Love and Mr. Lewisham Read online

  CHAPTER XXXI.

  IN BATTERSEA PARK.

  Now although Lewisham had promised to bring things to a conclusionwith Miss Heydinger, he did nothing in the matter for five weeks, hemerely left that crucial letter of hers unanswered. In that time theirremoval from Madam Gadow's into the gaunt house at Clapham wasaccomplished--not without polyglot controversy--and the young couplesettled themselves into the little room on the second floor even asthey had arranged. And there it was that suddenly the world waschanged--was astonishingly transfigured--by a whisper.

  It was a whisper between sobs and tears, with Ethel's arms about himand Ethel's hair streaming down so that it hid her face from him. Andhe too had whispered, dismayed perhaps a little, and yet feeling astrange pride, a strange novel emotion, feeling altogether differentfrom the things he had fancied he might feel when this thing that hehad dreaded should come. Suddenly he perceived finality, the advent ofthe solution, the reconciliation of the conflict that had been wagedso long. Hesitations were at an end;--he took his line.

  Next day he wrote a note, and two mornings later he started for hismathematical duffers an hour before it was absolutely necessary, andinstead of going directly to Vigours', went over the bridge toBattersea Park. There waiting for him by a seat where once they hadmet before, he found Miss Heydinger pacing. They walked up and downside by side, speaking for a little while about indifferent topics,and then they came upon a pause ...

  "You have something to tell me?" said Miss Heydinger abruptly.

  Lewisham changed colour a little. "Oh yes," he said; "the fact is--"He affected ease. "Did I ever tell you I was married?"

  "_Married_?"

  "Yes."

  "Married!"

  "Yes," a little testily.

  For a moment neither spoke. Lewisham stood without dignity staring atthe dahlias of the London County Council, and Miss Heydinger stoodregarding him.

  "And that is what you have to tell me?"

  Mr. Lewisham tamed and met her eyes. "Yes!" he said. "That is what Ihave to tell you."

  Pause. "Do you mind if I sit down?" asked Miss Heydinger in anindifferent tone.

  "There is a seat yonder," said Lewisham, "under the tree."

  They walked to the seat in silence.

  "Now," said Miss Heydinger, quietly. "Tell me whom you have married."

  Lewisham answered sketchily. She asked him another question andanother. He felt stupid and answered with a halting truthfulness.

  "I might have known," she said, "I might have known. Only I would notknow. Tell me some more. Tell me about her."

  Lewisham did. The whole thing was abominably disagreeable to him, butit had to be done, he had promised Ethel it should be done. PresentlyMiss Heydinger knew the main outline of his story, knew all his storyexcept, the emotion that made it credible. "And you weremarried--before the second examination?" she repeated.

  "Yes," said Lewisham.

  "But why did you not tell me of this before?" asked Miss Heydinger.

  "I don't, know," said Lewisham. "I wanted to--that day, in KensingtonGardens. But I didn't. I suppose I ought to have done so."

  "I think you ought to have done so."

  "Yes, I suppose I ought ... But I didn't. Somehow--it has been hard. Ididn't know what you would say. The thing seemed so rash, you know,and all that."

  He paused blankly.

  "I suppose you had to do it," said Miss Heydinger presently, with hereyes on his profile.

  Lewisham began the second and more difficult part of hisexplanation. "There's been a difficulty," he said, "all the wayalong--I mean--about you, that is. It's a little difficult--The factis, my life, you know--She looks at things differently from what wedo."

  "We?"

  "Yes--it's odd, of course. But she has seen your letters--"

  "You didn't show her--?"

  "No. But, I mean, she knows you write to me, and she knows you writeabout Socialism and Literature and--things we have in common--thingsshe hasn't."

  "You mean to say she doesn't understand these things?"

  "She's not thought about them. I suppose there's a sort of differencein education--"

  "And she objects--?"

  "No," said Lewisham, lying promptly. "She doesn't _object_ ..."

  "Well?" said Miss Heydinger, and her face was white.

  "She feels that--She feels--she does not say, of course, but I knowshe feels that it is something she ought to share. I know--how shecares for me. And it shames her--it reminds her--Don't you see how ithurts her?"

  "Yes. I see. So that even that little--" Miss Heydinger's breathseemed to catch and she was abruptly silent.

  She spoke at last with an effort. "That it hurts _me_," she said, andgrimaced and stopped again.

  "No," said Lewisham, "that is not it." He hesitated.

  "I _knew_ this would hurt you."

  "You love her. You can sacrifice--"

  "No. It is not that. But there is a difference. Hurting _her_--shewould not understand. But you--somehow it seems a natural thing for meto come to you. I seem to look to you--For her I am always makingallowances--"

  "You love her."

  "I wonder if it _is_ that makes the difference. Things are socomplex. Love means anything--or nothing. I know you better than I doher, you know me better than she will ever do. I could tell you thingsI could not tell her. I could put all myself before you--almost--andknow you would understand--Only--"

  "You love her."

  "Yes," said Lewisham lamely and pulling at his moustache. "I suppose... that must be it."

  For a space neither spoke. Then Miss Heydinger said "_Oh_!" withextraordinary emphasis.

  "To think of this end to it all! That all your promise ... What is itshe gives that I could not have given?

  "Even now! Why should I give up that much of you that is mine? If shecould take it--But she cannot take it. If I let you go--you will donothing. All this ambition, all these interests will dwindle and die,and she will not mind. She will not understand. She will think thatshe still has you. Why should she covet what she cannot possess? Whyshould she be given the thing that is mine--to throw aside?"

  She did not look at Lewisham, but before her, her face a white misery.

  "In a way--I had come to think of you as something, belonging to me... I shall--still."

  "There is one thing," said Lewisham after a pause, "it is a thing thathas come to me once or twice lately. Don't you think that perhaps youover-estimate the things I might have done? I know we've talked ofgreat things to do. But I've been struggling for half a year and moreto get the sort of living almost anyone seems able to get. It hastaken me all my time. One can't help thinking after that, perhaps theworld is a stiffer sort of affair ..."

  "No," she said decisively. "You could have done great things.

  "Even now," she said, "you may do great things--If only I might seeyou sometimes, write to you sometimes--You are so capableand--weak. You must have somebody--That is your weakness. You fail inyour belief. You must have support and belief--unstinted support andbelief. Why could I not be that to you? It is all I want to be. Atleast--all I want to be now. Why need she know? It robs her ofnothing. I want nothing--she has. But I know of my own strength too Ican do nothing. I know that with you ... It is only knowing hurtsher. Why should she know?"

  Mr. Lewisham looked at her doubtfully. That phantom greatness of his,it was that lit her eyes. In that instant, at least he had no doubtsof the possibility of his Career. But he knew that in some way thesecret of his greatness and this admiration went together. Conceivablythey were one and indivisible. Why indeed need Ethel know? Hisimagination ran over the things that might be done, the things thatmight happen, and touched swiftly upon complication, confusion,discovery.

  "The thing is, I must simplify my life. I shall do nothing unless Isimplify my life. Only people who are well off can be--complex. It isone thing or the other--"

  He hesitated and suddenly had a vision of Ethel weeping as once he hadseen her weep with
the light on the tears in her eyes.

  "No," he said almost brutally. "No. It's like this--I can't doanything underhand. I mean--I'm not so amazingly honest--now. But I'venot that sort of mind. She would find me out. It would do no good andshe would find me out. My life's too complex. I can't manage it and gostraight. I--you've overrated me. And besides--Things havehappened. Something--" He hesitated and then snatched at his resolve,"I've got to simplify--and that's the plain fact of the case. I'msorry, but it is so."

  Miss Heydinger made no answer. Her silence astonished him. For nearlytwenty seconds perhaps they sat without speaking. With a quick motionshe stood up, and at once he stood up before her. Her face wasflushed, her eyes downcast.

  "Good-bye," she said suddenly in a low tone and held out her hand.

  "But," said Lewisham and stopped. Miss Heydinger's colour left her.

  "Good-bye," she said, looking him suddenly in the eyes and smilingawry. "There is no more to say, is there? Good-bye."

  He took her hand. "I hope I didn't--"

  "Good-bye," she said impatiently, and suddenly disengaged her hand andturned away from him. He made a step after her.

  "Miss Heydinger," he said, but she did not stop. "Miss Heydinger." Herealised that she did not want to answer him again....

  He remained motionless, watching her retreating figure. Anextraordinary sense of loss came into his mind, a vague impulse topursue her and pour out vague passionate protestations....

  Not once did she look back. She was already remote when he beganhurrying after her. Once he was in motion he quickened his pace andgained upon her. He was within thirty yards of her as she drew nearthe gates.

  His pace slackened. Suddenly he was afraid she might look back. Shepassed out of the gates, out of his sight. He stopped, looking whereshe had disappeared. He sighed and took the pathway to his left thatled back to the bridge and Vigours'.

  Halfway across this bridge came another crisis of indecision. Hestopped, hesitating. An impertinent thought obtruded. He looked at hiswatch and saw that he must hurry if he would catch the train forEarl's Court and Vigours'. He said Vigours' might go to the devil.

  But in the end he caught his train.

  CHAPTER XXXII.

  THE CROWNING VICTORY.

  That night about seven Ethel came into their room with a waste-paperbasket she had bought for him, and found him sitting at the littletoilet table at which he was to "write." The outlook was, for a Londonoutlook, spacious, down a long slope of roofs towards the Junction, ahuge sky of blue passing upward to the darkling zenith and downwardinto a hazy bristling mystery of roofs and chimneys, from whichemerged signal lights and steam puffs, gliding chains of lit windowcarriages and the vague vistas of streets. She showed him the basketand put it beside him, and then her eye caught the yellow document inhis hand. "What is that you have there?"

  He held it out to her. "I found it--lining my yellow box. I had it atWhortley."

  She took it and perceived a chronological scheme. It was headed"SCHEMA," there were memoranda in the margin, and all the dates hadbeen altered by a hasty hand.

  "Hasn't it got yellow?" she said.

  That seemed to him the wrong thing for her to say. He stared at thedocument with a sudden accession of sympathy. There was aninterval. He became aware of her hand upon his shoulder, that she wasbending over him. "Dear," she whispered, with a strange change in thequality of her voice. He knew she was seeking to say something thatwas difficult to say.

  "Yes?" he said presently.

  "You are not grieving?"

  "What about?"

  "_This_."

  "No!"

  "You are not--you are not even sorry?" she said.

  "No--not even sorry."

  "I can't understand that. It's so much--"

  "I'm glad," he proclaimed. "_Glad."_

  "But--the trouble--the expense--everything--and your work?"

  "Yes," he said, "that's just it."

  She looked at him doubtfully. He glanced up at her, and she questionedhis eyes. He put his arm about her, and presently and almostabsent-mindedly she obeyed his pressure and bent down and kissed him.

  "It settles things," he said, holding her. "It joins us. Don't yousee? Before ... But now it's different. It's something we have betweenus. It's something that ... It's the link we needed. It will hold ustogether, cement us together. It will be our life. This will be mywork now. The other ..."

  He faced a truth. "It was just ... vanity!"

  There was still a shade of doubt in her face, a wistfulness.

  Presently she spoke.

  "Dear," she said.

  "Yes?"

  She knitted her brows. "No!" she said. "I can't say it."

  In the interval she came into a sitting position on his knees.

  He kissed her hand, but her face remained grave, and she looked outupon the twilight. "I know I'm stupid," she said. "The things I say... aren't the things I feel."

  He waited for her to say more.

  "It's no good," she said.

  He felt the onus of expression lay on him. He too found it a littledifficult to put into words. "I think I understand," he said, andwrestled with the impalpable. The pause seemed long and yet notaltogether vacant. She lapsed abruptly into the prosaic. She startedfrom him.

  "If I don't go down, Mother will get supper ..."

  At the door she stopped and turned a twilight face to him. For amoment they scrutinised one another. To her he was no more than a dimoutline. Impulsively he held out his arms....

  Then at the sound of a movement downstairs she freed herself andhurried out. He heard her call "Mother! You're not to laysupper. You're to rest."

  He listened to her footsteps until the kitchen had swallowed themup. Then he turned his eyes to the Schema again and for a moment itseemed but a little thing.

  He picked it up in both hands and looked at it as if it was thewriting of another man, and indeed it was the writing of anotherman. "Pamphlets in the Liberal Interest," he read, and smiled.

  Presently a train of thought carried him off. His attitude relaxed alittle, the Schema became for a time a mere symbol, a point ofdeparture, and he stared out of the window at the darkling night. Fora long time he sat pursuing thoughts that were half emotions, emotionsthat took upon themselves the shape and substance of ideas. Thedeepening current stirred at last among the roots of speech.

  "Yes, it was vanity," he said. "A boy's vanity. For me--anyhow. I'mtoo two-sided.... Two-sided?... Commonplace!

  "Dreams like mine--abilities like mine. Yes--any man! And yet ...--Thethings I meant to do!"

  His thoughts went to his Socialism, to his red-hot ambition of worldmending. He marvelled at the vistas he had discovered since thosedays.

  "Not for us--Not for us.

  "We must perish in the wilderness.--Some day. Somewhen. But not forus....

  "Come to think, it is all the Child. The future is the Child. TheFuture. What are we--any of us--but servants or traitors to that?...

  * * * * *

  "Natural Selection--it follows ... this way is happiness ... mustbe. There can be no other."

  He sighed. "To last a lifetime, that is.

  "And yet--it is almost as if Life had played me a trick--promised somuch--given so little!...

  "No! One must not look at it in that way! That will not do! That will_not_ do.

  "Career! In itself it is a career--the most important career in theworld. Father! Why should I want more?

  "And ... Ethel! No wonder she seemed shallow ... She has beenshallow. No wonder she was restless. Unfulfilled ... What had she todo? She was drudge, she was toy ...

  "Yes. This is life. This alone is life! For this we were made andborn. All these other things--all other things--they are only a sortof play....

  "Play!"

  His eyes came back to the Schema. His hands shifted to the oppositecorner and he hesitated. The vision of that arranged Career, thatordered sequence of work and success
es, distinctions and yet furtherdistinctions, rose brightly from the symbol. Then he compressed hislips and tore the yellow sheet in half, tearing very deliberately. Hedoubled the halves and tore again, doubled again very carefully andneatly until the Schema was torn into numberless little pieces. Withit he seemed to be tearing his past self.

  "Play," he whispered after a long silence.

  "It is the end of adolescence," he said; "the end of empty dreams...."

  He became very still, his hands resting on the table, his eyes staringout of the blue oblong of the window. The dwindling light gathereditself together and became a star.

  He found he was still holding the torn fragments. He stretched outhis hand and dropped them into that new waste-paper basket Ethel hadbought for him.

  Two pieces fell outside the basket. He stooped, picked them up, andput them carefully with their fellows.