Marriage to Ernest Lockhart had been the great disappointment of Julia's life. Yet she had nothing to say against him, beyond an entire absence of passion, and even there, he had not deceived her; she had deceived herself. At twenty, she had allowed herself to be overborne by the romance of marrying a man sixteen years her senior, so assured and cultivated beside, say, young Harry Fletcher who had blushed and stammered every time he spoke to her but who, as she realised far too late, had plainly adored her. Her parents had not forced her; on the contrary, she could still recall her father asking her very earnestly if she was quite sure, and hear herself saying blithely yes, airily convinced that Ernest Lockhart's reserve concealed an answering force of passion. And then to discover her husband so ... well, so inept and lifeless, yet so wedded to the shows and forms of marriage, and so incapable of comprehending her unhappiness. Had it not been for her daughter, born within a year of the wedding, she would have left him; as it was, she had worked at her writing and entertained her friends, unable in the end to hate her husband for being what he was, and feeling, as her thirtieth birthday receded, only a dull subterranean anger at the inexorable waste of life.
And then, on a warm spring afternoon at the house of a distinguished man of letters, she had been introduced to Frederick Liddell, whose latest volume of poems she had read only the week before, and very soon found herself deep in conversation with him in a quiet comer of the distinguished mans garden, where they sat upon a bench in the shade of an oak and talked until she had lost all consciousness of time. He was not much over thirty, and looked even younger, for his complexion was as fair and soft as a woman's, and his dark eyes capable, as it seemed to Julia, of a quite feminine subtlety. Even his wavy brown hair seemed expressive in its unruly abundance, brushed across a broad, high forehead, the face narrowing markedly to a strong, rounded chin. His enthusiasms chased one another across his features; in repose, his most characteristic expression was one of gentle melancholy, a mild sadness which Julia found quite irresistible, all the more so because Frederick seemed utterly devoid of guile. She was used to fending off the attentions of practised seducers such as her unhappy friend Irene's husband Hector, with whom, it was said, no woman could safely be left alone for five minutes, but whose oily countenance invariably reminded Julia of Mr Chadband. But she was quite unused to being listened to with such responsive absorption. By the time she discovered that he had read and admired the one tale of hers that had so far been published, Julia felt certain she had made a friend for life.
They spoke a great deal that afternoon of religion, or rather of the impossibility of either believing in any of its prescribed forms, or living without some aspiration beyond the material, without coming to any definite conclusion save that their feelings seemed to be in entire agreement. In poetry they were divided by Julia's preference for Keats against his for Shelley, but this only opened the happy prospect of their reading their favourite passages to one another on some future occasion. From there they progressed naturally to dreams, and Julia found herself telling Frederick of a dream she had had on perhaps half a dozen occasions. It usually began in soft summer twilight, in an open field, a gentle slope covered in long green grass. She would begin to run down the slope, taking longer and longer strides until she could feel her feet just brushing the tips of the grass and remember, with a great rush of joy, that she had been born with the gift of flight. Then she would extend her arms and soar above the fields, feeling utterly at home in the air until the awareness that she was dreaming began to press itself upon her. Always she would struggle to hold onto the dream; for one magical, exhilarating moment she would believe that she had woken and yet continued to fly, until the world dissolved beneath her and she was left alone and bereft in darkness, like the knight-at-arms waking upon the cold hill's side. This was something she had never disclosed to anyone, for fear that if she did not keep it secret, the dream would never come back to her. Yet she spoke of it quite spontaneously to Frederick, and when she had done so, saw that he was greatly moved.
S
OME YEARS AGO, HE SAID, HE HAD FALLEN IN LOVE WITH
a dancer named Lydia Lopez—not her real name, for she had been born and bred in London, but the only one he had ever known her by, just as he had been left only one memento of her, though he did not say what it was. He had gone every night to the theatre where she performed, and sometimes taken her to supper afterwards. Frederick did not describe Lydia very distinctly, other than to say that she was very small and slightly formed, so much so that she could easily have been taken for a child of twelve or thirteen.
One particularly elaborate scene—a favourite with the audience—called for her to be equipped with wings and to soar, suspended from a wire, high above the stage. Frederick had been in the front row on the night when the wire gave way and Lydia fell from the painted heavens; he could still, he said, shuddering at the memory, hear the dreadful thud of her body striking the boards. The curtain was instantly drawn; yet to everyone's amazement and relief, she came out half an hour later, looking a little dazed but apparently uninjured, and took a bow, drawing rapturous applause from the house. But the relief was premature; a few hours later she lapsed into unconsciousness, and she died two days later of a haemorrhage to the brain.
Before Lydia, Frederick confessed, he had fancied himself in love with a different woman every week, but he had never since been able to care for anyone as he had cared for her. 'I did not know how much she meant to me until she was gone/ he said, gazing into Julia's eyes with such open, unaffected feeling that her sympathy went out to him entirely; so much so that she found she had taken his hand in both of hers. She felt, if anything, strangely reassured by this disclosure; and he accepted her invitation to tea at her house in Hyde Park Gardens with such eagerness, and told her with such warmth how delighted he was to have met her, that she went home happier than she could remember being since she had first held her infant daughter in her arms.
Julia knew herself in love with Frederick from that first afternoon, but it was many weeks before she dared hope that her feeling might be returned, for when she saw him next in company she wondered if he were not exactly the same ardent, attentive listener with everyone of his acquaintance. Yet he accepted all of her suggestions for meeting, despite the demands upon his time—he had a small private income, supplemented by a great deal of reviewing—with such eagerness that her imagination would insist upon running far ahead of her. She dared not invite him too often to her house, for she could not bear the thought of their relations becoming the object of common gossip, and so they met in galleries and parks, and sometimes in the Reading Room, always maintaining the pretext that such-and-such would be an interesting thing to do as soon as they found the opportunity. There always seemed to be more to say than they had time for, and as the days lengthened he spoke less often of Lydia; but it was not until spring had passed into summer that she arrived, with a rapidly beating heart, at the entrance to a mansion block towering above a narrow Bloomsbury street, in response to his first invitation to tea.
H
E HAD WARNED HER ABOUT THE STAIRS, APOLOGISING
for his preference for living as high above the street as possible, but she was still surprised by how many flights there were, and though the day was cool and cloudy, she was quite dazzled by the light when he ushered her into his sitting room. There were tall casements on either side of narrow French windows, through which Julia glimpsed the iron railing of a small balcony. The room was not large; two armchairs and a sofa arranged upon a Persian carpet took up much of the floor, and there were bookshelves ranged along the other walls. Julia would have liked to look around, but Frederick immediately invited her to be seated; his manner was more formal than usual, and his constraint affected her, so that instead of the sofa she took the right-hand armchair, whereupon Frederick excused himself to make the tea, and left her alone in the room.
From this she deduced that she was, as she had hoped, to be the only guest, and sat willing herself to feel less agitated and more at ease. As her eyes adjusted to the brightness she became aware that she was not, after all, quite alone, for on a desk at the window nearest to her chair stood a framed photograph, a head-and-shoulders portrait of a young woman who could only be Lydia. She was both like and unlike the Lydia of Julia's imagination: at first glance the face appeared rounded and child-like, especially in the set of the lower lip and chin, but there was also a subdued sensuality which became more apparent the longer one looked into the dark eyes that gazed so directly back, the eyes of a woman fully aware of her power to charm—or mesmerise. "For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!" the words echoed suddenly in Julia's awareness, and left her wishing she had not recalled them.
She was still absorbed in contemplation of Lydia's portrait when Frederick returned with the tea-tray. But he did not seem to notice, and instead launched into an account of how he had that morning read and reviewed four three-decker novels without cutting a single page, delivered his copy, and sold all four in pristine condition in Fleet Street in time for lunch. Julia felt a certain pang at the thought of judgement being passed so lightly upon all those months or years of hard authorial labour, but reminded herself sternly that Frederick was obliged to earn most of his own living by his pen, and had not the luxury of Ernest Lockhart's twelve hundred a year, which prompted a pang of quite another sort. They started several other topics, but none of them seemed to catch fire; perhaps it was the effect of Lydia's cool, steady gaze, which Julia could neither dismiss entirely from her consciousness nor allude to directly; at any rate the constraint seemed to grow between them until she sat miserably wishing she had not come. The room, too, was very close; she could feel herself becoming flushed and overheated as her unhappiness increased, until she was obliged to ask Frederick to open a window. He sprang from his chair in a welter of apologies and threw open the French windows, letting in a welcome draught of air. Unable to bear the pressure of Lydia's regard an instant longer, Julia rose and went to join him in the doorway.
She had never been—at least she felt she had never been—so high above the ground. The balcony appeared to her no larger than a window-box, with a small semicircular floor of pressed metal, and two hooped black horizontal railings curving out into empty space. The higher of these was only a little above her own waist. Even standing in the doorway, she seemed to be looking straight down into the abyss. Julia had stood close to the edge of a precipice without feeling anything like the fear that gripped her now; the sheer, vertiginous chasm beneath her feet seemed to be drawing her irresistibly towards the brink; in another second she would surely pitch head-first over the rail and into the void. All of these impressions raced across her mind in the space of a single glimpse, during which she was also aware of Frederick turning towards her and opening his mouth as if to speak, but ridiculously slowly, so that he reminded her of some great bird ponderously opening its beak. With the same absurd slowness, she saw herself reaching for his arm to save herself from falling, suspended between terror and a strange impulse to laugh at Frederick's gathering her in such a leisurely fashion into his embrace that she seemed to have time to reacquaint herself with every nuance of his expression before feeling, at last, the pressure of his lips upon her own. The sensation of vertigo remained; perhaps they had indeed fallen, but it did not seem to matter, for she felt quite weightless, and might as easily have been floating up as down.
T
HAT EVENING SHE WALKED ALONE AROUND THE BANKS
of the Serpentine and felt the world to be a blessed place. She knew, dimly, that the gulf between her present situation and the life she imagined herself living with Frederick might prove impassable, but she could not give him up now; perhaps her husband would bow gracefully to the inevitable; in the meantime she felt perfectly content in the warmth of the suns diminishing rays and the certainty that Frederick loved her, and would tell her so again before tomorrows sun had set. But with the next morning's post came a note which said only: "Dear Mrs Lockhart, I very much regret that I shall be unable to keep our appt this afternoon; I can only plead the most pressing and unexpected business, and pray that you will accept my most abject apologies. Believe me, yours very sincerely, Frederick Liddell."
Julia had always appreciated his tact and discretion, but the notes formal brevity, and worse, the absence of any indication as to when, or even if, she might expect to hear from him again, chilled her to the bone. In vain she struggled to reassure herself with the thought that Frederick had, after all, to earn his living as best he could; for if such demands had never before prevented him from seeing her, how could they possibly have done so now? The rest of the day crawled by beneath an ever-darkening cloud of apprehension and despair. After a sleepless night of torment, Julia could bear no more; as soon as her husband had departed for his chambers she sent Frederick an unsigned note saying she would call at his rooms at three o'clock.
He was waiting at the street door when her cab arrived. One glance at his face confirmed her worst fears. In silence they trudged up flight after flight of stairs to the room that had witnessed such extremities of rapture. As the memory flooded back to her, Julia turned towards Frederick as if praying to be woken from a nightmare. To her horror, he actually recoiled before checking himself with a forced, mechanical courtesy that set the final seal upon her humiliation. Bright sunshine streamed mockingly through the tall casements; the French windows were closed.
"Frederick; tell me what has happened."
Her lips were so numb with misery that she could barely utter the words.