, don’t you think?” he went on after a moment. “I know a chaperon is a thing of the past, but employed judiciously and in moderation she is not without her use—in her proper place, of course.”
He spoke in a tone of half laughing raillery, but Bridget’s smile faded.
Involuntarily she withdrew her hand from his arm.
“I’m not the sort of girl who requires a chaperon,” she replied coldly. “I’m a High School teacher. The High School teacher is used to going about alone. If she wasn’t she would die of loneliness in her lodgings,” she added; “and life is sweet even to a teacher.”
There was a ring of bitterness in her voice which startled him.
“I’m sorry,” he began. “It was the stupidest joke. I didn’t mean to be rude; please believe me,” he urged. He was conscious of feelingridiculously eager to put himself right with her.
“You will forgive me, won’t you? But you look so young.” His voice had completely lost the slight tinge of mockery she had resented.
Bridget’s anger died.
“I don’t feel young,” she said, shaking her head. “I feel as though I’d lived a long time.”
“You don’t live alone, do you?” he asked. “Yes?—poor child!” the last words were almost involuntary.
“And you have no friends in town?”
“No, not yet. My friends are abroad. I daresay it will be better when they come back; but I don’t know when they are coming,” she said.
“What a cruel, inhospitable city it is!” he exclaimed musingly.
“It’s too big; it’s rather frightening sometimes.”
“But—there are other teachers, aren’t there?” he asked after a moment, turning to her.
“Oh, yes; they are kind enough, and I like teaching,” she said hastily. “But—”
“Yes, I know.” Bridget glanced at him; his eyes met hers with a flash of sympathy, and her heart beat a little quicker.
“You liked the music to-night, in spite of being tired?”
“Oh!” she drew a long breath. “It has made me alive again.”
“Well, on the whole, it is good to be alive. Why not come to next Monday’s concert? You’ll hearTristan und Isoldethen. Magnificent.”
“I oughtn’t to; I shall have piles of books to correct next Monday, but Iwill.”
“Do. I shall look out for you. I’m going to the orchestra again. I shall have to lay in a stock of Wagner sensations varied enough to last me some time. While I cross the desert, and drop leisurely down the Nile, and afterwards, when I’m in the mysterious East, which, however, recks not of Wagner.”
“You are going to travel?” Bridget asked. His words had called up vague pictures of dazzling skies, of white roofs clear cut against the blue, of wide horizons, and the glitter of strange streams. She seemed to look out upon it all from prison bars.
“Yes, I start for Algiers to-morrow week. It will be a year or two before I see this city of dreadful night again, most probably.”
They were in the Strand now. Bridget was silent as they turned into the station yard. She was too tired, too oddly dispirited to reply.
He went with her past one of the swing doors,up to the booking office, when they reached the station.
Then she started, as though roused from a dream. She put out her hand a little shyly.
“Thank you so much,” she said. “You have been so kind. Perhaps, then, I shall see you next Monday?”
“I shall look out for you,” he returned, with a smile. He turned back at the door to see the last of her. She had taken her ticket, and he caught a glimpse of her face as she left the window. The pose of her head was peculiarly graceful, he thought. He stood and watched her a moment till she moved out of sight towards one of the platforms.
Bridget lay awake long that night. She was possessed by an unaccountable restlessness and excitement. The music still surged in her brain. It had aroused emotions, vague desires to which she could give no name. It filled her with gladness to have discovered something outside herself which responded to, and expressed some of her wild, chaotic moods.
The thought of the man who had spoken to her was inextricably woven with her remembrance of the music. The idea that there was anything unusual in her walk with him did not once occur to her. It had happened so; he had been very kind when he saw she was ill. Sheliked his face, and his voice,—his voice especially. There was so much self-confidence about it that it made one trust him implicitly. Then he had “understood.”
“I didn’t know a mancouldunderstand so easily,” she thought, with a little thrill. “Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday,—six days before next Monday. Suppose he isn’t there?” a blank, desolate feeling followed the thought. “And he’s going away next day.”