Delphi Complete Works of Jerome K. Jerome (Illustrated) (Series Four) (306 page)

The small servant entered to clear away the tea things. She said she thought that Ann had rung. Her tone implied that anyhow it was time she had. Matthew rose and Ann held out her hand.

“I shall be at the concert,” he said.

“It isn’t till next week,” Ann reminded him.

“Oh, I’m not in any particular hurry,” said Matthew. “Are you generally in of an afternoon?”

“Sometimes,” said Ann.

He thought as he sat watching her from his stall that she was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. Her voice was not great. She had warned him not to expect too much.

“It will never set the Thames on fire,” she had said. “I thought at first that it would. But such as it is I thank God for it.”

It was worth that. It was sweet and clear and had a tender quality.

Matthew waited for her at the end. She was feeling well disposed towards all creatures and accepted his suggestion of supper with gracious condescension.

He had called on her once or twice during the preceding days. It was due to her after his long neglect of her, he told himself, and had found improvement in her. But to-night she seemed to take a freakish pleasure in letting him see that there was much of the old Ann still left in her: the frank conceit of her; the amazing self-opinionatedness of her; the waywardness, the wilfulness, the unreasonableness of her; the general uppishness and dictatorialness of her; the contradictoriness and flat impertinence of her; the swift temper and exasperating tongue of her.

It was almost as if she were warning him. “You see, I am not changed, except, as you say, in appearance. I am still Ann with all the old faults and failings that once made life in the same house with me a constant trial to you. Just now my very imperfections appear charms. You have been looking at the sun — at the glory of my face, at the wonder of my arms and hands. Your eyes are blinded. But that will pass. And underneath I am still Ann. Just Ann.”

They had quarrelled in the cab on the way home. He forgot what it was about, but Ann had said some quite rude things, and her face not being there in the darkness to excuse her, it had made him very angry. She had laughed again on the steps, and they had shaken hands. But walking home through the still streets Sylvia had plucked at his elbow.

What fools we mortals be — especially men! Here was a noble woman — a restful, understanding, tenderly loving woman; a woman as nearly approaching perfection as it was safe for a woman to go! This marvellous woman was waiting for him with outstretched arms (why should he doubt it?) — and just because Nature had at last succeeded in making a temporary success of Ann’s skin and had fashioned a rounded line above her shoulder-blade! It made him quite cross with himself. Ten years ago she had been gawky and sallow-complexioned. Ten years hence she might catch the yellow jaundice and lose it all. Passages in Sylvia’s letters returned to him. He remembered that far-off evening in his Paris attic when she had knocked at his door with her great gift of thanks. Recalled how her soft shadow hand had stilled his pain. He spent the next two days with Sylvia. He re-read all her letters, lived again the scenes and moods in which he had replied to them.

Her personality still defied the efforts of his imagination, but he ended by convincing himself that he would know her when he saw her. But counting up the women on Fifth Avenue towards whom he had felt instinctively drawn, and finding that the number had already reached eleven, began to doubt his intuition. On the morning of the third day he met Ann by chance in a bookseller’s shop. Her back was towards him. She was glancing through Aston Rowant’s latest volume.

“What I,” said the cheerful young lady who was attending to her, “like about him is that he understands women so well.”

“What I like about him,” said Ann, “is that he doesn’t pretend to.”

“There’s something in that,” agreed the cheerful young lady. “They say he’s here in New York.”

Ann looked up.

“So I’ve been told,” said the cheerful young lady.

“I wonder what he’s like?” said Ann.

“He wrote for a long time under another name,” volunteered the cheerful young lady. “He’s quite an elderly man.”

It irritated Matthew. He spoke without thinking.

“No, he isn’t,” he said. “He’s quite young.”

The ladies turned and looked at him.

“You know him?” queried Ann. She was most astonished, and appeared disbelieving. That irritated him further.

“If you care about it,” he said. “I will introduce you to him.”

Ann made no answer. He bought a copy of the book for himself, and they went out together. They turned towards the park.

Ann seemed thoughtful. “What is he doing here in New York?” she wondered.

“Looking for a lady named Sylvia,” answered Matthew.

He thought the time was come to break it to her that he was a great and famous man. Then perhaps she would be sorry she had said what she had said in the cab. Seeing he had made up his mind that his relationship to her in the future would be that of an affectionate brother, there would be no harm in also letting her know about Sylvia. That also might be good for her.

They walked two blocks before Ann spoke. Matthew, anticipating a pleasurable conversation, felt no desire to hasten matters.

“How intimate are you with him?” she demanded. “I don’t think he would have said that to a mere acquaintance.”

“I’m not a mere acquaintance,” said Matthew. “I’ve known him a long time.”

“You never told me,” complained Ann.

“Didn’t know it would interest you,” replied Matthew.

He waited for further questions, but they did not come. At Thirty-fourth Street he saved her from being run over and killed, and again at Forty-second Street. Just inside the park she stopped abruptly and held out her hand.

“Tell him,” she replied, “that if he is really serious about finding Sylvia, I may — I don’t say I can — but I may be able to help him.”

He did not take her hand, but stood stock still in the middle of the path and stared at her.

“You!” he said. “You know her?”

She was prepared for his surprise. She was also prepared — not with a lie, that implies evil intention. Her only object was to have a talk with the gentleman and see what he was like before deciding on her future proceedings — let us say, with a plausible story.

“We crossed on the same boat,” she said. “We found there was a good deal in common between us. She — she told me things.” When you came to think it out it was almost the truth.

“What is she like?” demanded Matthew.

“Oh, just — well, not exactly—” It was an awkward question. There came to her relief the reflection that there was really no need for her to answer it.

“What’s it got to do with you?” she said.

“I am Aston Rowant,” said Matthew.

The Central Park, together with the universe in general, fell away and disappeared. Somewhere out of chaos was sounding a plaintive voice: “What is she like? Can’t you tell me? Is she young or old?”

It seemed to have been going on for ages. She made one supreme gigantic effort, causing the Central Park to reappear, dimly, faintly, but it was there again. She was sitting on a seat. Matthew — Aston Rowant, whatever it was — was seated beside her.

“You’ve seen her? What is she like?”

“I can’t tell you.”

He was evidently very cross with her. It seemed so unkind of him.

“Why can’t you tell me — or, why won’t you tell me? Do you mean she’s too awful for words?”

“No, certainly not — as a matter of fact—”

“Well, what?”

She felt she must get away or there would be hysterics somewhere. She sprang up and began to walk rapidly towards the gate. He followed her.

“I’ll write you,” said Ann.

“But why — ?”

“I can’t,” said Ann. “I’ve got a rehearsal.”

A car was passing. She made a dash for it and clambered on. Before he could make up his mind it had gathered speed.

Ann let herself in with her key. She called downstairs to the small servant that she wasn’t to be disturbed for anything. She locked the door.

So it was to Matthew that for six years she had been pouring out her inmost thoughts and feelings! It was to Matthew that she had laid bare her tenderest, most sacred dreams! It was at Matthew’s feet that for six years she had been sitting, gazing up with respectful admiration, with reverential devotion! She recalled her letters, almost passage for passage, till she had to hold her hands to her face to cool it. Her indignation, one might almost say fury, lasted till tea-time.

In the evening — it was in the evening time that she had always written to him — a more reasonable frame of mind asserted itself. After all, it was hardly his fault. He couldn’t have known who she was. He didn’t know now. She had wanted to write. Without doubt he had helped her, comforted her loneliness; had given her a charming friendship, a delightful comradeship. Much of his work had been written for her, to her. It was fine work. She had been proud of her share in it. Even allowing there were faults — irritability, shortness of temper, a tendency to bossiness! — underneath it all was a man. The gallant struggle, the difficulties overcome, the long suffering, the high courage — all that she, reading between the lines, had divined of his life’s battle! Yes, it was a man she had worshipped. A woman need not be ashamed of that. As Matthew he had seemed to her conceited, priggish. As Aston Rowant she wondered at his modesty, his patience.

And all these years he had been dreaming of her; had followed her to New York; had —

There came a sudden mood so ludicrous, so absurdly unreasonable that Ann herself stopped to laugh at it. Yet it was real, and it hurt. He had come to New York thinking of Sylvia, yearning for Sylvia. He had come to New York with one desire: to find Sylvia. And the first pretty woman that had come across his path had sent Sylvia clean out of his head. There could be no question of that. When Ann Kavanagh stretched out her hand to him in that very room a fortnight ago he had stood before her dazzled, captured. From that moment Sylvia had been tossed aside and forgotten. Ann Kavanagh could have done what she liked with him. She had quarrelled with him that evening of the concert. She had meant to quarrel with him.

And then for the first time he had remembered Sylvia. That was her reward — Sylvia’s: it was Sylvia she was thinking of — for six years’ devoted friendship; for the help, the inspiration she had given him.

As Sylvia, she suffered from a very genuine and explainable wave of indignant jealousy. As Ann, she admitted he ought not to have done it, but felt there was excuse for him. Between the two she feared her mind would eventually give way. On the morning of the second day she sent Matthew a note asking him to call in the afternoon. Sylvia might be there, or she might not. She would mention it to her.

She dressed herself in a quiet, dark-coloured frock. It seemed uncommittal and suitable to the occasion. It also happened to be the colour that best suited her. She would not have the lamps lighted.

Matthew arrived in a dark serge suit and a blue necktie, so that the general effect was quiet. Ann greeted him with kindliness and put him with his face to what little light there was. She chose for herself the window-seat. Sylvia had not arrived. She might be a little late — that is, if she came at all.

They talked about the weather for a while. Matthew was of opinion they were going to have some rain. Ann, who was in one of her contradictory moods, thought there was frost in the air.

“What did you say to her?” he asked.

“Sylvia? Oh, what you told me,” replied Ann. “That you had come to New York to — to look for her.”

“What did she say?” he asked.

“Said you’d taken your time about it,” retorted Ann.

Matthew looked up with an injured expression.

“It was her own idea that we should never meet,” he explained.

“Um!” Ann grunted.

“What do you think yourself she will be like?” she continued. “Have you formed any notion?”

“It is curious,” he replied. “I have never been able to conjure up any picture of her until just now.”

“Why ‘just now’?” demanded Ann.

“I had an idea I should find her here when I opened the door,” he answered. “You were standing in the shadow. It seemed to be just what I had expected.”

“You would have been satisfied?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said.

There was silence for a moment.

“Uncle Ab made a mistake,” he continued. “He ought to have sent me away. Let me come home now and then.”

“You mean,” said Ann, “that if you had seen less of me you might have liked me better?”

“Quite right,” he admitted. “We never see the things that are always there.”

“A thin, gawky girl with a bad complexion,” she suggested. “Would it have been of any use?”

“You must always have been wonderful with those eyes,” he answered. “And your hands were beautiful even then.”

“I used to cry sometimes when I looked at myself in the glass as a child,” she confessed. “My hands were the only thing that consoled me.”

“I kissed them once,” he told her. “You were asleep, curled up in Uncle Ab’s chair.”

“I wasn’t asleep,” said Ann.

She was seated with one foot tucked underneath her. She didn’t look a bit grown up.

“You always thought me a fool,” he said.

“It used to make me so angry with you,” said Ann, “that you seemed to have no go, no ambition in you. I wanted you to wake up — do something. If I had known you were a budding genius—”

“I did hint it to you,” said he.

“Oh, of course it was all my fault,” said Ann.

He rose. “You think she means to come?” he asked. Ann also had risen.

“Is she so very wonderful?” she asked.

“I may be exaggerating to myself,” he answered. “But I am not sure that I could go on with my work without her — not now.”

“You forgot her,” flashed Ann, “till we happened to quarrel in the cab.”

“I often do,” he confessed. “Till something goes wrong. Then she comes to me. As she did on that first evening, six years ago. You see, I have been more or less living with her since then,” he added with a smile.