CHAPTER IV.
RAISED EYEBROWS.
"Work must be done anyhow," said Mr. Lewisham.
But never had the extraordinary advantages of open-air study presentedthemselves so vividly. Before breakfast he took half an hour ofopen-air reading along the allotments lane near the Frobishers' house,after breakfast and before school he went through the avenue with abook, and returned from school to his lodgings circuitously throughthe avenue, and so back to the avenue for thirty minutes or so beforeafternoon school. When Mr. Lewisham was not looking over the top ofhis book during these periods of open-air study, then commonly he wasglancing over his shoulder. And at last who should he see but--!
He saw her out of the corner of his eye, and he turned away at once,pretending not to have seen her. His whole being was suddenlyirradiated with emotion. The hands holding his book gripped it verytightly. He did not glance back again, but walked slowly andsteadfastly, reading an ode that he could not have translated to savehis life, and listening acutely for her approach. And after aninterminable time, as it seemed, came a faint footfall and the swishof skirts behind him.
He felt as though his head was directed forward by a clutch of iron.
"Mr. Lewisham," she said close to him, and he turned with a quality ofmovement that was almost convulsive. He raised his cap clumsily.
He took her extended hand by an afterthought, and held it until shewithdrew it. "I am so glad to have met you," she said.
"So am I," said Lewisham simply.
They stood facing one another for an expressive moment, and then by amovement she indicated her intention to walk along the avenue withhim. "I wanted so much," she said, looking down at her feet, "to thankyou for letting Teddy off, you know. That is why I wanted to see you."Lewisham took his first step beside her. "And it's odd, isn't it," shesaid, looking up into his face, "that I should meet you here in justthe same place. I believe ... Yes. The very same place we met before."
Mr. Lewisham was tongue-tied.
"Do you often come here?" she said.
"Well," he considered--and his voice was most unreasonably hoarse whenhe spoke--"no. No.... That is--At least not often. Now and then. Infact, I like it rather for reading and that sort of thing. It's soquiet."
"I suppose you read a great deal?"
"When one teaches one has to."
"But you ..."
"I'm rather fond of reading, certainly. Are you?"
"I _love_ it."
Mr. Lewisham was glad she loved reading. He would have beendisappointed had she answered differently. But she spoke with realfervour. She _loved_ reading! It was pleasant. She would understandhim a little perhaps. "Of course," she went on, "I'm not clever likesome people are. And I have to read books as I get hold of them."
"So do I," said Mr. Lewisham, "for the matter of that.... Have youread ... Carlyle?"
The conversation was now fairly under way. They were walking side byside beneath the swaying boughs. Mr. Lewisham's sensations wereecstatic, marred only by a dread of some casual boy coming uponthem. She had not read _much_ Carlyle. She had always wanted to, evenfrom quite a little girl--she had heard so much about him. She knew hewas a Really Great Writer, a _very_ Great Writer indeed. All she _had_read of him she liked. She could say that. As much as she likedanything. And she had seen his house in Chelsea.
Lewisham, whose knowledge of London had been obtained by excursiontrips on six or seven isolated days, was much impressed by this. Itseemed to put her at once on a footing of intimacy with this imposingPersonality. It had never occurred to him at all vividly that theseGreat Writers had real abiding places. She gave him a few descriptivetouches that made the house suddenly real and distinctive to him. Shelived quite near, she said, at least within walking distance, inClapham. He instantly forgot the vague design of lending her his"_Sartor Resartus_" in his curiosity to learn more about herhome. "Clapham--that's almost in London, isn't it?" he said.
"Quite," she said, but she volunteered no further information abouther domestic circumstances, "I like London," she generalised, "andespecially in winter." And she proceeded to praise London, its publiclibraries, its shops, the multitudes of people, the facilities for"doing what you like," the concerts one could go to, the theatres. (Itseemed she moved in fairly good society.) "There's always something tosee even if you only go out for a walk," she said, "and down herethere's nothing to read but idle novels. And those not new."
Mr. Lewisham had regretfully to admit the lack of such culture andmental activity in Whortley. It made him feel terribly herinferior. He had only his bookishness and his certificates to setagainst it all--and she had seen Carlyle's house! "Down here," shesaid, "there's nothing to talk about but scandal." It was too true.
At the corner by the stile, beyond which the willows were splendidagainst the blue with silvery aments and golden pollen, they turned bymutual impulse and retraced their steps. "I've simply had no one totalk to down here," she said. "Not what _I_ call talking."
"I hope," said Lewisham, making a resolute plunge, "perhaps while youare staying at Whortley ..."
He paused perceptibly, and she, following his eyes, saw a voluminousblack figure approaching. "We may," said Mr. Lewisham, resuming hisremark, "chance to meet again, perhaps."
He had been about to challenge her to a deliberate meeting. A certaindelightful tangle of paths that followed the bank of the river hadbeen in his mind. But the apparition of Mr. George Bonover, headmasterof the Whortley Proprietary School, chilled him amazingly. DameNature no doubt had arranged the meeting of our young couple, butabout Bonover she seems to have been culpably careless. She nowreceded inimitably, and Mr. Lewisham, with the most unpleasantfeelings, found himself face to face with a typical representative ofa social organisation which objects very strongly _inter alia_ topromiscuous conversation on the part of the young unmarried juniormaster.
"--chance to meet again, perhaps," said Mr. Lewisham, with a suddenlack of spirit.
"I hope so too," she said.
Pause. Mr. Bonover's features, and particularly a bushy pair of blackeyebrows, were now very near, those eyebrows already raised,apparently to express a refined astonishment.
"Is this Mr. Bonover approaching?" she asked.
"Yes."
Prolonged pause.
Would he stop and accost them? At any rate this frightful silence mustend. Mr. Lewisham sought in his mind for some remark wherewith tocover his employer's approach. He was surprised to find his mind adesert. He made a colossal effort. If they could only talk, if theycould only seem at their ease! But this blank incapacity was eloquentof guilt. Ah!
"It's a lovely day, though," said Mr. Lewisham. "Isn't it?"
She agreed with him. "Isn't it?" she said.
And then Mr. Bonover passed, forehead tight reefed so to speak, andlips impressively compressed. Mr. Lewisham raised his mortar-board,and to his astonishment Mr. Bonover responded with a markedly formalsalute--mock clerical hat sweeping circuitously--and the regard of asearching, disapproving eye, and so passed. Lewisham was overcome withastonishment at this improvement on the nod of their ordinarycommerce. And so this terrible incident terminated for the time.
He felt a momentary gust of indignation. After all, why should Bonoveror anyone interfere with his talking to a girl if he chose? And forall he knew they might have been properly introduced. By youngFrobisher, say. Nevertheless, Lewisham's spring-tide mood relapsedinto winter. He was, he felt, singularly stupid for the rest of theirconversation, and the delightful feeling of enterprise that hadhitherto inspired and astonished him when talking to her hadshrivelled beyond contempt. He was glad--positively glad--when thingscame to an end.
At the park gates she held out her hand. "I'm afraid I haveinterrupted your reading," she said.
"Not a bit," said Mr. Lewisham, warming slightly. "I don't know whenI've enjoyed a conversation...."
"It was--a breach of etiquette, I am afraid, my speaking to you, but Idid so want to thank you...."
"D
on't mention it," said Mr. Lewisham, secretly impressed by theetiquette.
"Good-bye." He stood hesitating by the lodge, and then turned back upthe avenue in order not to be seen to follow her too closely up theWest Street.
And then, still walking away from her, he remembered that he had notlent her a book as he had planned, nor made any arrangement ever tomeet her again. She might leave Whortley anywhen for the amenities ofClapham. He stopped and stood irresolute. Should he run after her?Then he recalled Bonover's enigmatical expression of face. He decidedthat to pursue her would be altogether too conspicuous. Yet ... So hestood in inglorious hesitation, while the seconds passed.
He reached his lodging at last to find Mrs. Munday halfway throughdinner.
"You get them books of yours," said Mrs. Munday, who took a motherlyinterest in him, "and you read and you read, and you take no accountof time. And now you'll have to eat your dinner half cold, and no timefor it to settle proper before you goes off to school. It's ruinationto a stummik--such ways."
"Oh, never mind my stomach, Mrs. Munday," said Lewisham, roused from atangled and apparently gloomy meditation; "that's _my_ affair." Quitecrossly he spoke for him.
"I'd rather have a good sensible actin' stummik than a full head,"said Mrs. Monday, "any day."
"I'm different, you see," snapped Mr. Lewisham, and relapsed intosilence and gloom.
("Hoity toity!" said Mrs. Monday under her breath.)