The Partnership (4 page)

“Good evening,” said a voice in her ear.

Lydia started; then, thinking the voice belonged to someone from the Tower—it certainly had a familiar ring—she replied distastefully: “Good evening.” Immediately she reproached herself for her lack of cordiality, and turning towards the speaker to make it good, found that, as far as the dim and infrequent lights of the promenade permitted her to see, he appeared to be wearing a uniform of some kind. “Oh!” she exclaimed, taken aback.

“Beg pardon, miss,” said the voice at once. “I thought you was somebody else.”

The innocent Lydia accepted this at its face value, and said in her simple and candid tones: “It doesn't matter.” She thought it necessary, however, to quicken her pace somewhat; and began to walk rapidly away along the promenade towards the Tower. Unfortunately the owner of the voice did not remain behind as Lydia intended he should, but kept pace with her fluttering steps, and edged her gradually out of the light towards the wall.

“You're in a great hurry,” he said in a low voice, half-joking, half-caressing. “What are you in such a hurry for? You're in a great hurry, aren't you?” Lydia gave an inarticulate murmur and tried to walk faster. “Have you to be in by ten?” inquired the soldier sympathetically.

“In by ten!” exclaimed Lydia, startled out of her discretion. “Of course not.”

“Well, that's good,” said her companion with a satisfaction which alarmed Lydia. “It's a lovely night for a walk, isn't it?” As Lydia said nothing he pressed her: “Isn't it? What do you think? Eh?” Lydia's continued silence seemed to wound him, for he continued in an aggrieved tone: “Well, you might say
something
to me. You talked to me plenty in the train coming down. Didn't you now?”

Lydia, who had long since realized his identity, replied abruptly: “Yes.”

Her curt and angry tone was meant to discourage
him, but it seemed to have the opposite effect, for he pursued eagerly: “Well, why shouldn't we have a little chat now? Eh? Why shouldn't we? I don't see why we shouldn't. I should like,” he added in a wistful tone, “to have a little chat with you. I don't see why we shouldn't have a little chat.”

Lydia, who had inherited some of the Reverend Charles's inconvenient humour, could not forbear the observation that he seemed to be having the chat he so urgently desired.

“You think I'm talking too much, eh?” said the soldier, appreciating the joke. “Well,
you
talk then. Can't you talk? I dare say you can talk well enough when you like. Most girls can talk,” he announced, evidently intending to make a joke to match Lydia's. “Not that I like them when they talk too much,” he added hastily. “There's reason in all things.” As Lydia was silent, he pursued: “Well, it's a lovely night for a walk. What do you think?” He hesitated, then said boldly: “Will you come for a walk with me?”

“No,” said Lydia with emphasis.

“Why not?” inquired the lad in a cheerful argumentative tone. “Why won't you? Eh? Do you think I'd run away with you? Do you?” He gave a soft snigger of pleasure at the thought.

“I'm sure you wouldn't,” said Lydia with a scornful decision which she by no means felt. The lad's soft insistent voice, badgering her with preposterous questions, was introducing her to
sensations which were novel to her. She was new to the technique of this love-making of the streets, and it shook her more than she could have imagined possible.

“Why do you think I shouldn't?” teased the soldier in reply to her last remark. “You're very certain about it, aren't you? Why do you think I shouldn't run off with you? You must have some reason for saying that, you know.”

“Please go away,” said the hapless Lydia firmly.

“Oh, oh!” protested the soldier on a long-drawn-out note of plaintive amusement. “Don't say that, miss. Why won't you come for a walk with me? What harm is there in a walk?
I
don't see why you shouldn't come. Why won't you come?”

“I don't do that kind of thing,” explained Lydia with as much dignity as she could command.

“Oh, well, of course,” agreed the soldier with a large reassuring gesture. “Neither do I. But just for once—” He broke off abruptly and gazed into the darkness of an unpaved back lane which opened out beyond her. Lydia, following the direction of his glance, thought she saw a form vaguely sketched against some palings there; she strained her eyes to pierce the darkness, but the figure, if it was one, had gone.

“Well,” said her companion in a changed tone, “are you quite sure you won't come for a walk with me?”

“Quite,” replied Lydia emphatically, summoning all her moral force to her support.

“Then good night, and good luck to you,” returned the soldier with courteous finality. He sketched a salute, turned on his heel, and vanished abruptly down the lane.

Lydia, thus left alone, was, of course, intensely relieved—as she told herself—by his departure; but somehow, too, a feeling of disappointment was in the air. Her heart had beaten pleasurably fast during the last few moments. She reviewed the whole ridiculous episode with the superior smile which became a Tolefree Mellor; but somehow the lad's caressing voice, the sparkle of his merry eyes beneath the lamps, his charming smile, the Celtic manner of his attack, did not strike unpleasantly upon her recollection. With her hand upon the gate of Foyle Tower, Lydia decided that she did not wish, yet, to pass its austere portals; there was beauty, now, in the flashing lights; poetry in the sea's endless roll. She turned aside and made for a “shelter” of glass and wood which graced the front and gave upon the sea. When she was ensconced there in a windless corner, her conscience began to reproach her. Ought she not, most decidedly, to have withdrawn at once to the safety of Foyle Tower, after the recent disgraceful incident? Was she not inviting, by her presence there, a repetition of that incident? At this thought she started to her feet; and stood poised for flight, while obscure forces battled within her. If she should see him
again! What a terrible episode for the Reverend Charles Mellor's daughter to be involved in! Yet at the same time she could not but admit, in a strong wave of feeling, that there was truth in that verse of Louise's favourite poet—Louise's passion for esoteric poetry was the theme of many affectionate jokes in Cromwell Place—which ran:

Abstinence sows sand all over
The ruddy limbs and flaming hair,
But desire gratified
Plants fruits of life and beauty there.

With a little sigh Lydia sank down again in her corner, and at that moment she saw the soldier again.

He was not, however, alone; for by his side walked the girl in the brown coat who had come to be a chambermaid—doubtless—at the Grand Hotel. His head was bent towards her, and he was talking rapidly, with great animation; employing, no doubt, the same methods that he had tried a short half-hour ago with Lydia. But in this case he had evidently been more successful; for his arm was already clasped possessively about the girl's firm waist and she was listening to his words in a mute ecstasy, her head inclined towards his shoulder, her eyes cast down, an inscrutable smile curving her rosy cheeks and full red lips. With a deep pang Lydia realized that it was this girl whom the soldier had seen by the palings when he deserted her so abruptly.

As their lagging footsteps drew near the
shelter, the pair saw her. The soldier called “Good night, miss!” with cheerful effrontery; the girl raised her lowered eyelids and gave Lydia a smile of greeting, but said nothing. Lydia's answering “Good night” quavered a little. As soon as they had passed she flew out of the shelter towards duty and Foyle Tower. Her feelings as she did so were rather strange, for by some curious emotional reaction the incident had awakened in her a yearning for the presence of Wilfred. Had it been he who accosted her just now, she reflected as she hurried on with rapid and uneven footsteps, she would not need to have repelled him; had it been Wilfred she might now have formed one of just such a happy pair as the girl and the soldier. Wilfred! Her lips quivered upon his name, and inexplicably she burst into tears. Her fit of sobbing did her good, and by the time she had regained her self-control she felt quite a strong desire to see the pair of lovers again; to look upon their happiness enabled her to imagine that which might perhaps one day be hers.

Her wish was realized, for after that night she often saw the pair together—indeed, her holiday seemed to be composed of dreary hours when she tried vainly to secure the sympathy of the Foyle Towerites, and brief thrilling moments when she tasted this vicarious joy in the sight of their love. As the days passed on, however, this joy became shackled with a disapproval which was inherent in Lydia's nature, for the two were together so much that she could not imagine how they reconciled
it with their respective duties. The weather was superb. In the fresh sunny mornings, while the blue sea sparkled, the shelter was the centre of life; dogs barked joyously around it, swam out into the sea in front of it for sticks and shook their wet coats all over its seats on their return: children ran about it playing and screaming, laughing and quarrelling: old ladies sat in it knitting and talking scandal: Lydia, in a corner, tried to read a book of essays or wrote letters to the still maidless Louise. Many times, as she lifted her eyes to the sea for inspiration, she saw the pair walking briskly past, the soldier very erect and trim, swinging his swagger cane smartly, the girl rather pathetic with her firm young body almost bursting from its ill-made clothes, rather mysterious, too, with her lowered eyes and calm inscrutable smile. In the afternoon the centre of activities moved to an elm-shaded walk between town and front, where grew sweet-scented orange wallflowers, pale nodding daffodils, and giant snowdrops. Lydia, returning through its dappled sunlight from some dreary Foyle Tower walk, often met the lovers idling down the centre of the path; the soldier now seemed dreamy and abstracted, and struck idly at the bushes with his little cane, but the girl's eyes showed as blue and lively, and her smile was franker, less mysteriously reserved. They always greeted Lydia most respectfully, and at times seemed even to wish to stop and talk; but Lydia did not feel she could countenance their
loves to that extent. Why were they not working at these hours, she asked herself severely; and what but evil could result of the girl's association with such a fickle member of a profession notoriously untrue? She could not but notice, however, that when they passed by the sea seemed bluer, the elms greener, the wallflowers more gamboge—as though in some mysterious way life flowed from them and animated their surroundings. When they passed by, too, her thoughts always flew to Wilfred, and a pleasurable ache established itself at her heart.

One Sunday afternoon, the second of her stay, Lydia saw them manœuvring a boat on the canal. It was a lively scene; soldiers of all kinds—some in tartan, some in riding breeches, some with cartridge belts across their shoulders, as Lydia conscientiously observed—were rowing up and down the stretch of smooth water in uproarious groups. Private citizens in premature flannels paddled canoes containing girls in light-coloured frocks; here and there middle-aged fathers pulled their families laboriously about in heavy capacious craft. Lydia was alone when the neat little skiff bearing the soldier and the girl glided past. The soldier waved a friendly hand to her; the girl, who was clasping her tam-o'-shanter to her knee, gave her a trustful and affectionate smile. Lydia smiled and nodded, then pursued her way wondering again what the girl's mother—assuming the poor child had one—would say if she could see her now.

She rounded a bend in the canal and was astonished to find the boat drawn up beside the sloping bank as if in wait for her. She paused, dismayed.

“Take you down to the bridge, miss,” offered the soldier with a merry twinkle in his grey eyes.

To Lydia's astonishment she suddenly found herself stepping into the skiff; her motives in doing so were obscure to herself, but she experienced a feeling of irresponsible joy and relaxation which was rare to her. The girl in the brown coat, whose short hair was gently ruffled by the soft breeze, stolidly made room for her, and the skiff proceeded smoothly on its way.

It was certainly pleasant on the canal. On one side rose a fair green hill, dotted with small prancing white lambs and large immobile sheep of a decent grey. At the foot of the hill a row of fine trees, planted to give cover to the defenders of England against the wicked Buonaparte, shaded the towing-path and lent the charm of perspective to the view. On the other bank of the canal fresh green meadows carried the eye peacefully towards the open sea. It was a scene of spring, of youth, of hopefulness; and though the girl at Lydia's side, with her robust limbs and heavy shabby clothes, was by no means Botticellian in appearance, Lydia felt irresistibly reminded of that master's celebrated rendering of the
primavera.
For a few short moments she seemed to be living in the picture; then she was
attacked by the conviction that her presence in the skiff was desired less for its intrinsic merit than for its use as a screen—there was some sergeant, she thought vaguely, annoyed by her own ignorance of the military hierarchy, or perhaps some authority at the hotel, whom the lovers were wishful to deceive. Lydia stiffened and was silent; and the hill, the sheep, the trees, the blue line of the sea, and the silver ribbon of the canal vanished from her sight. The other two also seemed to have nothing to say, or perhaps they read their meanings in each other's eyes; and the bridge was reached without a single word having been uttered by any of the trio.

“I'll get out here,” announced Lydia in her coolest tones.

The soldier obediently drew up the skiff and helped her to alight.

“Thank you,” said Lydia severely as she scrambled up the bank.

The skiff floated off again, and Lydia immediately regretted that she had left it. The pair of lovers in their little boat fitted so perfectly into the joyous pageant of spring, and Lydia herself was so entirely out of it, that she felt serving their loves was perhaps a small price to pay for participation. In an access of cordiality she waved to them; this time the soldier—the canal was crowded here and he was busy with his sculls—did not respond, but he spoke to the girl, who turned, and raising one substantial arm moved it stiffly in a laborious attempt to imitate Lydia's
greeting. Lydia was curiously touched by this sign of intimacy.