Bildungsromans; England -- Social life and customs -- Fiction; Illegitimate children -- Fiction
Michael closed the trap. He was abashed when he perceived they were
still only in Fleet Street. Why had he gone to The Oxford to-night? Why
had he spoken to Drake? Why had he not stayed at Wychford? Why had he
not returned to London with the others? Such regrets were valueless. It
was foredoomed that Lily should come into his life again. Yet there was
no reason why she should. There was no reason at all. Men could hardly
be held responsible for the fall of women, unless themselves had upon
their souls the guilt of betrayal or desertion. It was ridiculous to
argue that he must bother because at eighteen he had loved her, because
at eighteen he had thought she was worthy of being loved. No doubt the
Orient Promenade was the sequel of kissing objectionable actors in the
back gardens of West Kensington. Yet the Orient Promenade? That was a
damnable place. The Orient Promenade? He remembered her kisses. Sitting
in this cab, he was kissing her now. She had ridden for hours deep in
his arms. Not Oxford could cure this relapse into the past. Every spire
and every tower had crashed to ruins around his staid conceptions, so
that they too presently fell away. Four years of plastic calm were
unfashioned, and she was again beside him. Every passing lamp lit up
her face, her smoldering eyes, her lips, her hair. The goblin took her
place, the goblin with sidelong glances, tasting of scent, powdered,
pranked, soulless, lost. What was she doing at this moment? What
invitation glittered in her look? Michael nearly told the driver to
turn his horse. He must reach the Orient before the show was done. He
must remonstrate with her, urge her to go home, help her with money,
plead with her, drag her by force away from that procession. But the
hansom kept on its way. All down the Embankment, all along Grosvenor
Road the onrushing street-lamps flung their balls of light with
monotonous jugglery into the cab. To-night, anyhow, it was too late to
find her. He would sleep on whatever resolve he took, and in the
morning perhaps the problem would present itself in less difficult
array.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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