Part 11 (2/2)
”I wish you'd take me on as barmaid, Sarah,” Harriet said, when she had drunk her gla.s.s of spirits.
”Take you on?” exclaimed the other, with surprise. ”Why, have you fallen out with your cousin? I thought you was goin' to be married soon.”
”I didn't say for sure that I was; I only said I might be. Any way it won't be just yet, and I'm tired of my place in the shop.”
”Don't you be a fool, Harriet,” said the other, with genial frankness.
”You're well enough off. You stick where you are till you get married.
You wouldn't make nothin' at our business; 'tain't all sugar an' lemon, an' sittin' drinkin' twos o' whisky till further orders. You want a quiet, easy business, you do, an' you've got it. If you keep worritin'
yerself this way, you won't never make old bones, an' that's the truth.
You wait a bit, an' give yer cousin a chance to arst you,--if that's what you're troublin' about.”
”I've given him lots o' chances,” said Harriet peevishly.
”Eh well, give him lots more, an' it'll all come right. We're all born, but we're not buried.--Hev' another Irish?”
Harriet allowed herself to be persuaded to take another gla.s.s.
When the clock pointed to half-past nine, she rose and prepared to depart. She had told Mrs. Sprowl that she would take the 'bus and go straight home; but something seemed to have led her to alter her purpose, for she made her way to Westminster Bridge, and crossed the river. Then she made some inquiries of a policeman, and, in consequence, got into a Kennington omnibus. Very shortly she was set down close by Walcot Square. She walked about till, with some difficulty in the darkness, she had discovered the number at which Julian had told her his friend lived. The house found, she began to pace up and down on the opposite pavement, always keeping her eyes fixed on the same door. She was soon s.h.i.+vering in the cold night air, and quickened her walk. It was rather more than an hour before the door she was watching at length opened, and two friends came out together.
Harriet followed them as closely as she could, until she saw that she herself was observed. Thereupon she walked away, and, by a circuit, ultimately came back into the main road, where she took a 'bus going northwards.
Harriet's cousin, when alone of an evening, sat in his bedroom, the world shut out, his thoughts in long past times, rebuilding the ruins of a fallen Empire.
When he was eighteen, the lad had the good luck to light upon a cheap copy of Gibbon in a second-hand book-shop. It was the first edition; six n.o.ble quarto volumes, clean and firm in the old bindings. Often he had turned longing eyes upon newer copies of the great book, but the price had always put them beyond his reach. That very night he solemnly laid open the first volume at the first page, propping it on a couple of meaner books, and, after glancing through the short Preface, began to read with a mind as devoutly disposed as that of any pious believer poring upon his Bible. ”In the second century of the Christian AEra, the empire of Rome comprehended the fairest part of the earth, and the most civilised portion of mankind. The frontiers of that extensive monarchy were guarded by ancient renown and disciplined valour.” With what a grand epic roll, with what antic.i.p.ations of solemn music, did the n.o.ble history begin! Far, far into the night Julian turned over page after page, thoughtless of sleep and the commonplace duties of the morrow.
Since then he had mastered his Gibbon, knew him from end to end, and joyed in him more than ever. Whenever he had a chance of obtaining any of the writers, ancient or modern, to whom Gibbon refers, he read them and added to his knowledge. About a year ago, he had picked up an old Claudian, and the reading of the poet had settled him to a task which he had before that doubtfully sought. He wanted to write either a poem or a drama on some subject taken from the ”Decline and Fall,” and now, with Claudian's help, he fixed upon Stilicho for his hero. The form, he then decided, should be dramatic. Upon ”Stilicho” he had now been engaged for a year, and to-night he is writing the last words of the last scene. Shortly after twelve he has finished it, and, throwing down his pen, he paces about the room with enviable feelings.
He had not as yet mentioned to Waymark the work he was engaged upon, though he had confessed that he wrote verses at times. He wished to complete it, and then read it to his friend. It was now only the middle of the week, and though he had decided previously to wait till his visit to Walcot Square next Sunday before saying a word about ”Stilicho,” he could not refrain now from hastily penning a note to Waymark, and going out to post it at once.
When the day came, the weather would not allow the usual walk with Harriet, and Julian could not help feeling glad that it was so. He was too pre-occupied to talk in the usual way with the girl, and he knew how vain it would be to try and make her understand his state of mind.
Still, he went to see her as usual, and sat for an hour in Mrs. Ogle's parlour. At times, throughout the week, he had thought of the curious resemblance between Harriet and the girl he had noticed on leaving Waymark's house last Sunday, and now he asked her, in a half-jesting way, whether it had really been she.
”How could it be?” said Harriet carelessly. ”I can't be in two places at once.”
”Did you stay at home that evening?”
”No,--not all the evening.”
”What friends are they you go to, when you are out at night, Harriet?”
”Oh, some relations of the Colchester people.--I suppose you've been spending most of your time in Kennington since Sunday?”
”I haven't left home. In fact, I've been very busy. I've just finished some work that has occupied me for nearly a year.”
After all, he could not refrain from speaking of it, though he had made up his mind not to do so.
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