The Complete Five Towns Collections. Bennett Arnold

blow was like that of a bullet: he did not immediately feel it.

      "Really?" he questioned foolishly, and then, though he knew that she would never return: "For how long are you going, and how soon?"

      "Very soon, because I always do things in a hurry. I don't know for how long. It's indefinite. I have had a letter from my uncles in San Francisco, and they say I must join them; they can't do without me. They are making a lot of money now, and neither of them is married.... So I suppose I must obey like a good girl. You see I have no relatives here, except Aunt Grace."

      "You many never come back to England?"

      (Did she colour, or was it Richard's fancy?)

      "Well, I expect I may visit Europe sometimes. It wouldn't do to give England up entirely. There are so many nice things in England,—in London especially...."

      Once, in late boyhood, he had sat for an examination which he felt confident of passing. When the announcement arrived that he failed, he could not believe it, though all the time he knew it to be true. His thoughts ran monotonously: "There must be some mistake; there must be some mistake!" and like a little child in the night, he resolutely shut his eyes to keep out the darkness of the future. The same puerility marked him now. Assuming that Adeline fulfilled her intention, his existence in London promised to be tragically cheerless. But this gave him no immediate concern, because he refused to contemplate the possibility of their intimacy being severed. He had, indeed, ceased to think; somewhere at the back of the brain his thoughts lay in wait for him. For the next two hours (until he left the house) he lived mechanically, as it were, and not by volition, subsisting merely on a previously acquired momentum.

      He sat in front of her and listened. She began to talk of her uncles Mark and Luke. She described them in detail, told stories of her childhood, even recounted the common incidents of her daily life with them. She dwelt on their kindness of heart, and their affection for herself; and with it all she seemed a little to patronise them, as though she had been accustomed to regard them as her slaves.

      "They are rather old-fashioned," she said, "unless they have altered. Since I heard from them, I have been wondering what they would think about my going to theatres and so on—with you."

      "What should they think?" Richard broke in. "There's nothing whatever in that. London isn't a provincial town, or even an American city."

      "I shall tell them all about you," she went on, "and how kind you were to me when I scarcely knew you at all. You couldn't have been kinder if you'd been my only cousin."

      "Say 'brother,'" he laughed awkwardly.

      "No, really, I'm quite serious. I never thanked you properly. Perhaps I seemed to take it all as a matter of course."

      He wished to heaven she would stop.

      "I'm disgusted that you are going," he grumbled, putting his hands behind his head,—"disgusted."

      "In many ways I am sorry too. But don't you think I am doing the right thing?"

      "How am I to tell?" he returned quickly. "All I know is that when you go I shall be left all alone by my little self. You must think of me sometimes in my lonely garret." His tone was light and whimsical, but she would not follow his lead.

      "I shall often think of you," she said musingly, scanning intently the toe of her shoe.

      It seemed to him that she desired to say something serious, to justify herself to him, but could not gather courage to frame the words.

      When he got out of the house, his thoughts sprang forth. It was a chilly night; he turned up the collar of his overcoat, plunged his hands deep into the pockets, and began to walk hurriedly, heedlessly, while examining his feelings with curious deliberation. In the first place, he was inexpressibly annoyed. "Annoyed,"—that was the right word. He could not say that he loved her deeply, or that there was a prospect of his loving her deeply, but she had become a delightful factor in his life, and he had grown used to counting upon her for society. Might he not, in time, conceivably have asked her to marry him? Might she not conceivably have consented? In certain directions she had disappointed him; beyond doubt her spiritual narrowness had checked the growth of a passion which he had sedulously cherished and fostered in himself. Yet, in spite of that, her feminine grace, her feminine trustfulness, still exercised a strong and delicate charm. She was a woman and he was a man, and each was the only friend the other had; and now she was going away. The mere fact that she found a future with her uncles in America more attractive than the life she was then leading, cruelly wounded his self-love. He, then, was nothing to her, after all; he had made no impression; she could relinquish him without regret! At that moment she seemed above and beyond him. He was the poor earthling; she the winged creature that soared in freedom now here, now there, giving her favours lightly, and as lightly withdrawing them.

      One thing came out clear: he was an unlucky fellow.

      He ran over in his mind the people who would remain to him in London when she had gone. Jenkins, Miss Roberts—Bah! how sickeningly commonplace were they! She was distinguished. She had an air, a je ne sais quoi, which he had never observed in a woman before. He recalled her gowns, her gestures, her turns of speech,—all the instinctive touches by which she proved her superiority.

      It occurred to him fancifully that there was a connection between her apparently sudden resolve to leave England, and their visit to the Crabtree and encounter with Miss Roberts. He tried to see in that incident a premonition of misfortune. What morbid fatuity!

      Before he went to sleep that night he resolved that at their next meeting he would lead the conversation to a frank discussion of their relations and "have it out with her." But when he called at Carteret Street two days later, he found it quite impossible to do any such thing. She was light-hearted and gay, and evidently looked forward to the change of life with pleasure. She named the day of departure, and mentioned that she had arranged to take Lottie with her. She consulted him about a compromise, already effected, with her landlord as to the remainder of the tenancy, and said she had sold the furniture as it stood, for a very small sum, to a dealer. It hurt him to think that she had given him no opportunity of actively assisting her in the hundred little matters of business involved in a change of hemisphere. What had become of her feminine reliance upon him?

      He felt as if some object was rapidly approaching to collide with and crush him, and he was powerless to hinder it.

      Three days, two days, one day more!

      Chapter XXV

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      The special train for Southampton, drawn up against the main-line platform at Waterloo, seemed to have resigned itself with an almost animal passivity to the onslaught of the crowd of well-dressed men and women who were boarding it. From the engine a thin column of steam rose lazily to the angular roof, where a few sparrows fluttered with sudden swoops and short flights. The engine-driver leaned against the side of the cab, stroking his beard; the stoker was trimming coal on the tender. Those two knew the spectacle by heart: the scattered piles of steamer trunks amidst which passengers hurried hither and thither with no apparent object; the continual purposeless opening and shutting of carriage doors; the deferential gestures of the glittering guard as he bent an ear to ladies whose footmen stood respectfully behind them; the swift movements of the bookstall clerk selling papers, and the meditative look of the bookstall manager as he swept his hand along the shelf of new novels and selected a volume which he could thoroughly recommend to the customer in the fur coat; the long colloquies between husbands and wives, sons and mothers, daughters and fathers, fathers and sons, lovers and lovers, punctuated sometimes by the fluttering of a handkerchief, or the placing of a hand on a shoulder; the unconcealed agitation of most and the carefully studied calm of a few; the grimaces of porters when passengers had turned away; the slow absorption by their train of all the luggage and nearly all the people; the creeping of the clock towards the hour; the kisses; the tears; the lowering of the signal,—to them it was no more than a common street-scene.