Lifes Little Ironies | Page 6

The acquaintance thus oddly reopened proceeded apace. She often
looked out to get a few words with him, by night or by day. Her sorrow
was that she could not accompany her one old friend on foot a little
way, and talk more freely than she could do while he paused before the
house. One night, at the beginning of June, when she was again on the
watch after an absence of some days from the window, he entered the
gate and said softly, 'Now, wouldn't some air do you good? I've only
half a load this morning. Why not ride up to Covent Garden with me?
There's a nice seat on the cabbages, where I've spread a sack. You can
be home again in a cab before anybody is up.'
She refused at first, and then, trembling with excitement, hastily
finished her dressing, and wrapped herself up in cloak and veil,
afterwards sidling downstairs by the aid of the handrail, in a way she
could adopt on an emergency. When she had opened the door she found
Sam on the step, and he lifted her bodily on his strong arm across the
little forecourt into his vehicle. Not a soul was visible or audible in the
infinite length of the straight, flat highway, with its ever-waiting lamps
converging to points in each direction. The air was fresh as country air
at this hour, and the stars shone, except to the north-eastward, where
there was a whitish light--the dawn. Sam carefully placed her in the
seat, and drove on.
They talked as they had talked in old days, Sam pulling himself up now
and then, when he thought himself too familiar. More than once she
said with misgiving that she wondered if she ought to have indulged in
the freak. 'But I am so lonely in my house,' she added, 'and this makes
me so happy!'
'You must come again, dear Mrs. Twycott. There is no time o' day for

taking the air like this.'
It grew lighter and lighter. The sparrows became busy in the streets,
and the city waxed denser around them. When they approached the
river it was day, and on the bridge they beheld the full blaze of morning
sunlight in the direction of St. Paul's, the river glistening towards it, and
not a craft stirring.
Near Covent Garden he put her into a cab, and they parted, looking into
each other's faces like the very old friends they were. She reached
home without adventure, limped to the door, and let herself in with her
latch- key unseen.
The air and Sam's presence had revived her: her cheeks were quite
pink--almost beautiful. She had something to live for in addition to her
son. A woman of pure instincts, she knew there had been nothing really
wrong in the journey, but supposed it conventionally to be very wrong
indeed.
Soon, however, she gave way to the temptation of going with him again,
and on this occasion their conversation was distinctly tender, and Sam
said he never should forget her, notwithstanding that she had served
him rather badly at one time. After much hesitation he told her of a
plan it was in his power to carry out, and one he should like to take in
hand, since he did not care for London work: it was to set up as a
master greengrocer down at Aldbrickham, the county-town of their
native place. He knew of an opening--a shop kept by aged people who
wished to retire.
'And why don't you do it, then, Sam?' she asked with a slight
heartsinking.
'Because I'm not sure if--you'd join me. I know you wouldn't--couldn't!
Such a lady as ye've been so long, you couldn't be a wife to a man like
me.'
'I hardly suppose I could!' she assented, also frightened at the idea.

'If you could,' he said eagerly, 'you'd on'y have to sit in the back parlour
and look through the glass partition when I was away sometimes--just
to keep an eye on things. The lameness wouldn't hinder that . . . I'd
keep you as genteel as ever I could, dear Sophy--if I might think of it!'
he pleaded.
'Sam, I'll be frank,' she said, putting her hand on his. 'If it were only
myself I would do it, and gladly, though everything I possess would be
lost to me by marrying again.'
'I don't mind that! It's more independent.'
'That's good of you, dear, dear Sam. But there's something else. I have a
son . . . I almost fancy when I am miserable sometimes that he is not
really mine, but one I hold in trust for my late husband. He seems to
belong so little to me personally, so entirely to his dead father. He is