But a little later, seeing that he had only seven minutes in which to reach ‘The Midnight Bell,’ he put down his cup and rose.
‘Go on,’ said Sammy. ‘Let the boy go. You go on down with him.’
Jenny rose, grumbling; put on her hat, powdered her nose, brushed her clothes, and put on her coat. He shook hands with Sammy and Prunella, who expressed a courteous, but obviously insincere desire that he would call again. He left the room with Jenny, shutting the door.
In the absolute darkness of the passage outside, he took the hand of his love, the thief, who guided him warily downstairs.
CHAPTER XLVI
THERE WAS NO light on any of the floors. The old woman was still groaning though the harmonica had ceased.
Another child was being put to death, but in a slightly more merciful way. In the hall a dim light burned. At the door, with her hand on the latch, she put up her mouth, in a liberal and indolent way, to be kissed. . . .
They were out in the raw night air, walking towards Euston Road. She slipped her arm, as though seeking protection from the cold, into his.
‘Oh, Jenny,’ he said. . . .
‘M’m?’ she murmured, with a kind of tender and questioning friendliness, and snuggled up closer.
He perceived that at this very moment – the moment when her bland admissions had appalled him most – when she had confessed herself a pure criminal and he was half terrified by mere proximity to her – at this precise moment he was in good favour with her – in better favour than he had ever been. She was quiet, pliable, responsive. She loved him.
‘Oh, Jenny,’ he said. ‘Don’t tell me you’re a thief!’
‘Don’t be so silly, Bob,’ she said, and drew nearer still to him. Nothing, plainly, could disturb the new softness of her mood.
‘But it ain’t silly! It means everything! How can I go on with you, if you’re a thief?’
‘Don’t be so silly, Bob. I’m not a thief.’
‘But you said you took money!’
‘Well – that ain’t being a thief. Besides, I ain’t done it often.’
‘Haven’t you? How often?’
She paused.
‘I don’t remember any time,’ she said. ‘Besides that.’
He clutched at the straw.
‘Is that true?’
She was clearly out to please him, and his eagerness had been too manifest.
‘Yes. Honest. That’s the only time I’ve ever done it.’
He saw that she was clearly out to please him, and that his eagerness had been too manifest. He saw, therefore, that her reassurance meant nothing.
‘But, Jenny, I can’t believe you. You tell me such lies.’
‘Very well, then,’ she said, beginning to sulk, ‘I tell you lies.’
Her telling him like that (he reflected) that she told him lies did not mitigate or conceal, for an instant, the simple fact that she told him lies.
‘But you do, Jenny!’
‘Very well, then. I do. I’m just a cheat and liar.’
Her telling him that she was a cheat and liar did not mitigate or conceal, for a single instant, the fact that she was a cheat and liar.
‘But you know how you fool me, Jenny!’
‘Very well, I do. I ain’t no good to you.’
How could he explain to her that she wasn’t! – that by self-impeachment she was not acquitted! He gave in.
‘Jenny. Will you promise me that you’ll never steal again.’
‘Yes. I promise. I only done it once, an’ I’ll never do it again. There.’
He felt a little better. He had gained something, however insecure, to which he might cling – or (knowing his own genius at it) at least something with which he might later trick himself into his usual fool’s paradise. . . .
‘Besides,’ she added, nestling even closer, ‘when you and I are married I’ll never do anything like that.’
Married to her? In his late ordeal he had lost not only all hope, but all thought, of that far and improbable consummation, and now she herself reminded him of it. Instantly, the thought of ultimately possessing her, of having this warm, living, elusive organism for his own, worked its old magic and he was begging.
‘Oh, Jenny – will you marry me?’
‘’Course I will, dear. I love you.’
‘Do you?’
‘’Course I love you. Shouldn’t be here if I didn’t – would I?’
He was sick to death of this testimony – she never had any other. To this moment he had not the remotest conception whether she loved him or not.
He tried to call her bluff.
‘Well – will you get a job?’
There was a pause.
‘Yes. I’ll get a job.’
If only she would say she wouldn’t! – Anything but this fatuous equability.
By this time they were nearing ‘The Midnight Bell’ and he led her down a side street. He had only three minutes more.
‘What happened about that other job?’
‘Nothing. I didn’t go. I haven’t got a dress.’
‘Well, look here, Jenny, I’ve got ten pounds in my pocket. I promised you five for the dress yesterday evening: if you can land that job I’ll give you the ten. Do you think it’s too late?’
‘No. I don’t expect it’s too late.’
‘Well, will you go down there to-night?’
‘Yes. But if you give me that ten, I’ll pay it all back – when I get it back from my friend.’
She had already presumed she was going to get the ten. ‘It’s not the money that matters – it’s the job. Will you go down there to-night?’
‘Yes. But I’m goin’ to pay that money back.’
He wanted to tell her that she hadn’t got it yet. At any rate he was damned if he would give it her before she had promised. He stopped in the street.
‘Will you go for that job to-night?’
‘Yes. All right. I’ll do somethin’.’
What did she think she meant by that?
‘Will you go round there now?’
‘Well. I can’t go round without a dress.’
‘Oh, Jenny. Don’t stand there like that. I got to go. I’m late already. Will you ’phone them?’
‘Yes. I’ll ’phone them.’
She would drive him fighting mad.
‘Do you know their number?’
‘No. But my friend does.’
‘Well, can you find your friend?’
‘Yes. I can find her easy.’
‘Jenny. I’ve got to go. When will I see you next?’
‘Any time you like, dear.’
‘I got to go. Here’s the money.’ It was too late to argue and he handed it to her. ‘Let me see you to-morrow. Three thirty. Down in the Haymarket. Same place. See your friend, ’phone about the job, meet me to-morrow, three thirty same place, and tell me what happened. Can you do all that – for ten pounds?’
He was instantly sorry for this last irony, for she at once began to sulk, and there was positively no time for sulking.
‘I’m not doin’ it for the ten pounds,’ she said. ‘And you can have your old money, if you want it.’
‘I’m sorry, Jenny. Forgive me. I didn’t mean it. I got to go. Will you do all that?’
‘Not if you speak like that.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, Jenny! I got to go! Will you do all that?’
‘Yes. I’ll do all that. I’ll see you to-morrow three thirty.’
‘Promise?’
‘Yes. Solemn.’
With which should he reinforce the oath – her Mother’s Grave or her Liberty? After her recent disclosures he rather favoured her Liberty.
‘On your Liberty?’
‘Yes. On my Liberty.’
‘Good-bye, dearest. I do love you so.’
‘Good-bye, darling.’
They embraced.
CHAPTER XLVII
IT IS ASTONISHING with what abruptness the entire quality and atmosphere of life can
be rendered unfamiliar, and never was the transition so sudden as at ‘The Midnight Bell’ the next morning. It went to bed in all innocence on Friday, and awoke on Saturday to a new world and the fact that Christmas was upon it. Not Christmas Day, of course (that was not until next Tuesday) but Christmas in general.
At midnight on Friday, unknown to all, the Governor and his wife had decorated the bar, and the result in the morning was spectacular! Everybody had known for weeks, of course, that the thing was coming, but it was none the less a surprise when it came. Even Bob’s spirits responded to the little diversion, wondering what he could give Jenny for a present; and Ella, of course, was perter, and neater, and happier than ever.
Mr. Sounder, however, was a little heavy about His Majesty’s illness. For by now ‘the poor old king’ (as Ella, with a compassion sincere but slightly disrespectful, invariably called him) had been in danger for over three weeks, and Mr. Sounder said that our Festive Season could be Hardly Joyous with that Looming over us.
The other opinions and reactions were varied. Ella asked for news from every customer, and maintained firmly that he would pull through: Bob (selfish as ever) said nothing but secretly wondered whether he (Bob) would be more successful as an Edwardian than as a Georgian, and hoped so. The Governor had got it into his head that the Prince of Wales would Never Come to the Throne, but that the Duke of York would be Elected instead (a fantastic and unconstitutional theory from which he would not budge an inch, but which was listened to with forced respect because the Governor was the Governor): the Governor’s Wife said that if Anybody had done their Job he had. The Illegal Operation said that it was all a damn lot of humbug (but what precisely he meant by that nobody knew, and he was drunk when he said it anyway): and Mr. Wall had just one thing to say on the matter, and one only, and one continuously: – it was only Science what was Keeping Him Alive.
This Saturday morning Mr. Sounder was even heavier than usual. He spoke across the bar to the Governor.
‘According to Inside Information,’ he said, ‘he’s never going to get well. . . .’
‘Yes,’ said the Governor, and looked reflective as he puffed at his pipe. . . .
This, of course, was the incorrect reply. The correct reply was ‘Ah-ha! So you have inside information? You are in the know. Come along. Tell us all about it.’ Instead of which, the tactless Governor puffed at his pipe and merely replied ‘Yes. . . .’
‘That’s according to Inside Information,’ said Mr. Sounder, trying again. . . .
To which the Governor, once more, replied ‘Yes. . . .’
The afternoon was dark and foggy. He was at the appointed place at the appointed time, and five minutes later she came strolling along. This was the second appointment she had not broken, and, seeing her smiling on him again, he could almost believe that she was beginning to take this affair in earnest.
‘Where shall we go?’ he said, in the noise of the Haymarket traffic.
She explained that she wished to meet a girl friend in Soho and that they could have tea in a little place she knew. . . . Having no idea of what kind of place this was, and being naturally interested in her backgrounds, he consented. She took his arm, and they walked along in silence.
‘I’m afraid I ain’t got that job,’ she said. . . .
He had expected nothing else, and found himself grateful, even, that she had regarded the matter so seriously as to bring it up for discussion so early.
‘I didn’t think you would.’
‘I’m ever so sorry,’ she said.
‘Yes. It is a nuisance. Not your fault, though.’
‘I ’phoned them up, just as you said, an’ they said it had gone.’
They were walking up Wardour Street.
‘I’ll have to give you back that ten pounds,’ she said, ‘now.’
‘Ohno. No need for that.’
‘Ohyes there is.’
‘No, there ain’t. Perhaps you’ll get another job soon.’
‘Well, I’ll try. I’d do anything for you, Bob. You know that – don’t you?’
What was this? She had never volunteered anything quite like that before. Was it possible that, after all his great travail, his reward was coming? Could it be that he had won through, that he had earned, by persistence, her love? It almost looked like it. Twice running she had kept her appointments. Twice running she had relented thus.
‘I wonder,’ he said.
‘Well, I would, so there,’ she said. ‘And you know I love you – don’t you? – you know I love you now. . . .’
Now! The word was charged with breathless potentialities. It endorsed his new hypothesis: it at last gave realism to her declarations! Never before (and he had known it only too well) – but now, perhaps!
‘Only now?’ he said.
‘P’raps so,’ she said. ‘Can’t you see it?’
‘Oh, darling,’ he said, foolishly, and felt for her hand. Immediately it was intertwined with his own. ‘Silly old Bob,’ she said, and he bathed in a roseate and all-surrounding happiness. He forgot all else, and for the moment there was no alloy. He recognized the scene: he had seen it on the stage, read of it in books – the wearied lover at last rewarded, the wayward girl at last succumbing.
‘Oh, darling!’ he said, again, and pressed her hand. ‘It’s you that’s the darling,’ she said. ‘And I’ll darling you all right when we go away.’
‘Are we going away?’
‘Well, you said we were. You said we was going after Christmas.’
‘Oh, Jenny – we can! If you’ll come! An’ do you realize it’s only next Wednesday, Boxing Day. I’ve got a week from then.’
‘That’s right. An’ where’re you going to take me?’
‘Well – anything wrong with Brighton?’
‘Oo! – I’m not so sure about Brighton.’
‘Why not, Jenny?’
‘Too many girls at Brighton. I don’t think I’d have my Bob safe enough.’
‘Oh, Jenny. I’m safe anywhere with you.’
‘If any girl comes along,’ said Jenny, solemnly, ‘an’ tries to steal my Bob, I’d tear her eyes out.’
‘Oh, Jenny. They couldn’t.’
‘Well,’ said Jenny, ‘they’d better not try.’
This was growing absurd. To think, that in one brief walk, from the Haymarket to Soho, he could be lifted from an inferno into heaven! He had not a care in the world! She loved him at last! This was the final climax of all.
‘You haven’t reckoned with me,’ said Jenny, exceeding excess in her bestowal of bliss. ‘I’ve got a very jealous nature.’
‘Oh, Jenny. I’m willing to take it on.’
‘An’ you don’t know what you’re takin’ on, Bob, I can tell you. I hope you won’t regret it.’
It had come to that. She was dubious of the future. All the barriers were down. They were as good as wedded. They were reckoning with their temperaments.
‘Oh, Jenny – tell me you love me.’
‘I love you a whole lot too much, that’s what’s the matter with me. And you’ll know it, all right.’
So had the tables turned, that he became almost afraid. Perhaps, one day, this dreadful flower of the underworld actually would tear other girls’ eyes out. Perhaps he would be unable to cope with her violence. He remembered Prunella and Sammy. To what was he committing himself?
These vague misgivings were not decreased as she stopped outside a little curtained window (inscribed ‘Coffee Bar’) in Soho – told him that this was them, and led him through a door to what he immediately recognized as something perfectly typical of her own haunts – to wit, a thieves’ den, and full of thieves.
CHAPTER XLVIII
A NARROW, LONG, DREARY, bareboarded, and resounding little den, with marble-topped tables each side, and one gas mantle at the back, lit against the fog and darkness of the afternoon. On Jenny’s entrance there was a kind of ironic cheer of welcome.
‘Seen Petal?’ she asked, but was answered with guffaws
. Of Bob, an interloper, no kind of notice was taken.
At the back, under the light, was a bar, and on it two silver urns, steaming with coffee and tea – also cheese cakes, sandwiches, and a bowl of sugar.
Little could be seen of the bar, however, it being temporarily under the dominance of that noisiest of the criminal elements – a gang of lusty young Jews, who boasted, laughed, postured, Charlestoned, and scrapped humorously amongst themselves in their habitual high-spirited manner. Wearing breathlessly tight suits, silken (but far from spotless) shirts, and soft collars (with perpendicular stripes) to match, they were juvenile and as yet more or less amateur – the type that aspires to Cars, but is making do at present with fur coats, brooches, scarves, watches, and is not above an occasional umbrella. All this was done, however, rather in the ebullience of youth than in any studied and intentioned felony: they were young brigands rather than crooks, and would probably end, not in jail, but business.
The rest were seated at the tables. There was a painted young woman of about fifty-two, with a figure about three times the size of that of the ordinary woman, and such as only the impecunious taxi driver could love: there were one or two young things as slim and fresh as Jenny, though more Glaring (as she would say): and the men varied accordingly, and were of all classes. There were paper sellers, unemployed mechanics, pickpockets, Jews, a gentleman resembling a bruiser, and two or three nondescript down-and-outs. In the corner was a clean-shaven, neatly dressed little man in a bowler hat, described later by Jenny as a Confidence Man, and now talking (confidentially) to a sly youth of about thirty who looked as though he lived upon the immoral earnings of women, and did.
‘Petal,’ for whom Jenny had asked, was not there, but there was a table vacant, and Jenny asked Bob if he minded staying, as she wanted to see her bad about a dress. He went to the bar, and brought her tea. They could hardly hear each other in all the noise but she endeavoured to entertain him.
‘This place is called “Billy’s,”’ she said. ‘I often come in here.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. Rather a Rough Crowd, I’m afraid. But that’s the sort of life I lead.’