The Literary Sense

"Oh – I dunno – I thought a lady's maid, as likely as not, or maybe in the dressmaking. You aren't a common sort – anyone can see that."

Again pique and pleasure fought in her.

She never so much as thought of telling him that she was married. She saw no reason for it. It was her rôle to enter into his life, not to dazzle him with visions of hers.

At last that happened which was bound to happen. And it happened under the shadow of a great rock, in a cleft, green-grown and sheltered, where the road runs beside the noisy, stony, rapid, unnavigable river.

He had drawn the cart up on the grass, and she had got down and was sitting on a stone eating sandwiches, for her nurse had persuaded her to take her lunch with her so as to spend every possible hour on these life-giving moors. He had eaten bread and cheese standing by the horse's head. It was a holiday. He was not selling fish and vegetables. He was in his best, and she had never liked him so little. As she finished her last dainty bite he threw away the crusts and rinds of his meal and came over to her.

"Well," he said, with an abrupt tenderness that at once thrilled and revolted her, "don't you think it's time as we settled something betwixt us?"

"I don't know what you mean," she said. But, quite suddenly and terribly, she did.

"Why," he said, "I know well enough you're miles too good for a chap like me – but if you don't think so, that's all right. And I tell you straight, you're the only girl I ever so much as fancied."

"Oh," she breathed, "do you mean – "

"You know well enough what I mean, my pretty," he said; "but if you want it said out like in books, I've got it all on my tongue. I love every inch of you, and your clever ways, and your pretty talk. I haven't touched a drop these eight months – I shall get on right enough with you to help me – and we'll be so happy as never was. There ain't ne'er a man in England'll set more store by his wife nor I will by you, nor be prouder on her. You shan't do no hard work – I promise you that. Only just drive out with me and turn the customers round your finger. I don't ask no questions about you nor your folks. I know you're an honest girl, and I'd trust you with my head. Come, give me a kiss, love, and call it a bargain."

She had stood up while he was speaking, but she literally could not find words to stop the flow of his speech. Now she shrank back and said, "No – no!"

"Don't you be so shy, my dear," he said. "Come – just one! And then I'll take you home and interduce you to my sister. You'll like her. I've told her all about you."

Waves of unthinkable horror seemed to be closing over her head. She struck out bravely, and it seemed as though she were swimming for her life.

"No," she cried, "it's impossible! You don't understand! You don't know!"

"I know you've been keeping company with me these ten days," he said, and his voice had changed. "What did you do it for if you didn't mean nothing by it?"

"I didn't know," she said wretchedly. "I thought you liked being friends."

"If it's what you call 'friends,' being all day long with a chap, I don't so call it," he said. "But come – you're playing skittish now, ain't you? Don't tease a chap like this. Can't you see I love you too much to stand it? I know it sounds silly to say it – but I love you before all the world – I do – my word I do!"

He held out his arms.

"I see – I see you do," she cried, all her tact washed away by this mighty sea that had suddenly swept over her. "But I can't. I'm – I'm en – I'm promised to another young man."

"I wonder what he'll say to this," he said slowly.

"I'm so – so sorry," she said; "I'd no idea – "

"I see," he said, "you was just passing the time with me – and you never wanted me at all. And I thought you did. Get in, miss. I'll take you back to the town. I've just about had enough holiday for one day."

"I am so sorry," she kept saying. But he never answered.

"Do forgive me!" she said at last. "Indeed, I didn't mean – "

"Didn't mean," said he, lashing up the brown horse; "no – and it don't matter to you if I think about you and want you every day and every night so long as I live. It ain't nothing to you. You've had your fun. And you've got your sweetheart. God, I wish him joy of you!"

"Ah – don't," she said, and her soft voice even here, even now, did not miss its effect. "I do like you very, very much – and – "

She had never failed. She did not fail now. Before they reached the town he had formally forgiven her.

"I don't suppose you meant no harm," he said grudgingly; "though coming from Kent you ought to know how it is about walking out with a chap. But you say you didn't, and I'll believe you. But I shan't get over this, this many a long day, so don't you make no mistake. Why, I ain't thought o' nothing else but you ever since I first set eyes on you. There – don't you cry no more. I can't abear to see you cry."

He was blinking himself.

Outside the town he stopped.

"Good-bye," he said. "I haven't got nothing agin you – but I wish to Lord above I'd never seen you. I shan't never fancy no one else after you."

"Don't be unhappy," she said. And then she ought to have said good-bye. But the devil we call the force of habit would not let her leave well alone.

"I want to give you something," she said; "a keepsake, to show I shall always be your friend. Will you call at the house where I'm staying this evening at eight? I'll have it ready for you. Don't think too unkindly of me! Will you come?"

He asked the address, and said "Yes." He wanted to see her – just once again, and he would certainly like the keepsake.

She went home and looked out a beautiful book of Kentish photographs. It was a wedding present, and she had brought it with her to solace her in her exile by pictures of the home-land. Her unconscious thought was something like this: "Poor fellow; poor, poor fellow! But he behaved like a gentleman about it. I suppose there is something in the influence of a sympathetic woman – I am glad I was a good influence."

She bathed her burning face, cooled it with soft powder, and slipped into a tea-gown. It was a trousseau one of rich, heavy, yellow silk and old lace and fur. She chose it because it was warm, and she was shivering with agitation and misery. Then she went and sat with the old nurse, and a few minutes before eight she ran out and stood by the front door so as to open it before he should knock. She achieved this.

"Come in," she said, and led him into the lodging-house parlour and closed the door.

"It was good of you to come," she said, taking the big, beautiful book from the table. "This is what I want you to take, just to remind you that we're friends."

She had forgotten the tea-gown. She was not conscious that the accustomed suavity of line, the soft richness of texture influenced voice, gait, smile, gesture. But they did. Her face was flushed after her tears, and the powder, which she had forgotten to dust off, added the last touch to her beauty.

He took the book, but he never even glanced at the silver and tortoise-shell of its inlaid cover. He was looking at her, and his eyes were covetous and angry.

"Are you an actress, or what?"

"No," she said, shrinking. "Why?"

"What the hell are you, then?" he snarled furiously.

"I'm – I'm – a – "

The old nurse, scared by the voice raised beyond discretion, had dragged herself to the door of division between her room and the parlour, and now stood clinging to the door handle.

"She's a lady, young man," said the nurse severely; "and her aunt's a lady of title, and don't you forget it!"

"Forget it," he cried, with a laugh that Jack's wife remembers still; "she's a lady, and she's fooled me this way? I won't forget it, nor she shan't neither! By God, I'll give her something to forget!"

With that he caught the silken tea-gown and Jack's trembling wife in his arms and kissed her more than once. They were horrible kisses, and the man smelt of onions and hair-oil.

"And I loved her – curse her!" he cried, flinging her away, so that she fell against the arm of the chair by the fire.

He went out, slamming both doors. She had softened and bewitched him to the forgiving of the outrage that her indifference was to his love. The outrage of her station's condescension to his was unforgivable.