He answered courteously, but secretly wondered whether any crowd, outside a jail, could be rougher. It had already cast the old gloom over his soul, and the old, old question beset him. Would this ever end? It seemed as though she were some alluring and irresistible pilot, leading him on and downwards (for his sins and weakness) through every circle of hell – to atmospheres which formed her own sorrowful lot, but in which he could hardly breathe.
Why had he pitted himself against all the accepted facts? Any fledgeling could have told him from the first what he was now learning with such cost and pain – that women of the streets were of and for the streets, and that love of such was inconceivable – unnegotiable – mere despair and degradation. She had even told him so herself when he first knew her. And yet, like a child of eighteen, he had thought that in his own case it would be different.
But had he not been justified? She had promised to be his, and his alone. But what did that mean? The briefest analysis revealed the unreality of it all. When was she going to be his – and how? What intentions, prospects, had either of them? It was a foggy afternoon, and in an hour he would have to return to work. . . . She sat there so calmly. . . . What on earth were they both doing in this place?
The same old thoughts – on and on – round and round.
‘Oh, Jenny,’ he said, suddenly. ‘Can’t we get out of here? I hate it.’
‘What – don’t you like it?’
‘No. Jenny. I don’t.’
‘All right, then. We’ll go. Come along.’
And, to his infinite astonishment, she rose.
CHAPTER XLIX
‘I WANTED TO DO some shopping in any case,’ she said, and again took his arm. They walked on in the direction of Berwick Street.
‘I want to get you away from all that sort of thing, Jenny,’ he said. ‘I want to take you right away.’
‘I know, dear. An’ you’re goin’ to – aren’t you?’
‘Yes. An’ we’re goin’ away next week, aren’t we?’
‘That’s right, dear.’
‘Just for one week. An’ I’m goin’ to make you real happy. You see if I don’t.’
‘Are you?’
‘Yes. Just to show what it might be. I don’t mind how much money I spend – so long as you’re happy. An’ after that you’ll come back, an’ get a job, an’ everything’ll be different.’
‘I won’t let you spend too much money,’ said Jenny.
‘I will, though. This holiday means everything. We’ll be all alone, an’ together, an’ we can talk it all out. We don’t know each other yet, Jenny. But we will when we’ve done.’
‘I know quite enough about my Bob already.’
‘Darling. . . .’ His own words had expanded him. This holiday idea was tremendous. It was near and real – credible. It offered a week’s calm – haven from the rough storms of his passion. But it was more than that – it might very well be the salvation of the situation. He would be with her constantly, and they could survey themselves, talk it out.
And there was more than that, too. Jenny herself – his own sweet drug, his lovely and tantalizing poison – transcended every other consideration. For a week she would be his – his own. He could barely think about it.
‘Oh, Jenny, dear.’
‘Yes, dear?’
‘I don’t know what’ll happen when I get you to myself.’
‘Don’t you?’
And she drew up closer to him, with sweet promise of herself.
They had reached Berwick Street. In love there are few things more tender, pleasant, and intimate than to go shopping with the one you love. ‘I ain’t half got a lot of things to get,’ said Jenny (who had a list), and the words thrilled him. To be thus taken behind the scenes, to follow her round in shop after shop, to be made to carry her flippant purchases (for nothing that so pretty a woman could buy could be anything but flippant); to have revealed, in so confidential a way, all her unimagined and yet so ordinary requirements – it was all exhilarating beyond measure. It was an excursion into a new side of her personality.
And, indeed, this was a new Jenny. She was methodical but civil, economic but affable, precise in manner but radiant in beauty. There was Cocoa, Apples, Oranges, Stamps, to Call for Prunella’s Jumper, and Notepaper. Nobody could play any tricks on her, but nobody could desire to. She knew what she wanted, and in what order she wanted it, but looked for a long while in windows, and deferred to Bob on knotty points. And all the shopkeepers saw how lovely she was, but she was his. By the time she was done, Bob was laden with parcels (the very chains and weights of pure domesticity) and with a clearer and more healthful soul than he had had for months.
By this time, also, he had only twenty minutes more, but they were going to walk together up to ‘The Midnight Bell.’ She took his arm, carried some of the parcels, displayed every conceivable charm, and suddenly told him that Christmas Eve was her birthday.
‘What – Christmas Eve?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, Jenny. I’ll have to get you something great for that.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘You’re not to get me anything. You’ve got to save your money now.’
‘I’ll get you something, all the same.’
‘No you won’t. Listen to me – if you go and get me something I’ll throw it away. There.’
‘You won’t.’
‘Yes. I will.’
‘No you won’t.’
‘Yes I will.’
‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Bob. ‘They’re giving me Christmas Eve off. I’ll take you out for a birthday party, shall I? We’ll go somewhere real nice.’
‘Oo – where’ll you take me, Bob?’
‘Never mind,’ said Bob. ‘It’ll be a real surprise. An’ then we’ll go on an’ dance. What about that?’
‘Fine. Only you’re not to spend too much money.’
And walking along Bob honestly believed that the dawn had come.
CHAPTER L
AT SIX THIRTY, ON Christmas Eve, Bob dressed in his little room.
Christmas Eve – the anniversary of an apparently meaningless, wicked, and obscure event – Jenny’s birth in the world!
But only so apparently, for love, which achieves all things, had mended her ills. In his love for her, and her love for him (thought Bob) she was redeemed. She had been born, not to sin and death, but to light and console, with the brightness of her beauty, and the gentleness of her being, the existence of another. He redeemed her, and she redeemed him: and she was his own dear Jenny.
He had only this afternoon been down to the bank and cashed a cheque for twenty-five pounds. A hideous amount, he knew – but he did not regret a penny of the expenditure. For a week life was to be his, and there were going to be no mistakes. He rejoiced in his expenditure.
The future was filled with roses. After infinite obstacles and despairs he had gained what he wanted – the woman he loved. And what more might any man gain? He saw that, after all, his life was to be crowned with success. Now he could look back and applaud his courage and persistency – qualities which others would not have shown, and, in not showing, lost the highest reward of life.
He was, in brief, something better than his fellow men. To that conviction Bob inevitably returned.
He was meeting her at seven in the Haymarket. On his way out he had to pass through the bar, which contained a few customers and Ella. . . .
‘My word!’ said Ella as he passed. . . .
She was alluding, in the spirit of satire, to his apparel, his exquisiteness, his demeanour. She had seen the blue suit before, but (perceiving all things), she perceived, in the brief moment of his passing, that there was something over and above the blue suit. She perceived that he was making a night of it, that he glowed with the fires of health and hope. And knowing how foolish it was to glow about anything on this vile and disappointing planet (and not having anything to glow about herself), she could not resist taking him down a peg or two. And so she said, in the spirit of sat
ire – ‘My word!’
CHAPTER LI
ANY LINGERING DOUBTS as to the perfection and reality of her love for him were serenely dispelled as he came along to the Haymarket, five minutes before the time, and saw her waiting for him.
‘I’m not late, am I?’ he asked, eagerly.
‘No, you’re not late. . . .’ She smiled up at him, and they walked along.
‘Well,’ said Bob. ‘Many happy returns of the day, Jenny.’
She smiled again, but her reply produced the faintest of faint chills.
‘Don’t want so many – myself,’ she said. . . . In the disillusionment it bespoke it was not quite the remark he could have desired from one who, having found love, should properly require nothing save immortality on earth with her lover. . . .
‘Why not?’ he said, a little aggrieved.
‘Had about enough, I should say.’
Again depressing. But he had better leave it alone. He was not going to quarrel about that.
‘Well, Jenny – how’ve you been since I saw you?’
‘Quite all right, thanks,’ she said, as they crossed the road. ‘’S’matter of fact I’ve got some news.’
The problem of evading the traffic, in the middle of Coventry Street, temporarily diverted an optimistic consciousness from the problem of what the devil this might mean. It did, however, just flash across Bob’s mind that perhaps all the old torture was going to begin again.
‘Good or bad?’ he asked, brightly, as they reached the other side.
‘Well – half an’ half.’
‘What’s it about?’
There was a pause.
‘Well,’ said Jenny. ‘It’s about that holiday of ours.’
This time, he decided, he was not going to lose his head.
‘Is it off?’ he asked, as though he were not very interested. But the world was swimming about him.
‘No – it ain’t off. I’ll tell you when we’re sittin’ down.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Well – let’s go and have a drink.’
‘All right. But I wanted to take you somewhere nice tonight.’
‘Well – we’ll go there later. I’ll tell you everything when we’re sittin’ down.’
They walked along to the ‘Globe,’ which was almost deserted, and sat down at a table. Drinks were brought them by a waiter.
‘Well?’ said Bob.
‘There’s nothing to tell, really. I won’t be able to come away. Not all the time, that’s all.’
‘Oh – why’s that?’
‘Just can’t, dear – that’s all.’
‘But why not? . . . Don’t be afraid to tell me, Jenny.’ He was not going to lose his head.
‘I’ve got to go away – that’s all.’
‘Who with?’ He was not going to lose his head.
‘It don’t matter who with. I’ve got to go for the week-end, that’s all.’
He was not going to lose his head.
‘Do tell me who with, Jenny?’
‘I don’t see no need for that. . . .’
‘Do tell me who with, Jenny?’
‘Well. If you must know. . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s a Chap, that’s all.’
He was not going to lose his head.
‘And you’ve promised to go with him for the week-end?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Well – funny enough – I’m going to Brighton. I’ll meet you afterwards, though – after the week-end. I will, really.’
There was a pause.
‘Jenny?’
‘Yes.’
‘If you love me you won’t go.’
‘It’s not love that enters in.’
‘Do you love me?’
‘I said I do – ain’t I?’
‘But do you?’
‘Yes. I do.’
But Bob would not take Yes for an answer.
‘Oh, for God’s sake say if you don’t!’
‘But I do. I said so. Ain’t I?’
‘Then if you love me, you won’t go.’
‘It’s not love at all. He’s goin’ to give me So Much, if I go with him for the week-end, and I can’t afford to throw it away – that’s all.’
‘How much is he going to give you?’
There was a pause. This was a crucial moment. He saw that she intended to go. He saw that she knew he was going to offer to pay the sum himself. He saw her mind working – calculating an appropriate falsehood. If she made it too little he would pay it himself – if she made it too much he would not believe her. He saw, finally, that she did not love him, and that all the world was lost.
‘Twenty pounds,’ said Jenny.
It was a clever appraisement of the situation. He would have chosen the same amount himself – something beyond his purse but just credible.
But why was she lying to him? Why did she desire to put this man before him?
‘Who is he?’
‘Oh – I’ve known him a long time.’
‘Where did you meet him?’
‘Oh – about here.’
‘Picked him up, you mean?’
‘Yes, if you want to put it that way.’
There was a silence.
‘He’s a Gentleman,’ said Jenny. ‘’S’matter of fact.’
‘What do you mean – “gentleman”?’
‘Well – you know what I mean. A Proper gentleman. He’s very nice.’
‘Is he?’
‘Yes. He’s teachin’ me how to talk Educated.’
This was too much, and his malice leapt out.
‘But not with a great success,’ he said.
He had never known before, in this affair, what jealousy meant. A gentleman. What he was not – what he might never be. This was the unkindest cut of all. What would he himself not give to have a gentleman teach him to talk Educated! How often had he hoped, from his little eminence, to undertake Jenny’s education himself. And here was a gentleman to come and do it instead of him.
And to steal Jenny into the bargain. He felt that he could never rise now. It was all too unfair. He was mocked. Jenny and her Gentleman – ‘the prettiest little girl in the West End’ and her gentleman lover – passed on to higher spheres – two cold and remote figures, forsaking him – leaving him to his own and perpetual degradation. He had always known she was too much for him.
‘There’s no need to be sarcastic,’ said Jenny. ‘You’re not too great yourself.’
But she could hurt him no further.
‘No,’ he said, submissively. ‘I’m not.’
CHAPTER LII
‘YOU SEEM TO have forgotten it’s my birthday,’ said Jenny.
‘I’m sorry, Jenny.’
‘Why don’t you cheer up?’
‘I can’t. I love you too much.’
‘Well, I love you, too, don’t I?’
Now, in his hopelessness, he felt almost tenderly towards her.
‘No, dear, you don’t. I love you, but you don’t love me. An’ I’ll never get you. That’s all there is to it.’
‘Are you upset about this Man?’
He was grateful, with a faint, ill gratefulness, for ‘Man’ – for the omission of the horrid prefix and the disparaging ‘this.’
‘Yes, Jenny, I am.’
‘Well, there’s no need to, dear. After all, having someone like that’s better for me, ain’t it?’
‘What’s better?’
‘Well – it’s better than me walkin’ about the streets, ain’t it?’
He saw the point of this. In this obsession, for long periods he would totally forget her manner of life. A single man – and a gentleman – certainly was better than walking about the streets. If only for a week-end. He made no answer.
‘And I’m only playing ’im up for what he’s worth. He’s ever such a fool, really.’
He discovered, to his surprise, that it was still in her power to make him
happy.
‘Is he?’ he said, smiling up with a kind of wearied appeal.
‘Yes. An’ I’ll tell you what. If I play my cards right – ’ Jenny tossed off the rest of her drink.
‘Yes?’ He was feeling almost convalescent.
‘If I play them right I can get a lot out of him. For you as well as me. There’s a lot of money there.’
‘Is there?’
What was she making him now? A souteneur? – one who lived on the immoral earnings of women?
‘Yes,’ said Jenny. ‘There’s a lot of money in that quarter.’
He had not the energy to reproach her. She was trying to console him, and he was merely grateful to her for trying.
‘What does he do?’ he asked.
‘He’s a journalist,’ said Jenny. ‘’S’matter of fact.’
He did not know whether this was good news or bad. At least the man earned his own living. Apparently he was not the most fatal kind of gentleman.
‘He’s married,’ said Jenny, ‘too. . . .’
‘Well – can I have the four days after the week-end?’ asked Bob.
‘Yes, of course you can. That’s what I was sayin’. If you could have your holiday later, you could have the whole week.’
‘I can’t do that. It’s all arranged, and they’ve got another man. Couldn’t you manage to put him off, Jenny?’
‘No, dear – I can’t do that. But you’ll have me after the week-end. It’s only halving it.’
He dared not threaten her new tenderness with more pleading.
‘What day are you going down?’
‘Boxing Day. Wednesday.’
‘And what day are you coming up?’
‘Monday, I suppose.’
‘What’s the use of coming up? Couldn’t I meet you down there?’
‘Yes. I suppose you could.’
‘But will you?’
‘Yes. I will.’
Her accursed pliability again!
‘Where could I meet you?’
‘Wherever you like, dear.’
‘Could I meet you at Brighton Station?’
‘Yes. Meet me at Brighton Station.’
‘But what part of Brighton Station? Is there a clock?’
‘Yes. Meet me under the clock.’
‘But is there a clock?’