George Gissing - In the Year of Jubilee

‘What do you think of that business?’ she asked her companion in an undertone.

‘I shouldn’t wonder if it answers,’ said the young man, speaking as usual, with a soft, amiable voice. ‘Our friend is helping, and he generally knows what he’s about.’

Crewe remained only for half-an-hour; on shaking hands with him, Nancy made known that she was going to the seaside next Monday for a few weeks, and the man of business answered only with ‘I hope you’ll enjoy yourself.’ Soon afterwards, she took leave. At the junction of De Crespigny Park and Grove Lane, some one approached her, and with no great surprise Nancy saw that it was Crewe.

‘Been waiting for you,’ he said. ‘You remember you promised me another walk.’

‘Oh, it’s much too late.’

‘Of course it is. I didn’t mean now. But to-morrow.’

‘Impossible.’ She moved on, in the direction away from her home. ‘I shall be with friends in the evening, the Morgans.’

‘Confound it! I had made up my mind to ask you for last Saturday, but some country people nabbed me for the whole of that day. I took them up the Monument, and up St Paul’s.’

‘I’ve never been up the Monument,’ said Nancy.

‘Never? Come to-morrow afternoon then. You can spare the afternoon. Let’s meet early somewhere. Take a bus to London Bridge. I’ll be at the north end of London Bridge at three o’clock.’

‘All right; I’ll be there,’ Nancy replied off-hand.

‘You really will? Three, sharp. I was never late at an appointment, business or pleasure.’

‘Which do you consider this?’ asked his companion, with a shrewd glance.

‘Now that’s unkind. I came here to-night on business, though. You quite understand that, didn’t you? I shouldn’t like you to make any mistake. Business, pure and simple.’

‘Why, of course,’ replied Nancy, with an ingenuous air. ‘What else could it be?’ And she added, ‘Don’t come any further. Ta-ta!’

Crewe went off into the darkness.

The next afternoon, Nancy alighted at London Bridge a full quarter of an hour late. It had been raining at intervals through the day, and clouds still cast a gloom over the wet streets. Crewe, quite insensible to atmospheric influence, came forward with his wonted brisk step and animated visage. At Miss. Lord’s side he looked rather more plebeian than when walking by himself; his high-hat, not of the newest, utterly misbecame his head, and was always at an unconventional angle, generally tilting back; his clothes, of no fashionable cut, bore the traces of perpetual hurry and multifarious impact. But he carried a perfectly new and expensive umbrella, to which, as soon as he had shaken hands with her, he drew Nancy’s attention.

‘A present this morning, from a friend of mine in the business. I ran into his shop to get shelter. Upon my word, I had no intention; didn’t think anything about it. However, he owed me an acknowledgment; I’ve sent him three customers from our office since I saw him last. By-the-bye, I shall have half a day at the seaside on Monday. There’s a sale of building-plots down at Whitsand. The estate agents run a complimentary special train for people going down to bid, and give a lunch before the auction begins. Not bad business.’

‘Are you going to bid?’ asked Nancy.

‘I’m going to have a look, at all events; and if I see anything that takes my fancy—. Ever been to Whitsand? I’m told it’s a growing place. I should like to get hold of a few advertising stations.—Where is it you are going to on Monday? Teignmouth? I don’t know that part of the country. Wish I could run down, but I shan’t have time. I’ve got my work cut out for August and September. Would you like to come and see the place where I think of opening shop?’

‘Is it far?’

‘No. We’ll walk round when we’ve been up the Monument. You don’t often go about the City, I daresay. Nothing doing, of course, on a Saturday afternoon.’

Nancy made him moderate his pace, which was too quick for her. Part of the pleasure she found in Crewe’s society came from her sense of being so undeniably his superior; she liked to give him a sharp command, and observe his ready obedience. To his talk she listened with a good-natured, condescending smile, occasionally making a remark which implied a more liberal view, a larger intelligence, than his. Thus, as they stood for a moment to look down at the steamboat wharf, and Crewe made some remark about the value of a cargo just being discharged, she said carelessly:

‘I suppose that’s the view you take of everything? You rate everything at market price.’

‘Marketable things, of course. But you know me well enough to understand that I’m not always thinking of the shop. Wait till I’ve made money.—Now then, clumsy!’

A man, leaning over the parapet by Nancy’s side, had pushed against her. Thus addressed he glared at the speaker, but encountered a bellicose look which kept him quiet.

‘I shall live in a big way,’ Crewe continued, as they walked on towards Fish Street Hill. ‘Not for the swagger of it; I don’t care about that, but because I’ve a taste for luxury. I shall have a country house, and keep good horses. And I should like to have a little farm of my own, a model farm; make my own butter and cheese, and know that I ate the real thing. I shall buy pictures. Haven’t I told you I like pictures? Oh yes. I shall go round among the artists, and encourage talent that hasn’t made itself known.’

‘Can you recognise it?’ asked Nancy.

‘Well, I shall learn to. And I shall have my wife’s portrait painted by some first-rate chap, never mind what it costs, and hung in the Academy. That’s a great idea of mine—to see my wife’s portrait in the Academy.’

His companion laughed.

‘Take care, then, that your wife is ornamental.’

‘I’ll take precious good care of that!’ Crewe exclaimed merrily. ‘Do you suppose I should dream of marrying a woman who wasn’t good-looking?’

‘Don’t shout, please. People can hear you.’

‘I beg your pardon.’ His voice sank to humility. ‘That’s a bad habit of mine. But I was going to say—I went to the Academy this year just to look at the portraits of men’s wives. There was nothing particular in that line. Not a woman I should have felt particularly proud of. Tastes differ, of course. Mine has altered a good deal in the last ten years. A man can’t trust himself about women till he’s thirty or near it.’

‘Talk of something else,’ Nancy commanded.

‘Certainly. There’s the sun coming out. You see, I was afraid it would keep on raining, and you would have an excuse for staying at home.’

‘I needed no excuse,’ said Nancy. ‘If I hadn’t wished to come, you may be sure I should have said so.’

Crewe flashed a look at her.

‘Ah, that’s how I like to hear you speak! That does one good. Well, here we are. People used to be fond of going up, they say, just to pitch themselves down. A good deal of needless trouble, it seems to me. Perhaps they gave themselves the off-chance of changing their minds before they got to the top.’

‘Or wanted to see if life looked any better from up there,’ suggested Nancy.

‘Or hoped somebody would catch them by the coat-tails, and settle a pension on them out of pity.’

Thus jesting, they began the ascent. Crewe, whose spirits were at high pressure, talked all the way up the winding stairs; on issuing into daylight, he became silent, and they stood side by side, mute before the vision of London’s immensity. Nancy began to move round the platform. The strong west wind lashed her cheeks to a glowing colour; excitement added brilliancy to her eyes. As soon as she had recovered from the first impression, this spectacle of a world’s wonder served only to exhilarate her; she was not awed by what she looked upon. In her conceit of self-importance, she stood there, above the battling millions of men, proof against mystery and dread, untouched by the voices of the past, and in the present seeing only common things, though from an odd point of view. Here her senses seemed to make literal the assumption by which her mind had always been directed: that she—Nancy Lord—was the mid point of the universe. No humility awoke in her; she felt the stirring of envies, avidities, unavowable passions, and let them flourish unrebuked.