The Swing of the Pendulum

by Frances Mary Peard

So, on the next day, Wareham turned his back on Firleigh. For ever, he told himself, though Mrs Forbes had expressed a gracious hope that they might often see him, and was contentedly unconscious that he went away raging at her, and comparing her to a tremolo stop, to the scrapings of slate-pencils, and to many other sources of irritation; calling her, to himself, the trumpet of deterioration, that belittling woman! Relief at escape from her balanced the real grief it cost him to quit a place which had been like a home so long.

When he left Firleigh he had hardly made up his mind where to go. Restlessness was upon him, but travel was impossible, when he was like some tethered creature, bound not to go out of call, of reach, and hobbled, as he told himself. Not much more than a fortnight of this uncertainty remained, yet the time appeared portentous in length. He had a vague inclination to bury himself in London, and write, but experience warned him that, pre-occupied, his brains would not answer to the call. The impulse, however, was strong enough at the station to lead him to take a ticket for London.

Before he had been there two days he was sorry he had come. Writing was not for him; the sentences yawned at him like bald-headed idiots. But here his will stepped in and brought discipline, commanding that so much should be done at any cost, even probable future consignment to the fire. Something might be saved from it, at any rate his self-respect. Wareham ground away at his work, and in the afternoon plunged into street labyrinths, walking, walking, walking, without care where he went, so long as it was where he was not likely to meet his fellows. Oftenest he found himself down by the river, standing by black wharves, watching the river life with unseeing eyes, the river itself moving slowly, like the burdened thing it is. But sometimes he wandered round old city churches, quaintly named, lonely protests against the mammon around them, echoing emptily on Sundays, when the great human tide had flowed away from their walls. He passed up a narrow passage one day, and came full upon a lady sketching in a corner. It was Mrs Ravenhill, and escape was out of the question. Besides, his better nature was ashamed of the impulse. They greeted each other without astonishment, for no one is surprised to meet an acquaintance in great London, and Mrs Ravenhill explained that she was taking advantage of a fine day to finish an old sketch.

He remarked—

“And alone?”

“Yes, I can’t condemn Millie to be my companion here. Have you come from Thorpe?”

“No,” said Wareham, with wonder.

“Lady Fanny certainly said in a letter that you were expected,” said Mrs Ravenhill, a little vexed with herself for a slip which appeared to prove them interested in his movements. She added rashly, “Or perhaps I made a mistake.”

“I have not received any invitation to Thorpe,” returned Wareham, reserving the fact that one had been talked about. “Has Lady Fanny gone back?”

“Yes. There were to be large shooting-parties, and her brother wanted her. You had a sad time after we saw you. It shocked us greatly to hear of Mr Forbes’ death, and now his father.”