She seems to have gone into all sorts of
details, and made elaborate calculations as to what she would be able to
save, "with decent folks, who don't screw, and pinch, and lock up
everything in the house," and then she went off into a lot of
hypocritical nonsense about how fond she was of Alice, and how she
could go to her grave in peace, knowing how happy her dear George would
be with such a good wife, and about her savings from good wages helping
to set up a little home, ending up with "And, if you take an old woman's
advice, deary, it won't be long before you hear the marriage bells."' 'I see,' said Darnell; 'and the upshot of it all is, I suppose, that the
girl is thoroughly dissatisfied?' 'Yes, she is so young and silly. I talked to her, and reminded her of
how nasty old Mrs. Murry had been, and told her that she might change
her place and change for the worse. I think I have persuaded her to
think it over quietly, at all events. Do you know what it is, Edward? I
have an idea. I believe that wicked old woman is trying to get Alice to
leave us, that she may tell her son how changeable she is; and I suppose
she would make up some of her stupid old proverbs: "A changeable wife, a
troublesome life," or some nonsense of the kind. Horrid old thing!' 'Well, well,' said Darnell, 'I hope she won't go, for your sake. It
would be such a bother for you, hunting for a fresh servant.' He refilled his pipe and smoked placidly, refreshed somewhat after the
emptiness and the burden of the day. The French window was wide open,
and now at last there came a breath of quickening air, distilled by the
night from such trees as still wore green in that arid valley. The song
to which Darnell had listened in rapture, and now the breeze, which even
in that dry, grim suburb still bore the word of the woodland, had
summoned the dream to his eyes, and he meditated over matters that his
lips could not express. 'She must, indeed, be a villainous old woman,' he said at length. 'Old Mrs. Murry? Of course she is; the mischievous old thing! Trying to
take the girl from a comfortable place where she is happy.' 'Yes; and not to like Hampton Court! That shows how bad she must be,
more than anything.' 'It is beautiful, isn't it?' 'I shall never forget the first time I saw it. It was soon after I went
into the City; the first year. I had my holidays in July, and I was
getting such a small salary that I couldn't think of going away to the
seaside, or anything like that. I remember one of the other men wanted
me to come with him on a walking tour in Kent. I should have liked that,
but the money wouldn't run to it. And do you know what I did? I lived in
Great College Street then, and the first day I was off, I stayed in bed
till past dinner-time, and lounged about in an arm-chair with a pipe all
the afternoon. I had got a new kind of tobacco--one and four for the
two-ounce packet--much dearer than I could afford to smoke, and I was
enjoying it immensely. It was awfully hot, and when I shut the window
and drew down the red blind it grew hotter; at five o'clock the room was
like an oven. But I was so pleased at not having to go into the City,
that I didn't mind anything, and now and again I read bits from a queer
old book that had belonged to my poor dad. I couldn't make out what a
lot of it meant, but it fitted in somehow, and I read and smoked till
tea-time. Then I went out for a walk, thinking I should be better for a
little fresh air before I went to bed; and I went wandering away, not
much noticing where I was going, turning here and there as the fancy
took me. I must have gone miles and miles, and a good many of them round
and round, as they say they do in Australia if they lose their way in
the bush; and I am sure I couldn't have gone exactly the same way all
over again for any money. Anyhow, I was still in the streets when the
twilight came on, and the lamp-lighters were trotting round from one
lamp to another. It was a wonderful night: I wish you had been there, my
dear.' 'I was quite a little girl then.' 'Yes, I suppose you were. Well, it was a wonderful night. I remember, I
was walking in a little street of little grey houses all alike, with
stucco copings and stucco door-posts; there were brass plates on a lot
of the doors, and one had "Maker of Shell Boxes" on it, and I was quite
pleased, as I had often wondered where those boxes and things that you
buy at the seaside came from. A few children were playing about in the
road with some rubbish or other, and men were singing in a small
public-house at the corner, and I happened to look up, and I noticed
what a wonderful colour the sky had turned. I have seen it since, but I
don't think it has ever been quite what it was that night, a dark blue,
glowing like a violet, just as they say the sky looks in foreign
countries. I don't know why, but the sky or something made me feel quite
queer; everything seemed changed in a way I couldn't understand. I
remember, I told an old gentleman I knew then--a friend of my poor
father's, he's been dead for five years, if not more--about how I felt,
and he looked at me and said something about fairyland; I don't know
what he meant, and I dare say I didn't explain myself properly. But, do
you know, for a moment or two I felt as if that little back street was
beautiful, and the noise of the children and the men in the public-house
seemed to fit in with the sky and become part of it. You know that old
saying about "treading on air" when one is glad! Well, I really felt
like that as I walked, not exactly like air, you know, but as if the
pavement was velvet or some very soft carpet. And then--I suppose it was
all my fancy--the air seemed to smell sweet, like the incense in
Catholic churches, and my breath came queer and catchy, as it does when
one gets very excited about anything. I felt altogether stranger than
I've ever felt before or since.' Darnell stopped suddenly and looked up at his wife. She was watching him
with parted lips, with eager, wondering eyes. 'I hope I'm not tiring you, dear, with all this story about nothing. You
have had a worrying day with that stupid girl; hadn't you better go to
bed?' 'Oh, no, please, Edward. I'm not a bit tired now. I love to hear you
talk like that. Please go on.' 'Well, after I had walked a bit further, that queer sort of feeling
seemed to fade away. I said a bit further, and I really thought I had
been walking about five minutes, but I had looked at my watch just
before I got into that little street, and when I looked at it again it
was eleven o'clock. I must have done about eight miles. I could scarcely
believe my own eyes, and I thought my watch must have gone mad; but I
found out afterwards it was perfectly right. I couldn't make it out, and
I can't now; I assure you the time passed as if I walked up one side of
Edna Road and down the other.