Jimmy watched her marketing with a distinct sense of admiration. She knew the local price of everything, and she insisted on having exactly what she ordered.
"I don't see why they should rob you," she said. "They make huge profits anyway. Now, I think that's all we want." She ticked the articles off on her fingers. "Oh, unless you care for something to drink.... Yes, I like a whisky and soda with my meals; but don't get a whole bottle, it's only a waste; and they will sell it you by the quartern in that public house. I'll wait whilst you go in. But don't buy a bottle; I know you haven't got any money to throw away?" she added.
When he came out, she noted, with evident satisfaction, that he had obeyed her. "This will make a lovely supper," she declared, and her smile showed she meant it. "I like shopping like this. It's always nicer than a café, and much less expensive."
Her last remark reminded him of what she had said just as he was going in for the whisky.
"Why do you think I haven't got any money to throw away?" he asked.
She gave a wise little nod. "You tell me you write, and I know literary men never have anything to spare."
Jimmy laughed. "How do you know?"
Lalage turned away. "Never mind, but I do know, only too well."
"I have not heard from you for several days," Mrs. Marlow wrote to Jimmy, "though I have had a couple of letters from Eliza Benn, who says that for two consecutive nights you did not come home. The first night you wired to her, but the second time she sat up until after midnight, fearing lest it might not be safe to let you have a light. I need not say how annoying it is to hear these things from one's former servants. Both Henry and I trust that you are not already getting into dissipated ways, and that you will remember that you belong to a respectable family, which will have to bear a large share of any disgrace into which you may fall, or be led." Then there was a postscript. "Eliza Benn is a person for whom I have a great regard; and I hear that her husband holds quite an excellent situation in Mr. Grimmer's salesrooms, where he is paid thirty-five shillings a week, which, Henry says, would only be given to a most experienced and steady man."
Jimmy tore the letter across savagely and tossed it into the fire. It annoyed him the more because his sister had got within measurable distance ofthe truth, at least from her point of view. He had already had some uncomfortable moments over the thought of what the family would say if it ever came to know of Lalage. He had not seen the latter again, but, though it was less than forty-eight hours since they had parted, he had written to her twice, and he could not disguise from himself the fact that she filled his life to the exclusion of all else. No other woman had ever appealed to him in the same way. Lalage had gripped his imagination. He could remember every word she had said, and, having been on the rocks himself, he could understand what she had suffered—the rain squelching through the thin little shoes, the bitter loneliness of the great city, the meals of bread and milk which had to last the whole day, the passionate longing for a home of some sort. He did not attempt to argue the thing out logically, as a Grierson would have done. The thought of her way of life inspired him, not with the scorn or loathing a man of position would have felt, even when taking advantage of it, but with a terrible, gnawing jealousy. Probably, he would not have admitted, even to himself, that he was in love, for, somehow, the phrase seemed hopelessly inapplicable. It belonged to the Grierson part of his nature, and was supposed to signify a preliminary to marriage, an altogether decorouskind of affection for a decorously-behaved girl, who had never been homeless or hungry or cold. All he cared for now was to get Lalage away, to be with her always, and, for the moment at least, anything which did not help towards that end seemed of absolutely no importance. He had thrust family considerations on one side, thrust on one side all those good resolutions, or rather those revived instincts of the past, which had been uppermost in his mind when he first came home. His own world, the Griersons and Marlows and Grimmers, would have called him either mad or hopelessly immoral, according to the degree of charity latent in their respective natures; Kelly would have warned him bluntly not to endanger his prospects by being a fool; a mental specialist would have explained that the shock of John Locke's death, coming on top of the ten years of almost continual overstrain in bad climates, had temporarily affected his balance, an opinion with which Lalage herself would have agreed, knowing, after all, nothing of men's love; but neither opinions nor diagnosis would have altered Jimmy's determination.
He had put in two days of almost savagely hard work. Without money he would be helpless. True, most of his manuscripts had come back; but still three had actually appeared in print, andhe could feel he had made a start. The old semi-indifference on the question of his ultimate success or failure had vanished completely. He was in deadly earnest now; Lalage should have no more bread-and-milk days, if he could help it.
Mrs. Marlow's letter had arrived by the first delivery, in the cheerful company of a returned manuscript. He had heard from Lalage, her first letter to him, the evening before, and he did not expect another till that night; but when the second postman knocked at the door, and, a moment later, Mrs. Benn came creaking upstairs, he hurried to meet her, hoping the envelope might bear the West London postmark. But he was doomed to disappointment. The letter was from Ida, his sister in Northampton. "When I heard from you last week you said any day this week would do," Ida Fenton wrote. "We find we shall be able to have you to-morrow, and hope you will stay four or five days. The best train is one at 2:15, and I will meet you by that, so you need not worry about answering this note. We are all looking forward to seeing you, and though, of course Joseph is at business all day, and the children at school, I daresay you will find the rest do you good."
Jimmy frowned as he folded it up and put it back into the envelope. He had arranged to spend the next day with Lalage; they were going to have arun out somewhere—"somewhere inexpensive, like the Crystal Palace," Lalage had said in her letter—and then they were going to have another of those delightful marketing expeditions in the grimy street where the barrows were. Now, all that would have to be postponed. Jimmy would not have scrupled greatly about disappointing Ida—she had been in no hurry to see him—but May's letter had shown him how he was being watched and his doings reported, and he did not want to arouse further suspicion. He intended to move very shortly, though his plans were as yet but half formed, and, moreover, he shrank from doing anything which would offend May. He might not be afraid of his relations; but at the back of his mind he was sufficiently conscious of his own departure from the paths of rectitude to feel the weakness of his position.
He wrote to Lalage that evening, explaining matters; consequently, she was not surprised when he came up next morning carrying a handbag. At first, it struck him that she was looking rather pale and worried, but she greeted him with frank pleasure, and, in a few minutes, she was her usual self again. As Jimmy learned later, she had in a peculiar degree the art of seeing the best side of things. In a sense, she was almost a fatalist, and though she made no disguise about the regret shefelt for her ruined life, a moment later she always seemed to put the regrets aside as useless. "I try to keep as respectable as I can," she said to Jimmy.
Normal people, being respectable themselves, would probably have sneered, knowing that those who have fallen are all on the level, and that only in those far-off days when He who pitied the Magdalen and bade the sinless cast the first stone trod the earth was there forgiveness for this greatest of sins. But Jimmy, not being normal, and being anxious to find excuses for Lalage, did not sneer, and before long he found that, though she might not be able to rise again, she was determined to fall no lower. She was almost fastidious in her hatred of bad language, and there was, as a matter of fact, an immeasurable distance between her and the German women who formed the majority of the other tenants.
"Of course I am sorry to have to go away," Lalage said in answer to Jimmy's complaints of having to go to Northampton. "But still, it's only right. Your own people ought to come first, and I shall see you when you get back, if you haven't forgotten me."
Jimmy took both her hands in his. "I shall never forget you, Lalage, never."
She shook her head. "Others have said thesame, and have forgotten, none the less. I'm afraid to hope too much sometimes, for fear of disappointment. It's easier when you haven't expected anything." She freed her hands and went across to the window, where she stood, apparently staring at the gigantic telephone post on the roof opposite.
Jimmy came up behind her. "Would you be sorry if I were to forget?" he asked.
She answered without looking round, "Of course I should."
"Why would you be sorry?" he went on.
"Because I like you very much. You are always gentlemanly and nice in your ways." Still she did not face him.
"Do you like anyone else, anyone at all?" Jimmy's voice was not very steady.
"No, no." Now she turned her head, and he saw that her eyes were wet. "There's no one I like. I don't know why I've told you things, only, somehow, you seemed to understand how hard life is; and you don't treat me——" she paused as though looking for a word, "you don't treat me lightly. You're careful to raise your hat and open the door for me, and all those little things, just as though I were," her voice broke slightly, "a good girl."
Jimmy coloured, and muttered something whichLalage did not catch, then, suddenly, she gave a little gasp of annoyance. "Jimmy, you left your bag in the hall, and it's got your name on it. The charwoman was cleaning the kitchen and now she's out in the hall. Do get it at once."
He obeyed her with obvious surprise, then looked at her inquiringly. "Blackmail," she answered simply. "All these women round here do it if they get a chance, and they say the landlord puts them up to it. Everyone about here preys on us, in one way or another. The district lives on us, tradesmen, landlords, agents, even the gas and electric light people; and when they've bled us dry they seize our homes and turn us out. They know we can't go to law, and yet whilst they're robbing us they're sitting as guardians or councillors and going to chapel every Sunday. They treat us like dirt, and their wives and daughters shake their skirts at us, and all the time it's we who earn the money for them."
Jimmy went over to the mantelpiece, and buried his head on his hands. He was wholly unconscious of what he was doing, being too miserable to think of appearances. Lalage watched him a moment, then put her arm gently round his neck, and, for the first time, kissed him of her own accord.
"What is it, dear, tell me," she said.
"I can't stand it. The whole thing's horrible,abominable." It was the man's voice which was broken now.
"You can't help it, Jimmy dear," she answered sadly. "It's too late now. There's no road back in these things. It's my own fault, and I must pay for it."
"There must be a way out," he answered fiercely. "I will find it when I can get this wretched visit over. You can't go on like this."
She tried to soothe him down, almost as a mother soothes a child. "All right, dear, you shall find it when you come back. We'll see what can be done."
Lalage went down to the station to see him off. They arrived in plenty of time, and when he had taken his ticket they went into the refreshment booth for some sandwiches. They sat down, and for a minute or two, neither said anything. Then, suddenly, Jimmy turned to her.
"How are you off for money, Lalage?" he asked.
The girl coloured slightly. "Quite all right, thanks," she answered after a moment's hesitation. "Really I am, Jimmy, and, anyway, I wouldn't let you run yourself short."
But he was not satisfied. "Are you sure? Take some in case of accidents."
She shook her head. "No, there's no need. I shall be able to pull along."
He gave in reluctantly. "Well, you've got my address. Let me know if you do get short, because I should hate to think——" He broke off abruptly, then went on. "Promise you'll let me know."
Lalage nodded. "Yes, I promise."
Ida Fenton, Jimmy's younger sister, was a tall, fair woman with a beautiful profile and hazel-blue eyes. Women who did not like her called her a stick, and even her friends admitted that she was severe. Stiffness was the dominant note in her character. Most men, including even her husband, wondered that she had ever married. In pre-Reformation times she would certainly have been a nun, and probably a saint, being passionless, and therefore able to avoid all carnal sins without effort. However, she belonged to an age which regarded marriage as the one vocation for women, at least for those of position, and she had accepted Joseph Fenton, if not with enthusiasm, at least with satisfaction. He appeared to fulfil all the necessary conditions, and she had never found reason to regret her choice. If Fenton himself sometimes appeared hurt at the fact that she did not display more outward affection towards him or the children, she seldom worried over the matter, being fully conscious of her own rectitude of conduct and feeling.
Jimmy felt chilled the moment he entered theFenton house. Ida's own personality seemed to be reflected in everything, in the furniture, in the pictures, and above all in the unnaturally tidy children to whom he was presently introduced. He could still feel the one cold kiss which Ida had given him, and, when he was shown up to his room, he unconsciously gave the spot an extra dab with the sponge.
The weather was bitter, yet there was no fire in the big spare room, Ida holding that fires in bedrooms were unhealthy and extravagant, consequently, being still thin blooded as a result of ten years in tropical climates, he was shivering when he got downstairs again.
"Can I have a little whisky, Joe?" he said to his brother-in-law, whom he found in the smoking-room. "I've got a bit of a chill on me, and it takes very little to bring out my malaria."
Ida, who had just entered, frowned slightly. "Ammoniated quinine would do you more good, Jimmy. Joseph himself never drinks between meals. It's such a bad example if the children happen to come in."
Jimmy stifled a retort to the effect that the obvious course was to keep the children out; but he refused the proffered quinine and helped himself to some of the whisky which his brother-in-law had already produced.
Ida sighed and went out, whereupon Fenton lost no time in making use of the second glass which was on the tray.
"Ida likes giving people ammoniated quinine," he remarked.
Jimmy nodded sympathetically, knowing his sister of old. She had managed their father's household during the period between their mother's death and her own marriage, and he still had lively recollections of her régime.
Dinner was a dreary meal. Fenton, who was essentially a cheerful person, made several spasmodic attempts at conversation, but Ida, cold and beautiful, seemed to check him by her own silence; whilst Jimmy was thinking of Lalage, contrasting the luxury of his present surroundings, the massive plate, the costly dinner service, the deferential, silently-moving butler, with Lalage's little room, and its hire-purchase furniture, earthenware plates, and the meal bought at the ham and beef shop. Now, he was amongst his own people, a Grierson come back to the Griersons; and yet he hated it all, because he had reached the point of wanting to share everything with Lalage, whom he could never hope to introduce into houses like the Fentons'.
The long meal came to an end at last, and they went into the smoking-room, where Ida joinedthem. Mrs. Fenton had asked no questions at dinner, when the servants were present, but Jimmy quickly found that there were many things she wanted to know, not about the past, but about his doings since he had come home, and about his plans for the future. In a flash, he understood that May must have arranged this sudden invitation to Northampton, and he was on his guard at once. Inwardly, he was furious and a little uneasy, foreseeing the possibility of future trouble; but he kept both his temper and his composure, and in the end he lulled Ida's suspicions. When she had gone, Fenton himself breathed a sigh, which sounded curiously like one of relief, and, pulling out a couple of big volumes in the bottom shelf of the bookcase, produced a bottle of whisky of a brand greatly superior to that which stood on the tray.
"She doesn't like to see it go too fast." He motioned towards the other bottle.
Jimmy nodded sympathetically, understanding; then helped himself.
"They're afraid of you going the pace." Joseph Fenton jerked the words out, looking away almost guiltily.
Once more Jimmy nodded. He liked this brother-in-law, always had liked him, knowing him to be a man, and, for a moment, he felt inclined totell him of Lalage; but, before he could make up his mind, Joseph went on:
"They don't understand, Jimmy—Ida and May and my own sisters too. Yet, hang it all, in a way I suppose they're right, because of the kids, you know." He tossed his cigar into the grate and lighted another, rather carefully. "You fellows who have knocked about, you get ideas and ways——. But, they won't do here, Jimmy, believe me." He paused again, to help himself to another whisky, then went on, hurriedly, "This work of yours, it's a bit uphill. Are you all right for cash? If not come to me."
Jimmy flushed. He wanted some money badly, how badly only a man in his position, the lover of Lalage, could know; but still he could not take it from Fenton, for that purpose. Joseph would never understand his motives. So he stood up, suddenly.
"Thanks, very much, Joe; but I can rub along, at least I think so. If I am dead stuck, I will come to you; but I believe I can pull through." Then he said good night, and went upstairs, to think of Lalage, and to curse his own idiocy in not taking the proffered loan. Twenty pounds would have been nothing to his brother-in-law, yet to Lalage and himself it would have meant a new start. Before he lay down he had made up hismind to ask Joseph for it, after all, and he went to sleep with that resolution in his mind; but when he awoke in the morning things somehow seemed different, and before breakfast was over he had changed his mind. This was his world, and these were his own people, living ordered lives, with soles and grilled kidneys for breakfast, and family plate on the table, knowing nothing of ham and beef shops, or of milkmen who demanded cash in exchange for their milk. He belonged to them, he was one of them, sharing their principles and their prejudices, worshipping their gods, as his ancestors and theirs had done. What real kinship had he with Lalage, who made her breakfast tea out of a quarter-pound packet bought the evening before at the little general shop round the corner, and took an obvious delight in the sixpenny haddock they had purchased off the barrow with the glaring oil lamps over it?
And yet, when the postman brought him no letter from that same Lalage, he grew silent and restless, as his sister's eyes were quick to note. When Joseph had departed to his office, he himself went to the smoking-room and wrote three whole sheets to the girl who lived in the flat, for the first time throwing all prudence to the winds, and saying the things he felt. His pen travelled quickly, and, whilst he was writing, he forgot all about hissurroundings, his mind being full of Lalage. When, at last, he had finished and signed his name, in full, as a sign of his trust in her, disdaining any subterfuge, he looked round the luxuriously furnished room, and for an instant he was filled with a sense of his own folly; then, hurriedly, as though ashamed of what he was doing, he thrust the letter into an envelope and sealed it down, afterwards posting it with his own hands.
The hours dragged by slowly. The Marlow house had seemed dull; but the Fentons' was almost unbearable. Ida meant to be kind; but, perhaps, because she tried to show her intention, she only succeeded in making Jimmy feel his position as a poor relation. She took him for a drive in the afternoon to call on one or two elderly ladies in reduced circumstances, whom she patronised unconsciously, greatly to the discomfort of her brother, who had a kind of fellow feeling for her victims. Yet, on the other hand, he was conscious of a grim admiration for Ida; she was so sure of her own rectitude, so convinced that her husband's wealth—which meant her own position—entitled her to lecture and to interfere. It was all interesting, even amusing, or it would have been so, had Lalage never come into his life, in which case he could have regarded Mrs. Fenton from a more or less impersonal point of view. Now, however,she was a possible danger, to be guarded against, and—though he did not like to put it that way—to be lied to, if occasion demanded.
That night, Jimmy hardly closed his eyes, being occupied with the problem of inventing an excuse for getting back to town. The evening post had brought him no letters; and, though it was improbable that Lalage would have any real news for him, he was terribly worried at her silence. Lying then through the long hours, praying for the sleep which would not come to ease him from the hideous pain of jealousy, he suffered as few men can suffer in their lives. He had no right to control Lalage, no more claim on her than anyone else had, he was mad to trouble about her, knowing what he did of her, and having ten years' experience of women behind him. Yet he lay there, wide-eyed, wondering, and tormenting himself. Twice he got up and endeavoured to smoke a cigarette, but all to no purpose. The tobacco tasted rank, and, after a few whiffs, he let the thing go out. When, towards morning, he did fall into a heavy sleep, it was only to dream of Lalage, with the mud and rain squelching through her shoes, looking for someone to give her shelter.
If Ida felt any relief when, at the end of four miserably long days, Jimmy returned to town, she did not say so, even to her husband. It had been a trial in many ways, but, at the same time, she was conscious of having done her duty. She had impressed her brother with a sense of what he owed to the family in the matter of conduct, and his very depression seemed to show that he had taken the matter to heart.
"Jimmy's nerves are all wrong. He's like a man on wires. He wants a comfortable home and a wife to look after him," Fenton ventured to remark whilst his brother-in-law was upstairs, packing; but Ida brushed the theory aside scornfully.
"I am surprised at you, Joseph. It is not at all the way to speak of marriage. The Griersons have always waited until they were in a position to marry, and have never held those disgusting ideas of nerves and so on. Jimmy most emphatically cannot think of marrying for many years to come. He is perfectly well, or he would be if he did not smoke and drink so much. He has the remedy in his own hands."
Fenton shrugged his shoulders and turned away, wondering inwardly whether the Grierson strain would predominate in his own children. He almost wished Jimmy had not come down. It was annoying to be disturbed and made to think after having got out of the habit of so doing.
The men and women of the type Ida usually invited to the house never worried him in that way, belonging as they did to the class which can afford to take its theories as facts.
Jimmy had heard once from Lalage, a brief little note, just acknowledging his letters, and telling him nothing. Mrs. Fenton had watched carefully whilst he was reading it—she had detected a woman's handwriting—but he had managed to keep his composure, and then, the better to deceive her, he had rolled the paper into a ball and tossed it on to the fire, though it cut him to the heart to part with anything which had once been Lalage's.
He had hoped the girl would have been waiting for him at the station; but he failed to see her tall figure on the platform, so, jumping into a cab, he told the driver to take him to the mansions. However, as they went up the last street, he caught sight of Lalage coming out of a hairdresser's shop. A moment later he was beside her.
Jimmy's first impression was one of delight atthe look of genuine pleasure which, had come into her eyes; then he noted with concern how worn and pale she looked.
"I didn't expect you quite so soon," she said. "I must have made a mistake in the time, and I wanted to get my hair done nicely before you got back."
"What has been the matter with you? Why didn't you write, dear?" he asked.
She parried the questions until they got inside the flat, when he repeated them, holding her hands, and looking into her eyes. She tried to avoid his scrutiny.
"I've been all right," she answered, "only there was nothing to write about."
But he would not be put off like that, and at last, with a sob, she told him. "It's over now, and I didn't mean you to know. I—I've had the brokers in." She was speaking hurriedly, in a low voice. "You see, someone has been paying my rent, and I expected it the day you went away—it should have come that morning—and it was due next day. I never heard, and I only had a few shillings, so they put the brokers in at once. These landlords always do."
Jimmy cursed silently. "Why didn't you wire to me? You know I would have sent it at once."
She shook her head. "No, no. I hate taking money from you, above everyone."
"What did you do in the end?"
She looked up and faced him, with a kind of desperate courage. "I got it by going away for two days. It's no good disguising things, trying to make out that I don't."
It was a question which was the paler, the man or the woman. It had come home to him, as it had never done before. He dropped her hands and went over to the window, where he stood very still, staring out with absolutely unseeing eyes; whilst she watched him with a deadly pain at her heart, thinking she had killed the love which she knew had grown up in him.
"Perhaps it's best, after all, perhaps it's best." She tried desperately hard to say the words to herself, then, almost unconsciously, she took a step towards him. Possibly her action altered the whole course of two lives, for, like a flash, he turned round, seized her in his arms, and covered her face with kisses.
"I don't care, now I've come back, because it'll never happen again, it can't happen again, and what went before has nothing to do with me. We'll start afresh, dearest, we'll start afresh." He repeated the words several times, savagely, as though wishing to assure himself that it would be so.
Lalage was crying on his shoulder, sobbing quietly without noise or movement, as overwroughtwomen do; but it was soon over, and she pulled herself together bravely.
"I think you're very tired and we had better have some tea now," she said, smiling at him with wet eyes. He kissed away her tears, then released her, and sat down whilst she hurried into the kitchen to prepare the tray.
It was very much later, in fact not until after they had finished the supper, which she insisted should come from the next street—"Because it was so nice last time," she explained—that he went back to the subject of their future. He was so desperately in earnest that he succeeded in blinding himself to the financial difficulties ahead; and, though perhaps he did not convince either Lalage or himself, they were both in the mood to risk things.
"I'll give up my rooms at Mrs. Benn's, thankfully, and we can take some others, somewhere near Fleet Street, until we can get on our feet," he went on.
But Lalage demurred. "I can't give up this flat, at least not without losing all I've paid on the furniture, until the end of my agreement, in six months' time. Why shouldn't we stay on here?"
Jimmy frowned. He loathed the place and all its associations, but he was not in a position to give her another home of her own, as yet, andhe could not answer her argument, especially when she added:
"I can tell them at the agent's office that we are married, and we can give them some name or other."
She said it simply, without the least intention of hurting him; but the words cut him like a whip, for though, for one mad moment, he had thought of marriage, real marriage, he had put the idea on one side as utterly impossible. He was a Grierson, owing a duty to the family, and he could not do the thing. Only he had the grace not even to hint of it to her, and she gave no sign that she had the least expectation of any promise from him. She had recovered her spirits, and, apparently, was quite content with the arrangement he proposed. He was fully conscious that Society would condemn him unsparingly, if it found out, and he could not justify his own conduct, even to himself; but Lalage never seemed to consider the moral aspect of the question, that curious element of irresponsibility, almost childishness, which he had marked at the very outset, was now more noticeable than ever.
Suddenly, a new fear gripped him. "It will never do to give my people this address," he said. "They would make inquiries at once, and then——" He gave a grim little smile.
Lalage's face grew hard. "Why should they hunt you like that? If they really cared, they would have looked after you, instead of sending you to those lodgings. They want you to be like a little boy, to do just what they say, and never to have a mind of your own—oh, yes, but they do. They ought to have seen that after all you've been through, you need care and love."
He looked up with a queer light in his eyes. "Do you love me, Lalage? You've never said so."
"I like you very, very much," she answered.
But he was not satisfied. "Do you love me?" he repeated.
"I like you better, much better, than anyone else I ever met," and with that he had to be content.
"I know someone who will let you a room, just as an address, in case those horrid sisters of yours make inquiries." Lalage turned round suddenly from the looking-glass, her hands still busy with her hair.
"Who is she? Where does she live?" Jimmy asked lazily, being at the moment more interested in that same hair than in anything else.
"She lives just the other side of Baker Street, and really she's a kind of agent, you know." Lalage made a gesture of supreme disgust. "But she's not so bad as most of them, and, as her husband is a clerk in the Council office, anyone would tell your people that the house is quite respectable. Why, it belongs to the mayor himself."
Jimmy frowned. He loathed the idea of putting himself in the hands of people of that sort, people who would understand exactly how matters stood, and judge, not only himself, but Lalage as well, according to their own standards.
"I would sooner we had nothing whatever to do with any of them," he said.
He was touching mud for the first time in his life, real mud, and he did not like the feeling of it.Moreover, he had suddenly grown very particular about Lalage. They might not be married, in fact he had decided that there could be no question of marriage between them; but, none the less, as long as he was going under another name, he wanted people to believe they had legalised their union, and to respect Lalage accordingly. Had he not belonged to a family of position, he might have seen himself as a coward or a cad; but the Griersons were essentially of the Victorian age, and so he was able to quiet his conscience with platitudes; whilst under the seeming calmness with which Lalage had accepted his proposal, she was too glad of any change from the nightmare of the past to be very critical. She hoped—that was all, resolutely refusing to allow herself any fears or misgivings. And, after all, Jimmy was very young so far as these things were concerned, and Lalage was even younger; so, probably, they would not have listened to, much less have believed, anyone who had warned them that they were attempting the impossible. They were happy at the moment, having put the past behind them, and they were ready to assume that their happiness would last, ignoring its dangerous insecure foundations.
In the end, Lalage had her way, so far as the room was concerned. Mrs. Fagin, the landlady, scenting money easily earned, was absolutelyservile. Jimmy stammered a little over his explanations, but Lalage put things more plainly. "He will seldom be here; in fact I do not think he will ever actually need the room," she said. "But it will be an address for his letters, and you will know what to say if there are any inquiries. What would be your terms?"
Mrs. Fagin looked at Jimmy, as if to get his measure. "I'm sure I don't know, sir," she began. "We haven't had that same thing before, but——."
"He will pay three shillings a week," Lalage interrupted, "and begin next week. That should suit you, Mrs. Fagin. Very well," and she sailed out.
Jimmy looked at her admiringly. "You do know how to deal with them, Lalage," he remarked.
She sighed a little wearily. "I've had to learn that, and a good many other things, since I came to town."
Down at the apartment house in the dreary suburban street, Mrs. Benn accepted a week's notice from Jimmy with a sniff of anger.
"Very well, sir. You know your own business best, though Mrs. Marlow did say as how you would be permanent. Without that, I shouldn't have gone out of my way to give you our ownbest room, and to wear my health, which is not too good, out in making you comfortable. But then, Mrs. Marlow was evidently mistook all round, for she said you would keep respectable hours and act as such."
Whereupon Jimmy lost his temper, paid her a week in lieu of notice, and went straight back to Lalage, who received him with delight. "So you haven't changed your mind at the last moment, as you would have done if you had been wise, and good and," she laughed mischievously, "Grierson-like."
"All I care about is being good to you, sweetheart," he answered. "But why do you say 'Grierson-like'?"
She looked at him critically, her head a little on one side. "Because you're two men—James Grierson, who is stodgy and respectable and ought to marry what the other Griersons call a good girl, that is one with money; and Jimmy, who is awfully sweet and unselfish, just the opposite to James. Just now, you're Jimmy, the nice side of you is uppermost; but some day it may be the other way about and then you'll run off and leave poor Lalage."
He flushed, and tried to draw her to him. "Never, never," he declared. "I shall always stick to you. Who else have I got?"
She shook her head. "You've got your own people, always, ready to have you, when you'll be one of them; whilst I'm all alone, and only Lalage, the girl you met by chance in Oxford Street."
Her words reawakened his curiosity as to her past. Twice before he had tried to learn her story, but now, as on those occasions, she baffled his questions.
"I am Lalage Penrose, that's all. I was a fool, and I've paid for my folly, and there's nothing else worth telling."
"Still, I should like to hear," he persisted.
"Well, perhaps you shall some day, if you don't turn into James Grierson before then. But—but, don't ask me, Jimmy." Her bantering manner changed suddenly, and with a queer little sob she jumped up and hurried into the other room.
Jimmy did not try to follow her. Instead, he lighted a cigarette, and endeavoured to settle down to work on an article which had been suggested by a paragraph in that morning's Record. A quarter of an hour later Lalage came back with a little bundle of his socks in her hand.
"These want darning," she remarked; then, in the most natural manner, she sat down in the big wicker chair beside him, and started to ply her needle.
From time to time Jimmy glanced up from his writing. He was breaking the moral code in which he had been brought up, the code which he knew, as every sane man does know, is essentially right in principle; he was risking a rupture with his own people who, certainly, would never tolerate Lalage; he was face to face with an ugly financial situation, almost penniless himself and with another dependent on him; and yet he felt more at peace than he had done for many months past. Lalage, intent on her needlework, frowning prettily over the large holes in his socks, looked so sweet and girlish, so entirely unsoiled, outwardly at least, by what she had been through, that it seemed as if, after all, there could be nothing wrong. Marriage was only a formality, he told himself, and from that time on he tried to school himself to think so, almost succeeding after a while.
When his article was finished, Jimmy glanced through it rapidly, made one or two corrections, scrawled his signature at the foot, then turned to Lalage. "What is the time, dear? Have any of your clock-men come down the street lately?"
She looked up with a smile. "Yes, the watercress man, which means five o'clock. Have you finished now?"
Jimmy nodded. "I thought of taking it down to the office now. It's topical, so there's just achance they'll use it to-night. Will you come too?"
"Of course," she answered. "We can get a motor 'bus at the end of the street, and it'll be a nice little run out. Besides, it'll be lucky if I go with you. They'll be sure to take it. I've a feeling I shall bring you luck. Don't you think so yourself?"
He kissed her lightly on the hair. "I'm sure you will, sweetheart. And we want lots of luck just now."
"What a dirty place and what a grumpy old man!" Lalage remarked as they came out of theRecordoffice, after handing the envelope to the surly porter, who had taken it with an inarticulate growl and tossed it to a waiting boy. "Still, if they use it and they're good to you, I don't mind how dusty their passage is, or how bad tempered the porter looks."
Jimmy pressed her arm. "Good to us, you mean, don't you?"
She laughed. "Yes, good to us, I should say now." In the morning Jimmy was out early to buy a copy of the paper; and, as she opened the door to him, his radiant face told her the news.
"They've used it," he said, unnecessarily.
She laughed softly. "I felt sure they would. You see Lalage is lucky to you already."
"That last article of yours I used was a very good one, and I shall always be glad to see anything you like to submit; but the amount of space we can give to foreign stuff, however good, is limited, and I do not like to have the same signature more than three or four times a month," Dodgson wrote, in returning Jimmy's next manuscript.
Jimmy passed the letter to Lalage. "Not very encouraging, is it dear?"
The girl read it through. "Oh, I think so. Three or four months means six or eight guineas from one paper alone, and then, you see, there are so many others. I'm sure you'll do well, because you're very, very clever, and because you're good to Lalage."
"Will that bring me luck?" he asked, smiling.
"Of course," she answered. "Everyone who is good to me gets on and those who are horrid come to grief. I've seen it, lots of times." She spoke seriously, with an air of conviction.
"Well, I hope you're right." Jimmy sighed. He had not sold any manuscript for several days, and was feeling distinctly worried about thefuture. His original capital had dwindled down to a few shillings, despite Lalage's careful management, and, so far, he had not been paid for any of his work. Already, the need of money was crippling him, robbing him of his powers of imagination, and by that hideous perversity of effect which every writer knows to his cost, making him do less instead of the more he longed to produce.
Lalage, ever an optimist, did her best to cheer him up and to assist him, searching the papers for news items which might form the basis of an article, counting the number of words in his manuscripts to see they did not exceed the regulation column length, and even copying out his rough notes in her clear, bold handwriting.
"I wish you could get a typewriter machine, Jimmy," she remarked. "I'm sure your stuff would have a better chance, and I could soon learn to use the thing. Other girls do, so I'm sure I can."
"They cost a lot of money," Jimmy answered, rather wearily.
Lalage tossed her head. "You can get them on the hire-purchase system. I believe you think I should get tired of it, you old silly. Now don't you?"
The man stooped down and kissed her. "Idon't think anything of the kind. I know you're a brick, only——." He broke off with a sigh, then, "I'm going down to the club, to see if I can find Kelly. I must do something before we get in a fix."
She looked up at him anxiously. "Will you be long, dear? And do be careful, won't you? You walk through the traffic as if it wasn't there, unless you have me to look after you."
When he had gone out, she sat for a long time, very still, staring into the fire. Already, she was getting a little afraid. Twice, Jimmy had gone down to the club in the vain hope of hearing of something to do or picking up some useful hints, and each time he had returned a little flushed and inclined to be apologetic. Lalage did not blame him, even in her own mind. It was inevitable, she told herself, after all he had been through, to the strain of which was now added the anxiety of the present. She did not blame him, but at the same time, as she glanced round her little home, she gave a shudder of fear at the possibility of losing it all and of losing Jimmy as well. "If I were only sure of him, if I dare trust him, I wouldn't mind, I'd risk it all. But to lose everything, and then be homeless and alone again——" She suddenly felt very cold and stooped down to poke the little fire.
A moment later, the electric bell rang, three times in rapid succession, a signal she knew well. She stood up quickly, her face very pale. "It's Ralph," she muttered. "And we want money so badly. I wonder if he would just lend it." She stood, with clenched hands, trying to decide. The bell rang again, seemingly more insistently; then, deliberately, she sat down, and put her fingers in her ears. "Oh, Jimmy, I won't, because I love you. But I don't believe you trust me, and I don't believe you understand."
Down at the club, Jimmy was seeking advice of Douglas Kelly.
"Hasn't theRecordpaid you yet?" the latter asked. "Oh, you haven't sent in an account? You should have done so on the Wednesday after your stuff appeared, then you would have got a cheque on the Friday afternoon. Still, if you go down to-day, before five, the cashier will give it to you. He's a very decent fellow, and, if you're ever badly stuck, he'll let you have it the day your article appears. I've been glad enough to get it that way, more than once."
Jimmy felt that sudden relief which only those who have been desperately short of money can know. He had led Lalage to understand that he had a couple of shillings in his pocket for his own needs beyond the half-crown he left her, whereashe had not even got his omnibus fare back from Fleet Street.
"I hate to think of you going out without the money for a drink and so on," she had said. "What's more, I'm not going to let you do it." So he had lied bravely to her, knowing that, unless he had some luck, the half-crown would be needed for food for the morrow. Now, however, he would have money enough for a good many to-morrows.
Kelly knew nothing of Lalage, but he understood what the sudden brightening of Jimmy's face meant.
"Been hard up?" he asked, with a smile. "Why didn't you come to me, as I told you to do? Of course, you'll find it an uphill game, and I would advise you to leave it now, at the start, if I were not sure you would succeed in the end. You'll have a hard fight, because you've got ability and experience of the world, and those will tell against you at first."
"Why?" Jimmy asked.
Kelly gave a cynical little laugh. "Because there's not much demand for either in Fleet Street. You've only got to study the Press to see that—dailies, weeklies, magazines, the whole lot. They want writers who are just on the level of the mob, because then the mob can understand them.All your travel won't help you to get a job; but if you could go into a newspaper office and say, 'I know more about Upper Clapton, or Stockwell, or some such beastly place than any man living,' or 'I'm a crime expert, and I can give the names, and dates of execution, of every man hanged in London for the last twenty years,' then they'd welcome you as a long-lost brother, and give you about ten pounds a week."
Jimmy laughed, not quite believing him. "Then how did you yourself get on?"
Kelly finished his drink, and ordered some more before answering the question, then, "I bluffed," he said. "There was a coal strike coming on, and I swore I was an expert on coal mining, so theEvening Guardiangave me a job. I picked up a little knowledge locally, just a few technical terms and so on; and, as for the rest, neither the editor nor the public knew that half my stuff was utter rot. It read well, and lent itself to good headlines."
"And then, after that?" Jimmy asked.
"After that? Oh, well, I had got my foot in, and it was easy. I advertised myself, and made the ruck get out of my way, as I told you before. I'm not loved, but then I'm not in Fleet Street for the sake of earning the regard of its population."
Jimmy looked surprised. "They all seem pretty eager to talk to you."
"Of course they do." Kelly laughed grimly. "Of course they do, because I'm a power already and I may be an editor by-and-by; but, if I went down, all they would think about would be to scramble for my place. Don't think I'm blaming them; they're a decent enough crowd, awfully decent, but the fight is too hard to have time for thinking about anyone else. Why you, yourself, are already the common foe, in a sense. You're taking up space in theRecordwhich, but for you, someone else would fill. You won't get any help or advice, and most people would say I was a fool for introducing a possible competitor of my own. You'll feel the same, if you stick in Fleet Street long enough, which you won't do."
"I thought you said I was going to succeed," Jimmy retorted.
Kelly yawned. "So I did, my bright child. But when you've learnt the ropes, and can afford it, you'll go in for fiction. But just now, all your ideas are chaotic, and you won't do a decent story until you've sorted them out and fallen in love."
Jimmy coloured. "How do you know I've never done that yet?"
The other man shook his head. "You're too sweetly young in many of your ways and ideas.Oh, I daresay there's some prim maiden belonging to your sister's circle, with an aldermanic papa in the City—but you, yourself, would never really be in love with her. I know you too well; and if you did marry her, you would never write a book, until you had run away from her, as you would certainly do. Well," he got up abruptly, as if to avoid giving any reasons for his ideas, "I'm going over to theRecordoffice now, and if you come, I'll introduce you to the cashier and you can get your cheque."
Jimmy did not waste any time after he left theRecordoffice. The cashier himself changed the cheque for him, the banks being shut. Jimmy hesitated a moment as to whether he should take a hansom, then remembered the lean days of the past, and jumped on an omnibus. Lalage could make a shilling go a surprisingly long way.
He found the girl sitting in the dark, in front of an almost dead fire, and his conscience smote him on account of the time he had spent in the warm, comfortable club smoking-room.
"We're in luck, sweetheart," he said, putting his hands on her shoulders, and kissing her. "I've got the six guineas out of theRecord."
She reached up and pulled his face down to hers again, in one of her rare bursts of outward affection. "Oh, I'm so glad. I was reckoningup, and I found you must have gone out without any money, even for tobacco or a drink, and I was picturing you trudging back in this cold drizzle. You are a naughty boy to do those things."
"And how about you, if I spent all the money? Wouldn't you think to yourself that I was a selfish beast?"
Lalage shook her head. "You could never be selfish; it's not your nature. You might be thoughtless, that's all. Promise me you won't go out like that again. I shall worry ever so much if you don't. I know, only too well, what it means to trudge about in the London mud without a penny for even a glass of hot milk. Oh, the cold." She gave a little shiver. "You know that shop in Regent Street, where they have the big fires in the window, showing off some stoves. I've stood there for as long as I dare, more than once, trying to think I was feeling the heat through the glass."
"Don't, please don't," Jimmy muttered thickly. "I do hate to think of it all. And it shan't be so again, I swear it shan't. Let's forget it all to-night, and go out and have some dinner somewhere, for a change. You're all on a shiver now. I'll go out and get some brandy, whilstyou put your things on. I may as well bring in a bottle."
Lalage put her hand on his arm. "Not a bottle, dear, only a quartern. That'll be quite enough. Do what Lalage tells you this time."
"Don't I always do what you tell me?" he asked, laughing.
"Oh, I don't want you to say that," she answered quickly. "You ought to be your own master; only when I know a thing is right I do like to tell you. A woman should, I think."
For an instant, Jimmy felt a wild longing to beg her to change the word "woman" to that of "wife," but she had already turned towards the door, and at the same moment the noise of the grimy street seemed to come in through the window and somehow fill the room. The sound recalled him to his normal self. How could he, a Grierson, take a wife from those surroundings?
Mrs. Marlow had learnt of her brother's sudden change of address with mingled annoyance and anxiety. It was not pleasant to have him quit the lodgings she had found for him after so short a trial, and she could not help feeling that there was some very strong attraction drawing him to town. Mrs. Benn, that uncompromising "Son of Temperance," had come over herself to explain matters to Jimmy's sister, and had taken the opportunity to enlarge on the number of bottles she had found in her lodger's room, omitting to state, however, that these had included the best part of a dozen of Bass, which, possibly because she hated liquor so much, she had promptly sold to her next-door neighbour at a halfpenny a bottle below the retail price.
"I'm afraid as how the house was too quiet for Mr. Grierson, mum," she wound up. "Having nothing to do hisself, except just write, he seemed to think other folks couldn't be tired and want to go to bed, folks that worked." She emphasised her words with a truly British scorn for those who live by their brains. "I'm sure thehours and hours as I've sat up for him, it's fair worn me out. And him your brother, mum, and uncle to these lovely little children, what I remember coming into the world."
Mrs. Marlow wrote plainly to her brother, doing her duty without flinching. Jimmy read the letter with a grim smile, then handed it to Lalage, who was bubbling over with wrath long before she reached the end of it.
"They are horrid, Jimmy, really they are. They see something wrong in everything you do. It's quite enough to drive you to the bad, never giving you a chance, and treating you like a silly little boy. I'm sure you don't drink as she says you do. She must be a nasty-minded woman. You know I should be the last to want to separate you from your family, or anything like that, if they were good to you; but as it is, I'm sure you're much better here than in those miserable lodgings, all alone and moping. That would make you drink."
They were having breakfast at the time, but Lalage looked so sweet, lying back in a big wicker chair, wrapped in an old kimono of Jimmy's, that he felt compelled to lean over and kiss her.
"You won't let me go to drink, will you, Lalage?" he asked.
"Of course not," she answered promptly."You know how I feel about that. Yet your people would never believe it if they found me—when they find me. We girls," she looked up, a little defiantly, "we girls are supposed to be everything that is bad; whilst they, your City people, have got all the virtues, except charity, which they don't imagine they need."
Jimmy coloured. "You're a bit rough on them sometimes, Lalage," he said.
She shook her head emphatically. "I'm not too rough. Have they any idea of charity, any idea of forgiveness? If I were able to live respectably again, live a good life, would they, or any of their kind, allow me to wipe out the past and start afresh?"
Jimmy suddenly became busy with a cigarette he was rolling. "You are living a respectable life now," he muttered, weakly evading the question.
But Lalage smiled bitterly, and then, with a sudden change of expression, she laid her hand on his, very gently. "No, Jimmy dear, let's be straight, even amongst ourselves. You are all right, because you're a man, and men are allowed to do these things; but they would all treat me as a bad woman, as something rather worse than a dog. Even you, dear, don't respect me, in your heart, although I have tried to make you."
The man got up suddenly, tossing his newly made cigarette into the grate. "I do respect you, you know I do. To me, you come before everyone else in the world; and I think as much of you, as if, as if——" He stammered a little, and, still very gently, she finished the sentence for him.
"As if I were your wife."
Jimmy's eyes flashed. Somehow, it sounded wonderfully sweet, coming from her lips, and all his caution, all his Grierson traditions, seemed to slip from him suddenly. He stood up, very straight, facing her.
"My wife," he said in a low voice. "My wife. Will you be my wife, Lalage?"
The girl turned white, and her hand went to her throat, as though she were choking, then she looked away, staring into the fire, whilst he watched her, waiting for her answer with almost pitiful anxiety.
"Dearest," she began at last, "it's very sweet of you——" Then she paused again, as though searching for the words, which came to her at last. "Jimmy, dearest, do you really mean it? Remember, you've only known me quite a little time, and you can't be sure of me yet. Can you? You see, if you made a mistake it would spoil your whole life. It means so much to you."
"And what does it mean to you?" he asked, thickly.
"Everything," she answered, simply. "But then, I've spoilt my life already, and I mustn't spoil yours too."
"You wouldn't spoil it. You, know that as well as I do. You would give me something to work for, make me keep up to the mark." He was thoroughly in earnest now, carried away by the fear of losing her. He walked up and down the room a couple of times, then stopped in front of her. "Lalage," he asked, very quietly, "do you love me?"
The girl nodded, without looking up.
"Then will you marry me?" He said it deliberately. She clenched her hands, but answered nothing, till he repeated his question, then she faced him, white-lipped and wild-eyed.
"God forgive me for saying it—yes. But not yet, Jimmy, not yet," and without allowing him to kiss her, she jumped up and ran into the other room, shutting the door behind her.
Jimmy walked down to the club that day, not from reasons of economy—there was still some of theRecordmoney left—but because he wanted to think matters over, quietly and deliberately. He was conscious of an unwonted sense of elation—Lalage was to be his, definitely and finally, sothat they could face the world openly, with none of this miserable business of subterfuge and bogus address; no one would know of the past. And then, suddenly, he went cold at the thought of the family inquisition, and the falsehoods he would have to tell; whilst, even if the latter were not detected, his people would never forgive him for marrying a stranger, never agree to his marriage until he was in what they would consider a good position, which would mean years of waiting. He tried to picture Lalage, with her almost childish outlook on life, being cross-examined by the cold and immaculate Ida, or sitting down to dinner in the Marlow house, where even the servants would turn up their noses at the mention of the ham and beef shop.
And then if, after they were married, they came across someone belonging to Lalage's old life—that was the worst idea of all, intolerable, wholly abominable. Insensibly, he quickened his pace, as though trying to get away from the thought, then, finding that useless, turned into a saloon bar, where he remained a full hour, drinking whisky practically neat, and endeavouring to interest himself in the other people who came into the place. When, at last, he did reach the club, he was feeling much more certain of the wisdom of his choice and his ability to manage his own affairs. He haddetermined to tell Douglas Kelly, as practically his only friend, about his engagement; and yet, somehow, he felt a distinct sense of relief when, in reply to his question, the waiter said:
"Mr. Kelly, sir? He has been in, in a great hurry, just for letters and so on. But," and he lowered his voice discreetly, knowing Kelly to be a friend of Jimmy's and two other members being near, "but he's gone to Russia, sir, all in a hurry. Told me to tell you he wouldn't be there very long, at least he thought not."
As Jimmy turned away, he found himself face to face with Romsey of theEvening Post, of whom he had seen a good deal during the last few weeks.
"Hullo, Grierson," the other said. "You don't look too cheerful. I suppose you are wondering how the smash is going to affect you."
Jimmy knit his brow. "What do you mean?" he demanded. "Who has gone to smash?"
The reporter gave him an incredulous look. "Where on earth do you live that you haven't heard? Why theCometceased publication last night without warning, which means there are forty of the best men in Fleet Street out of jobs, ready to scramble for the space you and I and the other fellows used to have. Cheerful prospect, isn't it?"
Jimmy did not answer. He was wondering dully whether any of these men had ever felt the same degree of desperate anxiety about the future as he was feeling then.