ah me! even the longest and happiest day must have an ending!” sighed vestalia.
“it is not a new thought,” replied david. “but i have never before comprehended how unwelcome it could make itself.”
they spoke to each other in soft, regretful, musing tones, through the still darkness of the clouded summer night. they had been the last to quit the greenwich boat, on its last return to its city moorings, and they halted for a moment on the floating pier after the others had gone—the gentle undulation of the tide beneath their feet, their gaze dwelling upon the black silent expanse of the river.
in retrospect, the day had been very long indeed, and altogether happy. its structure of delight had been reared on the simplest and most innocent of foundations. they had gone first to the zoological garden, which fortuitously suggested itself to mosscrop’s mental search as an unexceptional resource. nor did inspiration fail him there, for when the great man-eating cats had been fed, and the foul hyenas next door had yelped themselves hoarse, and the charms of natural history had otherwise begun to wane, the notable thought of the fish dinner at greenwich rose with splendid opportuneness in his mind.
it was after this feast, while the two strolled beneath the big trees, that twilight found them out. the shadows, as they deepened among the distant shipping, and stole downward to dim the reflected whiteness of the eastern sky beyond the river, brought reverie in their train. mosscrop found a bitter taste in his cigar, and lit another impatiently. the girl leant upon his arm with a new suggestion of dependence. they moved down to the wharf by tacit consent, before the appointed time, and, taking their seat on a bench at the end, looked absently at the water with but an occasional word. evening closed in about them as they sat thus. then the boat came, and they went on board, and established themselves in relative seclusion at the stern, still in almost unbroken silence.
and now the completed journey lay behind them as well. they stood close together, swaying with the slight motion of the raft upon the lapping waters, and ruminating sadly upon the fact that their day was done.
“we finish as we began—with the river,” murmured vestalia. she trembled to his touch as she spoke.
“do you remember henley’s lines,” said david, meditatively—=
```“‘the smell of ships (that earnest of romance),
```a sense of space and water, and thereby
```a lamplit bridge touching the troubled sky,
```and look, o look! a tangle of silvery gleams,
```and dusky lights, our river and all his dreams,
```his dreams of a dead past that cannot die.’”=
“no, it cannot die,” said vestalia, slowly. “but its burial time is close at hand, none the less. ah, the beautiful day!”
they turned and paced up the ascent, and then through obscure, deserted thoroughfares made their way at length to the open space about st. paul’s. the clouds had parted, and the great dome loomed in immensity against a straggling light from the sky. they paused to look at it, and while they stood the fleecy mists far overhead cleared away, and the round moon’s full radiance flooded the prospect. mosscrop gazed up at the flaring satellite, then down at his companion. a new thought sparkled in his eyes.
“and ah, the beautiful to-morrow, too!” he said, confidently. “my good child, do you conceive that the world comes to an end when the sun goes down? am i less your friend by moonlight than i was in the day-time? are we changed by the fact that the lamps are lit?”
vestalia turned her face into the shadow, and said nothing. mosscrop felt her deep breathing against his arm.
“you have been very dutiful and obedient all day,” he began, as they moved along toward ludgate hill. “i repudiate the suggestion that you are capable of mutiny now. let us speak plainly, dear little lady. how can you suppose that, having watched over you all day and gladly made myself responsible for your well-being since before breakfast, i could wash my hands of you now, and calmly say ‘goodbye’ at a street corner?”
“you have been very very kind,” faltered vestalia.
“and for that reason it follows that i should be very callous and brutal now, does it? i don’t see the logic myself.”
“i haven’t meant that at all,” she interposed in a low voice. she bent her head so that mosserop could not see her face.
“we will develop and analyze your meanings at our leisure,” he said, with a note of authority. “it is more important for the moment to make clear what i mean. the facts are simplicity itself. you have no home, no belongings, no place to sleep, no knowledge of where the morning’s breakfast is to come from. you are a beautiful girl, and it is true our civilisation is so arranged that beautiful girls rarely starve to death. i do not recall having heard of a single instance, for that matter. but your position makes an imperative demand for assistance from somebody. it cried aloud for help at an early hour this morning. it happened that the appeal was heard and answered. if we were superstitious, we should call it providential.”
“oh, but i do!” protested the girl.
“very well, then, we are superstitious, and it was providential. these things are governed, i am informed, by immutable laws. ergo, it is still providential. who are we, that we should fly in the face of providence? i adjure you to put away such impious thoughts!”
a little sobbing catch of the breath was her only answer. he divined that there were tears in her eyes, and slowed his pace as they walked along in the gloom of the deserted descent. at the bottom, under the bridge, the sparkling lights of fleet street recalled to him that shops were still open.
“i mentioned that you had no belongings,” he resumed, after they had traversed the circus in silence. “there are little odds and ends of things that you want—the necessities of the toilet, et cetera. here is a shop; take this sovereign and get the bits of haberdashery that occur to you—such as a lady would put in her dressing-bag if she were to stop overnight in the country. i will go across the way and get the bag itself, and come back for you.”
he performed his part of the enterprise with an almost childlike delight. ladies’ dressing-bags cost more than he had imagined, but the shopman said he would take a cheque. david found something to his mind—a dainty yet capacious trifle, with pretty silver flasks ranged on one side, and a surprisingly comprehensive collection of small implements—scissors, curling-tongs, a manicure set, and other tools the significance of which he could not even guess—packed about in quaint little pockets and crevices. the outer leather was rich to the eye and delicate to the touch.
a few doors away shone the symbolical red and blue lights of a chemist. hurrying thither, he flung himself eagerly into the task of buying fluids to fill those imposing flasks. the shopman advised him, at first coldly, then with rising enthusiasm. the best perfumes and vinaigres were expensive, certainly, but then they were the best, and would vouch for themselves to any cultivated feminine mind. there were recondite soaps, and cosmetics to thrill any gentle heart. and in the matter of brushes—here were some silver-backed, and the comb also—to match the flasks. so the list was filled out, and david wrote another cheque with a proud smile.
vestalia stood at the door of the shop, waiting with a small paper parcel in her hands. mosscrop was disappointed at its size, and thrust it into the bag with a disdainful shove. they strolled on up the street, and he looked into every lighted window with a hopeful eye. the display of mere masculine or neutral wares affronted him. the shopping fantasy possessed his soul.
“but you really ought to have them. you’re not behaving nicely to me in continually saying ‘no,’” he urged more than once, as the pressure of his companion’s arm drew him away from the tempting windows. she did consent at last to the purchase of some slippers—and he saw to it that they were the choicest that the shelves afforded—soft, luxurious little things, with satin linings and buckles of mother-of-pearl. when these went into the bag, it was filled. he recognised the fact with a regretful sigh.
the creaking old clock-machinery in the belfry of st. clement danes set itself in motion as they passed, and the ancient chimes clanged out the full hour. it was nine o’clock.
“i had some thought of a music-hall,” he remarked. “but we’ve had a pretty full day—and a long day, too. i know you must be tired.”
“perhaps—just a little,” she answered, softly.
“then we’ll go home,” he said, with decision.
it was not a part of london which vestalia knew very well. mosscrop led her along the strand for a little way, then crossed and went up a side street, then turned into a still narrower by-way. the ragged loungers on the walk had an evil aspect, and almost every building seemed to be a public-house. at the last corner a piano-organ of unusual volume shook the air with deafening mechanical din. the man turned the crank so fast, and the dancing children in the radiance from the open-doored tavern on the pavement raised such a racket of their own, that she could barely distinguish the movement of the vulgar tune. on the borders of darkness beyond were discernible still other children, playing noisily about at the base of groups of fat women in fog-coloured shawls and white aprons. over all the tumult and squalid clusterings of humanity there brooded the acrid, musty stench of an antique mid-london slum.
the two turned under an archway, and as by magic the atmosphere freshened and the hubbub ceased. a small square of venerable buildings disclosed itself vaguely in the uncertain light from the sky. here and there a lamp behind some curtained window made a dim break in the obscurity. the faint sweet moaning of a ’cello rose from somewhere at the farther end of the space. a stout man with a gold band upon his tall hat revealed himself for a noiseless moment, lifted his finger in salute to mosscrop, and melted away again into the shadows. whether they had passed him, or he them, vestalia could hardly tell. it was all very strange—and a little sombre. a streak of moonlight glanced down between shifting clouds, and fell across the fronts of the houses opposite. there were pale grey tablets of ornamentation set into their mass of dusky brickwork, which looked like tombstones. the girl trembled, and hung back upon mosscrop’s arm as if to halt.
suddenly, after a brief preliminary scale of piano notes, a woman’s clear, practised voice fell upon the silence in a song—a grave and simple melody full of tenderness. they paused to listen for an instant, and vestalia traced the sound to an illuminated upper floor at the end of the square.
“then people live here!” she said, with hesitating re-assurance in her voice.
“bless you, yes,” replied david. “we live here, among others.”
he entered the open doorway of the house next to that before which they had paused. the hall was lighted by a single gas-jet at the rear, which only deepened the darkness of the narrow staircase up which he led the way. it was a very ancient and ricketty staircase, with steps worn into queer bumps and hollows by generations of feet. there was not room for her to walk abreast of her guide. he strode ahead, striking matches on the wall as he went. she followed him timorously up the winding ascent, noting the rows of names painted on the big closed doors of each landing they passed.
mosscrop stopped only when the stairs came to an end. he put down the bag, and she heard the rattle of a key in a lock. then a match was struck, and a sudden flare of gas lit up the small square hall-way they stood in.
as he pushed open a door to the left, he turned with a smiling face towards his companion. he discovered her drawn back at the edge of the stairs, her hands pressed against her bosom. her eyes were fastened on him with a troubled look, and the sound of her breathing, quick and laboured, reached his ears.
“these stairs are the very deuce when you’re not used to them,” he said, pleasantly. “i oughtn’t to have rushed you up them at such a pace.”
“that doesn’t matter,” panted the girl. “it is i who mightn’t to have come up at all.”
david’s smile deepened and mellowed as he regarded her. “my dear vestalia,” he began, laying a slight and kindly stress upon this first use of her name, “you speak hastily. you must offer no further remarks until you have quite recovered your breath. i will employ the interval by calling your attention to the inscription on the closed door, there, opposite to mine. you will observe that it is ‘mr. linkhaw.’ have you ever heard it before?”
she shook her head.
“and are you conscious of no novel emotions at hearing it now? does not the sight of those painted letters cause you to thrill with strange and mysterious sensations? no? what becomes then of the boasted intuition of the feminine mind?”
there seemed to be a jest hidden somewhere in all this, and she smiled plaintively, dubiously. she took her hand from her breast, to show that her breathing was calmer.
“you really assure me,” he went on, with a twinkling eye, “that the spectacle of this particular sported-oak does not especially stir your pulses, and peculiarly impress your imagination?”
“why should it?”
“why indeed! ah, young woman, your sex gets much credit that it ill deserves. a mere man could do no worse in the matter of instinct. my dear friend, behind that door lies your present abode. that name ‘linkhaw’ is the sign of your home—and you looked at them both and never guessed it!”
vestalia did not so much as glance at the door in question, but she gazed with much intentness at mosscrop. “i don’t understand—what it is all about?” she said, slowly.
he had stepped inside his own door, lighted the gas and pulled down the blinds. he returned, and stretched out his hand to take hers. “do me the honour to come in and sit down,” he said, holding up her gloved fingers, and bowing over them. “you are my nearest neighbour, and yet you have never called upon me.”
she followed him into his sitting-room, and took the easy chair he wheeled out toward the table for her. it was a larger apartment than the narrow staircase and cramped landing had promised. the ceiling was low and dreadfully smoky, it was true, and the appointments and furniture were old-fashioned. but the whole effect, if somewhat meagre and unadorned, was comfortable and honest.
“put off your hat and gloves, and look as if you felt at home,” urged david. “you’ve but a step to go.”
he busied himself meanwhile in bringing from a recess of the sideboard two tumblers, a heavy decanter filled with an amber liquid, and a big bottle of soda water.
“you’ll join me in some whisky and soda?” he asked pleasantly, fumbling with the wire.
“oh mercy, no!” said vestalia. “really i mustn’t touch anything more. i see now that i have been drinking far too much, all day long.”
“tut!” he answered. “how could there be too much on a birthday? and now i think of it, there were two of them! i pledge my word, it has been a singularly dry occasion for a double birthday. we must hasten to make good the deficiency.”
vestalia had drawn off her gloves. she rose now, and standing before the mantel-mirror, lifted her hat from her head. then she turned and, half-playfully, half in pleading, shook her bright curls at him. “i thought it was going to be different hereafter,” she said, softly.
he looked inquiry for an instant, then nodded comprehension. “ay,” he said, with gravity, “you’re a wise virgin. this one glass shall last me the night. you are very welcome here, my lady!”
she smiled at the lifted tumbler, over which his eyes regarded her. “what lots of books you have!” she exclaimed, a moment later, and began an inspection of the room, lingering in turn before each of the old prints on the dingy walls, and examining the rows of volumes in detail. he loitered beside her for a little, passing comments on what seemed to interest her. then he disappeared in an adjoining room, and returned presently in a loose velveteen jacket and slippers. he took the famous dressing-bag from the table.
“your visit isn’t at all over yet,” he remarked; “but i am consumed with a desire to see you sitting opposite me, here, in those wee soft slippers of yours. it will make a sweet picture for me to carry into dreamland. and so first i will show you your new home.”
she followed him out into the hall, and then through the doors he unlocked into the apartments of the mysterious “mr. linkhaw.” the first room disclosed itself, when the gas was lit, to be similar to david’s in size, but all else was strangely different. the turkey red carpet was brilliant, almost garish, in its newness, and the ceiling was covered with a bright pink paper. all round three sides were broad divans, heaped with soft red cushions and downy pillows. no chairs were to be seen. more singular still, the walls were crowded with the stuffed heads of animals—bisons, bears, moose, elks, antelopes, wolves, and endless varieties of deer. vestalia gazed at these trophies of the chase with surprise.
“linkhaw is a mighty hunter before the lord,” mosscrop explained. “yon is the bedroom. it is fairly carpeted with the skins of tigers, lions, leopards, and such like beasts. if you dream of jungles and noah’s ark to-night, and don’t like it, we’ll throw them all out in the morning.”
“but what am i doing in this mr. link-haw’s rooms?” inquired the girl. “i don’t understand it at all. suppose he should come?”
david laughed lightly. “it’s a far cry from uganda to dunstan’s inn. or maybe he’s in the hudson bay territory. it’s a year and more since i knew of his whereabouts. the most unheard-of and god-forgotten wilderness on earth—that’s where you may always count on his being, unless he has learned of some still more impossible and repellent wild, just discovered, in the meantime. he is an old friend and school-fellow of mine, and leaves his keys with me. i just have a look at the place now and then, to keep the laundress up to the mark.”
he passed on into the bedroom, struck a light, and threw a scrutinising glance round. “you’ll be needing fresh sheets and the like,” he said, returning. “i’ll bring them.”
he came back with an armful of linen, and heaped it on the bed. “now you’re right as a trivet,” he cried, cheerily. “everything has been aired. and now i’ll be waiting for you to come back to me, with the pretty little slippers. mind, i’m capable of great excesses in drink if you delay over-long.”
vestalia’s delay was inconsiderable. they sat for an hour or more, she with the dainty new footgear on the fender, he, lounging low in his chair, stretching out his own feet close to the rail beside hers. “i could wish it were winter,” he mused, once, “so that we might have a fire. we have an old saying about two pairs of slippers on the hearth. i never thought before what homely beauty there was in it. ah, there’ll be cool nights coming on now, and then we’ll start a blaze. but even with a black grate, it is the dearest evening of my life.”
“and of mine,” responded the girl.
hours later, david still sat by the empty fireplace, and ruminated over his pipe. he had put the decanter and glass resolutely back into the sideboard, and turned a key on them. he had taken down a book, but it lay unregarded on the floor beside him. he desired to do nothing but think, and yet even that it was not easy to contrive. thoughts would not marshal themselves in any ordered sequence.
the whole day had yielded an extraordinary experience, involving all thoughts of momentous possibilities, which he said over and over again to himself demanded the coolest and most conservative consideration. but when he strove to fasten his mind to the task, straightway it swerved and curveted and danced off beyond control. one memory returned to him ceaselessly: the way vestalia had risen finally to say good-night, and insisted strenuously on his not quitting his chair, and then, all at once, had bent swiftly down and kissed him before she ran from the room. and well, why not? he asked himself at last; why shouldn’t he abandon himself to remembering it? what else was there equally well worth recalling? the early morning on the bridge rose again before him; the tenderly compassionate intimacy which, stealing slowly over them, seemed yet to have burst forth in ripe fulness from the very beginning; the delightful meals together, the long walks and talks, the little gifts which brought such happiness to the donor; the languorously saddened twilight on the river, the silent homecoming, the surprise, the kiss—so the sweet chain of reverie coiled and unfolded itself, with quickened heart-beats for links.
once a thought came to him—a thought which seemed hard and cold as his native granite, and rough with the bristling spikes of his own hillside heather—that he had spent in that one day more than his whole week’s income. in other times the fact would have disturbed david. now he looked it calmly in the face, and smiled at it derisive dismissal. the savings of a year, or of four years—what were even they when weighed in the balance against the fact that next door, under these very roof-beams, the dear vestalia was peacefully sleeping?
it must have been long after midnight when, in the act of filling his pipe once more, it occurred to him to go to bed instead. upon reflection, he was both tired and sleepy. he rose and yawned, and then smiled upon his own image in the mirror at remembering how happy he was as well. it was a queer mess, to be sure, but there was no element in it which he regretted or would have changed. it was all delicious, through and through.
as he glanced again at his reflection in the glass, and warmed his heart by the flame of triumphant joy which gleamed through the eyes he looked into, a sudden rhythmical noise rose upon the profound stillness of the old inn. it caught his ear, and he turned to listen.
“it is that blessed creature snoring—breathing, i mean,” was his first thought. but no, it was in too rapid a measure for that. then the sound waxed louder, and he recognised that it was of footsteps steadily ascending the stairs. “the watchman, coming to make sure of the lights,” he thought, with re-assurance.
but this hypothesis fell to the ground also.
the footsteps mounted to the landing close outside. the noise ceased, and then there came the unmistakable jingle of a key—nay, the very grating of it in the lock of the door opposite.
david’s veins, for a confused moment, ran cold. then, with an excited ejaculation, he ran to his door, and flung it open.
“stop that, you idiot!” he commanded, in muffled but ferocious tones.
“ah, davie, davie! still at the bottle!” replied a well-known voice from out of the obscurity.
