22 September.—In the train to Exeter.
Jonathan sleeping. It seems only yesterday
that the last entry was made, and yet how much between
then, in Whitby and all the world before me, Jonathan
away and no news of him, and now, married to Jonathan,
Jonathan a solicitor, a partner, rich, master of his
business, Mr. Hawkins dead and buried, and Jonathan
with another attack that may harm him. Some day
he may ask me about it. Down it all goes.
I am rusty in my shorthand, see what unexpected prosperity
does for us, so it may be as well to freshen it up
again with an exercise anyhow.
The service was very simple and very solemn.
There were only ourselves and the servants there,
one or two old friends of his from Exeter, his London
agent, and a gentleman representing Sir John Paxton,
the President of the Incorporated Law Society.
Jonathan and I stood hand in hand, and we felt that
our best and dearest friend was gone from us.
We came back to town quietly, taking a bus to Hyde
Park Corner. Jonathan thought it would interest
me to go into the Row for a while, so we sat down.
But there were very few people there, and it was
sad-looking and desolate to see so many empty chairs.
It made us think of the empty chair at home.
So we got up and walked down Piccadilly. Jonathan
was holding me by the arm, the way he used to in the
old days before I went to school. I felt it very
improper, for you can’t go on for some years
teaching etiquette and decorum to other girls without
the pedantry of it biting into yourself a bit.
But it was Jonathan, and he was my husband, and we
didn’t know anybody who saw us, and we didn’t
care if they did, so on we walked. I was looking
at a very beautiful girl, in a big cart-wheel hat,
sitting in a victoria outside Guiliano’s, when
I felt Jonathan clutch my arm so tight that he hurt
me, and he said under his breath, “My God!”
I am always anxious about Jonathan, for I fear that
some nervous fit may upset him again. So I turned
to him quickly, and asked him what it was that disturbed
him.
He was very pale, and his eyes seemed bulging out
as, half in terror and half in amazement, he gazed
at a tall, thin man, with a beaky nose and black moustache
and pointed beard, who was also observing the pretty
girl. He was looking at her so hard that he did
not see either of us, and so I had a good view of
him. His face was not a good face. It
was hard, and cruel, and sensual, and big white teeth,
that looked all the whiter because his lips were so
red, were pointed like an animal’s. Jonathan
kept staring at him, till I was afraid he would notice.
I feared he might take it ill, he looked so fierce
and nasty. I asked Jonathan why he was disturbed,
and he answered, evidently thinking that I knew as
much about it as he did, “Do you see who it
is?”
“No, dear,” I said. “I don’t
know him, who is it?” His answer seemed to
shock and thrill me, for it was said as if he did not
know that it was me, Mina, to whom he was speaking.
“It is the man himself!”
