Doppelgangers by H. F. Heard Page B

give, he thought of Alie—Alie would understand. She’d said she liked him because he was different, that she was tired of handsome health. Well, women were sometimes like that; they had pity—“And pity from thee more dear than that from another.” The line running into his mind set it. He got up from his meal and went down to that park. A show was on—nothing might have happened since then. He walked about. No one noticed him. He went to the place where they had sat. Broad bands of flush lighting were flooding the lawns and concentrating on the outdoor stage. But just where they had sat there had been a heliotrope shadow made by the light being broken by a screen of bushes. He came into that mauve dusk. Sure enough, that must be she, and she was alone. This must be meant; luck like that could only mean that she did come here—waiting. He came up from behind and sat down in one of the rows of seats immediately behind hers. He could see her profile when he bent forward. She did look grave, sad even. He rested his hand softly on the back of her chair. He could control his voice now, if he spoke softly so that it could sound as it had formerly sounded.
    â€œAlie”—she did not start, but he was a good enough observer to see the neck muscles tauten—“Alie, I had to be away—away on a hard bit of work.” She didn’t turn. But he thought he saw her head almost involuntarily bow. “Alie, at that, that work, I’ve been—well a bit knocked about—I’m injured?” There was a question in his voice. No, she wasn’t going to cut him short either by going away or turning around. “Alie, you said you might like me, if only for a little, just because I was different. Might we, please just try an evening together?”
    His voice was pleading. He did not know till he let it find words how deep and cruel his need was. Certainly his tone told. She was silent. But suddenly he saw that without turning round she had put her hand backward. She touched his knee.
    â€œThank you,” he said. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
    The fingers gave a small pat, as a person pats a strange dog they are sorry for but are not sure about. He put his fingers gently on hers. She did not draw hers away. They sat like that a little, and he thought he had never rested before in his life.
    Then she said, “Yes, I couldn’t get you out of my mind; and, do you know, I was full of some kind of fear. I thought something must have happened to you. I somehow knew you’d have come otherwise.”
    There was again a silence. The play had stopped and the crowd had thinned. They were alone in that series of seats. He waited a few moments. Then, taking her hand, he got up gently and moved to the seat beside her. Suddenly her hand was snatched away. She had risen.
    â€œThat’s a common trick and a mean one!” Her voice was shrill. “You’ve simply got my name and description from, I suppose, the man who gave it you when he was drunk—so that you’d get off with me in the dusk!”
    â€œBut I’m that boy himself. Please, please believe me. I told you I’d been injured, facially injured.”
    â€œDirty liar, and dirty-minded old lecher! You, injured—you, a fresh young kid only a few weeks ago! Why, you’ve not been thirty for a dozen years! No, my old scrounger, you didn’t get a face like that and a skin like that in any accident. You’re just an old piece of debauched skin. Get out!”
    He turned round and was back in his room in twenty minutes. Yes, they had seen to it that he was shut out from life. He had a couple of bad days as the shock of hope died down and he settled again to his sunken living.
    It was, then, with no relief that a couple of days later he found another notice from the post office waiting for him on his return from work. He had to be early at the kitchen the next morning, and