Twenty Thousand Streets Under the Sky (53 page)

Also he had become a great deal more human and talkative under the influence of his wine and food, and by slow degrees she had swerved round again to the conclusion that she definitely Liked him. In fact, it was at the instant of his remark
about loneliness that another thought struck her. Was it not conceivable that he was Possible? The mere thought filled her with a kind of awe and shame at herself for even entertaining such a notion fleetingly; she felt she was mentally betraying all her true pride and æsthetic austerity. But he looked so young, just now in this light, and he had such a pathos about him at moments, and he was treating her, with no apparent or immediate object, with such prodigal generosity, that she really did not see why she should not amuse herself with the hypothesis. Not that she thought him Possible. It merely was possible that, at some future date, she might imaginably come to regard him as Possible. And even then he would not be
really
Possible, of course – that is to say, Possible to the point of being acceptable in fact. But he might be Possible enough to be rejected – rejected with dignity and kindly sentiment – in short he might not be so utterly Impossible as she had thought him so far.

‘But you don’t get lonely, do you?’ she said, speaking with genuine sympathy, for she had suffered much from loneliness herself.

‘Me?’ he said, as he passed her a cigarette, which she took. ‘What do you think?’

‘Well, I shouldn’t have thought
you
got lonely.’

And she noticed that his hand was trembling as she put her head forward, almost with coquettishness, to have her cigarette lit.

At the same time a strange little thrill of power and exaltation ran through her as she realized that she was, perhaps for the first time in her life, flirting with, ‘encouraging,’ and to some extent prostrating a male. But then so many strange things had happened since half-past two in the afternoon, and why should she not have her share of such sensations?

‘Well – why do you think I asked you to come out with me to-day?’ asked Mr. Eccles.

There was a moment of confusion, which Mr. Eccles covered by lighting his own cigarette.

‘Why did you?’ said Ella, but as Mr. Eccles did not answer,
but merely blew out the match and put it on the ashtray with a wry smile, the awful electric atmosphere was maintained, and Ella was emboldened still further. ‘Go on,’ she said. ‘Why did you?’

She knew there was no mistaking her soft and coaxing tone. She was more than ‘encouraging’ him now. She was what they called ‘vamping’ the man! Never had she dreamed that she could play such a rôle – or that she could enjoy it as she was enjoying it.

‘I suppose it was because I took to you,’ said Mr. Eccles, ‘that’s all.’

‘Did you?’ said Ella, in the same dreamy tone, and all at once realized that she must be careful. She would make herself cheap if she went on like this. ‘I was very pleased to come,’ she added, in a more formal tone, ‘anyway.’

‘Don’t you ever suffer from loneliness yourself?’ asked Mr. Eccles.

‘Me? I should just say I do,’ said Ella, with an emphasis which was not quite sincere, for, sufferer as she was, she had been, as it happened, remarkably free from attacks of this disease during the last year or so. But she couldn’t possibly confuse the issue, or squash the awkwardly yet rapidly flowering bud of his own loneliness, by telling him this.

‘Ah – then we’re in the same boat,’ said Mr. Eccles. ‘It isn’t nice, is it?’

She could not help feeling that they had embarked a little prematurely and on insufficient understanding, that he had shoved her into the boat, in fact, and was rowing away with her before she had time to protest; but she did not let him see this, and said, ‘But surely you’ve got enough friends?’

‘Oh yes. I’ve got friends. If you’d call them friends.’

‘Why – aren’t they friends?’

‘Yes. Friends who want to take advantage of you – that’s about all.’

‘But why should they want to take advantage of you?’

‘Oh – I don’t know. . . .’

‘Go on. Why should they?’

‘Well, I suppose if one’s got a little something’ – Mr. Eccles
paused for the exact expression – ‘
Put By
– they’re only too willing to be your friends.’

(Hullo, thought Ella, here was her old friend the Little Something Put By cropping up again. She wondered whether any of the outer veils enveloping this mystery were about to be lifted.)

‘You mean they take advantage of you because you’ve got some money?’ she said.

‘Yes. I’m sure they do.’

‘Well, I don’t think that’s right.’

‘No. I know you don’t. That’s because you’re different. I know
you
wouldn’t take advantage, for instance.’

Again she thought he was going a little bit too fast. Where, precisely, did he glean his evidence that she would not take advantage? In point of fact had she not taken advantage already? Would she have come out with him at all, if he had not bribed her with shining gold for the theatre? But such introspection was ill-timed.

‘I certainly wouldn’t,’ she said, with firmness, and there was a pause. . . .

‘Of course,’ said Mr. Eccles, at random. ‘It’s very nice to be in a Position. . . .’

‘Yes,’ said Ella, ‘I suppose it is. . . .’

‘One’s Secure,’ said Mr. Eccles. . . .

‘M’m,’ murmured Ella.

‘And one can Help,’ said Mr. Eccles. . . .

‘Yes,’ said Ella. ‘I suppose one can.’

‘As far as one can. . . .’

‘M’m.’

‘And that’s something.’

‘Yes. It certainly is.’

And there was a heavy silence in which Ella, as it were, was united with Mr. Eccles in a Position, and contemplated the weary consolations thereof.

‘
YOU SHOULD TAKE
a bus from here, really,’ said Ella, but ‘
Oh
, no,’ said Mr. Eccles, ‘I’ll see you back.’

They were at Oxford Street, crossing the road and going northwards. Dinner was over, and he was seeing her home. As the night was fine they had decided to walk. Actually Ella would have preferred to have gone home alone, as towards the close of dinner her nervous energy had suddenly collapsed under the accumulated strain of seven successive hours with Mr. Eccles; she was dog-tired, had sore feet and a splitting headache on the way, and desired nothing save to go to bed.

As they started up Great Portland Street, however, towards ‘The Midnight Bell,’ she saw the last lap ahead, and took courage.

‘Well – you haven’t told me anything about yourself, yet, you know,’ he said, and at this point he slipped his hand into her arm.

‘Well, there’s nothing to tell, really,’ said Ella, with the squirmingly off-hand air of one to whom the hand of Mr. Eccles on her arm might have been a lifelong experience.

‘Oh, I’m sure there is,’ said Mr. Eccles in a warm yet slightly patronizing way (as though he himself didn’t really believe there was), and he edged a little closer to her, and gave her arm a decided little pressure, as he slipped his own a little further in.

This, she decided, was getting awkward. As well as putting a ridiculous brake upon her walking action, causing them both to wobble and sway as though they were a little drunk, instead of advancing properly to their destination, this arm-holding set up a great agitation in her mind as to the amount of pressure she should return or refuse. On the one hand she appreciated a friendly action, and did not want to let her arm remain entirely limp. On the other hand she was displeased by the folly of such untimely advances in the street, and did not want to let him think she was freely participating in them.

‘No, there isn’t,’ she said. ‘Really.’

‘Come now,’ he said. ‘Of course there is.’ And they wobbled again horribly.

Good Lord, thought Ella – supposing Bob, or someone from ‘The Midnight Bell’ saw them now! She must somehow shake him off before they got there, or she would be disgraced for life. But for the time being she could only play the game out.

‘Well,’ she said. ‘There’s very little.’

‘Really?’ said Mr. Eccles. ‘Come now. No
Affaires de Cœur?
’

My word, thought Ella. French now. He
was
being sprightly. She wasn’t quite sure what
Affaires de Cœur
meant, but imagined it was some very Continental and finished way of saying ‘Love Affairs,’ and replied ‘No – not at present.’

‘Oh, surely you have,’ said Mr. Eccles. ‘You must confide in me, you know. We understand each other.’

Again she observed that he was taking too much for granted. He might understand her, but she wished to Heaven she understood the first thing about him. What on earth was the man
after
? Was this gay air of camaraderie sincere, and was this apparently disinterested interest in her concerns real or feigned? And if it was real, why did he keep on pressing her arm, and why should he have pounced upon her, of all the millions of other girls in London, as the unique object of his interest? And what staying power he had! If he only knew how tired she was. He must be nearly twice her age, and yet he had theatred, and walked and dined her off her feet, and was now as cheerful and resilient as a two-year-old.

‘No, there isn’t,’ she said. ‘Honestly.’ At another time she might have tried to raise her prestige by reservations and fencing with him on this matter, but now she was too tired, and told the truth.

‘What about that young fellow in that bar of yours,’ said Mr. Eccles. ‘What’s his name?’

‘Who do you mean?’ said Ella, knowing quite well whom he meant. ‘Do you mean Bob?’

‘Yes. That’s right, Bob.’

‘Oh,’ said Ella. ‘Him.’ It was strange that his instinct should
have led him so near the mark – straight to the mark, in fact. And did she detect a note of concealed curiosity and anxiety in Mr. Eccles’ voice. How could he know of her secret madness for Bob?

‘He’s a good-looking enough young fellow, in any case,’ said Mr. Eccles.

‘Yes, he is good-looking, isn’t he?’ said Ella, with all the indiscretion of her enthusiasm, in which she resembled a stamp-collector or other zealot with his hobby, and could not hear any detached or extraneous praise of the obsessing object without a warm feeling about the heart. In fact, just for this remark it seemed as though she liked Mr. Eccles more at this moment than she had ever liked him – a sad and ironical pass for Mr. Eccles if he was her admirer.

‘But there’s nothing between you?’

‘Oh no. Bob isn’t interested in me.’

With the more than reasonable conclusion that could be drawn from this, that she herself was interested in Bob, she knew at once that she had said the wrong, indeed possibly the cruel thing, but it had come out before she could stop herself.

‘Oh,’ said Mr. Eccles, and glancing at his face, which had the ghost of a sickly smile on it, she knew that he had read the very worst into it. She believed she had really offended and wounded him now. What awful muddles she was getting into. But there was not much further to go. They had now branched off to the right into Warren Street, and ‘The Midnight Bell’ was only about five hundred yards away. She had hoped to get rid of him at the corner, but he still had her arm and she had not the courage to stop. He was silent now.

‘And I’m not interested in
him
,’ she said, boldly, disliking the thought of leaving him on such evasive and unsatisfactory terms, and hoping to extricate herself while there was still time.

‘Aren’t you?’

‘Good Heavens, no.’ She was warming up to her falsehood now she had started. ‘What do you think?’

‘Oh, I don’t see why you shouldn’t be,’ he said, but it was clear that his suspicions were allayed, and he slipped his arm
a little further in. She was glad to be reconciled, but she wished he would take his arm away. ‘The Midnight Bell’ was practically in sight now, and anyone might see them.

‘Then we’re just waiting for Mr. Right, I suppose?’ said Mr. Eccles, causing another wobble, and sublimely unconscious of her self-consciousness. ‘Is that it?’

‘Yes. I suppose it is,’ said Ella. And here, though there was nothing tangible in his remark, there was a kind of leer in his voice, and a tightening up of his arm, which warned Ella that she was not going to get as lightly out of this parting as she had imagined. She saw a lamp-post twenty yards ahead, and decided that at that point she would stop, whatever the cost.

‘Eh?’ said Mr. Eccles. . . .

Ella did not answer. She had an awful premonition that there was going to be a scene. She passed the lamp-post – it was too bright under that – and fixed upon a dark patch by some railings a little further on.

‘Eh?’ said Mr. Eccles. ‘What about Mr. Right. . . .’

‘I don’t know,’ said Ella, in confusion, and forcing her courage, she slackened her pace, and stopped. ‘Well – here we are at last,’ she said.

In stopping like this, she had imagined that Mr. Eccles must automatically release her arm. To her horror, however, she found that he still had hold of it, and that in turning she had somehow got hedged in against the railings at his mercy.

‘What?’ said Mr. Eccles, without exactly knowing what he was saying, and looking hard at her.

Now, she realized, the crisis of the day had come. Was he going to kiss her, or something? And could she repel him, after all he had done for her? How many couples had she seen in this posture, in dim lamp-lit patches, murmuring their fervent mysteries against railings, and how little she had dreamed that she would ever be enrolled in that strange corps! But here she was, as though she had been doing it all her life.

‘Well – it’s been a lovely day,’ she said, and pretending that he was not holding her arm, and that she did not know that he was staring at her, she looked along the street.

‘Has it?’ said Mr. Eccles.

She dared not look at him, but felt his whole person closing imperceptibly yet unrelentingly in upon her.

‘Yes. And I’m sure I’m ever so grateful.’ She wished to Heaven he would buck up, if he was going to do anything, as she would go mad and run away in a moment.

‘What?’ said Mr. Eccles, but apart from coming in a little nearer, made no further contribution to the situation.