In the Cage

“If you had had another employment,” he remarked after a moment, “we might never have become acquainted.”

“It’s highly probable—and certainly not in the same way.”  Then, still with her heap of gold in her lap and something of the pride of it in her manner of holding her head, she continued not to move—she only smiled at him.  The evening had thickened now; the scattered lamps were red; the Park, all before them, was full of obscure and ambiguous life; there were other couples on other benches whom it was impossible not to see, yet at whom it was impossible to look.  “But I’ve walked so much out of my way with you only just to show you that—that”—with this she paused; it was not after all so easy to express—“that anything you may have thought is perfectly true.”

“Oh I’ve thought a tremendous lot!” her companion laughed.  “Do you mind my smoking?”

“Why should I?  You always smoke there.”

“At your place?  Oh yes, but here it’s different.”

“No,” she said as he lighted a cigarette, “that’s just what it isn’t.  It’s quite the same.”

“Well, then, that’s because ‘there’ it’s so wonderful!”

“Then you’re conscious of how wonderful it is?” she returned.

He jerked his handsome head in literal protest at a doubt.  “Why that’s exactly what I mean by my gratitude for all your trouble.  It has been just as if you took a particular interest.”  She only looked at him by way of answer in such sudden headlong embarrassment, as she was quite aware, that while she remained silent he showed himself checked by her expression.  “You have—haven’t you?—taken a particular interest?”

“Oh a particular interest!” she quavered out, feeling the whole thing—her headlong embarrassment—get terribly the better of her, and wishing, with a sudden scare, all the more to keep her emotion down.  She maintained her fixed smile a moment and turned her eyes over the peopled darkness, unconfused now, because there was something much more confusing.  This, with a fatal great rush, was simply the fact that they were thus together.  They were near, near, and all she had imagined of that had only become more true, more dreadful and overwhelming.  She stared straight away in silence till she felt she looked an idiot; then, to say something, to say nothing, she attempted a sound which ended in a flood of tears.

CHAPTER XVI

Her tears helped her really to dissimulate, for she had instantly, in so public a situation, to recover herself.  They had come and gone in half a minute, and she immediately explained them.  “It‘s only because I’m tired.  It’s that—it’s that!”  Then she added a trifle incoherently: “I shall never see you again.”

“Ah but why not?”  The mere tone in which her companion asked this satisfied her once for all as to the amount of imagination for which she could count on him.  It was naturally not large: it had exhausted itself in having arrived at what he had already touched upon—the sense of an intention in her poor zeal at Cocker’s.  But any deficiency of this kind was no fault in him: he wasn’t obliged to have an inferior cleverness—to have second-rate resources and virtues.  It had been as if he almost really believed she had simply cried for fatigue, and he accordingly put in some kind confused plea—“You ought really to take something: won’t you have something or other somewhere?” to which she had made no response but a headshake of a sharpness that settled it.  “Why shan’t we all the more keep meeting?”

“I mean meeting this way—only this way.  At my place there—that I’ve nothing to do with, and I hope of course you’ll turn up, with your correspondence, when it suits you.  Whether I stay or not, I mean; for I shall probably not stay.”

“You’re going somewhere else?” he put it with positive anxiety.

“Yes, ever so far away—to the other end of London.  There are all sorts of reasons I can’t tell you; and it’s practically settled.  It’s better for me, much; and I’ve only kept on at Cocker’s for you.”

“For me?”

Making out in the dusk that he fairly blushed, she now measured how far he had been from knowing too much.  Too much, she called it at present; and that was easy, since it proved so abundantly enough for her that he should simply be where he was.  “As we shall never talk this way but to-night—never, never again!—here it all is.  I’ll say it; I don’t care what you think; it doesn’t matter; I only want to help you.  Besides, you’re kind—you’re kind.  I’ve been thinking then of leaving for ever so long.  But you’ve come so often—at times—and you’ve had so much to do, and it has been so pleasant and interesting, that I’ve remained, I’ve kept putting off any change.  More than once, when I had nearly decided, you’ve turned up again and I’ve thought ‘Oh no!’  That’s the simple fact!”  She had by this time got her confusion down so completely that she could laugh.  “This is what I meant when I said to you just now that I ‘knew.’  I’ve known perfectly that you knew I took trouble for you; and that knowledge has been for me, and I seemed to see it was for you, as if there were something—I don’t know what to call it!—between us.  I mean something unusual and good and awfully nice—something not a bit horrid or vulgar.”

She had by this time, she could see, produced a great effect on him; but she would have spoken the truth to herself had she at the same moment declared that she didn’t in the least care: all the more that the effect must be one of extreme perplexity.  What, in it all, was visibly clear for him, none the less, was that he was tremendously glad he had met her.  She held him, and he was astonished at the force of it; he was intent, immensely considerate.  His elbow was on the back of the seat, and his head, with the pot-hat pushed quite back, in a boyish way, so that she really saw almost for the first time his forehead and hair, rested on the hand into which he had crumpled his gloves.  “Yes,” he assented, “it’s not a bit horrid or vulgar.”

She just hung fire a moment, then she brought out the whole truth.  “I’d do anything for you.  I’d do anything for you.”  Never in her life had she known anything so high and fine as this, just letting him have it and bravely and magnificently leaving it.  Didn’t the place, the associations and circumstances, perfectly make it sound what it wasn’t? and wasn’t that exactly the beauty?

So she bravely and magnificently left it, and little by little she felt him take it up, take it down, as if they had been on a satin sofa in a boudoir.  She had never seen a boudoir, but there had been lots of boudoirs in the telegrams.  What she had said at all events sank into him, so that after a minute he simply made a movement that had the result of placing his hand on her own—presently indeed that of her feeling herself firmly enough grasped.  There was no pressure she need return, there was none she need decline; she just sat admirably still, satisfied for the time with the surprise and bewilderment of the impression she made on him.  His agitation was even greater on the whole than she had at first allowed for.  “I say, you know, you mustn’t think of leaving!” he at last broke out.

“Of leaving Cocker’s, you mean?”

“Yes, you must stay on there, whatever happens, and help a fellow.”

She was silent a little, partly because it was so strange and exquisite to feel him watch her as if it really mattered to him and he were almost in suspense.  “Then you have quite recognised what I’ve tried to do?” she asked.

“Why, wasn’t that exactly what I dashed over from my door just now to thank you for?”

“Yes; so you said.”

“And don’t you believe it?”

She looked down a moment at his hand, which continued to cover her own; whereupon he presently drew it back, rather restlessly folding his arms.  Without answering his question she went on: “Have you ever spoken of me?”

“Spoken of you?”

“Of my being there—of my knowing, and that sort of thing.”

“Oh never to a human creature!” he eagerly declared.

She had a small drop at this, which was expressed in another pause, and she then returned to what he had just asked her.  “Oh yes, I quite believe you like it—my always being there and our taking things up so familiarly and successfully: if not exactly where we left them,” she laughed, “almost always at least at an interesting point!”  He was about to say something in reply to this, but her friendly gaiety was quicker.  “You want a great many things in life, a great many comforts and helps and luxuries—you want everything as pleasant as possible.  Therefore, so far as it’s in the power of any particular person to contribute to all that—”  She had turned her face to him smiling, just thinking.

“Oh see here!”  But he was highly amused.  “Well, what then?” he enquired as if to humour her.

“Why the particular person must never fail.  We must manage it for you somehow.”

He threw back his head, laughing out; he was really exhilarated.  “Oh yes, somehow!”

“Well, I think we each do—don’t we?—in one little way and another and according to our limited lights.  I’m pleased at any rate, for myself, that you are; for I assure you I’ve done my best.”

“You do better than any one!”  He had struck a match for another cigarette, and the flame lighted an instant his responsive finished face, magnifying into a pleasant grimace the kindness with which he paid her this tribute.  “You’re awfully clever, you know; cleverer, cleverer, cleverer—!”  He had appeared on the point of making some tremendous statement; then suddenly, puffing his cigarette and shifting almost with violence on his seat, he let it altogether fall.

CHAPTER XVII

In spite of this drop, if not just by reason of it, she felt as if Lady Bradeen, all but named out, had popped straight up; and she practically betrayed her consciousness by waiting a little before she rejoined: “Cleverer than who?”

“Well, if I wasn’t afraid you’d think I swagger, I should say—than anybody!  If you leave your place there, where shall you go?” he more gravely asked.

“Oh too far for you ever to find me!”

“I’d find you anywhere.”

The tone of this was so still more serious that she had but her one acknowledgement.  “I’d do anything for you—I’d do anything for you,” she repeated.  She had already, she felt, said it all; so what did anything more, anything less, matter?  That was the very reason indeed why she could, with a lighter note, ease him generously of any awkwardness produced by solemnity, either his own or hers.  “Of course it must be nice for you to be able to think there are people all about who feel in such a way.”

In immediate appreciation of this, however, he only smoked without looking at her.  “But you don’t want to give up your present work?” he at last threw out.  “I mean you will stay in the post-office?”

“Oh yes; I think I’ve a genius for that.”

“Rather!  No one can touch you.”  With this he turned more to her again.  “But you can get, with a move, greater advantages?”

“I can get in the suburbs cheaper lodgings.  I live with my mother.  We need some space.  There’s a particular place that has other inducements.”

He just hesitated.  “Where is it?”

“Oh quite out of your way.  You’d never have time.”

“But I tell you I’d go anywhere.  Don’t you believe it?”

“Yes, for once or twice.  But you’d soon see it wouldn’t do for you.”

He smoked and considered; seemed to stretch himself a little and, with his legs out, surrender himself comfortably.  “Well, well, well—I believe everything you say.  I take it from you—anything you like—in the most extraordinary way.”  It struck her certainly—and almost without bitterness—that the way in which she was already, as if she had been an old friend, arranging for him and preparing the only magnificence she could muster, was quite the most extraordinary.  “Don’t, don’t go!” he presently went on.  “I shall miss you too horribly!”

“So that you just put it to me as a definite request?”—oh how she tried to divest this of all sound of the hardness of bargaining!  That ought to have been easy enough, for what was she arranging to get?  Before he could answer she had continued: “To be perfectly fair I should tell you I recognise at Cocker’s certain strong attractions.  All you people come.  I like all the horrors.”

“The horrors?”

“Those you all—you know the set I mean, your set—show me with as good a conscience as if I had no more feeling than a letter-box.”

He looked quite excited at the way she put it.  “Oh they don’t know!”

“Don’t know I’m not stupid?  No, how should they?”

“Yes, how should they?” said the Captain sympathetically.  “But isn’t ‘horrors’ rather strong?”

“What you do is rather strong!” the girl promptly returned.

“What I do?”

“Your extravagance, your selfishness, your immorality, your crimes,” she pursued, without heeding his expression.

“I say!”—her companion showed the queerest stare.

“I like them, as I tell you—I revel in them.  But we needn’t go into that,” she quietly went on; “for all I get out of it is the harmless pleasure of knowing.  I know, I know, I know!”—she breathed it ever so gently.

“Yes; that’s what has been between us,” he answered much more simply.

She could enjoy his simplicity in silence, and for a moment she did so.  “If I do stay because you want it—and I’m rather capable of that—there are two or three things I think you ought to remember.  One is, you know, that I’m there sometimes for days and weeks together without your ever coming.”

“Oh I’ll come every day!” he honestly cried.

She was on the point, at this, of imitating with her hand his movement of shortly before; but she checked herself, and there was no want of effect in her soothing substitute.  “How can you?  How can you?”  He had, too manifestly, only to look at it there, in the vulgarly animated gloom, to see that he couldn’t; and at this point, by the mere action of his silence, everything they had so definitely not named, the whole presence round which they had been circling, became part of their reference, settled in solidly between them.  It was as if then for a minute they sat and saw it all in each other’s eyes, saw so much that there was no need of a pretext for sounding it at last.  “Your danger, your danger—!”  Her voice indeed trembled with it, and she could only for the moment again leave it so.

During this moment he leaned back on the bench, meeting her in silence and with a face that grew more strange.  It grew so strange that after a further instant she got straight up.  She stood there as if their talk were now over, and he just sat and watched her.  It was as if now—owing to the third person they had brought in—they must be more careful; so that the most he could finally say was: “That’s where it is!”

“That’s where it is!” the girl as guardedly replied.  He sat still, and she added: “I won’t give you up.  Good-bye.”

“Good-bye?”—he appealed, but without moving.

“I don’t quite see my way, but I won’t give you up,” she repeated.  “There.  Good-bye.”

It brought him with a jerk to his feet, tossing away his cigarette.  His poor face was flushed.  “See here—see here!”

“No, I won’t; but I must leave you now,” she went on as if not hearing him.

“See here—see here!”  He tried, from the bench, to take her hand again.

But that definitely settled it for her: this would, after all, be as bad as his asking her to supper.  “You mustn’t come with me—no, no!”

He sank back, quite blank, as if she had pushed him.  “I mayn’t see you home?”

“No, no; let me go.”  He looked almost as if she had struck him, but she didn’t care; and the manner in which she spoke—it was literally as if she were angry—had the force of a command.  “Stay where you are!”

“See here—see here!” he nevertheless pleaded.

“I won’t give you up!” she cried once more—this time quite with passion; on which she got away from him as fast as she could and left him staring after her.

CHAPTER XVIII

Mr. Mudge had lately been so occupied with their famous “plans” that he had neglected for a while the question of her transfer; but down at Bournemouth, which had found itself selected as the field of their recreation by a process consisting, it seemed, exclusively of innumerable pages of the neatest arithmetic in a very greasy but most orderly little pocket-book, the distracting possible melted away—the fleeting absolute ruled the scene.  The plans, hour by hour, were simply superseded, and it was much of a rest to the girl, as she sat on the pier and overlooked the sea and the company, to see them evaporate in rosy fumes and to feel that from moment to moment there was less left to cipher about.  The week proves blissfully fine, and her mother, at their lodgings—partly to her embarrassment and partly to her relief—struck up with the landlady an alliance that left the younger couple a great deal of freedom.  This relative took her pleasure of a week at Bournemouth in a stuffy back-kitchen and endless talks; to that degree even that Mr. Mudge himself—habitually inclined indeed to a scrutiny of all mysteries and to seeing, as he sometimes admitted, too much in things—made remarks on it as he sat on the cliff with his betrothed, or on the decks of steamers that conveyed them, close-packed items in terrific totals of enjoyment, to the Isle of Wight and the Dorset coast.

He had a lodging in another house, where he had speedily learned the importance of keeping his eyes open, and he made no secret of his suspecting that sinister mutual connivances might spring, under the roof of his companions, from unnatural sociabilities.  At the same time he fully recognised that as a source of anxiety, not to say of expense, his future mother-in law would have weighted them more by accompanying their steps than by giving her hostess, in the interest of the tendency they considered that they never mentioned, equivalent pledges as to the tea-caddy and the jam-pot.  These were the questions—these indeed the familiar commodities—that he had now to put into the scales; and his betrothed had in consequence, during her holiday, the odd and yet pleasant and almost languid sense of an anticlimax.  She had become conscious of an extraordinary collapse, a surrender to stillness and to retrospect.  She cared neither to walk nor to sail; it was enough for her to sit on benches and wonder at the sea and taste the air and not be at Cocker’s and not see the counter-clerk.  She still seemed to wait for something—something in the key of the immense discussions that had mapped out their little week of idleness on the scale of a world-atlas.  Something came at last, but without perhaps appearing quite adequately to crown the monument.

Preparation and precaution were, however, the natural flowers of Mr. Mudge’s mind, and in proportion as these things declined in one quarter they inevitably bloomed elsewhere.  He could always, at the worst, have on Tuesday the project of their taking the Swanage boat on Thursday, and on Thursday that of their ordering minced kidneys on Saturday.  He had moreover a constant gift of inexorable enquiry as to where and what they should have gone and have done if they hadn’t been exactly as they were.  He had in short his resources, and his mistress had never been so conscious of them; on the other hand they never interfered so little with her own.  She liked to be as she was—if it could only have lasted.  She could accept even without bitterness a rigour of economy so great that the little fee they paid for admission to the pier had to be balanced against other delights.  The people at Ladle’s and at Thrupp’s had their ways of amusing themselves, whereas she had to sit and hear Mr. Mudge talk of what he might do if he didn’t take a bath, or of the bath he might take if he only hadn’t taken something else.  He was always with her now, of course, always beside her; she saw him more than “hourly,” more than ever yet, more even than he had planned she should do at Chalk Farm.  She preferred to sit at the far end, away from the band and the crowd; as to which she had frequent differences with her friend, who reminded her often that they could have only in the thick of it the sense of the money they were getting back.  That had little effect on her, for she got back her money by seeing many things, the things of the past year, fall together and connect themselves, undergo the happy relegation that transforms melancholy and misery, passion and effort, into experience and knowledge.

She liked having done with them, as she assured herself she had practically done, and the strange thing was that she neither missed the procession now nor wished to keep her place for it.  It had become there, in the sun and the breeze and the sea-smell, a far-away story, a picture of another life.  If Mr. Mudge himself liked processions, liked them at Bournemouth and on the pier quite as much as at Chalk Farm or anywhere, she learned after a little not to be worried by his perpetual counting of the figures that made them up.  There were dreadful women in particular, usually fat and in men’s caps and write shoes, whom he could never let alone—not that she cared; it was not the great world, the world of Cocker’s and Ladle’s and Thrupp’s, but it offered an endless field to his faculties of memory, philosophy, and frolic.  She had never accepted him so much, never arranged so successfully for making him chatter while she carried on secret conversations.  This separate commerce was with herself; and if they both practised a great thrift she had quite mastered that of merely spending words enough to keep him imperturbably and continuously going.

He was charmed with the panorama, not knowing—or at any rate not at all showing that he knew—what far other images peopled her mind than the women in the navy caps and the shop-boys in the blazers.  His observations on these types, his general interpretation of the show, brought home to her the prospect of Chalk Farm.  She wondered sometimes that he should have derived so little illumination, during his period, from the society at Cocker’s.  But one evening while their holiday cloudlessly waned he gave her such a proof of his quality as might have made her ashamed of her many suppressions.  He brought out something that, in all his overflow, he had been able to keep back till other matters were disposed of.  It was the announcement that he was at last ready to marry—that he saw his way.  A rise at Chalk Farm had been offered him; he was to be taken into the business, bringing with him a capital the estimation of which by other parties constituted the handsomest recognition yet made of the head on his shoulders.  Therefore their waiting was over—it could be a question of a near date.  They would settle this date before going back, and he meanwhile had his eye on a sweet little home.  He would take her to see it on their first Sunday.

CHAPTER XIX

His having kept this great news for the last, having had such a card up his sleeve and not floated it out in the current of his chatter and the luxury of their leisure, was one of those incalculable strokes by which he could still affect her; the kind of thing that reminded her of the latent force that had ejected the drunken soldier—an example of the profundity of which his promotion was the proof.  She listened a while in silence, on this occasion, to the wafted strains of the music; she took it in as she had not quite done before that her future was now constituted.  Mr. Mudge was distinctly her fate; yet at this moment she turned her face quite away from him, showing him so long a mere quarter of her cheek that she at last again heard his voice.  He couldn’t see a pair of tears that were partly the reason of her delay to give him the assurance he required; but he expressed at a venture the hope that she had had her fill of Cocker’s.

She was finally able to turn back.  “Oh quite.  There’s nothing going on.  No one comes but the Americans at Thrupp’s, and they don’t do much.  They don’t seem to have a secret in the world.”

“Then the extraordinary reason you’ve been giving me for holding on there has ceased to work?”

She thought a moment.  “Yes, that one.  I’ve seen the thing through—I’ve got them all in my pocket.”

“So you’re ready to come?”

For a little again she made no answer.  “No, not yet, all the same.  I’ve still got a reason—a different one.”

He looked her all over as if it might have been something she kept in her mouth or her glove or under her jacket—something she was even sitting upon.  “Well, I’ll have it, please.”