“Yes,” he said, hurriedly; “but give me one moment — until the policeman has passed.”
The policeman went leisurely by, striking the flags with his heels, and slapping his palm with a white glove.
“The fact is, Lydia, that — I feel great difficulty—”
“What is the matter?” said Lydia, after waiting in vain for further particulars. “You have broken down twice in a speech.” There was a pause. Then she looked at him quickly, and added, incredulously, “Are you going to get married? Is that the secret that ties your practised tongue?”
“Not unless you take part in the ceremony.”
“Very gallant; and in a vein of humor that is new in my experience of you. But what have you to tell me, Lucian? Frankly, your hesitation is becoming ridiculous.”
“You have certainly not made matters easier for me, Lydia. Perhaps you have a womanly intuition of my purpose, and are intentionally discouraging me.”
“Not the least. I am not good at speculations of that sort. On my word, if you do not confess quickly, I will hurry away to the museum.”
“I cannot find a suitable form of expression,” said Lucian, in painful perplexity. “I am sure you will not attribute any sordid motive to my — well, to my addresses, though the term seems absurd. I am too well aware that there is little, from the usual point of view, to tempt you to unite yourself to me. Still—”
A rapid change in Lydia’s face showed him that he had said enough. “I had not thought of this,” she said, after a silence that seemed long to him. “Our observations are so meaningless until we are given the thread to string them on! You must think better of this, Lucian. The relation that at present exists between us is the very best that our different characters will admit of. Why do you desire to alter it?”
“Because I would make it closer and more permanent. I do not wish to alter it otherwise.”
“You would run some risk of simply destroying it by the method you propose,” said Lydia, with composure. “We could not co-operate. There are differences of opinion between us amounting to differences of principle.”
“Surely you are not serious. Your political opinions, or notions, are not represented by any party in England; and therefore they are practically ineffective, and could not clash with mine. And such differences are not personal matters.”
“Such a party might be formed a week after our marriage — will, I think, be formed a long time before our deaths. In that case I fear that our difference of opinion would become a very personal matter.”
He began to walk more quickly as he replied, “It is too absurd to set up what you call your opinions as a serious barrier between us. You have no opinions, Lydia. The impracticable crotchets you are fond of airing are not recognized in England as sane political convictions.”
Lydia did not retort. She waited a minute in pensive silence, and then said,
“Why do you not marry Alice Goff?”
“Oh, hang Alice Goff!”
“It is so easy to come at the man beneath the veneer by expertly chipping at his feelings,” said Lydia, laughing. “But I was serious, Lucian. Alice is energetic, ambitious, and stubbornly upright in questions of principle. I believe she would assist you steadily at every step of your career. Besides, she has physical robustness. Our student-stock needs an infusion of that.”
“Many thanks for the suggestion; but I do not happen to want to marry Miss Goff.”
“I invite you to consider it. You have not had time yet to form any new plans.”
“New plans! Then you absolutely refuse me — without a moment’s consideration?”
“Absolutely, Lucian. Does not your instinct warn you that it would be a mistake for you to marry me?”
“No; I cannot say that it does.”
“Then trust to mine, which gives forth no uncertain note on this question, as your favorite newspapers are fond of saying.”
“It is a question of feeling,” he said, in a constrained voice.
“Is it?” she replied, with interest. “You have surprised me somewhat, Lucian. I have never observed any of the extravagances of a lover in your conduct.”
“And you have surprised me very unpleasantly, Lydia. I do not think now that I ever had much hope of success; but I thought, at least, that my disillusion would be gently accomplished.”
“What! Have I been harsh?”
“I do not complain.”
“I was unlucky, Lucian; not malicious. Besides, the artifices by which friends endeavor to spare one another’s feelings are pretty disloyalties. I am frank with you. Would you have me otherwise?”
“Of course not. I have no right to be offended.”
“Not the least. Now add to that formal admission a sincere assurance that you ARE not offended.”
“I assure you I am not,” said Lucian, with melancholy resignation.
They had by this time reached Charlotte Street, and Lydia tacitly concluded the conference by turning towards the museum, and beginning to talk upon indifferent subjects. At the corner of Russell Street he got into a cab and drove away, dejectedly acknowledging a smile and wave of the hand with which Lydia tried to console him. She then went to the national library, where she forgot Lucian. The effect of the shock of his proposal was in store for her, but as yet she did not feel it; and she worked steadily until the library was closed and she had to leave. As she had been sitting for some hours, and it was still light, she did not take a cab, and did not even walk straight home. She had heard of a bookseller in Soho who had for sale a certain scarce volume which she wanted; and it occurred to her that the present was a good opportunity to go in search of him. Now, there was hardly a capital in western Europe that she did not know better than London. She had an impression that Soho was a region of quiet streets and squares, like Bloomsbury. Her mistake soon became apparent; but she felt no uneasiness in the narrow thoroughfares, for she was free from the common prejudice of her class that poor people are necessarily ferocious, though she often wondered why they were not so. She got as far as Great Pulteney Street in safety; but in leaving it she took a wrong turning and lost herself in a labyrinth of courts where a few workmen, a great many workmen’s wives and mothers, and innumerable workmen’s children were passing the summer evening at gossip and play. She explained her predicament to one of the women, who sent a little boy wilh her to guide her. Business being over for the day, the street to which the boy led her was almost deserted. The only shop that seemed to be thriving was a public-house, outside which a few roughs were tossing for pence.
Lydia’s guide, having pointed out her way to her, prepared to return to his playmates. She thanked him, and gave him the smallest coin in her purse, which happened to be a shilling. He, in a transport at possessing what was to him a fortune, uttered a piercing yell, and darted off to show the coin to a covey of small ragamuffins who had just raced into view round the corner at which the public-house stood. In his haste he dashed against one of the group outside, a powerfully built young man, who turned and cursed him. The boy retorted passionately, and then, overcome by pain, began to cry. When Lydia came up the child stood whimpering directly in her path; and she, pitying him, patted him on the head and reminded him of all the money he had to spend. He seemed comforted, and scraped his eyes with his knuckles in silence; but the man, who, having received a sharp kick on the ankle, was stung by Lydia’s injustice in according to the aggressor the sympathy due to himself, walked threateningly up to her and demanded, with a startling oath, whether HE had offered to do anything to the boy. And, as he refrained from applying any epithet to her, he honestly believed that in deference to Lydia’s sex and personal charms, he had expressed himself with studied moderation.