"That"s wot I keep sayin" to myself. People"s brains is different. But there"s been times when I could have taken that old book away from him and hidden it, thinkin" that might be for his good."
"It wouldn"t be for his good."
"No," said Rose, "I"m not that certain that it would. That"s why I don"t do it."
She became pensive.
"Besides, it"s "is pleasure. Why, it"s all the pleasure he"s got."
She looked up at Jane. Her thoughts swam in her large eyes.
"It"s awful, isn"t it," said she, "not knowin" wot really is for people"s good?"
"I"m afraid we must trust them to know best."
"Well," said Rose, "I"ll just let "im alone. That"s safest."
Jane rose.
"You mustn"t worry," said she.
"I don"t," said Rose. "He hates worryin"."
She looked up again into Jane"s face as one beholding the calm face of wisdom.
"You"ve done me good," said she.
Jane stooped and kissed her. She kissed Tanqueray"s wife.
"Do you know," she said, "you are what I thought you would be."
Rose"s eyes grew rounder.
"And what"s that?"
"Something very sweet and nice."
Rose"s face was a soft mist of smiles and blushes. "Fancy that," she said.
"Why did you let her go away without telling me?" said Tanqueray, half-an-hour later.
"I didn"t think," said Rose. "We got talking."
"What did you talk about?"
She would not tell.
XVIII
She had known all the time that if she was not to go on thinking about George Tanqueray she must see his wife. When she had once thoroughly realized his wife it would be easier to give him up to her.
It was George who had tried to prevent her realizing Rose. He, for his part, refused to be given up to Rose or in any way identified with her.
Nina was right. His marriage had made no difference to George.
But now that she realized Rose, it made all the difference to Jane. Rose was realized so completely that she turned George out of the place he persisted in occupying in Jane"s mind. Jane had not allowed herself to feel that there was anything to be sorry about in George"s marriage. She was afraid of having to be sorry for George, because, in that case, there would be no end to her thinking about him. But if there was any sorrow in George"s marriage it was not going to affect George. She would not have to be sorry about him.
Like Nina, Jane was sorry for the woman.
That little figure strayed in and out of Jane"s mind without disturbing her renewed communion with Hambleby.
Up till now she had contrived to keep the very existence of Hambleby a secret from her publishers. But they had got wind of him somehow, and had written many times inquiring when he would be ready? As if she could tell, as if her object was to get him ready, and not rather to prolong the divine moments of his creation. She would have liked to have kept him with her in perpetual ma.n.u.script, for in this state he still seemed a part of herself. Publicity of any sort was a profanation. When published he would be made to stand in shop windows coa.r.s.ely labelled, offering himself for sale at four-and-six; he would go into the houses of people who couldn"t possibly appreciate him, and would suffer unspeakable things at their hands. As the supreme indignity, he would be reviewed. And she, his creator, would be living on him, profiting by his degradation at percentages which made her blush. To be thinking of what Hambleby would "fetch" was an outrage to his delicate perfection.
But she had to think of it; and after all, when she had reckoned it up, he would not "fetch" so very much. She had failed to gather in one half of the golden harvest. The serial rights of Hambleby lay rotting in the field. George used to manage all these dreadful things for her. For though George was not much cleverer than she he liked to think he was.
It was his weakness to imagine that he had a head for business. And in the perversity of things he had really done better for her than he had ever done for himself. That was the irony of it; when, if she could, she would have taken her luck and shared it with him.
Anyhow, business without George had been very uninteresting; and therefore she had not attended to it. There had been opportunities as golden as you please, but she had not seized them. There had been glorious openings for Hambleby, far-reaching prospects, n.o.ble vistas, if only he had been born six months sooner. And when George said that Hambleby would be popular, he was, of course, only tormenting her. He never meant half of the unpleasant things he said.
It was now April. Hambleby waited only for the crowning chapter. The arrangements for his publication had been made, all but the date, which was left unsettled, in case at the last moment a new opening should be found.
At four o"clock on an April afternoon Jane was meditating on her affairs when the staircase bell rang somewhat imperiously. It sounded like somebody determined to get in. A month ago she would have taken no notice of it. Now she was afraid not to open her door lest Tanqueray should be there.
It was not Tanqueray. It was Hugh Brodrick.
For a second she wondered at him, not taking him in. She had forgotten that Brodrick existed. It was his eyes she recognized him by. They were fixed on her, smiling at her wonder. He stood on the little square of landing between the door and the foot of the staircase.
"Of course," he said. "You"re just going out?"
"No, do come in."
"May I? I don"t believe you know in the least who I am."
"I do, really. I"m very glad to see you."
He followed her up the stairs and into her sitting-room, the small white-painted sitting-room, with its three straight windows looking on the Square. He went to one of the windows and looked out.
"Yes," he said, "there is a charm about it."
He spoke as if his mind had been long occupied with this place she lived in; as if they had disputed together many times as to the attraction of Kensington Square, and he had been won over, at last, reluctantly, to her view. It all strengthened the impression he gave of being absorbed in her.
He turned to her.
"You like living here? All alone? Cut off from everybody?"
She remembered then how they had really discussed this question.