In the Year of Jubilee. George Gissing
saw it stated in a paper.’
The girls glanced at each other, and smiled. Barmby beamed upon them with the benevolence of a man who knew his advantages, personal and social.
And at this moment Horace Lord came in. He had not the fresh appearance which usually distinguished him; his face was stained with perspiration, his collar had become limp, the flower at his buttonhole hung faded.
‘Well, here I am. Are you going?’
‘I suppose you know you have kept us waiting,’ said his sister.
‘Awf’ly sorry. Couldn’t get here before.’
He spoke as if he had not altogether the command of his tongue, and with a fixed meaningless smile.
‘We had better not delay,’ said Barmby, taking up his hat. ‘Seven o’clock. We ought to be at Charing Cross before eight; that will allow us about three hours.’
They set forth at once. By private agreement between the girls, Jessica Morgan attached herself to Mr. Barmby, allowing Nancy to follow with her brother, as they walked rapidly towards Camberwell Green. Horace kept humming popular airs; his hat had fallen a little to the side, and he swung his cane carelessly. His sister asked him what he had been doing all day.
‘Oh, going about. I met some fellows after the procession. We had a splendid view, up there on the top of Waterloo House.’
‘Did Fanny go home?’
‘We met her sisters, and had some lunch at a restaurant. Look here; you don’t want me to-night. You won’t mind if I get lost in the crowd? Barmby will be quite enough to take care of you.’
‘You are going to meet her again, I suppose?’
Horace nodded.
‘We had better agree on a rendezvous at a certain time. I say, Barmby, just a moment; if any of us should get separated, we had better know where to meet, for coming home.’
‘Oh, there’s no fear of that.’
‘All the same, it might happen. There’ll be a tremendous crush, you know. Suppose we say the place where the trams stop, south of Westminster Bridge, and the time a quarter to eleven?’
This was agreed upon.
At Camberwell Green they mingled with a confused rush of hilarious crowds, amid a clattering of cabs and omnibuses, a jingling of tram-car bells. Public-houses sent forth their alcoholic odours upon the hot air. Samuel Barmby, joyous in his protectorship of two young ladies, for he regarded Horace as a mere boy, bustled about them whilst they stood waiting for the arrival of the Westminster car.
‘It’ll have to be a gallant rush! You would rather be outside, wouldn’t you, Miss. Lord? Here it comes: charge!’
But the charge was ineffectual for their purpose. A throng of far more resolute and more sinewy people swept them aside, and seized every vacant place on the top of the vehicle. Only with much struggle did they obtain places within. In an ordinary mood, Nancy would have resented this hustling of her person by the profane public; as it was, she half enjoyed the tumult, and looked forward to get more of it along the packed streets, with a sense that she might as well amuse herself in vulgar ways, since nothing better was attainable. This did not, however, modify her contempt of Samuel Barmby; it seemed never to have occurred to him that the rough-and-tumble might be avoided, and time gained, by the simple expedient of taking a cab.
Sitting opposite to Samuel, she avoided his persistent glances by reading the rows of advertisements above his head. Somebody’s ‘Blue;’ somebody’s ‘Soap;’ somebody’s ‘High-class Jams;’ and behold, inserted between the Soap and the Jam—‘God so loved the world, that He gave His only-begotten Son, that whoso believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.’ Nancy perused the passage without perception of incongruity, without emotion of any kind. Her religion had long since fallen to pieces, and universal defilement of Scriptural phrase by the associations of the market-place had in this respect blunted her sensibilities.
Barmby was talking to Jessica Morgan. She caught his words now and then.
‘Can you tell me what is the smallest tree in the world?—No, it’s the Greenland birch. Its full-grown height is only three inches—positively! But it spreads over several feet.’
Nancy was tempted to lean forward and say, ‘How do you know?’ But the jest seemed to involve her in too much familiarity with Mr Barmby; for her own peace it was better to treat him with all possible coldness.
A woman near her talked loudly about the procession, with special reference to a personage whom she called ‘Prince of Wiles.’ This enthusiast declared with pride that she had stood at a certain street corner for seven hours, accompanied by a child of five years old, the same who now sat on her lap, nodding in utter weariness; together they were going to see the illuminations, and walk about, with intervals devoted to refreshments, for several hours more. Beyond sat a working-man, overtaken with liquor, who railed vehemently at the Jubilee, and in no measured terms gave his opinion of our Sovereign Lady; the whole thing was a ‘lay,’ an occasion for filling the Royal pocket, and it had succeeded to the tune of something like half a million of money, wheedled, most of it, from the imbecile poor. ‘Shut up!’ roared a loyalist, whose patience could endure no longer. ‘We’re not going to let a boozing blackguard like you talk in that way about ‘er Majesty!’ Thereupon, retort of insult, challenge to combat, clamour from many throats, deep and shrill. Nancy laughed, and would rather have enjoyed it if the men had fought.
At Westminster Bridge all jumped confusedly into the street and ran for the pavement. It was still broad daylight; the sun—a potentate who keeps no Jubilee—dropping westward amid the hues of summer eventide, was unmarked, for all his splendour, by the roaring multitudes.
‘Where are you going to leave us?’ Nancy inquired of her brother.
‘Charing Cross, or somewhere about there.’
‘Keep by me till then.’
Barmby was endeavouring to secure her companionship. He began to cross the bridge at her side, but Nancy turned and bade him attend upon Miss. Morgan, saying that she wished to talk with her brother. In this order they moved towards Parliament Street, where the crowd began to thicken.
‘Now let us decide upon our route,’ exclaimed Barmby, with the air of a popular leader planning a great demonstration. ‘Miss. Lord, we will be directed by your wishes. Where would you like to be when the lighting-up begins?’
‘I don’t care. What does it matter? Let us go straight on and see whatever comes in our way.’
‘That’s the right spirit! Let us give ourselves up to the occasion! We can’t be wrong in making for Trafalgar Square. Advance!’
They followed upon a group of reeling lads and girls, who yelled in chorus the popular song of the day, a sentimental one as it happened—
‘Do not forget me, Do not forget me, Think sometimes of me still’—
Nancy was working herself into a nervous, excited state. She felt it impossible to walk on and on under Barmby’s protection, listening to his atrocious commonplaces, his enthusiasms of the Young Men’s Debating Society. The glow of midsummer had entered into her blood; she resolved to taste independence, to mingle with the limitless crowd as one of its units, borne in whatever direction. That song of the streets pleased her, made sympathetic appeal to her; she would have liked to join in it.
Just behind her—it was on the broad pavement at Whitehall—some one spoke her name.
‘Miss. Lord! Why, who would have expected to see you here? Shouldn’t have dared to think of such a thing; upon my word, I shouldn’t!’
A man of about thirty, dressed without much care, middle-sized, wiry, ruddy of cheek, and his coarse but strong features vivid with festive energy, held a hand to her. Luckworth Crewe was his name. Nancy had come to know him at the house of Mrs. Peachey, where from time to time she had met various people unrecognised in her own home. His tongue bewrayed him for a native of some northern county; his manner