” muttered Michael.
“Also, she comes from Putney.”
“There you have a real reason. Then, you WILL put up a barrage if Bicket blows in?”
Aubrey Greene laid his hand on his heart. “And here we are!”
For the convenience of the eleventh baronet Michael had chosen the hour when the proper patrons of Aubrey Greene would still be lunching. A shock-headed young man and three pale-green girls alone wandered among the pictures. The painter led the way at once to his masterpiece; and for some minutes they stood before it in a suitable paralysis. To speak too soon in praise would never do; to speak too late would be equally tactless; to speak too fulsomely would jar; to mutter coldly: “Very nice–very nice indeed!” would blight. To say bluntly: “Well, old man, to tell you the truth, I don’t like it a little bit!” would get his goat.
At last Michael pinched Fleur gently, and she said:
“It really is charming, Aubrey; and awfully like–at least–”
“So far as one can tell. But really, old man, you’ve done it in once. I’m afraid Bicket will think so, anyway.”
“Dash that!” muttered the painter. “How do you find the colour values?”
“Jolly fine; especially the flesh; don’t you think so, Fleur?”
“Yes; only I should have liked that shadow down the side a little deeper.”
“Yes?” murmured the painter: “Perhaps!”
“You’ve caught the spirit,” said Michael. “But I tell you what, old man, you’re for it–the thing’s got meaning. I don’t know what the critics will do to you.”
Aubrey Greene smiled. “That was the worst of her. She led me on. To get an idea’s fatal.”
“Personally, I don’t agree to that; do you, Fleur?”
“Of course not; only one doesn’t say so.”
“Time we did, instead of kow-towing to the Cafe C’rillon. I say, the hair’s all right, and so are the toes–they curl as you look at ’em.”
“And it IS a relief not to get legs painted in streaky cubes. The asphodels rather remind one of the flowers in Leonardo’s ‘Virgin of the Rocks,’ Aubrey.”
“The whole thing’s just a bit Leonardoish, old man. You’ll have to live that down.”
“Oh! Aubrey, my father’s seen it. I believe he’s biting. Something you said impressed him–about our white monkey, d’you remember?”
Aubrey Greene threw up his hands. “Ah! That white monkey–to have painted that! Eat the fruit and chuck the rinds around, and ask with your eyes what it’s all about.”
“A moral!” said Michael: “Take care, old man! Well! Our taxi’s running up. Come along, Fleur; we’ll leave Aubrey to his conscience.”
Once more in the cab, he took her arm. “That poor little snipe, Bicket! Suppose I’d come on YOU as he’ll come on his wife!”
“I shouldn’t have looked so nice.”
“Oh! yes; much nicer; though she looks nice enough, I must say.”
“Then why should Bicket mind, in these days of emancipation?”
“Why? Good Lord, ducky! You don’t suppose Bicket–! I mean, we emancipated people have got into the habit of thinking we’re the world–well! we aren’t; we’re an excrescence, small, and noisy. We talk as if all the old values and prejudices had gone; but they’ve no more gone, really, you know, than the rows of villas and little grey houses.”
“Why this outburst, Michael?”
“Well, darling, I’m a bit fed-up with the attitude of our crowd. If emancipation were true, one could stick it; but it’s not. There isn’t ten per cent. difference between now and thirty years ago.”
“How do you know? You weren’t alive.”
“No; but I read the papers, and talk to the man in the street, and look at people’s faces. Our lot think they’re the tablecloth, but they’re only the fringe. D’you know, only one hundred and fifty thousand people in this country have ever heard a Beethoven Symphony? How many, do you suppose, think old B. a back number? Five thousand, perhaps, out of forty-two millions. How’s that for emancipation?”
He stopped, observing that her eyelids had drooped.
“I was thinking, Michael, that I should like to change my bedroom curtains to blue. I saw the exact colour yesterday at Harton’s. They say blue has an effect on the mind–the present curtains really are too jazzy.”
The eleventh baronet!
“Anything you like, darling. Have a blue ceiling if it helps.”
“Oh, no! But I think I’ll change the carpet, too; there’s a lovely powder blue at Harton’s.”
“Then get it. Would you like to go there now? I can take the Tube back to the office.”
“Yes, I think I’d better. I might miss it.”
Michael put his head out of the window. “Harton’s, please!” And, replacing his hat, he looked at her. Emancipated! Phew!
Chapter IV.
AFTERNOON OF A BICKET
Just about that moment Bicket re-entered his sitting-room and deposited his tray. All the morning under the shadow of St. Paul’s he had re-lived Bank Holiday. Exceptionally tired in feet and legs, he was also itching mentally. He had promised himself a refreshing look from time to time at what was almost like a photo of Vic herself. And he had lost the picture! Yet he had taken nothing out of his pockets–just hung his coat up. Had it joggled out in the crush at the station, or had he missed his pocket opening and dropped it in the carriage? And he had wanted to see the original, too. He remembered that the Gallery began with a ‘D,’ and at lunch-time squandered a penny-halfpenny to look up the names. Foreign, he was sure–the picture being naked. ‘Dumetrius?’ Ah!
Back at his post, he had a bit of luck. ‘That alderman,’ whom he had not seen for months, came by. Intuition made him say at once: “Hope I see you well sir. Never forgotten your kindness.”
The ‘alderman,’ who had been staring up as if he saw a magpie on the dome of St. Paul’s, stopped as though attacked by cramp.
“Kindness?” he said; “what kindness? Oh! balloons! They were no good to me!”
“No, sir, I’m sure,” said Bicket humbly.
“Well, here you are!” muttered the ‘alderman’; “don’t expect it again.”
Half-a-crown! A whole half-crown! Bicket’s eyes pursued the hastening form. “Good-luck!” he said softly to himself, and began putting up his tray. “I’ll go home and rest my feet, and tyke Vic to see that picture. It’ll be funny lookin’ at it together.”
But she was not in. He sat down and smoked a fag. He felt aggrieved that she was out, this the first afternoon he had taken off. Of course she couldn’t stay in all day!
Still–! He waited twenty minutes, then put on Michael’s suit and shoes.
‘I’ll go and see it alone,’ he thought. ‘It’ll cost half as much. They charge you sixpence, I expect.’
They charged him a shilling–a shilling! One fourth of his day’s earnings, to see a picture! He entered bashfully. There were ladies who smelled of scent and had drawling voices but not a patch on Vic for looks. One of them, behind him, said:
“See! There’s Aubrey Greene himself! And that’s the picture they’re talking of–‘Afternoon of a Dryad.’”
They passed him and moved on. Bicket followed. At the end of the room, between their draperies and catalogues, he glimpsed the picture. A slight sweat broke out on his forehead. Almost life-size, among the flowers and spiky grasses, the face smiled round at him–very image of Vic! Could some one in the world be as like her as all that? The thought offended him, as a collector is offended finding the duplicate of an unique possession.
“It’s a wonderful picture, Mr. Greene. What a type!”
A young man without hat, and fair hair sliding back, answered:
“A find, wasn’t she?”
“Oh! perfect! the very spirit of a wood nymph; so mysterious!”
The word that belonged to Vic! It was unholy. There she lay for all to look at, just because some beastly woman was made like her! A kind of rage invaded Bicket’s throat, caused his checks to burn; and with it came a queer physical jealousy. That painter! What business had he to paint a woman so like Vic as that–a woman that didn’t mind lyin’ like that! They and their talk about cahryscuro and paganism, and a bloke called Leneardo! Blast their drawling and their tricks! He tried to move away, and could not, fascinated by that effigy, so uncannily resembling what he had thought belonged to himself alone. Silly to feel so bad over a ‘coincidence,’ but he felt like smashing the glass and cutting the body up into little bits. The ladies and the painter passed on, leaving him alone before the picture. Alone, he did not mind so much. The face was mournful-like, and lonely, and–and teasing, with its smile. It sort of haunted you–it did! ‘Well!’ thought Bicket, ‘I’ll get home to Vic. Glad I didn’t bring her, after all, to see herself-like. If I was an alderman, I’d buy the blinkin’ thing, and burn it!’
And there, in the entrance-lobby, talking to a ‘dago,’ stood–his very own ‘alderman!’ Bicket paused in sheer amazement.
“It’s a rithing name, Mr. Forthyte,” he heard the Dago say: “hith prithes are going up.”
“That’s all very well, Dumetrius, but it’s not everybody’s money in these days–too highly-finished, altogether!”
“Well, Mr. Forthyte, to YOU I take off ten per thent.”
“Take off twenty and I’ll buy it.”
That Dago’s shoulders mounted above his hairy ears–they did; and what a smile!
“Mithter Forthyte! Fifteen, thir!”
“Well, you’re doing me; but send it round to my daughter’s in South Square–you know the number. When do you close?”
“Day after tomorrow, thir.”
So! The counterfeit of Vic had gone to that ‘alderman,’ had it? Bicket uttered a savage little sound, and slunk out.
He walked with a queer feeling. Had he got unnecessary wind up? After all, it wasn’t her. But to know that another woman could smile that way, have frizzy-ended short black hair, and be all curved the same! And at every woman’s passing face he looked–so different, so utterly unlike Vic’s!
When he reached home she was standing in the middle of the room, with her lips to a balloon. All around her, on the floor, chairs, table, mantelpiece, were the blown-out shapes of his stock; one by one they had floated from her lips and selected their own resting-places: puce, green, orange, purple, blue, enlivening with their colour the dingy little space. All his balloons blown up! And there, in her best clothes, she stood, smiling, queer, excited.
“What in thunder!” said Bicket.
Raising her dress, she took some crackling notes from the top of her stocking, and held them out to him.
“See! Sixty-four pounds, Tony! I’ve got it all. We can go.”
“WHAT!”
“I had a brain wave–went to that Mr. Mont who gave us the clothes, and he’s advanced it. We can pay it back, some day. Isn’t it a marvel?”
Bicket’s eyes, startled like a rabbit’s, took in her smile, her excited flush, and a strange feeling shot through all his body, as if THEY were taking HIM in! She wasn’t like Vic! No! Suddenly he felt her arms round him, felt her moist lips on his. She clung so tight, he could not move. His head went round.
“At last! At last! Isn’t it fine? Kiss me, Tony!”
Bicket kissed; his vertigo was real, but behind it, for the moment stifled, what sense of unreality!…
Was it before night, or in the night, that the doubt first came–ghostly, tapping, fluttering, haunting–then, in the dawn, jabbing through his soul, turning him rigid. The money–the picture–the lost paper–that sense of unreality! This story she had told him! Were such things possible? Why should Mr. Mont advance that money? She had seen him–that was certain; the room, the secretary–you couldn’t mistake her description of that Miss Perren. Why, then, feel this jabbing doubt? The money–such a lot of money! Not with Mr. Mont–never–he was a gent! Oh! Swine that he was, to have a thought like that–of Vic! He turned his back to her and tried to sleep. But once you got a thought like that–sleep? No! Her face among the balloons, the way she had smothered his eyes and turned his head–so that he couldn’t think, couldn’t go into it and ask her questions! A prey to dim doubts, achings, uncertainty, thrills of hope, and visions of ‘Austrylia,’ Bicket arose haggard.
“Well,” he said, over their cocoa and margarined bread: “I must see Mr. Mont, that’s certain.” And suddenly he added: “Vic?” looking straight into her face.
She answered his look–straight, yes, straight. Oh! he was a proper swine!…
When he had left the house Victorine stood quite still, with hands pressed against her chest. She had slept less than he. Still as a mouse, she had turned and turned the thought: ‘Did I take him in? Did I?’ And if not–what? She took out the notes which had bought–or sold? – their happiness, and counted them once more. And the sense of injustice burned within her. Had she wanted to stand like that before men? Hadn’t she been properly through it about that? Why, she could have had the sixty pounds three months ago from that sculptor, who was wild about her; or–so he said! But she had stuck it; yes, she had. Tony had nothing against her really–even if he knew it all. She had done it for him–Well! mostly–for him selling those balloons day after day in all weathers! But for her, they would still be stuck, and another winter coming, and unemployment–so they said in the paper–to be worse and worse! Stuck in the fogs and the cold, again! Ugh! Her chest was still funny sometimes; and he always hoarse. And this poky little room, and the bed so small that she couldn’t stir without waking him. Why should Tony doubt her? For he did–she had felt it, heard it in his “Vic?” Would Mr. Mont convince him? Tony was sharp! Her head drooped. The unfairness of it all! Some had everything to their hand, like that pretty wife of Mr. Mont’s! And if one tried to find a way and get out to a new chance–then–then–this! She flung her hair back. Tony MUST believe–he should! If he wouldn’t, let him look out. She had done nothing to be ashamed of! No, indeed! And with the longing to go in front and lead her happiness along, she got out her old tin trunk, and began with careful method to put things into it.
Chapter V.
MICHAEL GIVES ADVICE
Michael still sat, correcting the proofs of ‘Counterfeits.’ Save ‘Jericho,’ there had been no address to send them to. The East was wide, and Wilfrid had made no sign. Did Fleur ever think of Wilfrid now? He had the impression that she did not. And Wilfrid–well, probably he was forgetting her already. Even passion required a little sustenance.
“A Mr. Forsyte to see you, sir.”
Apparition in bookland!
“Ah–Show him in.”
Soames entered with an air of suspicion.
“This your place?” he said. “I’ve looked in to tell you that I’ve bought that picture of young Greene’s. Have you anywhere to hang it?”
“I should think we had,” said Michael. “Jolly good, sir, isn’t it?”
“Well,” muttered Soames, “for these days, yes. He’ll make a name.”
“He’s an intense admirer of that White Monkey you gave us.”
“Ah! I’ve been looking into the Chinese. If I go on buying–” Soames paused.
“They ARE a bit of an antidote, aren’t they, sir? That ‘Earthly Paradise!’ And those geese–they don’t seem to mind your counting their feathers, do they?”
Soames made no reply; he was evidently thinking: ‘How on earth I missed those things when they first came on the market!’ Then, raising his umbrella, and pointing it as if at the book trade, he asked:
“Young Butterfield–how’s he doing?”
“Ah! I was going to let you know, sir. He came in yesterday and told me that he saw Elderson two days ago. He went to sell him a copy of my father’s ‘Limited’; Elderson said nothing and bought two.”
“The deuce he did!”
“Butterfield got the impression that his visit put the wind up him. Elderson knows, of course, that I’m in this firm, and your son-inlaw.”
Soames frowned. “I’m not sure,” he said, “that sleeping dogs–! Well, I’m on my way there now.”
“Mention the book, sir, and see how Elderson takes it. Would you like one yourself? You’re on the list. E, F–Butterfield should be reaching you today. It’ll save you a refusal. Here it is–nice get-up. One guinea.”
“‘A Duet,’” read Soames. “What’s it about? Musical?”
“Not precisely. A sort of cat-calling between the ghosts of the G. O. M. and Dizzy!”
“I’m not a reader,” said Soames. He pulled out a note. “Why didn’t you make it a pound? Here’s the shilling.”
“Thanks awfully, sir; I’m sure my father’ll be frightfully bucked to think you’ve got one.”
“Will he?” said Soames, with a faint smile. “D’you ever do any WORK here?”
“Well, we try to turn a doubtful penny.”
“What d’you make at it?”
“Personally, about five hundred a year.”
“That all?”
“Yes, but I doubt if I’m worth more than three.”
“H’m! I thought you’d got over your Socialism.”
“I fancy I have, sir. It didn’t seem to go with my position.”
“No,” said Soames. “Fleur seems well.”
“Yes, she’s splendid. She does the Coue stunt, you know.”
Soames stared. “That’s her mother,” he said; “I can’t tell. Good-bye! Oh! I want to know; what’s the meaning of that expression ‘got his goat?’”
“‘Got his goat?’ Oh, raised his dander, if you know what that means, it was before my time.”
“I see,” said Soames; “I had it right, then. Well!” He turned. His back was very neat and real. It vanished through the doorway, and with it seemed to go the sense of definition.
Michael took up the proofs, and read two poems. Bitter as quinine! The unrest in them–the yearning behind the words! Nothing Chinese there! After all, the ancients–like Old Forsyte, and his father in a very different way–had an anchor down. ‘What is it?’ thought Michael. ‘What’s wrong with us? We’re quick, and clever, cocksure, and dissatisfied. If only something would enthuse us, or get OUR goats! We’ve chucked religion, tradition, property, pity; and in their place we put–what? Beauty? Gosh! See Walter Nazing, and the Cafe C’rillon! And yet–we must be after something! Better world? Doesn’t look like it. Future life? Suppose I ought to “look into” spiritualism, as Old Forsyte would say. But–half in this world, half in that–deuced odd if spirits are less restive than we are!’
To what–to what, then, was it all moving? ‘Dash it!’ thought Michael, getting up, ‘I’ll try dictating an advertisement!’
“Will you come in, please, Miss Perren? For the new Desert volume–Trade Journals: ‘Danby and Winter will shortly issue ‘Counterfeits,’ by the author of ‘Copper Coin,’ the outstanding success of the last publishing season. I wonder how many publishers have claimed that, Miss Perren, for how many books this year? ‘These poems show all the brilliancy of mood, and more than the technical accomplishment of the young author’s first volume.’ How’s that?”
“Brilliancy of mood, Mr. Mont? Do you think?”
“No. But what am I to say? ‘All the pangs and pessimism?’”
“Oh, no! But possibly: ‘All the brilliancy of diction, the strangeness and variety of mood.’”
“Good. But it’ll cost more. Say: ‘All the brilliant strangeness’; that’ll ring their bells in once. We’re nuts on ‘the strange,’ but we’re not getting it–the outre, yes, but not the strange.”
“Surely Mr. Desert gets–”
“Yes, sometimes; but hardly any one else. To be strange, you’ve got to have guts, if you’ll excuse the phrase, Miss Perren.”
“Certainly, Mr. Mont. That young man Bicket is waiting to see you.”
“He is, is he?” said Michael, taking out a cigarette. “Give me time to tighten my belt, Miss Perren, and ask him up.”
‘The lie benevolent,’ he thought; ‘now for it!’
The entrance of Bicket into a room where his last appearance had been so painful, was accomplished with a certain stolidity. Michael stood, back to the hearth, smoking; Bicket, back to a pile of modern novels, with the words “This great new novel” on it. Michael nodded.
“Hallo, Bicket!”
Bicket nodded.
“Hope you’re keeping well, sir?”
“Frightfully well, thank you.” And there was silence.
“Well,” said Michael, at last, “I suppose you’ve come about that little advance to your wife. It’s quite all right; no hurry whatever.”
While saying this he had become conscious that the ‘little snipe’ was dreadfully disturbed. His eyes had a most peculiar look, those large, shrimp-like eyes which seemed, as it were, in advance of the rest of him. He hastened on:
“I believe in Australia myself. I think you’re perfectly right, Bicket, and the sooner you go, the better. She doesn’t look too strong.”
Bicket swallowed.
“Sir,” he said, “you’ve been a gent to me, and it’s hard to say things.”
“Then don’t.”
Bicket’s cheeks became suffused with blood: queer effect in that pale, haggard face.
“It isn’t what you think,” he said: “I’ve come to ask you to tell me the truth.” Suddenly he whipped from his pocket what Michael perceived to be a crumpled novel-wrapper.
“I took this from a book on the counter as I came by, downstairs. There! Is that my wife?” He stretched it out.
Michael beheld with consternation the wrapper of Storbert’s novel. One thing to tell the lie benevolent already determined on–quite another to deny this!
Bicket gave him little time.
“I see it is, from your fyce,” he said. “What’s it all mean? I want the truth–I must ‘ave it! I’m gettin’ wild over all this. If that’s ‘er fyce there, then that’s ‘er body in the Gallery–Aubrey Greene; it’s the syme nyme. What’s it all mean?” His face had become almost formidable; his cockney accent very broad. “What gyme ‘as she been plyin’? You gotta tell me before I go aht of ’ere.”
Michael’s heels came together. He said quietly.
“Steady, Bicket.”
“Steady! You’d be steady if YOUR wife–! All that money! YOU never advanced it–you never give it ‘er–never! Don’t tell me you did!”
Michael had taken his line. No lies!
“I lent her ten pounds to make a round sum of it–that’s all; the rest she earned–honourably; and you ought to be proud of her.”
Bicket’s mouth fell open.
“Proud? And how’s she earned it? Proud! My Gawd!”
Michael said coldly:
“As a model. I myself gave her the introduction to my friend, Mr. Greene, the day you had lunch with me. You’ve heard of models, I suppose?”
Bicket’s hands tore the wrapper, and the pieces fell to the floor. “Models!” he said: “Pynters–yes, I’ve ‘eard of ’em–Swines!”
“No more swine than you are, Bicket. Be kind enough not to insult my friend. Pull yourself together, man, and take a cigarette.”
Bicket dashed the proffered case aside.
“I–I–was stuck on her,” he said passionately, “and she’s put this up on me!” A sort of sob came out of his lungs.
“You were stuck on her,” said Michael; his voice had sting in it. “And when she does her best for you, you turn her down–is that it? Do you suppose she liked it?”
Bicket covered his face suddenly.
“What should I know?” he muttered from behind his hands.
A wave of pity flooded up in Michael. Pity! Blurb!
He said drily: “When you’ve quite done, Bicket. D’you happen to remember what YOU did for HER?”
Bicket uncovered his face and stared wildly.
“You’ve never told her that?”
“No; but I jolly well will if you don’t pull yourself together.”
“What do I care if you do, now–lyin’ like that, for all the men in the world! Sixty pound! Honourably! D’you think I believe that?” His voice had desolation in it.
“Ah!” said Michael. “You don’t believe simply because you’re ignorant, as ignorant as the swine you talk of. A girl can do what she did and be perfectly honest, as I haven’t the faintest doubt she is. You’ve only to look at her, and hear the way she speaks of it. She did it because she couldn’t bear to see you selling those balloons. She did it to get you out of the gutter, and give you both a chance. And now you’ve got the chance, you kick up like this. Dash it all, Bicket, be a sport! Suppose I tell her what you did for her–d’you think she’s going to squirm and squeal? Not she! It was damned human of you, and it was damned human of her; and don’t you forget it!”
Bicket swallowed violently again.
“It’s all very well,” he said, sullenly; “it ‘asn’t ‘appened to you.”
Michael was afflicted at once. No! It hadn’t happened to him! And all his doubts of Fleur in the days of Wilfrid came hitting him.
“Look here, Bicket,” he said, “do you doubt your wife’s affection? The whole thing is there. I’ve only seen her twice, but I don’t see how you can. If she weren’t fond of you, why should she want to go to Australia, when she knows she can make good money here, and enjoy herself if she wants? I can vouch for my friend Greene. He’s dashed decent, and I KNOW he’s played cricket.”
But, searching Bicket’s face, he wondered: Were all the others she had sat to as dashed decent?
“Look here, Bicket! We all get up against it sometimes; and that’s the test of us. You’ve just GOT to believe in her; there’s nothing else to it.”
“To myke a show of herself for all the world to see!” The words seemed to struggle from the skinny throat. “I saw that picture bought yesterday by a ruddy alderman.”
Michael could not conceal a grin at this description of ‘Old Forsyte.’
“As a matter of fact,” he said, “it was bought by my own father-inlaw as a present to us, to hang in our house. And, mind you, Bicket, it’s a fine thing.”
“Ah!” cried Bicket, “it IS a fine thing! Money! It’s money bought her. Money’ll buy anything. It’ll buy the ’eart out of your chest.”
And Michael thought: ‘I can’t get away with it a bit! What price emancipation? He’s never heard of the Greeks! And if he had, they’d seem to him a lot of loose-living foreigners. I must quit.’ And, suddenly, he saw tears come out of those shrimp’s eyes, and trickle down the hollowed cheeks.
Very disturbed, he said hastily:
“When you get out there, you’ll never think of it again. Hang it all, Bicket, be a man! She did it for the best. If I were you, I’d never let on to her that I knew. That’s what she’d do if I told her how you snooped those ‘Copper Coins.’”
Bicket clenched his fists–the action went curiously with the tears; then, without a word, he turned and shuffled out.
‘Well,’ thought Michael, ‘giving advice is clearly not my stunt! Poor little snipe!’
Chapter VI.
QUITTANCE
Bicket stumbled, half-blind, along the Strand. Naturally good-tempered, such a nerve-storm made him feel ill, and bruised in the brain. Sunlight and motion slowly restored some power of thought. He had got the truth. But was it the whole and nothing but the truth? Could she have made all that money without–? If he could believe that, then, perhaps–out of this country where people could see her naked for a shilling–he might forget. But–all that money! And even if all earned ‘honourable,’ as Mr. Mont had put it, in how many days, exposed to the eyes of how many men? He groaned aloud in the street. The thought of going home to her–of a scene, of what he might learn if there WERE a scene, was just about unbearable. And yet–must do it, he supposed. He could have borne it better under St. Paul’s, standing in the gutter, offering his balloons. A man of leisure for the first time in his life, a blooming ‘alderman’ with nothing to do but step in and take a ticket to the ruddy butterflies! And he owed that leisure to what a man with nothing to take his thoughts off simply could not bear! He would rather have snaffled the money out of a shop till. Better that on his soul, than the jab of this dark fiendish sexual jealousy. ‘Be a man!’ Easy said! ‘Pull yourself together! She did it for you!’ He would a hundred times rather she had not. Blackfriars Bridge! A dive, and an end in the mud down there? But you had to rise three times; they would fish you out alive, and run you in for it–and nothing gained–not even the pleasure of thinking that Vic would see what she had done, when she came to identify the body. Dead was dead, anyway, and he would never know what she felt post-mortem! He trudged across the bridge, keeping his eyes before him. Little Ditch Street–how he used to scuttle down it, back to her, when she had pneumonia! Would he never feel like that again? He strode past the window, and went in.
Victorine was still bending over the brown tin trunk. She straightened herself, and on her face came a cold, tired look.
“Well,” she said, “I see you know.”
Bicket had but two steps to take in that small room. He took them, and put his hands on her shoulders. His face was close, his eyes, so large and strained, searched hers.
“I know you’ve myde a show of yerself for all London to see; what I want to know is–the rest!”
Victorine stared back at him.
“The rest!” she said–it was not a question, just a repetition, in a voice that seemed to mean nothing.
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18
“Also, she comes from Putney.”
“There you have a real reason. Then, you WILL put up a barrage if Bicket blows in?”
Aubrey Greene laid his hand on his heart. “And here we are!”
For the convenience of the eleventh baronet Michael had chosen the hour when the proper patrons of Aubrey Greene would still be lunching. A shock-headed young man and three pale-green girls alone wandered among the pictures. The painter led the way at once to his masterpiece; and for some minutes they stood before it in a suitable paralysis. To speak too soon in praise would never do; to speak too late would be equally tactless; to speak too fulsomely would jar; to mutter coldly: “Very nice–very nice indeed!” would blight. To say bluntly: “Well, old man, to tell you the truth, I don’t like it a little bit!” would get his goat.
At last Michael pinched Fleur gently, and she said:
“It really is charming, Aubrey; and awfully like–at least–”
“So far as one can tell. But really, old man, you’ve done it in once. I’m afraid Bicket will think so, anyway.”
“Dash that!” muttered the painter. “How do you find the colour values?”
“Jolly fine; especially the flesh; don’t you think so, Fleur?”
“Yes; only I should have liked that shadow down the side a little deeper.”
“Yes?” murmured the painter: “Perhaps!”
“You’ve caught the spirit,” said Michael. “But I tell you what, old man, you’re for it–the thing’s got meaning. I don’t know what the critics will do to you.”
Aubrey Greene smiled. “That was the worst of her. She led me on. To get an idea’s fatal.”
“Personally, I don’t agree to that; do you, Fleur?”
“Of course not; only one doesn’t say so.”
“Time we did, instead of kow-towing to the Cafe C’rillon. I say, the hair’s all right, and so are the toes–they curl as you look at ’em.”
“And it IS a relief not to get legs painted in streaky cubes. The asphodels rather remind one of the flowers in Leonardo’s ‘Virgin of the Rocks,’ Aubrey.”
“The whole thing’s just a bit Leonardoish, old man. You’ll have to live that down.”
“Oh! Aubrey, my father’s seen it. I believe he’s biting. Something you said impressed him–about our white monkey, d’you remember?”
Aubrey Greene threw up his hands. “Ah! That white monkey–to have painted that! Eat the fruit and chuck the rinds around, and ask with your eyes what it’s all about.”
“A moral!” said Michael: “Take care, old man! Well! Our taxi’s running up. Come along, Fleur; we’ll leave Aubrey to his conscience.”
Once more in the cab, he took her arm. “That poor little snipe, Bicket! Suppose I’d come on YOU as he’ll come on his wife!”
“I shouldn’t have looked so nice.”
“Oh! yes; much nicer; though she looks nice enough, I must say.”
“Then why should Bicket mind, in these days of emancipation?”
“Why? Good Lord, ducky! You don’t suppose Bicket–! I mean, we emancipated people have got into the habit of thinking we’re the world–well! we aren’t; we’re an excrescence, small, and noisy. We talk as if all the old values and prejudices had gone; but they’ve no more gone, really, you know, than the rows of villas and little grey houses.”
“Why this outburst, Michael?”
“Well, darling, I’m a bit fed-up with the attitude of our crowd. If emancipation were true, one could stick it; but it’s not. There isn’t ten per cent. difference between now and thirty years ago.”
“How do you know? You weren’t alive.”
“No; but I read the papers, and talk to the man in the street, and look at people’s faces. Our lot think they’re the tablecloth, but they’re only the fringe. D’you know, only one hundred and fifty thousand people in this country have ever heard a Beethoven Symphony? How many, do you suppose, think old B. a back number? Five thousand, perhaps, out of forty-two millions. How’s that for emancipation?”
He stopped, observing that her eyelids had drooped.
“I was thinking, Michael, that I should like to change my bedroom curtains to blue. I saw the exact colour yesterday at Harton’s. They say blue has an effect on the mind–the present curtains really are too jazzy.”
The eleventh baronet!
“Anything you like, darling. Have a blue ceiling if it helps.”
“Oh, no! But I think I’ll change the carpet, too; there’s a lovely powder blue at Harton’s.”
“Then get it. Would you like to go there now? I can take the Tube back to the office.”
“Yes, I think I’d better. I might miss it.”
Michael put his head out of the window. “Harton’s, please!” And, replacing his hat, he looked at her. Emancipated! Phew!
Chapter IV.
AFTERNOON OF A BICKET
Just about that moment Bicket re-entered his sitting-room and deposited his tray. All the morning under the shadow of St. Paul’s he had re-lived Bank Holiday. Exceptionally tired in feet and legs, he was also itching mentally. He had promised himself a refreshing look from time to time at what was almost like a photo of Vic herself. And he had lost the picture! Yet he had taken nothing out of his pockets–just hung his coat up. Had it joggled out in the crush at the station, or had he missed his pocket opening and dropped it in the carriage? And he had wanted to see the original, too. He remembered that the Gallery began with a ‘D,’ and at lunch-time squandered a penny-halfpenny to look up the names. Foreign, he was sure–the picture being naked. ‘Dumetrius?’ Ah!
Back at his post, he had a bit of luck. ‘That alderman,’ whom he had not seen for months, came by. Intuition made him say at once: “Hope I see you well sir. Never forgotten your kindness.”
The ‘alderman,’ who had been staring up as if he saw a magpie on the dome of St. Paul’s, stopped as though attacked by cramp.
“Kindness?” he said; “what kindness? Oh! balloons! They were no good to me!”
“No, sir, I’m sure,” said Bicket humbly.
“Well, here you are!” muttered the ‘alderman’; “don’t expect it again.”
Half-a-crown! A whole half-crown! Bicket’s eyes pursued the hastening form. “Good-luck!” he said softly to himself, and began putting up his tray. “I’ll go home and rest my feet, and tyke Vic to see that picture. It’ll be funny lookin’ at it together.”
But she was not in. He sat down and smoked a fag. He felt aggrieved that she was out, this the first afternoon he had taken off. Of course she couldn’t stay in all day!
Still–! He waited twenty minutes, then put on Michael’s suit and shoes.
‘I’ll go and see it alone,’ he thought. ‘It’ll cost half as much. They charge you sixpence, I expect.’
They charged him a shilling–a shilling! One fourth of his day’s earnings, to see a picture! He entered bashfully. There were ladies who smelled of scent and had drawling voices but not a patch on Vic for looks. One of them, behind him, said:
“See! There’s Aubrey Greene himself! And that’s the picture they’re talking of–‘Afternoon of a Dryad.’”
They passed him and moved on. Bicket followed. At the end of the room, between their draperies and catalogues, he glimpsed the picture. A slight sweat broke out on his forehead. Almost life-size, among the flowers and spiky grasses, the face smiled round at him–very image of Vic! Could some one in the world be as like her as all that? The thought offended him, as a collector is offended finding the duplicate of an unique possession.
“It’s a wonderful picture, Mr. Greene. What a type!”
A young man without hat, and fair hair sliding back, answered:
“A find, wasn’t she?”
“Oh! perfect! the very spirit of a wood nymph; so mysterious!”
The word that belonged to Vic! It was unholy. There she lay for all to look at, just because some beastly woman was made like her! A kind of rage invaded Bicket’s throat, caused his checks to burn; and with it came a queer physical jealousy. That painter! What business had he to paint a woman so like Vic as that–a woman that didn’t mind lyin’ like that! They and their talk about cahryscuro and paganism, and a bloke called Leneardo! Blast their drawling and their tricks! He tried to move away, and could not, fascinated by that effigy, so uncannily resembling what he had thought belonged to himself alone. Silly to feel so bad over a ‘coincidence,’ but he felt like smashing the glass and cutting the body up into little bits. The ladies and the painter passed on, leaving him alone before the picture. Alone, he did not mind so much. The face was mournful-like, and lonely, and–and teasing, with its smile. It sort of haunted you–it did! ‘Well!’ thought Bicket, ‘I’ll get home to Vic. Glad I didn’t bring her, after all, to see herself-like. If I was an alderman, I’d buy the blinkin’ thing, and burn it!’
And there, in the entrance-lobby, talking to a ‘dago,’ stood–his very own ‘alderman!’ Bicket paused in sheer amazement.
“It’s a rithing name, Mr. Forthyte,” he heard the Dago say: “hith prithes are going up.”
“That’s all very well, Dumetrius, but it’s not everybody’s money in these days–too highly-finished, altogether!”
“Well, Mr. Forthyte, to YOU I take off ten per thent.”
“Take off twenty and I’ll buy it.”
That Dago’s shoulders mounted above his hairy ears–they did; and what a smile!
“Mithter Forthyte! Fifteen, thir!”
“Well, you’re doing me; but send it round to my daughter’s in South Square–you know the number. When do you close?”
“Day after tomorrow, thir.”
So! The counterfeit of Vic had gone to that ‘alderman,’ had it? Bicket uttered a savage little sound, and slunk out.
He walked with a queer feeling. Had he got unnecessary wind up? After all, it wasn’t her. But to know that another woman could smile that way, have frizzy-ended short black hair, and be all curved the same! And at every woman’s passing face he looked–so different, so utterly unlike Vic’s!
When he reached home she was standing in the middle of the room, with her lips to a balloon. All around her, on the floor, chairs, table, mantelpiece, were the blown-out shapes of his stock; one by one they had floated from her lips and selected their own resting-places: puce, green, orange, purple, blue, enlivening with their colour the dingy little space. All his balloons blown up! And there, in her best clothes, she stood, smiling, queer, excited.
“What in thunder!” said Bicket.
Raising her dress, she took some crackling notes from the top of her stocking, and held them out to him.
“See! Sixty-four pounds, Tony! I’ve got it all. We can go.”
“WHAT!”
“I had a brain wave–went to that Mr. Mont who gave us the clothes, and he’s advanced it. We can pay it back, some day. Isn’t it a marvel?”
Bicket’s eyes, startled like a rabbit’s, took in her smile, her excited flush, and a strange feeling shot through all his body, as if THEY were taking HIM in! She wasn’t like Vic! No! Suddenly he felt her arms round him, felt her moist lips on his. She clung so tight, he could not move. His head went round.
“At last! At last! Isn’t it fine? Kiss me, Tony!”
Bicket kissed; his vertigo was real, but behind it, for the moment stifled, what sense of unreality!…
Was it before night, or in the night, that the doubt first came–ghostly, tapping, fluttering, haunting–then, in the dawn, jabbing through his soul, turning him rigid. The money–the picture–the lost paper–that sense of unreality! This story she had told him! Were such things possible? Why should Mr. Mont advance that money? She had seen him–that was certain; the room, the secretary–you couldn’t mistake her description of that Miss Perren. Why, then, feel this jabbing doubt? The money–such a lot of money! Not with Mr. Mont–never–he was a gent! Oh! Swine that he was, to have a thought like that–of Vic! He turned his back to her and tried to sleep. But once you got a thought like that–sleep? No! Her face among the balloons, the way she had smothered his eyes and turned his head–so that he couldn’t think, couldn’t go into it and ask her questions! A prey to dim doubts, achings, uncertainty, thrills of hope, and visions of ‘Austrylia,’ Bicket arose haggard.
“Well,” he said, over their cocoa and margarined bread: “I must see Mr. Mont, that’s certain.” And suddenly he added: “Vic?” looking straight into her face.
She answered his look–straight, yes, straight. Oh! he was a proper swine!…
When he had left the house Victorine stood quite still, with hands pressed against her chest. She had slept less than he. Still as a mouse, she had turned and turned the thought: ‘Did I take him in? Did I?’ And if not–what? She took out the notes which had bought–or sold? – their happiness, and counted them once more. And the sense of injustice burned within her. Had she wanted to stand like that before men? Hadn’t she been properly through it about that? Why, she could have had the sixty pounds three months ago from that sculptor, who was wild about her; or–so he said! But she had stuck it; yes, she had. Tony had nothing against her really–even if he knew it all. She had done it for him–Well! mostly–for him selling those balloons day after day in all weathers! But for her, they would still be stuck, and another winter coming, and unemployment–so they said in the paper–to be worse and worse! Stuck in the fogs and the cold, again! Ugh! Her chest was still funny sometimes; and he always hoarse. And this poky little room, and the bed so small that she couldn’t stir without waking him. Why should Tony doubt her? For he did–she had felt it, heard it in his “Vic?” Would Mr. Mont convince him? Tony was sharp! Her head drooped. The unfairness of it all! Some had everything to their hand, like that pretty wife of Mr. Mont’s! And if one tried to find a way and get out to a new chance–then–then–this! She flung her hair back. Tony MUST believe–he should! If he wouldn’t, let him look out. She had done nothing to be ashamed of! No, indeed! And with the longing to go in front and lead her happiness along, she got out her old tin trunk, and began with careful method to put things into it.
Chapter V.
MICHAEL GIVES ADVICE
Michael still sat, correcting the proofs of ‘Counterfeits.’ Save ‘Jericho,’ there had been no address to send them to. The East was wide, and Wilfrid had made no sign. Did Fleur ever think of Wilfrid now? He had the impression that she did not. And Wilfrid–well, probably he was forgetting her already. Even passion required a little sustenance.
“A Mr. Forsyte to see you, sir.”
Apparition in bookland!
“Ah–Show him in.”
Soames entered with an air of suspicion.
“This your place?” he said. “I’ve looked in to tell you that I’ve bought that picture of young Greene’s. Have you anywhere to hang it?”
“I should think we had,” said Michael. “Jolly good, sir, isn’t it?”
“Well,” muttered Soames, “for these days, yes. He’ll make a name.”
“He’s an intense admirer of that White Monkey you gave us.”
“Ah! I’ve been looking into the Chinese. If I go on buying–” Soames paused.
“They ARE a bit of an antidote, aren’t they, sir? That ‘Earthly Paradise!’ And those geese–they don’t seem to mind your counting their feathers, do they?”
Soames made no reply; he was evidently thinking: ‘How on earth I missed those things when they first came on the market!’ Then, raising his umbrella, and pointing it as if at the book trade, he asked:
“Young Butterfield–how’s he doing?”
“Ah! I was going to let you know, sir. He came in yesterday and told me that he saw Elderson two days ago. He went to sell him a copy of my father’s ‘Limited’; Elderson said nothing and bought two.”
“The deuce he did!”
“Butterfield got the impression that his visit put the wind up him. Elderson knows, of course, that I’m in this firm, and your son-inlaw.”
Soames frowned. “I’m not sure,” he said, “that sleeping dogs–! Well, I’m on my way there now.”
“Mention the book, sir, and see how Elderson takes it. Would you like one yourself? You’re on the list. E, F–Butterfield should be reaching you today. It’ll save you a refusal. Here it is–nice get-up. One guinea.”
“‘A Duet,’” read Soames. “What’s it about? Musical?”
“Not precisely. A sort of cat-calling between the ghosts of the G. O. M. and Dizzy!”
“I’m not a reader,” said Soames. He pulled out a note. “Why didn’t you make it a pound? Here’s the shilling.”
“Thanks awfully, sir; I’m sure my father’ll be frightfully bucked to think you’ve got one.”
“Will he?” said Soames, with a faint smile. “D’you ever do any WORK here?”
“Well, we try to turn a doubtful penny.”
“What d’you make at it?”
“Personally, about five hundred a year.”
“That all?”
“Yes, but I doubt if I’m worth more than three.”
“H’m! I thought you’d got over your Socialism.”
“I fancy I have, sir. It didn’t seem to go with my position.”
“No,” said Soames. “Fleur seems well.”
“Yes, she’s splendid. She does the Coue stunt, you know.”
Soames stared. “That’s her mother,” he said; “I can’t tell. Good-bye! Oh! I want to know; what’s the meaning of that expression ‘got his goat?’”
“‘Got his goat?’ Oh, raised his dander, if you know what that means, it was before my time.”
“I see,” said Soames; “I had it right, then. Well!” He turned. His back was very neat and real. It vanished through the doorway, and with it seemed to go the sense of definition.
Michael took up the proofs, and read two poems. Bitter as quinine! The unrest in them–the yearning behind the words! Nothing Chinese there! After all, the ancients–like Old Forsyte, and his father in a very different way–had an anchor down. ‘What is it?’ thought Michael. ‘What’s wrong with us? We’re quick, and clever, cocksure, and dissatisfied. If only something would enthuse us, or get OUR goats! We’ve chucked religion, tradition, property, pity; and in their place we put–what? Beauty? Gosh! See Walter Nazing, and the Cafe C’rillon! And yet–we must be after something! Better world? Doesn’t look like it. Future life? Suppose I ought to “look into” spiritualism, as Old Forsyte would say. But–half in this world, half in that–deuced odd if spirits are less restive than we are!’
To what–to what, then, was it all moving? ‘Dash it!’ thought Michael, getting up, ‘I’ll try dictating an advertisement!’
“Will you come in, please, Miss Perren? For the new Desert volume–Trade Journals: ‘Danby and Winter will shortly issue ‘Counterfeits,’ by the author of ‘Copper Coin,’ the outstanding success of the last publishing season. I wonder how many publishers have claimed that, Miss Perren, for how many books this year? ‘These poems show all the brilliancy of mood, and more than the technical accomplishment of the young author’s first volume.’ How’s that?”
“Brilliancy of mood, Mr. Mont? Do you think?”
“No. But what am I to say? ‘All the pangs and pessimism?’”
“Oh, no! But possibly: ‘All the brilliancy of diction, the strangeness and variety of mood.’”
“Good. But it’ll cost more. Say: ‘All the brilliant strangeness’; that’ll ring their bells in once. We’re nuts on ‘the strange,’ but we’re not getting it–the outre, yes, but not the strange.”
“Surely Mr. Desert gets–”
“Yes, sometimes; but hardly any one else. To be strange, you’ve got to have guts, if you’ll excuse the phrase, Miss Perren.”
“Certainly, Mr. Mont. That young man Bicket is waiting to see you.”
“He is, is he?” said Michael, taking out a cigarette. “Give me time to tighten my belt, Miss Perren, and ask him up.”
‘The lie benevolent,’ he thought; ‘now for it!’
The entrance of Bicket into a room where his last appearance had been so painful, was accomplished with a certain stolidity. Michael stood, back to the hearth, smoking; Bicket, back to a pile of modern novels, with the words “This great new novel” on it. Michael nodded.
“Hallo, Bicket!”
Bicket nodded.
“Hope you’re keeping well, sir?”
“Frightfully well, thank you.” And there was silence.
“Well,” said Michael, at last, “I suppose you’ve come about that little advance to your wife. It’s quite all right; no hurry whatever.”
While saying this he had become conscious that the ‘little snipe’ was dreadfully disturbed. His eyes had a most peculiar look, those large, shrimp-like eyes which seemed, as it were, in advance of the rest of him. He hastened on:
“I believe in Australia myself. I think you’re perfectly right, Bicket, and the sooner you go, the better. She doesn’t look too strong.”
Bicket swallowed.
“Sir,” he said, “you’ve been a gent to me, and it’s hard to say things.”
“Then don’t.”
Bicket’s cheeks became suffused with blood: queer effect in that pale, haggard face.
“It isn’t what you think,” he said: “I’ve come to ask you to tell me the truth.” Suddenly he whipped from his pocket what Michael perceived to be a crumpled novel-wrapper.
“I took this from a book on the counter as I came by, downstairs. There! Is that my wife?” He stretched it out.
Michael beheld with consternation the wrapper of Storbert’s novel. One thing to tell the lie benevolent already determined on–quite another to deny this!
Bicket gave him little time.
“I see it is, from your fyce,” he said. “What’s it all mean? I want the truth–I must ‘ave it! I’m gettin’ wild over all this. If that’s ‘er fyce there, then that’s ‘er body in the Gallery–Aubrey Greene; it’s the syme nyme. What’s it all mean?” His face had become almost formidable; his cockney accent very broad. “What gyme ‘as she been plyin’? You gotta tell me before I go aht of ’ere.”
Michael’s heels came together. He said quietly.
“Steady, Bicket.”
“Steady! You’d be steady if YOUR wife–! All that money! YOU never advanced it–you never give it ‘er–never! Don’t tell me you did!”
Michael had taken his line. No lies!
“I lent her ten pounds to make a round sum of it–that’s all; the rest she earned–honourably; and you ought to be proud of her.”
Bicket’s mouth fell open.
“Proud? And how’s she earned it? Proud! My Gawd!”
Michael said coldly:
“As a model. I myself gave her the introduction to my friend, Mr. Greene, the day you had lunch with me. You’ve heard of models, I suppose?”
Bicket’s hands tore the wrapper, and the pieces fell to the floor. “Models!” he said: “Pynters–yes, I’ve ‘eard of ’em–Swines!”
“No more swine than you are, Bicket. Be kind enough not to insult my friend. Pull yourself together, man, and take a cigarette.”
Bicket dashed the proffered case aside.
“I–I–was stuck on her,” he said passionately, “and she’s put this up on me!” A sort of sob came out of his lungs.
“You were stuck on her,” said Michael; his voice had sting in it. “And when she does her best for you, you turn her down–is that it? Do you suppose she liked it?”
Bicket covered his face suddenly.
“What should I know?” he muttered from behind his hands.
A wave of pity flooded up in Michael. Pity! Blurb!
He said drily: “When you’ve quite done, Bicket. D’you happen to remember what YOU did for HER?”
Bicket uncovered his face and stared wildly.
“You’ve never told her that?”
“No; but I jolly well will if you don’t pull yourself together.”
“What do I care if you do, now–lyin’ like that, for all the men in the world! Sixty pound! Honourably! D’you think I believe that?” His voice had desolation in it.
“Ah!” said Michael. “You don’t believe simply because you’re ignorant, as ignorant as the swine you talk of. A girl can do what she did and be perfectly honest, as I haven’t the faintest doubt she is. You’ve only to look at her, and hear the way she speaks of it. She did it because she couldn’t bear to see you selling those balloons. She did it to get you out of the gutter, and give you both a chance. And now you’ve got the chance, you kick up like this. Dash it all, Bicket, be a sport! Suppose I tell her what you did for her–d’you think she’s going to squirm and squeal? Not she! It was damned human of you, and it was damned human of her; and don’t you forget it!”
Bicket swallowed violently again.
“It’s all very well,” he said, sullenly; “it ‘asn’t ‘appened to you.”
Michael was afflicted at once. No! It hadn’t happened to him! And all his doubts of Fleur in the days of Wilfrid came hitting him.
“Look here, Bicket,” he said, “do you doubt your wife’s affection? The whole thing is there. I’ve only seen her twice, but I don’t see how you can. If she weren’t fond of you, why should she want to go to Australia, when she knows she can make good money here, and enjoy herself if she wants? I can vouch for my friend Greene. He’s dashed decent, and I KNOW he’s played cricket.”
But, searching Bicket’s face, he wondered: Were all the others she had sat to as dashed decent?
“Look here, Bicket! We all get up against it sometimes; and that’s the test of us. You’ve just GOT to believe in her; there’s nothing else to it.”
“To myke a show of herself for all the world to see!” The words seemed to struggle from the skinny throat. “I saw that picture bought yesterday by a ruddy alderman.”
Michael could not conceal a grin at this description of ‘Old Forsyte.’
“As a matter of fact,” he said, “it was bought by my own father-inlaw as a present to us, to hang in our house. And, mind you, Bicket, it’s a fine thing.”
“Ah!” cried Bicket, “it IS a fine thing! Money! It’s money bought her. Money’ll buy anything. It’ll buy the ’eart out of your chest.”
And Michael thought: ‘I can’t get away with it a bit! What price emancipation? He’s never heard of the Greeks! And if he had, they’d seem to him a lot of loose-living foreigners. I must quit.’ And, suddenly, he saw tears come out of those shrimp’s eyes, and trickle down the hollowed cheeks.
Very disturbed, he said hastily:
“When you get out there, you’ll never think of it again. Hang it all, Bicket, be a man! She did it for the best. If I were you, I’d never let on to her that I knew. That’s what she’d do if I told her how you snooped those ‘Copper Coins.’”
Bicket clenched his fists–the action went curiously with the tears; then, without a word, he turned and shuffled out.
‘Well,’ thought Michael, ‘giving advice is clearly not my stunt! Poor little snipe!’
Chapter VI.
QUITTANCE
Bicket stumbled, half-blind, along the Strand. Naturally good-tempered, such a nerve-storm made him feel ill, and bruised in the brain. Sunlight and motion slowly restored some power of thought. He had got the truth. But was it the whole and nothing but the truth? Could she have made all that money without–? If he could believe that, then, perhaps–out of this country where people could see her naked for a shilling–he might forget. But–all that money! And even if all earned ‘honourable,’ as Mr. Mont had put it, in how many days, exposed to the eyes of how many men? He groaned aloud in the street. The thought of going home to her–of a scene, of what he might learn if there WERE a scene, was just about unbearable. And yet–must do it, he supposed. He could have borne it better under St. Paul’s, standing in the gutter, offering his balloons. A man of leisure for the first time in his life, a blooming ‘alderman’ with nothing to do but step in and take a ticket to the ruddy butterflies! And he owed that leisure to what a man with nothing to take his thoughts off simply could not bear! He would rather have snaffled the money out of a shop till. Better that on his soul, than the jab of this dark fiendish sexual jealousy. ‘Be a man!’ Easy said! ‘Pull yourself together! She did it for you!’ He would a hundred times rather she had not. Blackfriars Bridge! A dive, and an end in the mud down there? But you had to rise three times; they would fish you out alive, and run you in for it–and nothing gained–not even the pleasure of thinking that Vic would see what she had done, when she came to identify the body. Dead was dead, anyway, and he would never know what she felt post-mortem! He trudged across the bridge, keeping his eyes before him. Little Ditch Street–how he used to scuttle down it, back to her, when she had pneumonia! Would he never feel like that again? He strode past the window, and went in.
Victorine was still bending over the brown tin trunk. She straightened herself, and on her face came a cold, tired look.
“Well,” she said, “I see you know.”
Bicket had but two steps to take in that small room. He took them, and put his hands on her shoulders. His face was close, his eyes, so large and strained, searched hers.
“I know you’ve myde a show of yerself for all London to see; what I want to know is–the rest!”
Victorine stared back at him.
“The rest!” she said–it was not a question, just a repetition, in a voice that seemed to mean nothing.
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