the weeks passed into august, and humphrey took eagerly all the work that was given to him by rivers. he became a mental ostrich, assimilating all sorts of knowledge. one day, perhaps, he would have to describe a cat show at the crystal palace, the next he might be attending a technical exhibition at the agricultural hall and olympia, and have his head stuffed with facts and figures of this and that industry. he was acquiring knowledge all day long, but it was only superficial; there was no time to go deeply into any subject, and indeed, his one object was to unburden his mind of all the superfluous things he learnt during the day. if reporters were to keep a book of cuttings of everything they wrote—and they know the value of their work sufficiently not to do that—they would be amazed, looking back over ten years (those cuttings would fill several mighty volumes), at the vast range of subjects they touched upon, at the inside knowledge they had of the little—and even big—things of life; of the great men with whom they had come into contact, perhaps for a few minutes, perhaps for a day; of the men they had even helped to make great by the magic of publicity—they would be astounded at the broadness of their lives, at the things they had forgotten long ago, and perhaps they would pity themselves, looking over their cuttings, for the splendid futility of it all.
you remember kipling's poem of "the files," bound volumes of past years; which are repositories of all lost endeavours and dead enthusiasm. heaven help us when we can write and achieve no more, and the only[144] work of our youth and manhood lies buried, forgotten, in the faded yellow sheets of the files.
but humphrey quain at this period, just like every other young man, whether he be a haberdasher or a reporter, did not contemplate the remote future. he was young, and his brain was clear and fresh, and he wrote everything with a pulsing eagerness, as though it were his final appeal to posterity. he found his style improving, as he read, and his understanding broadened. he wrote in the crisp style that suited the day; he had what they call the "human touch"—that was a phrase which ferrol was very fond of using. rivers began to entrust him with better things to do: now and again he was sent out of london on country assignments. that was a delightful business, to escape for a day or so from the office routine, and be more or less independent in some far-away town or village. you were given money for expenses, and told to go to cornwall, where something extraordinary was about to happen, or some one had a grievance, or else there was some one to interview, and you packed a handbag, and went in a cab to paddington, and had lunch on the train, and stopped at the best hotel, and generally tried to pretend that you were holiday making. but, more often than not, the idea of a holiday fell away when you got to the place, and you had to bustle and bother and worry to get what you wanted. then you had to write your message, and that meant generally being late for dinner, or perhaps it was the kind of story that kept you hanging about and made it necessary to telephone news late at night.
but going out of town held a wonderful charm for humphrey—it gave him a sense of responsibility. it made him feel that the office trusted him; somehow or other he felt more important on these country jobs, as if he bore the burden of the day on his own shoulders.
[145]
there was the charm, too, of writing the story in the first person, instead of adopting the impersonal attitude that was the rule with london work; and the charm of fixing the little telegraph pass to the message, which franked it at press rates to the day without pre-payment. sometimes there were other men on the same story, and they forgathered after work, and as all journalists do, talked shop, because they cannot talk of anything without it touches the fringe of their work. the men he met were, for the most part, thoroughly experienced and capable, they were tremendously enthusiastic, though they tried to appear blasé, because it was considered the correct thing among themselves. they never discussed each other's work, nor told of what they had written. even when they met in the morning, though they had all read their colleagues' messages in the papers, and compared them with their own, they kept aloof from all reference to the merits or demerits of these messages. but it used to rejoice humphrey's heart to see, sometimes, how older men who were inclined to patronize him as a beginner and a junior the night before, treated him as one of themselves in the morning at the breakfast-table. and he nearly burst with pride when he first saw his messages headed: "from the day special correspondent." even though he were no further afield than manchester or birmingham, it seemed to place him in the gallant band of great ones just as if he were a steevens, a billy russell, or an archibald forbes.
and all the time he was learning,—learning more swiftly than any one else can learn, in the school of journalism, where every hour brings its short cut to knowledge and worldly wisdom.
the occasional separations from lilian, however, modified a little the charm of going away. these orders to go out of town had a habit of coming at the most[146] undesirable moments, generally upsetting any plans they had made together for spending an enjoyable evening somewhere.
"when we are married," said humphrey, on the eve of a departure for canterbury to describe the visit of a party of priests from france and italy who were making a pilgrimage to the cathedral, "when we are married, you shall come away with me. it's not bad fun, if the job isn't hard."
"i wish you didn't have to go away so often," she pouted.
there was a hint of conflict, but humphrey was too blind to see it. he only wished he had to go away more often, for the measure of his success on the day was in proportion to the frequency of special work they gave to him. "all will be well when we are married," he said, comforting her.
his love-story wove in and out of his daily work. the date of their marriage had not yet been fixed, because ferrol was away somewhere in the south of france, and that business of the extra pound a week on his salary could not, of course, be settled until ferrol came back. it seemed, too, that lilian was in no hurry to be married; she loved these days of his wooing to linger, with their idyllic moments, and rapturous embraces, and the wistfulness of all too insufficient kisses.
for the period of engagement was to them a period of licensed kissing. nor was it always possible to meet beneath the moon. humphrey grew cunningly expert in finding places where they could kiss in broad daylight. there was an italian restaurant in the strand (now pulled down for improvement), which had an upstairs dining-room where nobody but themselves ever seemed to go, and then there was the national gallery, surprisingly empty, where the screens holding the etchings gave[147] them their desired privacy, and on saturday afternoon they went in the upper circles of theatres, sometimes, on purpose not to see the play, but to sit in the deserted lounges during the acting, and enjoy each other's company. their love-affair was tangled by circumstance; scamped and impeded—they made the best of it, and lived many hours of happiness.
and then, one day, when he least expected it, she said: "i suppose you ought to come down and see mother."
humphrey went out to battersea to the home of his betrothed. the circumstances of his visit were not happy. it was raining, and there is no city in the world so miserable as london when it rains. the house was in a rather dreary side-street, a long distance from battersea park, a mere unit in the army of similar houses, that were joined to one another in a straight row, fronted by railings that had once been newly painted, but were now grimed and blackened. these houses appalled one: they were absolutely devoid of any kind of beauty, never could they have been deemed beautiful by their architect. they were as flat-fronted and as hideously symmetrical as a doll's-house; nor, apparently, did the people who dwelt in them take any pains to lessen the hideousness of their exteriors: ghastly curtains were at every window, curtains of mid-victorian ugliness, leaving a cone-shaped vacancy bounded by lace. in the windows of the lower floors one caught a glimpse of a table, with a vase on it, and dried grass in the vase, and behind the glass panes above the front doors there was, in house after house, as humphrey walked down the street, a trumpery piece of crockery or some worthless china statuette, or the blue vase of the front window, with more grass in it, or a worse abomination in the shape of a circular fan of coloured paper.
number twenty-three, to be sure, where lilian lived,[148] was, as far as the outside view was concerned, different from the other houses, in that there were real flowers in the window, instead of dried grass. humphrey felt wet and miserable when he reached it; the rain had dripped through a hole in his umbrella, and had soaked the shoulder of his coat. he went up the steps and pulled the bell. he waited a little while, and happening to glance over the railings into the area, he saw a girl of rather untidy appearance look up at him, and quickly vanish, as if she had been detected in something that she had been forbidden to do. the girl, he noticed, had the same features, on a smaller scale, as lilian: he supposed she was florence. then he heard footsteps in the passage, and through the ground-glass panels of the door he could see a vague form approaching. the next moment all memory of ugliness and squalor and the dismal day departed from him, as lilian, the embodiment of all the beautiful in his life, stood before him, smiling a welcome. how she seemed to change her personality with every fresh environment in which they met! she was the same lilian, yet vaguely a different one here, with her brown hair done just as charmingly yet not in the same way as she did it when they went to theatres in the evening. she wore a white muslin blouse, without a collar, and round her neck was a thin gold chain necklace which he had given her. though he did not realize it at the time, his joy in her was purely physical; the mere sight of her bared neck and throat and the warm softness of her body was sufficient to make him believe that he loved her as he could never love anybody else; he sought no further than the surface; she was pretty, and she was agreeable to be his wife. he did not stop to think of anything else.
"so it's really you!" she said, with a laugh.
as though she had not been expecting him!
he murmured something about the weather as he[149] shook his dripping umbrella. she could invest commonplaces, courtesy phrases, with reality. her eyes were tender as she said, "you poor thing." it was really fine to have some one so interested in your welfare that her eyes could show pity over a few rain-spots.
"you must come in and dry yourself over the fire. we had a fire because it is so wet."
she closed the door. he took off his coat and hat, and suddenly he caught her silently to him (her eyes spoke of caution, and looked towards the door, leading from the passage), and they kissed hurriedly and passionately. she disengaged herself, and began to talk about trivialities in a high tone. "i have not told any one yet," she whispered. "it is still a secret—so you needn't be afraid of mother." she led the way into the room. somebody was sitting on the sofa, against the light.
"mother," said lilian, "this is mr quain."
"oh," said mrs filmer, rising and coming forward to shake hands with him, "how do you do?"
humphrey sat down in a gloomy, black horsehair chair by mrs filmer, who returned to a sofa that belonged to the same family. they began to talk. it was plain that lilian's mother had been coached by her. she seemed to pay him a deference altogether disproportionate to the occasion, if he were to be considered as a mere casual visitor, a friend of lilian. she was a faded woman of fifty years or so, the personification of the room itself, for everything within those four walls was irrevocably lost and faded—the photographs in their ugly frames were yellow and old-fashioned; the pictures on the walls, chiefly engravings of thirty years ago, in bevelled frames of walnut wood, were spotted with damp; the furniture was absolutely without taste, a mixture of horsehair and mahogany, and the piano had one of those frilled red satin fronts behind a fretted framework. there was a[150] blue plush portière, with a fringe of pom-poms down one side of it, hanging from a brass rod over the door.
it was difficult for him to believe that she was lilian's mother: that she had actually brought into the world that beautiful, supple being whom he loved. had she ever been like lilian? he could trace no resemblance to her in this little thin woman who sat before him, her hands, with the skin of them warped and crinkled, crossed in her lap, her hair sparse and faded, with threads of brown showing among the grey, and the fringe of another tint altogether. she did not even talk as lilian did: she was too careful of aspirates. he saw that she was altogether inferior to lilian. she talked of nothing—nothing at all. and all the time she was talking, and he was answering her, he was aware, dimly, of lilian's presence, somewhere in the background; he was conscious of her watching him, studying him.
the weather was terrible for the time of the year.
they wanted to move out of this house; it was too large for them.
it was so nice for lilian to have such a comfortable office to work in.
but it was a long way to come home, when the weather was bad.
the weather was very bad to-day.
the summer, one supposed, was breaking up.
after all, it was not so very out of season.
mr quain must find his work very interesting.
and so on.
tea was brought in by a girl who was lilian on a smaller scale. "edith, this is mr quain," said lilian; and to humphrey, "this is my sister edith." she put the tray down, and shook hands limply. he noticed that she had precisely the same coloured eyes as lilian's, but they were weaker, and she did not carry herself well. she seemed but a pale shadow of the splendid reality[151] of lilian. then florence, the other sister, came into the room; she was the young girl whom humphrey had seen over the railings as he stood on the doorstep. she was undeveloped, but her face and figure bore great promise of a beautiful womanhood. her hair was of a reddish colour, and hung in a long plait down her back. her face was quite unlike lilian's: he judged that she resembled her father.
"you look dreadful, child," said lilian, with a laugh. "go and wash your face, little pig."
florence made a grimace, and tossed her pigtail. "it's freckles," she said, hopelessly. "i've been scrubbing away for ten minutes." she looked at humphrey appealingly, with a smile in her eyes—they all had that smile he knew so well.
"i think you're too hard on your sister, miss filmer," he said to lilian, with mock gravity. (how odd the miss filmer sounded.) "she looks radiant. i noticed it was freckles at once." florence went to lilian and put her arm round her waist. they were evidently very sisterly. edith was busy pouring out tea ("one lump or two, mr quain"); mrs filmer sat with her hands crossed in her lap looking out of the window into the garden beyond. humphrey took a cup of tea across to her; she was too effusive in her thanks; begged him to sit down, and urged florence to look after mr quain. just then the front door clicked. "there's harry," said edith, putting down the teapot, and running to the door. a short, well-built young man appeared. his hair was the reddish colour of florence's hair, and his face was frank and boyish. he was about nineteen years old, just the age of discrimination in ties and socks, and the flaunting of well-filled cigarette cases. he and edith were apparently the greatest friends, doubtless because there was only two years' interval in their ages. nevertheless, he pulled florence's pigtail affectionately[152] and gave her a brotherly kiss; pecked lilian on the cheek ("what a horrid collar you're wearing, harry," she said, "and you simply reek of tobacco"), and kissed his mother on her forehead. then lilian introduced him to humphrey quain, and they shook hands and regarded each other furtively, with a constrained silence.
humphrey felt that the whole family must know of the relations between lilian and himself, though not one of them spoke about it. but they all treated him with a certain deference, and gave him a status in the house, which invested him with a superiority that seemed to match lilian's. for there was no doubt of her superiority in this household, now that they were all gathered together. she seemed so stalwart and broad beside them; a creature apart from them all. she did not appear to belong to them, and yet she was, indisputably, of them. they were so commonplace, and she was so rare—at least, that was what humphrey thought. he watched her as she moved about the room bearing plates and cups, noiselessly, gracefully; she gave him a new impression of domesticity as she wandered about in her own home without the hat that he was accustomed to see her wearing. and she gave him, furthermore, an appearance of strength and character, as though she had acquired the right to rule in this household by the might of her own toil which chiefly supported it. while she was in the room, it lost some of its faded quality, and when she left it to take a cup of tea and a piece of cake to mabel, the third sister, who was an invalid lying, he understood, on a couch upstairs, the room became desolate, and the most insistent person was the faded mother with her querulous voice.
they made him look at picture-postcard albums and photographs, and some of florence's drawings, while lilian was absent. florence wanted to be a fashion artist, and though her drawings were incredibly bad and[153] scratchy, he felt it was necessary for him to say that they showed promise.... how had lilian grown to be lilian in these surroundings, he wondered—surroundings of such frank ugliness and shabby gentility?
he glanced out of the window which gave a view of a narrow oblong garden at the back, where a few stunted wallflowers struggled to live. a patch of unkempt grass ran between the high walls, and there a broken wicker-work chair faced the windows. as he looked out he saw a man stumbling over the grass towards the side door: he caught a glimpse of the soiled and frayed clothes, and feet clothed in down-at-the-heel slippers, of a grey face with shrunken cheeks, and pale blue eyes that peered weakly from beneath grey wiry eyebrows. the man came across his vision like a spectre, trailing his slippered feet one after another, and swaying a little as he walked. he was fascinated by the sight, and suddenly his attention was distracted by lilian. she had come back to the room, and was standing at his side. her eyes had followed his, and she knew what he had seen. "will you have some more tea?" she said, abruptly, touching him on the shoulder. he turned away hastily: his eyes met hers; they held a challenge in them, as though she were daring him to speak of the man in the garden. it was as if he had probed into a carefully hidden secret.
he knew, without being told, that this aimless, shambling man with the slippered feet was the father. he was given in a moment the explanation of this room; the mother; the invalid child; and the air of subdued failure that brooded over the house. he saw lilian as a regenerating, purifying influence, trying to lift them out of the slough. their eyes met, and though no word was passed between them, he understood everything.
he wished that he had not come to this house. this family depressed him, and made him feel afraid of life.[154] it was an odd thought that haunted him: they would be his relations when he married lilian.
but when, after the leave-takings, she came to the door to help him on with his coat and let him out, he realized that she was unchanged, that she was still splendid for him, and as desirable as she had always been. he felt something of a hero, because he was going to rescue her from this dreadful home of hers....
the memory of the father dogged his thoughts as he came away. he wished he had not gone to the house.