Spring Days Part 37

There was always something; and Frank undertook all he was asked to do, for he loved to be as much as possible in that circle of life in which his sweetheart lived, and to feel her presence about him.

Extract from a letter:--

"Mount Rorke and I had a long and serious talk about you last night.

He is against the marriage, but then he is against marriage in general. He said with his quiet, cynical laugh, 'I daresay she is a pretty girl--I can read the truth through your romantic descriptions.

I am convinced that she is very charming. But are you quite sure that you will never meet another equally charming girl? Remember the world is a very big place, and the stock of women is large; are you sure that you will be able to enjoy the charm which now rules and enchants you for thirty, forty years without wearying of it? These are the questions you have to consider, which marriage entails.' I need hardly tell you what answer I made, and how I tried to convince him that your charms are those that a man capable of appreciating them could not weary of. Indeed I think I made him rather a neat answer--I said there are books in one volume, in two volumes, in three volumes, and there are books that you can take down and read at any time. He laughed; it rather tickled his fancy. And he said, 'Quite true, there are some books and some women that one never tires of--that is to say, that some people never tire of. I haven't been so fortunate or unfortunate, but that by the way. I admit such cases may occur. I will go further-- I will admit that a man's life may be made or marred by his taking to himself a wife; and if Miss Brookes were a really nice girl--if she were the one girl in a million, and if I were sure that your pa.s.sion for each other has its root in deeper and more lasting sympathies than those of the skin (these were his exact words)--believe me, my dear Frank, I should not think of opposing the marriage. I shall be in London during the season, and no doubt an occasion will arise, of which I promise you to avail myself, of making this model young lady's acquaintance. I will tell you what I think of her; she won't deceive me, let her try how she will. There is only one thing I bar--one thing must not be, one thing I will not tolerate--a bad marriage.' I lost my temper for a moment, but Mount Rorke did not lose his, and I soon came round. It is annoying to be spoken to in that way; but I remembered that he had not seen you, and I consoled myself by thinking of how great his conversion will be when he does. My only fear is that he'll want to marry you himself. So, you see, my own darling, my uncle is on the 'give,' and we shall win soon and easily. The only real obstacle is your father's pig-headedness on all matters in which money enters.

I think with terror of his meeting with Mount Rorke. If he speaks to Mount Rorke as he spoke to me, my uncle will take up his hat and wish him good-morning. Do you exert all your influence. Do leave no stone unturned. All depends upon you."

Extract from another letter:--

"I am weary of this place, and I long to see you. My longing is such that I can resist it no longer. Besides, nothing would be gained by remaining here. Mount Rorke will not say more than he has said. In a few days--think of that--I shall be with you. With what eagerness I look forward. How gladly I shall see the train leave the dreary bogs and the blue mountains of the West and pa.s.s into the pasture lands of Meath; how gladly I shall hail the brown, s...o...b..r-faced city of Dublin; with what delight I shall step on board the packet--I shall not think of sea sickness--and watch the line of the low coast disappear, then the Welsh mountains and castles, looking so like an ill.u.s.trated history of England. I must spend two days in London, alas!

I must order some new clothes. Victoria Station, with all its doors and cab stands, and book-stalls, the Suss.e.x scenery, the woodlands, the Downs, the plunging through tunnels, and then you. Darling, I cannot believe that such happiness is in store for me."

All happened as he had antic.i.p.ated. At Victoria the usual difficulties had arisen about the dog. Triss was growling, the guard was cringing, and, with reference to no stoppage before we come to Redhill, the necessity of a muzzle was being argued.

"I am certain it is she," and he followed with his eyes the tall, swinging figure in the black cloth dress. Then he saw the clear plump profile, so white, of Lizzie Baker.

"Here, give me the chain, I'll tie the dog up."

"But the muzzle, sir."

A muzzle was procured, and Frank ran to the third cla.s.s carriage where he had seen Lizzie enter.

"Lizzie! Lizzie!"

"Oh, Mr. Escott, who would have thought of seeing you! It is such a time--"

"Yes, isn't it; how long? But are you going to Brighton?"

"Yes."

"So am I; but--let me get you a first-cla.s.s ticket. Guard, have I time to change my ticket?"

"No, sir, the train is going to start; get in."

"Do you get out, Lizzie; I'll pay the difference at Brighton."

"No time for changing now, sir; are you getting into this carriage?"

He could not forego the pleasure of being with Lizzie. An old woman with a provision basket on her lap drew her skirts aside and made way for him; there were three dirtily dressed girls--probably shop girls; they sat whispering together, a little troubled by the publicity; there were two youths, shabbily dressed, their worn boots and trousers covered with London mud. He was surprised, and he did not for a moment understand or realise his company. Frank had never been in a third- cla.s.s carriage before.

"I'm afraid you won't be comfortable here."

"Oh, yes, I shall; I'd just as soon travel in one cla.s.s as another-- much sooner when it means being with you."

"None of your nonsense; I see you haven't changed. Well, who'd have thought it? Just fancy meeting you, and after all this time."

"How long is it? It must be nearly two years. I haven't seen you sincethat day we went up the river."

"Yes, you have."

"No; where did I see you since?"

"At the bar; I didn't leave the 'Gaiety' for several days after."

"No more you did; I remember now. But why did you leave without letting me know where you were going?"

"I didn't know I was leaving till the morning, and I left in the afternoon. A lot of us were changed suddenly. The firm couldn't get enough young ladies to do the work at the Exhibition."

"But you didn't leave an address."

"Yes, I did."

"No, you didn't; I asked the manager, and he told me you had left no address. They didn't know where you had gone."

"Did he say so? You mean Mr. Fairlie, I suppose--now I come to think of it, it is the rule of the firm not to give information about the young ladies. I am sorry."

"Are you?"

"I am, really. We had a very pleasant day up the river--Reading; you took me to Reading."

"Yes; but you would never come again."

"Wouldn't I? I suppose I couldn't find time--I did enjoy myself. What a lovely day it was."

"Yes; and do you remember how like a beautiful smile the river lay?

And do you remember the bulrushes? I rowed you in among the rushes; you wet the sleeve of your dress plunging your arm in. I remember it, that white plump arm."

"Get along with you."

"I wanted to make a sketch of you leaning over the boatside with your lapful of water-lilies; I wish I had."

"I wish you had, too; you wrote a little poem instead. It was very pretty, but I should have liked the picture better. You gave me the poem next day when you came in to lunch. You had lunch at the bar, and I was so cross with you because you said I hadn't wiped the gla.s.s. It was all done to annoy me because I had been talking to that tall, rather stout young man, with the dark moustache, whom you were so jealous of. Don't you remember?"

"Yes, I remember; and I believe it was that fellow who prevented you from coming out with me again."

"No, it wasn't; but don't speak so loud, all these people are listening to you."

Frank met the round stare of the girls; and, turning from the dormant curiosity of the old woman, he said--

"Do you remember the locks, how frightened you were; you had never been through a lock before; and the beautiful old red brick house showing upon the lofty woods; and coming back in the calm of the evening, pa.s.sing the different boats, the one where the girls lay back in the arms of the young men, the flapping sail, and the dreamy influences of the woods where we climbed and looked into s.p.a.ce over the railing?"

"At the green-table--don't you remember?"

"Yes, I remember every hour of that day; we had lunch at the 'Roebuck.'"

"You haven't spoken of the lady we saw there. Lady Something--I forget what you said her name was; you said she had been making up to you."

"I dined with her one night, and we went to the theatre."