"Is that you, Mr. Larch1?"
He distinctly made out Adeline's head and bust2 above him. Her white apron3 was pressed against the bannisters, as with extended arms and hands grasping the stair-rail she leaned over to see who was below.
"It is, Miss Aked," he answered. "The door was open, and so I walked in. Is anything wrong?"
"I've just sent Lottie out for the doctor. Uncle is very ill. I wish you'd see that he comes at once. It's in the Fulham Road, a little to the left—you'll notice the red lamp."
As Richard ran out, he met the doctor, a youngish man with a Scots face and grey hair, hurrying down the street, the servant-girl breathless in the rear.
"Master was took ill last night, sir," the latter said, in answer to Richard's question. "Pneumonia4, the doctor says as it is, and something else, and there's coming a nurse to-night. Master has attacks of it, sir—he can't get his breath."
He stood in the passage, uncertain what to do; the doctor had already gone upstairs.
"It must be very serious," he murmured.
"Yes, sir." Lottie began to whimper. Richard said he would call again later to make inquiries5, and presently discovered himself in Fulham Road, walking slowly towards Putney.
Mr. Aked's case was hopeless; of that Richard felt sure. The man must be getting on in years, and his frame, not constitutionally vigorous, had doubtless been fatally weakened by long-continued carelessness. What a strange creature of whims6 and enthusiasms he was! Although there could be no question as to his age, Richard never regarded him as more than a few years older than himself. He had none of the melancholy7, the circumspection8, the fixity of view, the prudent9 tendency towards compromise, the serene10 contented11 apathy12, which usually mark his time of life. He was still delicately susceptible13 to new influences, his ideals were as fluid as Richard's own. Life had taught him scarcely anything, and least of all sagacity and a dignified14 carriage. He was the typical bachelor, whose deeper feelings have never been stirred. Did regrets for a possibly happier past, shadows of dead faces, the memory of kisses, ever ruffle15 his equanimity16? Richard thought not. He must always have lived in the present. But he was an artist: though somehow the man had descended17 in his estimation, Richard clung to that. He possessed18 imagination and he possessed intellect, and he could fuse them together. Yet he had been a failure. Viewed in certain lights, Richard admitted he was a pitiful figure. What was his true history? Richard felt instinctively19 that none could answer that question, even in outline, except Mr. Aked, and suddenly he discerned that the man's nature, apparently20 frank to immodesty, had its own reserves, the existence of which few ever suspected. And when the worst was said, Mr. Aked possessed originality21; in an incongruous way he still retained the naïve graces of youthfulness; he was inspiring, and had exerted influences for which Richard could not but be grateful.
"The Psychology22 of the Suburbs" had receded23 swiftly into the background, a beautiful, impossible idea! Richard knew now that it could never have been carried out. A little progress would have been made, and then, as difficulties increased, both he and Mr. Aked would have tacitly abandoned their enterprise. They were very much alike, he thought, and the fancied similarity pleased him. Perhaps at some future time he might himself carry the undertaking24 to completion, in which case he would dedicate his book to the memory of Mr. Aked. He did not regret that the dream of the last few days was ended. It had been very enjoyable, but the awakening25, since according to his present wisdom it must have occurred sooner or later, was less unpleasant now than it could have been at any more advanced stage. Moreover, it was pleasant to dream of the dream.
Mr. Aked was dying: he knew it from Adeline's tone. Poor Adeline! To whom would she turn? She had implied that the only relatives for whom she cared, these being on her mother's side, were in America. From whom would she seek assistance? Who would conduct the formalities of the funeral, and the testamentary business, such as it was? His loathing26 for funerals seemed to have vanished, and he was not without hope that Adeline, though their acquaintance was of the shortest, might engage his help for her helplessness. And after the funeral, what would she do? Since she would probably have enough to live upon, she might elect to remain where she was. In which case he would visit her now and then of an evening. Her imminent27 loneliness gave her a pathetic charm, and he made haste to draw a picture of himself and her on either side the fireplace talking familiarly while she knitted or sewed.
Yes, he was actually a grown man, and entitled to his romances. He might eventually fall in love with her, having discovered in her character rare qualities now unsuspected. It was improbable, but not impossible, and he had, in fact, already glanced at the contingency28 several times before. Oh for a passion, a glorious infatuation, even if it ended in disaster and ruin! The difficulty was that Adeline fell short of the ideal lover. That virginal abstraction was to have been an artist of some sort, absolutely irreligious, broad in social views, the essence of refinement29, with a striking but not necessarily beautiful face, soft-spoken, and isolated—untrammelled by friends. Adeline was no artist; he feared she might be a regular attendant at chapel30 and painfully orthodox as to the sexual relations. Was she refined? Had she a striking face? He said Yes, twice. Her voice was low and full of pretty modulations. Soon, perhaps, she would be alone in the world. If only she had been an ............