sunday was stiflingly hot. at sloane street the roof of every putney omnibus was already laden with passengers, and richard on his way to carteret street to make the acquaintance of laura's married sister, milly powell, her husband and young child, was forced at last to be content with a seat inside. the public houses were just closing for the afternoon, and the footpaths full of holiday-makers, with here and there a girl or a middle-aged man carrying a bible. no vehicles were abroad except the omnibuses and an occasional hired carriage which passed by with a nonchalant, lazy air.
at the redcliffe arms there got in a little family party consisting of a stout, seemingly prosperous man, gruffly good-humoured, his wife, and a boy of about three years, whose puffy face was disfigured by large spectacles.
"sit here, milly, out of the sun," the man said curtly.
richard looked up at the sound of the name. the woman's likeness to laura was unmistakable; beyond doubt she must be the sister of his betrothed. he examined her curiously. she was perhaps slightly under thirty, of a good height and well set, with a large head and a large, plain face. her movements were clumsy. she appeared to be just upon the line which divides the matron from the young mother. in both her features and her attire there were faint reminders of girlish grace, or at least of the charm of the shy wife who nurses her first-born. her complexion was clear and fresh, her ears small and delicately pink, her eyes cool grey. but one did not notice these beauties without careful inspection, while the heavy jaws, the lax eyelids, the flattened nose whose tilt unpleasantly revealed the nostrils, were obvious and repellent. she wore a black gown, which fitted badly, imparting an ungainliness probably foreign to her proper figure. her broad hat of black straw, trimmed with poppies and corn-flowers, was strikingly modish, and the veil, running at an angle from the extremity of the brim down to her chin, gave to her face a cloistered quality which had its own seductiveness. her small hands were neatly gloved, and held a cheap, effective parasol. the woman's normal expression was one of cow-like vacancy, but now and then her eyes would light up as she spoke to the child, gently restraining it, reassuring it, rallying it with simple banter. she was still in love with her husband; frequently she glanced at him with furtive wistfulness. she was able to enjoy the summer weather. she was not quite dead to the common phenomena of the roadside. but the last resistances of departing youthfulness and vivacity against the narcotic of a dull, unlovely domesticity were taking place. in a year or two she would be the typical matron of the lower middle-class.
when richard had made these observations, he reflected: "laura will be like that—soon." mentally he compared the two faces, and he could, as it were, see laura's changing....
then followed a reverie which embraced the whole of his past life. he recognised that, while he bore all the aspect of prosperity, he had failed. why had nature deprived him of strength of purpose? why could not he, like other men, bend circumstances to his own ends? he sought for a reason, and he found it in his father, that mysterious, dead transmitter of traits, of whom he knew so little, and on whose name lay a blot of some kind which was hidden from him. he had been born in the shadow, and after a fitful struggle towards emergence, into the shadow he must again retire. fate was his enemy. mary had died; mary would have helped him to be strong. mr. aked had died; mr. aked's inspiring influence would have incited and guided his efforts. adeline had abandoned him to a fatal loneliness.
he knew that he would make no further attempt to write. laura was not even aware that he had had ambitions in that direction. he had never told her, because she would not have understood. she worshipped him, he felt sure, and at times he had a great tenderness for her; but it would be impossible to write in the suburban doll's-house which was to be theirs. no! in future he would be simply the suburban husband—dutiful towards his employers, upon whose grace he would be doubly dependent; keeping his house in repair; pottering in the garden; taking his wife out for a walk, or occasionally to the theatre; and saving as much as he could. he would be good to his wife—she was his. he wanted to get married at once. he wanted to be master of his own dwelling. he wanted to have laura's kiss when he went out of a morning to earn the bread-and-cheese. he wanted to see her figure at the door when he returned at night. he wanted to share with her the placid, domestic evening. he wanted to tease her, and to get his ears boxed and be called a great silly. he wanted to creep into the kitchen and surprise her with a pinch of the cheek as she bent over the range. he wanted to whisk her up in his arms, carry her from one room to another, and set her down breathless in a chair.... ah! let it be soon. and as for the more distant future, he would not look at that. he would keep his eyes on the immediate foreground, and be happy while he could. after all, perhaps things had been ordered for the best; perhaps he had no genuine talent for writing. and yet at that moment he was conscious that he possessed the incommunicable imaginative insights of the author.... but it was done with now.
the conductor called out their destination, and as laura's sister gathered the child in her arms he sprang out and hurried down carteret street in order to reach the house first and so avoid a meeting on the doorstep. he heard the trot of the child behind him. children.... perhaps a child of his might give sign of literary ability. if so—and surely these instincts descended, were not lost—how he would foster and encourage it!
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