The Foolish Lovers Part 28

She laughed. "Naow," she replied, "I was very early this mornin'!"

She stood with her hand on the k.n.o.b of the door. "If you want anythink else," she said, "just 'oller down, the stairs for it. An' you needn't 'urry to get up. I know wot travellin's like. I've travelled a bit myself in my time. That 'add.i.c.k ain't as niffy as it smells!..."

She closed the door behind her and he could hear her quick steps all the way down the stairs to the ground floor.

"That's a queer sort of woman," he said to himself.

As he ate his breakfast, he wondered at Lizzie's lack of embarra.s.sment as she stood in his bedroom and saw him lying in bed. She had behaved as coolly as if she had been in a dining-room and he had been completely clothed. What would his mother say if she knew that a girl had entered his bedroom as unconcernedly as if she were entering a tramcar? Never in all his life had such a thing happened to him before.

He had been very conscious of his bare neck, for the collar of his night-s.h.i.+rt had come unfastened. He had tried to fasten it again, but in his desire to do so without drawing Lizzie's attention to his state, he had merely fumbled with it, and had, finally, to abandon the attempt. What astonished him was that Lizzie appeared to be totally unaware of anything unusual in the fact that she was in the bedroom of a strange man. She did not look like a Bad Woman ... and surely Mr.

Hinde would not live in a house where Bad Women lived!... Perhaps Englishwomen were not so particular about things as Irishwomen!...

Anyhow the haddock was good and the coffee tasted nice enough, although he would much rather have had tea.

He finished his meal, and then dressed himself and went downstairs to the sitting-room which he was to share with Hinde. It was less dreary than the bedroom from which he had just emerged, but what brightness it had was not due to any furnis.h.i.+ng provided by Miss Squibb, but to a great case full of books which occupied one side of the room. "He's as great a man for books as my Uncle Matthew," John thought, examining a volume here and a volume there. He opened a book of poems by Walt Whitman. "That's the man he was telling me about last night," he said to himself, as he turned the pages. He read a pa.s.sage aloud:

_Come, Muse, migrate--from Greece and Ionia, Cross out, please, those immensely overpaid accounts, That matter of Troy and Achilles' wrath, and Aeneas', Odysseus' wanderings, Placard "Removed" and "To Let" on the rocks of your snowy Parna.s.sus, Repeat at Jerusalem, place the notice high on Jaffa's gate and on Mount Moriah, The same on the walls of your German, French and Spanish castles, and Italian collections, For know a better, fresher, busier sphere, a wide, untried domain awaits, demands you_.

"That's strange poetry," he murmured, turning over more of the pages.

"Queer stuff! I never read poetry like that before!" He began to read "The Song of the Broad Axe," at first to himself, and then aloud:

_What do you think endures?

Do you think a great city endures?

Or a teeming manufacturing State? or a prepared Const.i.tution? or the best built steams.h.i.+ps?

Or hotels of granite and iron? or any chefs d'oeuvre of engineering, forts, armaments?

Away! these are not to be cherished for themselves, They fill their hour, the dancers dance, the musicians play for them, The show pa.s.ses, all does well, of course, All does very well till one flash of defiance.

A great city is that which has the greatest men and women, If it be a few ragged huts, it is still the greatest city in the world.

How beggarly appear arguments before a defiant deed!

How the floridness of the materials of cities shrivels before a man's or woman's look!_

He re-read aloud the last four lines, and then closed the book and replaced it on the shelf. "That man must have been terribly angry," he said to himself.

Lizzie came into the room. "I 'eard you," she said, "syin' poetry to yourself. You're as bad as Mr. 'Inde, you are. 'E's an' awful one for syin' poetry. Why down't you go out for a walk? You 'aven't seen nothink of London yet, an' 'ere you are wystin' the mornin' syin'

poetry. If I was you, now, I'd go and see the Tahr of London where they used to be'ead people. An' the Monument, too! You can go up that for thruppence. An' the view you get! Miles an' miles an' miles! Well, you can see the Crystal Palace anywy! I do like a view! Or if you down't like the Tahr of London, you could go to the Zoo. Ow, the monkeys! Ow, dear! They're so yooman, I felt quite uncomfortable. Any'ow, I should go out if I was you, an' 'ave a look at London. Wot's the good of comin' to London if you don't 'ave a look at it!"

"I think I will," said John.

"I should," Lizzie added emphatically. "I don't suppose we'll see you until dinner time. Seven o'clock, we 'ave it!"

"I always had my dinner in the middle of the day at home," John replied.

"Ow, yes, in Ireland," said Lizzie tolerantly. "But this is London.

London's different from Ireland, you know. You'll find things very diff'rent 'ere from wot they are in Ireland. I've 'eard a lot about Ireland. Mr. 'Inde ... 'e does go on about it. Anybody would think to 'ear 'im there wasn't any other plyce in the world!..." She changed the subject abruptly, speaking in a more hurried tone. "I ought reely to be dustin' this room ... only of course you're in it!"

John apologised to her. "I'm interfering with your work," he murmured in confusion.

"Ow, no you ain't. It don't matter if it's dusted or not ... reely.

Only Aunt goes on about it. Mr. 'Inde wouldn't notice if it was never dusted. I think he likes dust reely. I suppose you're goin' to do some work now you're 'ere, or are you a writer, too, like Mr. 'Inde?"

"I want to be a writer," John shyly answered.

"Well, there's no 'arm in it," Lizzie said, "But it ain't reg'lar. I believe in reg'lar work myself. Of course, there's no 'arm in bein' a writer, but you'd be much better with a tryde or a nice business, I should think. Reely!"

"Oh, yes," John murmured. "Well, I think I'll go out now!"

"Are you goin' to the Tahr, then?" "No," he answered. "No, I hadn't thought of that. I want to see Fleet Street!..."

"Fleet Street!" Lizzie exclaimed. "Wotever is there to see there."

"Oh, I don't know. I want to see it. That's all!"

"You 'ave got funny tyste. I should, 'ave thought you'd go to see the Tahr reely!..." She broke off as she observed him moving to the door.

"Mind, be back at seven sharp. I 'ate the dinner kep' 'angin' about. I don't get no time to myself if people aren't punctual. Mr. 'Inde's awful, 'e is. 'E don't care about no one else, 'e don't. Comes in any time, 'e does, an' expects a 'ot dinner just the syme. Never thinks n.o.body else never wants to go nowhere!..."

"I'll be back in time," said John, hurrying from the room.

"Well, mind you are," she called after him.

IV

In the street, he remembered that he had forgotten to ask Lizzie to tell him how to find Fleet Street, but her capacity for conversation prevented him from returning to the house to ask her. The number of trams and 'buses of different colours bewildered him, as he stood opposite to the White Horse, and watched them go by: and the accents of the conductors, when they called out their destinations, were unintelligible to him. He heard a man shouting "Beng, Beng, Beng, Beng, Beng, BENGK!" in a voice that sounded like a quick-firing gun, but the noise had no meaning for him. He saw names of places that were familiar to him through his reading or his talk with Uncle Matthew, painted on the side of the trams and buses, but he could not see the name of Fleet Street among them. He turned to a policeman and asked for advice, and the policeman put him in the care of a 'bus-conductor.

"You 'op on top, an' I'll tell you where to git off," the 'bus conductor said, and John did as he was bid.

He took a seat in the front of the 'bus, just behind the driver, for he had often heard stories of the witty sayings of London 'busmen and he was anxious to hear a 'bus-driver's wit being uttered.

"That's a nice day," he said, when the 'bus had gone some distance.

The driver, red-faced, obese and sleepy-eyed, slowly turned and regarded John, and having done so, nodded his head, and turned away again.

"Nice pair of horses you have," John continued affably.

"Yes," the driver grunted, without looking around.

John felt dashed by the morose manner of the driver and he remained silent for a few moments, but he leant forward again and said, "I expect you see a good deal of life on this 'bus?"

"Eih?" said the driver, glancing sharply at him. "Wot you sy?"

"I suppose you've seen a good many queer things from that seat?" John answered.

"'Ow you mean ... queer things?"

"Well, strange things!..."

The driver turned away and whipped up the horses.

"I've never seen anythink strynge in my life," he said. "Kimmup there!

Kimmup!..."