The Garden Party and Other Stories
by Katherine Mansfield
Project Gutenberg Australia
CONTENTS
1.At the Bay 2.The
Garden Party 3.The Daughters of the Late Colonel
4.Mr. and Mrs. Dove 5.The
Young Girl 6.Life of Ma Parker 7.Marriage a la Mode
8.The Voyage 9.Miss Brill 10.Her First Ball 11.The Singing Lesson
12.The Stranger 13.Bank
Holiday 14.An Ideal Family 15.The Lady's-Maid
1. AT THE BAY
I.
Very early morning. The sun was not yet risen,
and the whole of Crescent Bay was hidden under a white sea-mist. The big
bush-covered hills at the back were smothered. You could not see where they
ended and the paddocks and bungalows began. The sandy road was gone and the
paddocks and bungalows the other side of it; there were no white dunes covered
with reddish grass beyond them; there was nothing to mark which was beach and
where was the sea. A heavy dew had fallen. The grass was blue. Big drops hung
on the bushes and just did not fall; the silvery, fluffy toi-toi was limp on
its long stalks, and all the marigolds and the pinks in the bungalow gardens
were bowed to the earth with wetness. Drenched were the cold fuchsias, round
pearls of dew lay on the flat nasturtium leaves. It looked as though the sea
had beaten up softly in the darkness, as though one immense wave had come
rippling, rippling—how far? Perhaps if you had waked up in the middle of the
night you might have seen a big fish flicking in at the window and gone
again...
Ah-Aah! sounded the sleepy sea. And from the
bush there came the sound of little streams flowing, quickly, lightly, slipping
between the smooth stones, gushing into ferny basins and out again; and there
was the splashing of big drops on large leaves, and something else—what was
it?—a faint stirring and shaking, the snapping of a twig and then such silence
that it seemed some one was listening.
Round the corner of Crescent Bay, between the
piled-up masses of broken rock, a flock of sheep came pattering. They were
huddled together, a small, tossing, woolly mass, and their thin, stick-like
legs trotted along quickly as if the cold and the quiet had frightened them.
Behind them an old sheep-dog, his soaking paws covered with sand, ran along
with his nose to the ground, but carelessly, as if thinking of something else.
And then in the rocky gateway the shepherd himself appeared. He was a lean,
upright old man, in a frieze coat that was covered with a web of tiny drops,
velvet trousers tied under the knee, and a wide-awake with a folded blue
handkerchief round the brim. One hand was crammed into his belt, the other
grasped a beautifully smooth yellow stick. And as he walked, taking his time,
he kept up a very soft light whistling, an airy, far-away fluting that sounded
mournful and tender. The old dog cut an ancient caper or two and then drew up
sharp, ashamed of his levity, and walked a few dignified paces by his master's
side. The sheep ran forward in little pattering rushes; they began to bleat,
and ghostly flocks and herds answered them from under the sea. "Baa!
Baaa!" For a time they seemed to be always on the same piece of ground.
There ahead was stretched the sandy road with shallow puddles; the same soaking
bushes showed on either side and the same shadowy palings. Then something
immense came into view; an enormous shock-haired giant with his arms stretched
out. It was the big gum-tree outside Mrs. Stubbs' shop, and as they passed by
there was a strong whiff of eucalyptus. And now big spots of light gleamed in
the mist. The shepherd stopped whistling; he rubbed his red nose and wet beard
on his wet sleeve and, screwing up his eyes, glanced in the direction of the
sea. The sun was rising. It was marvellous how quickly the mist thinned, sped
away, dissolved from the shallow plain, rolled up from the bush and was gone as
if in a hurry to escape; big twists and curls jostled and shouldered each other
as the silvery beams broadened. The far-away sky—a bright, pure blue—was
reflected in the puddles, and the drops, swimming along the telegraph poles,
flashed into points of light. Now the leaping, glittering sea was so bright it
made one's eyes ache to look at it. The shepherd drew a pipe, the bowl as small
as an acorn, out of his breast pocket, fumbled for a chunk of speckled tobacco,
pared off a few shavings and stuffed the bowl. He was a grave, fine-looking old
man. As he lit up and the blue smoke wreathed his head, the dog, watching,
looked proud of him.
"Baa! Baaa!" The sheep spread out into
a fan. They were just clear of the summer colony before the first sleeper
turned over and lifted a drowsy head; their cry sounded in the dreams of little
children...who lifted their arms to drag down, to cuddle the darling little
woolly lambs of sleep. Then the first inhabitant appeared; it was the Burnells'
cat Florrie, sitting on the gatepost, far too early as usual, looking for their
milk-girl. When she saw the old sheep-dog she sprang up quickly, arched her
back, drew in her tabby head, and seemed to give a little fastidious shiver.
"Ugh! What a coarse, revolting creature!" said Florrie. But the old
sheep-dog, not looking up, waggled past, flinging out his legs from side to
side. Only one of his ears twitched to prove that he saw, and thought her a
silly young female.
The breeze of morning lifted in the bush and the
smell of leaves and wet black earth mingled with the sharp smell of the sea.
Myriads of birds were singing. A goldfinch flew over the shepherd's head and,
perching on the tiptop of a spray, it turned to the sun, ruffling its small
breast feathers. And now they had passed the fisherman's hut, passed the
charred-looking little whare where Leila the milk-girl lived with her old Gran.
The sheep strayed over a yellow swamp and Wag, the sheep-dog, padded after,
rounded them up and headed them for the steeper, narrower rocky pass that led
out of Crescent Bay and towards Daylight Cove. "Baa! Baa!" Faint the
cry came as they rocked along the fast-drying road. The shepherd put away his
pipe, dropping it into his breast-pocket so that the little bowl hung over. And
straightway the soft airy whistling began again. Wag ran out along a ledge of
rock after something that smelled, and ran back again disgusted. Then pushing,
nudging, hurrying, the sheep rounded the bend and the shepherd followed after
out of sight.
II.
A few moments later the back door of one of the
bungalows opened, and a figure in a broad-striped bathing suit flung down the
paddock, cleared the stile, rushed through the tussock grass into the hollow,
staggered up the sandy hillock, and raced for dear life over the big porous
stones, over the cold, wet pebbles, on to the hard sand that gleamed like oil.
Splish-Splosh! Splish-Splosh! The water bubbled round his legs as Stanley
Burnell waded out exulting. First man in as usual! He'd beaten them all again.
And he swooped down to souse his head and neck.
"Hail, brother! All hail, Thou Mighty
One!" A velvety bass voice came booming over the water.
Great Scott! Damnation take it! Stanley lifted
up to see a dark head bobbing far out and an arm lifted. It was Jonathan
Trout—there before him! "Glorious morning!" sang the voice.
"Yes, very fine!" said Stanley
briefly. Why the dickens didn't the fellow stick to his part of the sea? Why
should he come barging over to this exact spot? Stanley gave a kick, a lunge
and struck out, swimming overarm. But Jonathan was a match for him. Up he came,
his black hair sleek on his forehead, his short beard sleek.
"I had an extraordinary dream last
night!" he shouted.
What was the matter with the man? This mania for
conversation irritated Stanley beyond words. And it was always the same—always
some piffle about a dream he'd had, or some cranky idea he'd got hold of, or
some rot he'd been reading. Stanley turned over on his back and kicked with his
legs till he was a living waterspout. But even then...
"I dreamed I was hanging over a
terrifically high cliff, shouting to some one below."
You would be! thought Stanley. He could stick no
more of it. He stopped splashing.
"Look here, Trout," he said, "I'm
in rather a hurry this morning."
"You're what?" Jonathan
was so surprised—or pretended to be—that he sank under the water, then
reappeared again blowing.
"All I mean is," said Stanley,
"I've no time to—to—to fool about. I want to get this over. I'm in a
hurry. I've work to do this morning—see?"
Jonathan was gone before Stanley had finished.
"Pass, friend!" said the bass voice gently, and he slid away through
the water with scarcely a ripple...But curse the fellow! He'd ruined Stanley's
bathe. What an unpractical idiot the man was! Stanley struck out to sea again,
and then as quickly swam in again, and away he rushed up the beach. He felt
cheated.
Jonathan stayed a little longer in the water. He
floated, gently moving his hands like fins, and letting the sea rock his long,
skinny body. It was curious, but in spite of everything he was fond of Stanley
Burnell. True, he had a fiendish desire to tease him sometimes, to poke fun at
him, but at bottom he was sorry for the fellow. There was something pathetic in
his determination to make a job of everything. You couldn't help feeling he'd
be caught out one day, and then what an almighty cropper he'd come! At that
moment an immense wave lifted Jonathan, rode past him, and broke along the
beach with a joyful sound. What a beauty! And now there came another. That was
the way to live—carelessly, recklessly, spending oneself. He got on to his feet
and began to wade towards the shore, pressing his toes into the firm, wrinkled
sand. To take things easy, not to fight against the ebb and flow of life, but
to give way to it—that was what was needed. It was this tension that was all
wrong. To live—to live! And the perfect morning, so fresh and fair, basking in
the light, as though laughing at its own beauty, seemed to whisper, "Why
not?"
But now he was out of the water Jonathan turned
blue with cold. He ached all over; it was as though some one was wringing the
blood out of him. And stalking up the beach, shivering, all his muscles tight,
he too felt his bathe was spoilt. He'd stayed in too long.
III.
Beryl was alone in the living-room when Stanley
appeared, wearing a blue serge suit, a stiff collar and a spotted tie. He
looked almost uncannily clean and brushed; he was going to town for the day.
Dropping into his chair, he pulled out his watch and put it beside his plate.
"I've just got twenty-five minutes,"
he said. "You might go and see if the porridge is ready, Beryl?"
"Mother's just gone for it," said
Beryl. She sat down at the table and poured out his tea.
"Thanks!" Stanley took a sip.
"Hallo!" he said in an astonished voice, "you've forgotten the
sugar."
"Oh, sorry!" But even then Beryl
didn't help him; she pushed the basin across. What did this mean? As Stanley
helped himself his blue eyes widened; they seemed to quiver. He shot a quick
glance at his sister-in-law and leaned back.
"Nothing wrong, is there?" he asked
carelessly, fingering his collar.
Beryl's head was bent; she turned her plate in
her fingers.
"Nothing," said her light voice. Then
she too looked up, and smiled at Stanley. "Why should there be?"
"O-oh! No reason at all as far as I know. I
thought you seemed rather—"
At that moment the door opened and the three
little girls appeared, each carrying a porridge plate. They were dressed alike
in blue jerseys and knickers; their brown legs were bare, and each had her hair
plaited and pinned up in what was called a horse's tail. Behind them came Mrs.
Fairfield with the tray.
"Carefully, children," she warned. But
they were taking the very greatest care. They loved being allowed to carry
things. "Have you said good morning to your father?"
"Yes, grandma." They settled
themselves on the bench opposite Stanley and Beryl.
"Good morning, Stanley!" Old Mrs.
Fairfield gave him his plate.
"Morning, mother! How's the boy?"
"Splendid! He only woke up once last night.
What a perfect morning!" The old woman paused, her hand on the loaf of
bread, to gaze out of the open door into the garden. The sea sounded. Through
the wide-open window streamed the sun on to the yellow varnished walls and bare
floor. Everything on the table flashed and glittered. In the middle there was
an old salad bowl filled with yellow and red nasturtiums. She smiled, and a
look of deep content shone in her eyes.
"You might cut me a slice of that bread,
mother," said Stanley. "I've only twelve and a half minutes before
the coach passes. Has anyone given my shoes to the servant girl?"
"Yes, they're ready for you." Mrs.
Fairfield was quite unruffled.
"Oh, Kezia! Why are you such a messy
child!" cried Beryl despairingly.
"Me, Aunt Beryl?" Kezia stared at her.
What had she done now? She had only dug a river down the middle of her
porridge, filled it, and was eating the banks away. But she did that every
single morning, and no one had said a word up till now.
"Why can't you eat your food properly like
Isabel and Lottie?" How unfair grown-ups are!
"But Lottie always makes a floating island,
don't you, Lottie?"
"I don't," said Isabel smartly.
"I just sprinkle mine with sugar and put on the milk and finish it. Only
babies play with their food."
Stanley pushed back his chair and got up.
"Would you get me those shoes, mother? And,
Beryl, if you've finished, I wish you'd cut down to the gate and stop the
coach. Run in to your mother, Isabel, and ask her where my bowler hat's been
put. Wait a minute—have you children been playing with my stick?"
"No, father!"
"But I put it here." Stanley began to
bluster. "I remember distinctly putting it in this corner. Now, who's had
it? There's no time to lose. Look sharp! The stick's got to be found."
Even Alice, the servant-girl, was drawn into the
chase. "You haven't been using it to poke the kitchen fire with by any
chance?"
Stanley dashed into the bedroom where Linda was
lying. "Most extraordinary thing. I can't keep a single possession to
myself. They've made away with my stick, now!"
"Stick, dear? What stick?" Linda's
vagueness on these occasions could not be real, Stanley decided. Would nobody
sympathize with him?
"Coach! Coach, Stanley!" Beryl's voice
cried from the gate.
Stanley waved his arm to Linda. "No time to
say good-bye!" he cried. And he meant that as a punishment to her.
He snatched his bowler hat, dashed out of the
house, and swung down the garden path. Yes, the coach was there waiting, and
Beryl, leaning over the open gate, was laughing up at somebody or other just as
if nothing had happened. The heartlessness of women! The way they took it for
granted it was your job to slave away for them while they didn't even take the
trouble to see that your walking-stick wasn't lost. Kelly trailed his whip
across the horses.
"Good-bye, Stanley," called Beryl,
sweetly and gaily. It was easy enough to say good-bye! And there she stood,
idle, shading her eyes with her hand. The worst of it was Stanley had to shout
good-bye too, for the sake of appearances. Then he saw her turn, give a little
skip and run back to the house. She was glad to be rid of him!
Yes, she was thankful. Into the living-room she
ran and called "He's gone!" Linda cried from her room: "Beryl!
Has Stanley gone?" Old Mrs. Fairfield appeared, carrying the boy in his
little flannel coatee.
"Gone?"
"Gone!"
Oh, the relief, the difference it made to have
the man out of the house. Their very voices were changed as they called to one
another; they sounded warm and loving and as if they shared a secret. Beryl
went over to the table. "Have another cup of tea, mother. It's still
hot." She wanted, somehow, to celebrate the fact that they could do what
they liked now. There was no man to disturb them; the whole perfect day was
theirs.
"No, thank you, child," said old Mrs.
Fairfield, but the way at that moment she tossed the boy up and said
"a-goos-a-goos-a-ga!" to him meant that she felt the same. The little
girls ran into the paddock like chickens let out of a coop.
Even Alice, the servant-girl, washing up the
dishes in the kitchen, caught the infection and used the precious tank water in
a perfectly reckless fashion.
"Oh, these men!" said she, and she
plunged the teapot into the bowl and held it under the water even after it had
stopped bubbling, as if it too was a man and drowning was too good for them.
IV.
"Wait for me, Isa-bel! Kezia, wait for
me!"
There was poor little Lottie, left behind again,
because she found it so fearfully hard to get over the stile by herself. When
she stood on the first step her knees began to wobble; she grasped the post.
Then you had to put one leg over. But which leg? She never could decide. And
when she did finally put one leg over with a sort of stamp of despair—then the
feeling was awful. She was half in the paddock still and half in the tussock
grass. She clutched the post desperately and lifted up her voice. "Wait
for me!"
"No, don't you wait for her, Kezia!"
said Isabel. "She's such a little silly. She's always making a fuss. Come
on!" And she tugged Kezia's jersey. "You can use my bucket if you
come with me," she said kindly. "It's bigger than yours." But
Kezia couldn't leave Lottie all by herself. She ran back to her. By this time
Lottie was very red in the face and breathing heavily.
"Here, put your other foot over," said
Kezia.
"Where?"
Lottie looked down at Kezia as if from a
mountain height.
"Here where my hand is." Kezia patted
the place.
"Oh, there do you mean!" Lottie gave a
deep sigh and put the second foot over.
"Now—sort of turn round and sit down and
slide," said Kezia.
"But there's nothing to sit down on,
Kezia," said Lottie.
She managed it at last, and once it was over she
shook herself and began to beam.
"I'm getting better at climbing over
stiles, aren't I, Kezia?"
Lottie's was a very hopeful nature.
The pink and the blue sunbonnet followed
Isabel's bright red sunbonnet up that sliding, slipping hill. At the top they
paused to decide where to go and to have a good stare at who was there already.
Seen from behind, standing against the skyline, gesticulating largely with
their spades, they looked like minute puzzled explorers.
The whole family of Samuel Josephs was there
already with their lady-help, who sat on a camp-stool and kept order with a
whistle that she wore tied round her neck, and a small cane with which she
directed operations. The Samuel Josephs never played by themselves or managed
their own game. If they did, it ended in the boys pouring water down the girls'
necks or the girls trying to put little black crabs into the boys' pockets. So
Mrs. S. J. and the poor lady-help drew up what she called a
"brogramme" every morning to keep them "abused and out of
bischief." It was all competitions or races or round games. Everything
began with a piercing blast of the lady-help's whistle and ended with another.
There were even prizes—large, rather dirty paper parcels which the lady-help
with a sour little smile drew out of a bulging string kit. The Samuel Josephs
fought fearfully for the prizes and cheated and pinched one another's arms—they
were all expert pinchers. The only time the Burnell children ever played with
them Kezia had got a prize, and when she undid three bits of paper she found a
very small rusty button-hook. She couldn't understand why they made such a
fuss...
But they never played with the Samuel Josephs
now or even went to their parties. The Samuel Josephs were always giving
children's parties at the Bay and there was always the same food. A big
wash-hand basin of very brown fruit-salad, buns cut into four and a wash-hand
jug full of something the lady-help called "Limonadear." And you went
away in the evening with half the frill torn off your frock or something
spilled all down the front of your open-work pinafore, leaving the Samuel
Josephs leaping like savages on their lawn. No! They were too awful.
On the other side of the beach, close down to
the water, two little boys, their knickers rolled up, twinkled like spiders.
One was digging, the other pattered in and out of the water, filling a small
bucket. They were the Trout boys, Pip and Rags. But Pip was so busy digging and
Rags was so busy helping that they didn't see their little cousins until they
were quite close.
"Look!" said Pip. "Look what I've
discovered." And he showed them an old wet, squashed-looking boot. The
three little girls stared.
"Whatever are you going to do with
it?" asked Kezia.
"Keep it, of course!" Pip was very
scornful. "It's a find—see?"
Yes, Kezia saw that. All the same...
"There's lots of things buried in the
sand," explained Pip. "They get chucked up from wrecks. Treasure.
Why—you might find—"
"But why does Rags have to keep on pouring
water in?" asked Lottie.
"Oh, that's to moisten it," said Pip,
"to make the work a bit easier. Keep it up, Rags."
And good little Rags ran up and down, pouring in
the water that turned brown like cocoa.
"Here, shall I show you what I found
yesterday?" said Pip mysteriously, and he stuck his spade into the sand.
"Promise not to tell."
They promised.
"Say, cross my heart straight dinkum."
The little girls said it.
Pip took something out of his pocket, rubbed it
a long time on the front of his jersey, then breathed on it and rubbed it
again.
"Now turn round!" he ordered.
They turned round.
"All look the same way! Keep still!
Now!"
And his hand opened; he held up to the light
something that flashed, that winked, that was a most lovely green.
"It's a nemeral," said Pip solemnly.
"Is it really, Pip?" Even Isabel was
impressed.
The lovely green thing seemed to dance in Pip's
fingers. Aunt Beryl had a nemeral in a ring, but it was a very small one. This
one was as big as a star and far more beautiful.
V.
As the morning lengthened whole parties appeared
over the sand-hills and came down on the beach to bathe. It was understood that
at eleven o'clock the women and children of the summer colony had the sea to
themselves. First the women undressed, pulled on their bathing dresses and
covered their heads in hideous caps like sponge bags; then the children were
unbuttoned. The beach was strewn with little heaps of clothes and shoes; the
big summer hats, with stones on them to keep them from blowing away, looked
like immense shells. It was strange that even the sea seemed to sound differently
when all those leaping, laughing figures ran into the waves. Old Mrs.
Fairfield, in a lilac cotton dress and a black hat tied under the chin,
gathered her little brood and got them ready. The little Trout boys whipped
their shirts over their heads, and away the five sped, while their grandma sat
with one hand in her knitting-bag ready to draw out the ball of wool when she
was satisfied they were safely in.
The firm compact little girls were not half so
brave as the tender, delicate-looking little boys. Pip and Rags, shivering,
crouching down, slapping the water, never hesitated. But Isabel, who could swim
twelve strokes, and Kezia, who could nearly swim eight, only followed on the
strict understanding they were not to be splashed. As for Lottie, she didn't
follow at all. She liked to be left to go in her own way, please. And that way
was to sit down at the edge of the water, her legs straight, her knees pressed
together, and to make vague motions with her arms as if she expected to be
wafted out to sea. But when a bigger wave than usual, an old whiskery one, came
lolloping along in her direction, she scrambled to her feet with a face of
horror and flew up the beach again.
"Here, mother, keep those for me, will
you?"
Two rings and a thin gold chain were dropped
into Mrs Fairfield's lap.
"Yes, dear. But aren't you going to bathe
here?"
"No-o," Beryl drawled. She sounded
vague. "I'm undressing farther along. I'm going to bathe with Mrs. Harry
Kember."
"Very well." But Mrs. Fairfield's lips
set. She disapproved of Mrs Harry Kember. Beryl knew it.
Poor old mother, she smiled, as she skimmed over
the stones. Poor old mother! Old! Oh, what joy, what bliss it was to be
young...
"You look very pleased," said Mrs.
Harry Kember. She sat hunched up on the stones, her arms round her knees,
smoking.
"It's such a lovely day," said Beryl,
smiling down at her.
"Oh my dear!" Mrs. Harry Kember's
voice sounded as though she knew better than that. But then her voice always
sounded as though she knew something better about you than you did yourself.
She was a long, strange-looking woman with narrow hands and feet. Her face,
too, was long and narrow and exhausted-looking; even her fair curled fringe
looked burnt out and withered. She was the only woman at the Bay who smoked,
and she smoked incessantly, keeping the cigarette between her lips while she
talked, and only taking it out when the ash was so long you could not
understand why it did not fall. When she was not playing bridge—she played
bridge every day of her life—she spent her time lying in the full glare of the
sun. She could stand any amount of it; she never had enough. All the same, it
did not seem to warm her. Parched, withered, cold, she lay stretched on the
stones like a piece of tossed-up driftwood. The women at the Bay thought she
was very, very fast. Her lack of vanity, her slang, the way she treated men as
though she was one of them, and the fact that she didn't care twopence about
her house and called the servant Gladys "Glad-eyes," was disgraceful.
Standing on the veranda steps Mrs. Kember would call in her indifferent, tired
voice, "I say, Glad-eyes, you might heave me a handkerchief if I've got
one, will you?" And Glad-eyes, a red bow in her hair instead of a cap, and
white shoes, came running with an impudent smile. It was an absolute scandal!
True, she had no children, and her husband...Here the voices were always
raised; they became fervent. How can he have married her? How can he, how can
he? It must have been money, of course, but even then!
Mrs. Kember's husband was at least ten years
younger than she was, and so incredibly handsome that he looked like a mask or
a most perfect illustration in an American novel rather than a man. Black hair,
dark blue eyes, red lips, a slow sleepy smile, a fine tennis player, a perfect
dancer, and with it all a mystery. Harry Kember was like a man walking in his
sleep. Men couldn't stand him, they couldn't get a word out of the chap; he
ignored his wife just as she ignored him. How did he live? Of course there were
stories, but such stories! They simply couldn't be told. The women he'd been
seen with, the places he'd been seen in...but nothing was ever certain, nothing
definite. Some of the women at the Bay privately thought he'd commit a murder
one day. Yes, even while they talked to Mrs. Kember and took in the awful
concoction she was wearing, they saw her, stretched as she lay on the beach;
but cold, bloody, and still with a cigarette stuck in the corner of her mouth.
Mrs. Kember rose, yawned, unsnapped her belt
buckle, and tugged at the tape of her blouse. And Beryl stepped out of her
skirt and shed her jersey, and stood up in her short white petticoat, and her
camisole with ribbon bows on the shoulders.
"Mercy on us," said Mrs. Harry Kember,
"what a little beauty you are!"
"Don't!" said Beryl softly; but,
drawing off one stocking and then the other, she felt a little beauty.
"My dear—why not?" said Mrs. Harry
Kember, stamping on her own petticoat. Really—her underclothes! A pair of blue
cotton knickers and a linen bodice that reminded one somehow of a
pillow-case...
"And you don't wear stays, do you?"
She touched Beryl's waist, and Beryl sprang away with a small affected cry.
Then "Never!" she said firmly.
"Lucky little creature," sighed Mrs.
Kember, unfastening her own.
Beryl turned her back and began the complicated
movements of some one who is trying to take off her clothes and to pull on her
bathing-dress all at one and the same time.
"Oh, my dear—don't mind me," said Mrs.
Harry Kember. "Why be shy? I shan't eat you. I shan't be shocked like
those other ninnies." And she gave her strange neighing laugh and grimaced
at the other women.
But Beryl was shy. She never undressed in front
of anybody. Was that silly? Mrs. Harry Kember made her feel it was silly, even
something to be ashamed of. Why be shy indeed! She glanced quickly at her
friend standing so boldly in her torn chemise and lighting a fresh cigarette;
and a quick, bold, evil feeling started up in her breast. Laughing recklessly,
she drew on the limp, sandy-feeling bathing-dress that was not quite dry and
fastened the twisted buttons.
"That's better," said Mrs. Harry
Kember. They began to go down the beach together. "Really, it's a sin for
you to wear clothes, my dear. Somebody's got to tell you some day."
The water was quite warm. It was that marvellous
transparent blue, flecked with silver, but the sand at the bottom looked gold;
when you kicked with your toes there rose a little puff of gold-dust. Now the
waves just reached her breast. Beryl stood, her arms outstretched, gazing out,
and as each wave came she gave the slightest little jump, so that it seemed it
was the wave which lifted her so gently.
"I believe in pretty girls having a good
time," said Mrs. Harry Kember. "Why not? Don't you make a mistake, my
dear. Enjoy yourself." And suddenly she turned turtle, disappeared, and
swam away quickly, quickly, like a rat. Then she flicked round and began
swimming back. She was going to say something else. Beryl felt that she was
being poisoned by this cold woman, but she longed to hear. But oh, how strange,
how horrible! As Mrs. Harry Kember came up close she looked, in her black
waterproof bathing-cap, with her sleepy face lifted above the water, just her
chin touching, like a horrible caricature of her husband.
VI.
In a steamer chair, under a manuka tree that
grew in the middle of the front grass patch, Linda Burnell dreamed the morning
away. She did nothing. She looked up at the dark, close, dry leaves of the
manuka, at the chinks of blue between, and now and again a tiny yellowish
flower dropped on her. Pretty—yes, if you held one of those flowers on the palm
of your hand and looked at it closely, it was an exquisite small thing. Each
pale yellow petal shone as if each was the careful work of a loving hand. The
tiny tongue in the centre gave it the shape of a bell. And when you turned it
over the outside was a deep bronze colour. But as soon as they flowered, they
fell and were scattered. You brushed them off your frock as you talked; the
horrid little things got caught in one's hair. Why, then, flower at all? Who
takes the trouble—or the joy—to make all these things that are wasted,
wasted...It was uncanny.
On the grass beside her, lying between two
pillows, was the boy. Sound asleep he lay, his head turned away from his
mother. His fine dark hair looked more like a shadow than like real hair, but
his ear was a bright, deep coral. Linda clasped her hands above her head and
crossed her feet. It was very pleasant to know that all these bungalows were
empty, that everybody was down on the beach, out of sight, out of hearing. She
had the garden to herself; she was alone.
Dazzling white the picotees shone; the
golden-eyed marigold glittered; the nasturtiums wreathed the veranda poles in
green and gold flame. If only one had time to look at these flowers long
enough, time to get over the sense of novelty and strangeness, time to know
them! But as soon as one paused to part the petals, to discover the under-side
of the leaf, along came Life and one was swept away. And, lying in her cane
chair, Linda felt so light; she felt like a leaf. Along came Life like a wind
and she was seized and shaken; she had to go. Oh dear, would it always be so?
Was there no escape?
...Now she sat on the veranda of their Tasmanian
home, leaning against her father's knee. And he promised, "As soon as you
and I are old enough, Linny, we'll cut off somewhere, we'll escape. Two boys
together. I have a fancy I'd like to sail up a river in China." Linda saw
that river, very wide, covered with little rafts and boats. She saw the yellow
hats of the boatmen and she heard their high, thin voices as they called...
"Yes, papa."
But just then a very broad young man with bright
ginger hair walked slowly past their house, and slowly, solemnly even,
uncovered. Linda's father pulled her ear teasingly, in the way he had.
"Linny's beau," he whispered.
"Oh, papa, fancy being married to Stanley
Burnell!"
Well, she was married to him. And what was more
she loved him. Not the Stanley whom every one saw, not the everyday one; but a
timid, sensitive, innocent Stanley who knelt down every night to say his
prayers, and who longed to be good. Stanley was simple. If he believed in
people—as he believed in her, for instance—it was with his whole heart. He
could not be disloyal; he could not tell a lie. And how terribly he suffered if
he thought any one—she—was not being dead straight, dead sincere with him!
"This is too subtle for me!" He flung out the words, but his open,
quivering, distraught look was like the look of a trapped beast.
But the trouble was—here Linda felt almost
inclined to laugh, though Heaven knows it was no laughing matter—she saw her
Stanley so seldom. There were glimpses, moments, breathing spaces of calm, but
all the rest of the time it was like living in a house that couldn't be cured
of the habit of catching on fire, on a ship that got wrecked every day. And it
was always Stanley who was in the thick of the danger. Her whole time was spent
in rescuing him, and restoring him, and calming him down, and listening to his
story. And what was left of her time was spent in the dread of having children.
Linda frowned; she sat up quickly in her steamer
chair and clasped her ankles. Yes, that was her real grudge against life; that
was what she could not understand. That was the question she asked and asked,
and listened in vain for the answer. It was all very well to say it was the
common lot of women to bear children. It wasn't true. She, for one, could prove
that wrong. She was broken, made weak, her courage was gone, through
child-bearing. And what made it doubly hard to bear was, she did not love her
children. It was useless pretending. Even if she had had the strength she never
would have nursed and played with the little girls. No, it was as though a cold
breath had chilled her through and through on each of those awful journeys; she
had no warmth left to give them. As to the boy— well, thank Heaven, mother had
taken him; he was mother's, or Beryl's, or anybody's who wanted him. She had
hardly held him in her arms. She was so indifferent about him that as he lay
there...Linda glanced down.
The boy had turned over. He lay facing her, and
he was no longer asleep. His dark-blue, baby eyes were open; he looked as
though he was peeping at his mother. And suddenly his face dimpled; it broke
into a wide, toothless smile, a perfect beam, no less.
"I'm here!" that happy smile seemed to
say. "Why don't you like me?"
There was something so quaint, so unexpected
about that smile that Linda smiled herself. But she checked herself and said to
the boy coldly, "I don't like babies."
"Don't like babies?" The boy couldn't
believe her. "Don't like me?" He waved his arms foolishly at his
mother.
Linda dropped off her chair on to the grass.
"Why do you keep on smiling?" she said
severely. "If you knew what I was thinking about, you wouldn't."
But he only squeezed up his eyes, slyly, and
rolled his head on the pillow. He didn't believe a word she said.
"We know all about that!" smiled the
boy.
Linda was so astonished at the confidence of
this little creature...Ah no, be sincere. That was not what she felt; it was
something far different, it was something so new, so...The tears danced in her
eyes; she breathed in a small whisper to the boy, "Hallo, my funny!"
But by now the boy had forgotten his mother. He
was serious again. Something pink, something soft waved in front of him. He
made a grab at it and it immediately disappeared. But when he lay back,
another, like the first, appeared. This time he determined to catch it. He made
a tremendous effort and rolled right over.
VII.
The tide was out; the beach was deserted; lazily
flopped the warm sea. The sun beat down, beat down hot and fiery on the fine
sand, baking the grey and blue and black and white-veined pebbles. It sucked up
the little drop of water that lay in the hollow of the curved shells; it
bleached the pink convolvulus that threaded through and through the sand-hills.
Nothing seemed to move but the small sand-hoppers. Pit-pit-pit! They were never
still.
Over there on the weed-hung rocks that looked at
low tide like shaggy beasts come down to the water to drink, the sunlight
seemed to spin like a silver coin dropped into each of the small rock pools.
They danced, they quivered, and minute ripples laved the porous shores. Looking
down, bending over, each pool was like a lake with pink and blue houses
clustered on the shores; and oh! the vast mountainous country behind those
houses—the ravines, the passes, the dangerous creeks and fearful tracks that
led to the water's edge. Underneath waved the sea-forest—pink thread-like
trees, velvet anemones, and orange berry-spotted weeds. Now a stone on the
bottom moved, rocked, and there was a glimpse of a black feeler; now a
thread-like creature wavered by and was lost. Something was happening to the pink,
waving trees; they were changing to a cold moonlight blue. And now there
sounded the faintest "plop." Who made that sound? What was going on
down there? And how strong, how damp the seaweed smelt in the hot sun...
The green blinds were drawn in the bungalows of
the summer colony. Over the verandas, prone on the paddock, flung over the
fences, there were exhausted-looking bathing-dresses and rough striped towels.
Each back window seemed to have a pair of sand-shoes on the sill and some lumps
of rock or a bucket or a collection of pawa shells. The bush quivered in a haze
of heat; the sandy road was empty except for the Trouts' dog Snooker, who lay
stretched in the very middle of it. His blue eye was turned up, his legs stuck
out stiffly, and he gave an occasional desperate-sounding puff, as much as to
say he had decided to make an end of it and was only waiting for some kind cart
to come along.
"What are you looking at, my grandma? Why
do you keep stopping and sort of staring at the wall?"
Kezia and her grandmother were taking their
siesta together. The little girl, wearing only her short drawers and her
under-bodice, her arms and legs bare, lay on one of the puffed-up pillows of
her grandma's bed, and the old woman, in a white ruffled dressing-gown, sat in
a rocker at the window, with a long piece of pink knitting in her lap. This
room that they shared, like the other rooms of the bungalow, was of light
varnished wood and the floor was bare. The furniture was of the shabbiest, the
simplest. The dressing-table, for instance, was a packing-case in a sprigged
muslin petticoat, and the mirror above was very strange; it was as though a
little piece of forked lightning was imprisoned in it. On the table there stood
a jar of sea-pinks, pressed so tightly together they looked more like a velvet
pincushion, and a special shell which Kezia had given her grandma for a
pin-tray, and another even more special which she had thought would make a very
nice place for a watch to curl up in.
"Tell me, grandma," said Kezia.
The old woman sighed, whipped the wool twice
round her thumb, and drew the bone needle through. She was casting on.
"I was thinking of your Uncle William,
darling," she said quietly.
"My Australian Uncle William?" said
Kezia. She had another.
"Yes, of course."
"The one I never saw?"
"That was the one."
"Well, what happened to him?" Kezia
knew perfectly well, but she wanted to be told again.
"He went to the mines, and he got a
sunstroke there and died," said old Mrs. Fairfield.
Kezia blinked and considered the picture
again...a little man fallen over like a tin soldier by the side of a big black
hole.
"Does it make you sad to think about him,
grandma?" She hated her grandma to be sad.
It was the old woman's turn to consider. Did it
make her sad? To look back, back. To stare down the years, as Kezia had seen
her doing. To look after them as a woman does, long after they were out of
sight. Did it make her sad? No, life was like that.
"No, Kezia."
"But why?" asked Kezia. She lifted one
bare arm and began to draw things in the air. "Why did Uncle William have
to die? He wasn't old."
Mrs. Fairfield began counting the stitches in
threes. "It just happened," she said in an absorbed voice.
"Does everybody have to die?" asked
Kezia.
"Everybody!"
"Me?" Kezia sounded fearfully
incredulous.
"Some day, my darling."
"But, grandma." Kezia waved her left
leg and waggled the toes. They felt sandy. "What if I just won't?"
The old woman sighed again and drew a long
thread from the ball.
"We're not asked, Kezia," she said
sadly. "It happens to all of us sooner or later."
Kezia lay still thinking this over. She didn't
want to die. It meant she would have to leave here, leave everywhere, for ever,
leave—leave her grandma. She rolled over quickly.
"Grandma," she said in a startled
voice.
"What, my pet!"
"You're not to die." Kezia was very
decided.
"Ah, Kezia"—her grandma looked up and
smiled and shook her head—"don't let's talk about it."
"But you're not to. You couldn't leave me.
You couldn't not be there." This was awful. "Promise me you won't
ever do it, grandma," pleaded Kezia.
The old woman went on knitting.
"Promise me! Say never!"
But still her grandma was silent.
Kezia rolled off her bed; she couldn't bear it
any longer, and lightly she leapt on to her grandma's knees, clasped her hands
round the old woman's throat and began kissing her, under the chin, behind the
ear, and blowing down her neck.
"Say never...say never...say never—"
She gasped between the kisses. And then she began, very softly and lightly, to
tickle her grandma.
"Kezia!" The old woman dropped her
knitting. She swung back in the rocker. She began to tickle Kezia. "Say
never, say never, say never," gurgled Kezia, while they lay there laughing
in each other's arms. "Come, that's enough, my squirrel! That's enough, my
wild pony!" said old Mrs. Fairfield, setting her cap straight. "Pick
up my knitting."
Both of them had forgotten what the
"never" was about.
VIII.
The sun was still full on the garden when the
back door of the Burnells' shut with a bang, and a very gay figure walked down
the path to the gate. It was Alice, the servant-girl, dressed for her afternoon
out. She wore a white cotton dress with such large red spots on it and so many
that they made you shudder, white shoes and a leghorn turned up under the brim
with poppies. Of course she wore gloves, white ones, stained at the fastenings
with iron-mould, and in one hand she carried a very dashed-looking sunshade
which she referred to as her "perishall."
Beryl, sitting in the window, fanning her
freshly-washed hair, thought she had never seen such a guy. If Alice had only
blacked her face with a piece of cork before she started out, the picture would
have been complete. And where did a girl like that go to in a place like this?
The heart-shaped Fijian fan beat scornfully at that lovely bright mane. She
supposed Alice had picked up some horrible common larrikin and they'd go off
into the bush together. Pity to have made herself so conspicuous; they'd have
hard work to hide with Alice in that rig-out.
But no, Beryl was unfair. Alice was going to tea
with Mrs Stubbs, who'd sent her an "invite" by the little boy who
called for orders. She had taken ever such a liking to Mrs. Stubbs ever since
the first time she went to the shop to get something for her mosquitoes.
"Dear heart!" Mrs. Stubbs had clapped
her hand to her side. "I never seen anyone so eaten. You might have been
attacked by canningbals."
Alice did wish there'd been a bit of life on the
road though. Made her feel so queer, having nobody behind her. Made her feel
all weak in the spine. She couldn't believe that some one wasn't watching her.
And yet it was silly to turn round; it gave you away. She pulled up her gloves,
hummed to herself and said to the distant gum-tree, "Shan't be long
now." But that was hardly company.
Mrs. Stubbs's shop was perched on a little
hillock just off the road. It had two big windows for eyes, a broad veranda for
a hat, and the sign on the roof, scrawled MRS. STUBBS'S, was like a little card
stuck rakishly in the hat crown.
On the veranda there hung a long string of
bathing-dresses, clinging together as though they'd just been rescued from the
sea rather than waiting to go in, and beside them there hung a cluster of
sandshoes so extraordinarily mixed that to get at one pair you had to tear
apart and forcibly separate at least fifty. Even then it was the rarest thing
to find the left that belonged to the right. So many people had lost patience
and gone off with one shoe that fitted and one that was a little too big...Mrs.
Stubbs prided herself on keeping something of everything. The two windows,
arranged in the form of precarious pyramids, were crammed so tight, piled so
high, that it seemed only a conjurer could prevent them from toppling over. In
the left-hand corner of one window, glued to the pane by four gelatine
lozenges, there was—and there had been from time immemorial—a notice.
LOST! HANSOME GOLE BROOCH
SOLID GOLD
ON OR NEAR BEACH
REWARD OFFERED
Alice pressed open the door. The bell jangled,
the red serge curtains parted, and Mrs. Stubbs appeared. With her broad smile
and the long bacon knife in her hand, she looked like a friendly brigand. Alice
was welcomed so warmly that she found it quite difficult to keep up her
"manners." They consisted of persistent little coughs and hems, pulls
at her gloves, tweaks at her skirt, and a curious difficulty in seeing what was
set before her or understanding what was said.
Tea was laid on the parlour table—ham, sardines,
a whole pound of butter, and such a large johnny cake that it looked like an
advertisement for somebody's baking-powder. But the Primus stove roared so
loudly that it was useless to try to talk above it. Alice sat down on the edge
of a basket-chair while Mrs. Stubbs pumped the stove still higher. Suddenly
Mrs. Stubbs whipped the cushion off a chair and disclosed a large brown-paper
parcel.
"I've just had some new photers taken, my
dear," she shouted cheerfully to Alice. "Tell me what you think of
them."
In a very dainty, refined way Alice wet her
finger and put the tissue back from the first one. Life! How many there were!
There were three dozzing at least. And she held it up to the light.
Mrs. Stubbs sat in an arm-chair, leaning very
much to one side. There was a look of mild astonishment on her large face, and
well there might be. For though the arm-chair stood on a carpet, to the left of
it, miraculously skirting the carpet-border, there was a dashing water-fall. On
her right stood a Grecian pillar with a giant fern-tree on either side of it,
and in the background towered a gaunt mountain, pale with snow.
"It is a nice style, isn't it?"
shouted Mrs. Stubbs; and Alice had just screamed "Sweetly" when the
roaring of the Primus stove died down, fizzled out, ceased, and she said
"Pretty" in a silence that was frightening.
"Draw up your chair, my dear," said
Mrs. Stubbs, beginning to pour out. "Yes," she said thoughtfully, as
she handed the tea, "but I don't care about the size. I'm having an
enlargemint. All very well for Christmas cards, but I never was the one for
small photers myself. You get no comfort out of them. To say the truth, I find
them dis'eartening."
Alice quite saw what she meant.
"Size," said Mrs. Stubbs. "Give
me size. That was what my poor dear husband was always saying. He couldn't
stand anything small. Gave him the creeps. And, strange as it may seem, my
dear"—here Mrs. Stubbs creaked and seemed to expand herself at the
memory—"it was dropsy that carried him off at the larst. Many's the time
they drawn one and a half pints from 'im at the 'ospital...It seemed like a
judgmint."
Alice burned to know exactly what it was that
was drawn from him. She ventured, "I suppose it was water."
But Mrs. Stubbs fixed Alice with her eyes and
replied meaningly, "It was liquid, my dear."
Liquid! Alice jumped away from the word like a
cat and came back to it, nosing and wary.
"That's 'im!" said Mrs. Stubbs, and
she pointed dramatically to the life-size head and shoulders of a burly man
with a dead white rose in the buttonhole of his coat that made you think of a
curl of cold mutting fat. Just below, in silver letters on a red cardboard
ground, were the words, "Be not afraid, it is I."
"It's ever such a fine face," said
Alice faintly.
The pale-blue bow on the top of Mrs. Stubbs's
fair frizzy hair quivered. She arched her plump neck. What a neck she had! It
was bright pink where it began and then it changed to warm apricot, and that
faded to the colour of a brown egg and then to a deep creamy.
"All the same, my dear," she said
surprisingly, "freedom's best!" Her soft, fat chuckle sounded like a
purr. "Freedom's best," said Mrs. Stubbs again.
Freedom! Alice gave a loud, silly little titter.
She felt awkward. Her mind flew back to her own kitching. Ever so queer! She
wanted to be back in it again.
IX.
A strange company assembled in the Burnells'
washhouse after tea. Round the table there sat a bull, a rooster, a donkey that
kept forgetting it was a donkey, a sheep and a bee. The washhouse was the
perfect place for such a meeting because they could make as much noise as they
liked, and nobody ever interrupted. It was a small tin shed standing apart from
the bungalow. Against the wall there was a deep trough and in the corner a
copper with a basket of clothes-pegs on top of it. The little window, spun over
with cobwebs, had a piece of candle and a mouse-trap on the dusty sill. There
were clotheslines criss-crossed overhead and, hanging from a peg on the wall, a
very big, a huge, rusty horseshoe. The table was in the middle with a form at
either side.
"You can't be a bee, Kezia. A bee's not an
animal. It's a ninseck."
"Oh, but I do want to be a bee
frightfully," wailed Kezia...A tiny bee, all yellow-furry, with striped
legs. She drew her legs up under her and leaned over the table. She felt she
was a bee.
"A ninseck must be an animal," she
said stoutly. "It makes a noise. It's not like a fish."
"I'm a bull, I'm a bull!" cried Pip.
And he gave such a tremendous bellow—how did he make that noise?—that Lottie
looked quite alarmed.
"I'll be a sheep," said little Rags.
"A whole lot of sheep went past this morning."
"How do you know?"
"Dad heard them. Baa!" He sounded like
the little lamb that trots behind and seems to wait to be carried.
"Cock-a-doodle-do!" shrilled Isabel.
With her red cheeks and bright eyes she looked like a rooster.
"What'll I be?" Lottie asked
everybody, and she sat there smiling, waiting for them to decide for her. It
had to be an easy one.
"Be a donkey, Lottie." It was Kezia's
suggestion. "Hee-haw! You can't forget that."
"Hee-haw!" said Lottie solemnly.
"When do I have to say it?"
"I'll explain, I'll explain," said the
bull. It was he who had the cards. He waved them round his head. "All be
quiet! All listen!" And he waited for them. "Look here, Lottie."
He turned up a card. "It's got two spots on it—see? Now, if you put that
card in the middle and somebody else has one with two spots as well, you say
'Hee-haw,' and the card's yours."
"Mine?" Lottie was round-eyed.
"To keep?"
"No, silly. Just for the game, see? Just
while we're playing." The bull was very cross with her.
"Oh, Lottie, you are a little silly,"
said the proud rooster.
Lottie looked at both of them. Then she hung her
head; her lip quivered. "I don't want to play," she whispered. The
others glanced at one another like conspirators. All of them knew what that
meant. She would go away and be discovered somewhere standing with her pinny
thrown over her head, in a corner, or against a wall, or even behind a chair.
"Yes, you do, Lottie. It's quite
easy," said Kezia.
And Isabel, repentant, said exactly like a
grown-up, "Watch me, Lottie, and you'll soon learn."
"Cheer up, Lot," said Pip.
"There, I know what I'll do. I'll give you the first one. It's mine,
really, but I'll give it to you. Here you are." And he slammed the card
down in front of Lottie.
Lottie revived at that. But now she was in
another difficulty. "I haven't got a hanky," she said; "I want
one badly, too."
"Here, Lottie, you can use mine." Rags
dipped into his sailor blouse and brought up a very wet-looking one, knotted
together. "Be very careful," he warned her. "Only use that
corner. Don't undo it. I've got a little starfish inside I'm going to try and
tame."
"Oh, come on, you girls," said the
bull. "And mind—you're not to look at your cards. You've got to keep your
hands under the table till I say 'Go.'"
Smack went the cards round the table. They tried
with all their might to see, but Pip was too quick for them. It was very
exciting, sitting there in the washhouse; it was all they could do not to burst
into a little chorus of animals before Pip had finished dealing.
"Now, Lottie, you begin."
Timidly Lottie stretched out a hand, took the
top card off her pack, had a good look at it—it was plain she was counting the
spots—and put it down.
"No, Lottie, you can't do that. You mustn't
look first. You must turn it the other way over."
"But then everybody will see it the same
time as me," said Lottie.
The game proceeded. Mooe-ooo-er! The bull was
terrible. He charged over the table and seemed to eat the cards up.
Bss-ss! said the bee.
Cock-a-doodle-do! Isabel stood up in her
excitement and moved her elbows like wings.
Baa! Little Rags put down the King of Diamonds
and Lottie put down the one they called the King of Spain. She had hardly any
cards left.
"Why don't you call out, Lottie?"
"I've forgotten what I am," said the
donkey woefully.
"Well, change! Be a dog instead!
Bow-wow!"
"Oh yes. That's much easier." Lottie
smiled again. But when she and Kezia both had a one Kezia waited on purpose.
The others made signs to Lottie and pointed. Lottie turned very red; she looked
bewildered, and at last she said, "Hee-haw! Ke-zia."
"Ss! Wait a minute!" They were in the
very thick of it when the bull stopped them, holding up his hand. "What's
that? What's that noise?"
"What noise? What do you mean?" asked
the rooster.
"Ss! Shut up! Listen!" They were
mouse-still. "I thought I heard a—a sort of knocking," said the bull.
"What was it like?" asked the sheep
faintly.
No answer.
The bee gave a shudder. "Whatever did we
shut the door for?" she said softly. Oh, why, why had they shut the door?
While they were playing, the day had faded; the
gorgeous sunset had blazed and died. And now the quick dark came racing over
the sea, over the sand-hills, up the paddock. You were frightened to look in
the corners of the washhouse, and yet you had to look with all your might. And
somewhere, far away, grandma was lighting a lamp. The blinds were being pulled
down; the kitchen fire leapt in the tins on the mantelpiece.
"It would be awful now," said the
bull, "if a spider was to fall from the ceiling on to the table, wouldn't
it?"
"Spiders don't fall from ceilings."
"Yes, they do. Our Min told us she'd seen a
spider as big as a saucer, with long hairs on it like a gooseberry."
Quickly all the little heads were jerked up; all
the little bodies drew together, pressed together.
"Why doesn't somebody come and call
us?" cried the rooster.
Oh, those grown-ups, laughing and snug, sitting
in the lamp-light, drinking out of cups! They'd forgotten about them. No, not
really forgotten. That was what their smile meant. They had decided to leave
them there all by themselves.
Suddenly Lottie gave such a piercing scream that
all of them jumped off the forms, all of them screamed too. "A face—a face
looking!" shrieked Lottie.
It was true, it was real. Pressed against the
window was a pale face, black eyes, a black beard.
"Grandma! Mother! Somebody!"
But they had not got to the door, tumbling over
one another, before it opened for Uncle Jonathan. He had come to take the
little boys home.
X.
He had meant to be there before, but in the
front garden he had come upon Linda walking up and down the grass, stopping to
pick off a dead pink or give a top-heavy carnation something to lean against,
or to take a deep breath of something, and then walking on again, with her
little air of remoteness. Over her white frock she wore a yellow, pink-fringed
shawl from the Chinaman's shop.
"Hallo, Jonathan!" called Linda. And
Jonathan whipped off his shabby panama, pressed it against his breast, dropped
on one knee, and kissed Linda's hand.
"Greeting, my Fair One! Greeting, my
Celestial Peach Blossom!" boomed the bass voice gently. "Where are
the other noble dames?"
"Beryl's out playing bridge and mother's
giving the boy his bath...Have you come to borrow something?"
The Trouts were for ever running out of things
and sending across to the Burnells' at the last moment.
But Jonathan only answered, "A little love,
a little kindness;" and he walked by his sister-in-law's side.
Linda dropped into Beryl's hammock under the
manuka-tree, and Jonathan stretched himself on the grass beside her, pulled a
long stalk and began chewing it. They knew each other well. The voices of
children cried from the other gardens. A fisherman's light cart shook along the
sandy road, and from far away they heard a dog barking; it was muffled as
though the dog had its head in a sack. If you listened you could just hear the
soft swish of the sea at full tide sweeping the pebbles. The sun was sinking.
"And so you go back to the office on
Monday, do you, Jonathan?" asked Linda.
"On Monday the cage door opens and clangs
to upon the victim for another eleven months and a week," answered
Jonathan.
Linda swung a little. "It must be awful,"
she said slowly.
"Would ye have me laugh, my fair sister?
Would ye have me weep?"
Linda was so accustomed to Jonathan's way of
talking that she paid no attention to it.
"I suppose," she said vaguely,
"one gets used to it. One gets used to anything."
"Does one? Hum!" The "Hum"
was so deep it seemed to boom from underneath the ground. "I wonder how
it's done," brooded Jonathan; "I've never managed it."
Looking at him as he lay there, Linda thought
again how attractive he was. It was strange to think that he was only an
ordinary clerk, that Stanley earned twice as much money as he. What was the
matter with Jonathan? He had no ambition; she supposed that was it. And yet one
felt he was gifted, exceptional. He was passionately fond of music; every spare
penny he had went on books. He was always full of new ideas, schemes, plans.
But nothing came of it all. The new fire blazed in Jonathan; you almost heard
it roaring softly as he explained, described and dilated on the new thing; but
a moment later it had fallen in and there was nothing but ashes, and Jonathan
went about with a look like hunger in his black eyes. At these times he
exaggerated his absurd manner of speaking, and he sang in church— he was the
leader of the choir—with such fearful dramatic intensity that the meanest hymn
put on an unholy splendour.
"It seems to me just as imbecile, just as
infernal, to have to go to the office on Monday," said Jonathan, "as
it always has done and always will do. To spend all the best years of one's
life sitting on a stool from nine to five, scratching in somebody's ledger!
It's a queer use to make of one's...one and only life, isn't it? Or do I fondly
dream?" He rolled over on the grass and looked up at Linda. "Tell me,
what is the difference between my life and that of an ordinary prisoner. The
only difference I can see is that I put myself in jail and nobody's ever going
to let me out. That's a more intolerable situation than the other. For if I'd
been— pushed in, against my will—kicking, even—once the door was locked, or at
any rate in five years or so, I might have accepted the fact and begun to take
an interest in the flight of flies or counting the warder's steps along the
passage with particular attention to variations of tread and so on. But as it
is, I'm like an insect that's flown into a room of its own accord. I dash
against the walls, dash against the windows, flop against the ceiling, do
everything on God's earth, in fact, except fly out again. And all the while I'm
thinking, like that moth, or that butterfly, or whatever it is, 'The shortness
of life! The shortness of life!' I've only one night or one day, and there's
this vast dangerous garden, waiting out there, undiscovered, unexplored."
"But, if you feel like that, why—"
began Linda quickly.
"Ah!" cried Jonathan. And that
"ah!" was somehow almost exultant. "There you have me. Why? Why
indeed? There's the maddening, mysterious question. Why don't I fly out again?
There's the window or the door or whatever it was I came in by. It's not hopelessly
shut—is it? Why don't I find it and be off? Answer me that, little
sister." But he gave her no time to answer.
"I'm exactly like that insect again. For
some reason"—Jonathan paused between the words—"it's not allowed,
it's forbidden, it's against the insect law, to stop banging and flopping and
crawling up the pane even for an instant. Why don't I leave the office? Why
don't I seriously consider, this moment, for instance, what it is that prevents
me leaving? It's not as though I'm tremendously tied. I've two boys to provide
for, but, after all, they're boys. I could cut off to sea, or get a job
up-country, or—" Suddenly he smiled at Linda and said in a changed voice,
as if he were confiding a secret, "Weak...weak. No stamina. No anchor. No
guiding principle, let us call it." But then the dark velvety voice rolled
out:"
"Would ye hear the story
How it unfolds itself..."
and they were silent.
The sun had set. In the western sky there were
great masses of crushed-up rose-coloured clouds. Broad beams of light shone through
the clouds and beyond them as if they would cover the whole sky. Overhead the
blue faded; it turned a pale gold, and the bush outlined against it gleamed
dark and brilliant like metal. Sometimes when those beams of light show in the
sky they are very awful. They remind you that up there sits Jehovah, the
jealous God, the Almighty, Whose eye is upon you, ever watchful, never weary.
You remember that at His coming the whole earth will shake into one ruined
graveyard; the cold, bright angels will drive you this way and that, and there
will be no time to explain what could be explained so simply...But to-night it
seemed to Linda there was something infinitely joyful and loving in those
silver beams. And now no sound came from the sea. It breathed softly as if it
would draw that tender, joyful beauty into its own bosom.
"It's all wrong, it's all wrong," came
the shadowy voice of Jonathan. "It's not the scene, it's not the setting
for...three stools, three desks, three inkpots and a wire blind."
Linda knew that he would never change, but she
said, "Is it too late, even now?"
"I'm old—I'm old," intoned Jonathan.
He bent towards her, he passed his hand over his head. "Look!" His
black hair was speckled all over with silver, like the breast plumage of a
black fowl.
Linda was surprised. She had no idea that he was
grey. And yet, as he stood up beside her and sighed and stretched, she saw him,
for the first time, not resolute, not gallant, not careless, but touched
already with age. He looked very tall on the darkening grass, and the thought
crossed her mind, "He is like a weed."
Jonathan stooped again and kissed her fingers.
"Heaven reward thy sweet patience, lady
mine," he murmured. "I must go seek those heirs to my fame and
fortune..." He was gone.
XI.
Light shone in the windows of the bungalow. Two
square patches of gold fell upon the pinks and the peaked marigolds. Florrie,
the cat, came out on to the veranda, and sat on the top step, her white paws
close together, her tail curled round. She looked content, as though she had
been waiting for this moment all day.
"Thank goodness, it's getting late,"
said Florrie. "Thank goodness, the long day is over." Her greengage
eyes opened.
Presently there sounded the rumble of the coach,
the crack of Kelly's whip. It came near enough for one to hear the voices of
the men from town, talking loudly together. It stopped at the Burnells' gate.
Stanley was half-way up the path before he saw
Linda. "Is that you, darling?"
"Yes, Stanley."
He leapt across the flower-bed and seized her in
his arms. She was enfolded in that familiar, eager, strong embrace.
"Forgive me, darling, forgive me,"
stammered Stanley, and he put his hand under her chin and lifted her face to
him.
"Forgive you?" smiled Linda. "But
whatever for?"
"Good God! You can't have forgotten,"
cried Stanley Burnell. "I've thought of nothing else all day. I've had the
hell of a day. I made up my mind to dash out and telegraph, and then I thought
the wire mightn't reach you before I did. I've been in tortures, Linda."
"But, Stanley," said Linda, "what
must I forgive you for?"
"Linda!"—Stanley was very
hurt—"didn't you realize—you must have realized—I went away without saying
good-bye to you this morning? I can't imagine how I can have done such a thing.
My confounded temper, of course. But—well"—and he sighed and took her in
his arms again—"I've suffered for it enough to-day."
"What's that you've got in your hand?"
asked Linda. "New gloves? Let me see."
"Oh, just a cheap pair of wash-leather
ones," said Stanley humbly. "I noticed Bell was wearing some in the
coach this morning, so, as I was passing the shop, I dashed in and got myself a
pair. What are you smiling at? You don't think it was wrong of me, do
you?"
"On the con-trary, darling," said
Linda, "I think it was most sensible."
She pulled one of the large, pale gloves on her
own fingers and looked at her hand, turning it this way and that. She was still
smiling.
Stanley wanted to say, "I was thinking of
you the whole time I bought them." It was true, but for some reason he
couldn't say it. "Let's go in," said he.
XII.
Why does one feel so different at night? Why is
it so exciting to be awake when everybody else is asleep? Late—it is very late!
And yet every moment you feel more and more wakeful, as though you were slowly,
almost with every breath, waking up into a new, wonderful, far more thrilling
and exciting world than the daylight one. And what is this queer sensation that
you're a conspirator? Lightly, stealthily you move about your room. You take
something off the dressing-table and put it down again without a sound. And
everything, even the bed-post, knows you, responds, shares your secret...
You're not very fond of your room by day. You
never think about it. You're in and out, the door opens and slams, the cupboard
creaks. You sit down on the side of your bed, change your shoes and dash out
again. A dive down to the glass, two pins in your hair, powder your nose and
off again. But now—it's suddenly dear to you. It's a darling little funny room.
It's yours. Oh, what a joy it is to own things! Mine—my own!
"My very own for ever?"
"Yes." Their lips met.
No, of course, that had nothing to do with it.
That was all nonsense and rubbish. But, in spite of herself, Beryl saw so
plainly two people standing in the middle of her room. Her arms were round his
neck; he held her. And now he whispered, "My beauty, my little
beauty!" She jumped off her bed, ran over to the window and kneeled on the
window-seat, with her elbows on the sill. But the beautiful night, the garden,
every bush, every leaf, even the white palings, even the stars, were
conspirators too. So bright was the moon that the flowers were bright as by
day; the shadow of the nasturtiums, exquisite lily-like leaves and wide-open
flowers, lay across the silvery veranda. The manuka-tree, bent by the southerly
winds, was like a bird on one leg stretching out a wing.
But when Beryl looked at the bush, it seemed to
her the bush was sad.
"We are dumb trees, reaching up in the
night, imploring we know not what," said the sorrowful bush.
It is true when you are by yourself and you
think about life, it is always sad. All that excitement and so on has a way of
suddenly leaving you, and it's as though, in the silence, somebody called your
name, and you heard your name for the first time. "Beryl!"
"Yes, I'm here. I'm Beryl. Who wants
me?"
"Beryl!"
"Let me come."
It is lonely living by oneself. Of course, there
are relations, friends, heaps of them; but that's not what she means. She wants
some one who will find the Beryl they none of them know, who will expect her to
be that Beryl always. She wants a lover.
"Take me away from all these other people,
my love. Let us go far away. Let us live our life, all new, all ours, from the
very beginning. Let us make our fire. Let us sit down to eat together. Let us
have long talks at night."
And the thought was almost, "Save me, my
love. Save me!"
..."Oh, go on! Don't be a prude, my dear.
You enjoy yourself while you're young. That's my advice." And a high rush
of silly laughter joined Mrs. Harry Kember's loud, indifferent neigh.
You see, it's so frightfully difficult when
you've nobody. You're so at the mercy of things. You can't just be rude. And
you've always this horror of seeming inexperienced and stuffy like the other
ninnies at the Bay. And—and it's fascinating to know you've power over people.
Yes, that is fascinating...
Oh why, oh why doesn't "he" come soon?
If I go on living here, thought Beryl, anything
may happen to me.
"But how do you know he is coming at
all?" mocked a small voice within her.
But Beryl dismissed it. She couldn't be left.
Other people, perhaps, but not she. It wasn't possible to think that Beryl
Fairfield never married, that lovely fascinating girl.
"Do you remember Beryl Fairfield?"
"Remember her! As if I could forget her! It
was one summer at the Bay that I saw her. She was standing on the beach in a
blue"—no, pink— "muslin frock, holding on a big cream"—no,
black—"straw hat. But it's years ago now."
"She's as lovely as ever, more so if
anything."
Beryl smiled, bit her lip, and gazed over the
garden. As she gazed, she saw somebody, a man, leave the road, step along the
paddock beside their palings as if he was coming straight towards her. Her
heart beat. Who was it? Who could it be? It couldn't be a burglar, certainly not
a burglar, for he was smoking and he strolled lightly. Beryl's heart leapt; it
seemed to turn right over, and then to stop. She recognized him.
"Good evening, Miss Beryl," said the
voice softly.
"Good evening."
"Won't you come for a little walk?" it
drawled.
Come for a walk—at that time of night! "I
couldn't. Everybody's in bed. Everybody's asleep."
"Oh," said the voice lightly, and a
whiff of sweet smoke reached her. "What does everybody matter? Do come!
It's such a fine night. There's not a soul about."
Beryl shook her head. But already something
stirred in her, something reared its head.
The voice said, "Frightened?" It
mocked, "Poor little girl!"
"Not in the least," said she. As she
spoke that weak thing within her seemed to uncoil, to grow suddenly tremendously
strong; she longed to go!
And just as if this was quite understood by the
other, the voice said, gently and softly, but finally, "Come along!"
Beryl stepped over her low window, crossed the
veranda, ran down the grass to the gate. He was there before her.
"That's right," breathed the voice,
and it teased, "You're not frightened, are you? You're not
frightened?"
She was; now she was here she was terrified, and
it seemed to her everything was different. The moonlight stared and glittered;
the shadows were like bars of iron. Her hand was taken.
"Not in the least," she said lightly.
"Why should I be?"
Her hand was pulled gently, tugged. She held
back.
"No, I'm not coming any farther," said
Beryl.
"Oh, rot!" Harry Kember didn't believe
her. "Come along! We'll just go as far as that fuchsia bush. Come
along!"
The fuchsia bush was tall. It fell over the
fence in a shower. There was a little pit of darkness beneath.
"No, really, I don't want to," said
Beryl.
For a moment Harry Kember didn't answer. Then he
came close to her, turned to her, smiled and said quickly, "Don't be
silly! Don't be silly!"
His smile was something she'd never seen before.
Was he drunk? That bright, blind, terrifying smile froze her with horror. What
was she doing? How had she got here? the stern garden asked her as the gate
pushed open, and quick as a cat Harry Kember came through and snatched her to
him.
"Cold little devil! Cold little
devil!" said the hateful voice.
But Beryl was strong. She slipped, ducked,
wrenched free.
"You are vile, vile," said she.
"Then why in God's name did you come?"
stammered Harry Kember.
Nobody answered him.
XIII.
A cloud, small, serene, floated across the moon.
In that moment of darkness the sea sounded deep, troubled. Then the cloud
sailed away, and the sound of the sea was a vague murmur, as though it waked
out of a dark dream. All was still.
2. THE GARDEN PARTY
And after all the weather was ideal. They could
not have had a more perfect day for a garden-party if they had ordered it.
Windless, warm, the sky without a cloud. Only the blue was veiled with a haze
of light gold, as it is sometimes in early summer. The gardener had been up
since dawn, mowing the lawns and sweeping them, until the grass and the dark
flat rosettes where the daisy plants had been seemed to shine. As for the
roses, you could not help feeling they understood that roses are the only
flowers that impress people at garden-parties; the only flowers that everybody
is certain of knowing. Hundreds, yes, literally hundreds, had come out in a
single night; the green bushes bowed down as though they had been visited by
archangels.
Breakfast was not yet over before the men came
to put up the marquee.
"Where do you want the marquee put,
mother?"
"My dear child, it's no use asking me. I'm
determined to leave everything to you children this year. Forget I am your
mother. Treat me as an honoured guest."
But Meg could not possibly go and supervise the
men. She had washed her hair before breakfast, and she sat drinking her coffee
in a green turban, with a dark wet curl stamped on each cheek. Jose, the
butterfly, always came down in a silk petticoat and a kimono jacket.
"You'll have to go, Laura; you're the
artistic one."
Away Laura flew, still holding her piece of
bread-and-butter. It's so delicious to have an excuse for eating out of doors,
and besides, she loved having to arrange things; she always felt she could do
it so much better than anybody else.
Four men in their shirt-sleeves stood grouped
together on the garden path. They carried staves covered with rolls of canvas,
and they had big tool-bags slung on their backs. They looked impressive. Laura
wished now that she had not got the bread-and-butter, but there was nowhere to
put it, and she couldn't possibly throw it away. She blushed and tried to look
severe and even a little bit short-sighted as she came up to them.
"Good morning," she said, copying her
mother's voice. But that sounded so fearfully affected that she was ashamed,
and stammered like a little girl, "Oh—er—have you come—is it about the
marquee?"
"That's right, miss," said the tallest
of the men, a lanky, freckled fellow, and he shifted his tool-bag, knocked back
his straw hat and smiled down at her. "That's about it."
His smile was so easy, so friendly that Laura
recovered. What nice eyes he had, small, but such a dark blue! And now she
looked at the others, they were smiling too. "Cheer up, we won't
bite," their smile seemed to say. How very nice workmen were! And what a
beautiful morning! She mustn't mention the morning; she must be business-like.
The marquee.
"Well, what about the lily-lawn? Would that
do?"
And she pointed to the lily-lawn with the hand
that didn't hold the bread-and-butter. They turned, they stared in the
direction. A little fat chap thrust out his under-lip, and the tall fellow
frowned.
"I don't fancy it," said he. "Not
conspicuous enough. You see, with a thing like a marquee," and he turned
to Laura in his easy way, "you want to put it somewhere where it'll give
you a bang slap in the eye, if you follow me."
Laura's upbringing made her wonder for a moment
whether it was quite respectful of a workman to talk to her of bangs slap in
the eye. But she did quite follow him.
"A corner of the tennis-court," she
suggested. "But the band's going to be in one corner."
"H'm, going to have a band, are you?"
said another of the workmen. He was pale. He had a haggard look as his dark
eyes scanned the tennis-court. What was he thinking?
"Only a very small band," said Laura
gently. Perhaps he wouldn't mind so much if the band was quite small. But the
tall fellow interrupted.
"Look here, miss, that's the place. Against
those trees. Over there. That'll do fine."
Against the karakas. Then the karaka-trees would
be hidden. And they were so lovely, with their broad, gleaming leaves, and
their clusters of yellow fruit. They were like trees you imagined growing on a
desert island, proud, solitary, lifting their leaves and fruits to the sun in a
kind of silent splendour. Must they be hidden by a marquee?
They must. Already the men had shouldered their
staves and were making for the place. Only the tall fellow was left. He bent
down, pinched a sprig of lavender, put his thumb and forefinger to his nose and
snuffed up the smell. When Laura saw that gesture she forgot all about the
karakas in her wonder at him caring for things like that—caring for the smell
of lavender. How many men that she knew would have done such a thing? Oh, how
extraordinarily nice workmen were, she thought. Why couldn't she have workmen
for her friends rather than the silly boys she danced with and who came to
Sunday night supper? She would get on much better with men like these.
It's all the fault, she decided, as the tall
fellow drew something on the back of an envelope, something that was to be
looped up or left to hang, of these absurd class distinctions. Well, for her
part, she didn't feel them. Not a bit, not an atom...And now there came the
chock-chock of wooden hammers. Some one whistled, some one sang out, "Are
you right there, matey?" "Matey!" The friendliness of it,
the—the—Just to prove how happy she was, just to show the tall fellow how at
home she felt, and how she despised stupid conventions, Laura took a big bite
of her bread-and-butter as she stared at the little drawing. She felt just like
a work-girl.
"Laura, Laura, where are you? Telephone,
Laura!" a voice cried from the house.
"Coming!" Away she skimmed, over the
lawn, up the path, up the steps, across the veranda, and into the porch. In the
hall her father and Laurie were brushing their hats ready to go to the office.
"I say, Laura," said Laurie very fast,
"you might just give a squiz at my coat before this afternoon. See if it
wants pressing."
"I will," said she. Suddenly she
couldn't stop herself. She ran at Laurie and gave him a small, quick squeeze.
"Oh, I do love parties, don't you?" gasped Laura.
"Ra-ther," said Laurie's warm, boyish
voice, and he squeezed his sister too, and gave her a gentle push. "Dash
off to the telephone, old girl."
The telephone. "Yes, yes; oh yes. Kitty?
Good morning, dear. Come to lunch? Do, dear. Delighted of course. It will only
be a very scratch meal—just the sandwich crusts and broken meringue-shells and
what's left over. Yes, isn't it a perfect morning? Your white? Oh, I certainly
should. One moment—hold the line. Mother's calling." And Laura sat back.
"What, mother? Can't hear."
Mrs. Sheridan's voice floated down the stairs.
"Tell her to wear that sweet hat she had on last Sunday."
"Mother says you're to wear that sweet hat
you had on last Sunday. Good. One o'clock. Bye-bye."
Laura put back the receiver, flung her arms over
her head, took a deep breath, stretched and let them fall. "Huh," she
sighed, and the moment after the sigh she sat up quickly. She was still,
listening. All the doors in the house seemed to be open. The house was alive
with soft, quick steps and running voices. The green baize door that led to the
kitchen regions swung open and shut with a muffled thud. And now there came a
long, chuckling absurd sound. It was the heavy piano being moved on its stiff
castors. But the air! If you stopped to notice, was the air always like this?
Little faint winds were playing chase, in at the tops of the windows, out at
the doors. And there were two tiny spots of sun, one on the inkpot, one on a
silver photograph frame, playing too. Darling little spots. Especially the one
on the inkpot lid. It was quite warm. A warm little silver star. She could have
kissed it.
The front door bell pealed, and there sounded
the rustle of Sadie's print skirt on the stairs. A man's voice murmured; Sadie
answered, careless, "I'm sure I don't know. Wait. I'll ask Mrs
Sheridan."
"What is it, Sadie?" Laura came into
the hall.
"It's the florist, Miss Laura."
It was, indeed. There, just inside the door,
stood a wide, shallow tray full of pots of pink lilies. No other kind. Nothing
but lilies—canna lilies, big pink flowers, wide open, radiant, almost
frighteningly alive on bright crimson stems.
"O-oh, Sadie!" said Laura, and the
sound was like a little moan. She crouched down as if to warm herself at that
blaze of lilies; she felt they were in her fingers, on her lips, growing in her
breast.
"It's some mistake," she said faintly.
"Nobody ever ordered so many. Sadie, go and find mother."
But at that moment Mrs. Sheridan joined them.
"It's quite right," she said calmly.
"Yes, I ordered them. Aren't they lovely?" She pressed Laura's arm.
"I was passing the shop yesterday, and I saw them in the window. And I
suddenly thought for once in my life I shall have enough canna lilies. The
garden-party will be a good excuse."
"But I thought you said you didn't mean to
interfere," said Laura. Sadie had gone. The florist's man was still
outside at his van. She put her arm round her mother's neck and gently, very
gently, she bit her mother's ear.
"My darling child, you wouldn't like a
logical mother, would you? Don't do that. Here's the man."
He carried more lilies still, another whole
tray.
"Bank them up, just inside the door, on
both sides of the porch, please," said Mrs. Sheridan. "Don't you
agree, Laura?"
"Oh, I do, mother."
In the drawing-room Meg, Jose and good little
Hans had at last succeeded in moving the piano.
"Now, if we put this chesterfield against
the wall and move everything out of the room except the chairs, don't you
think?"
"Quite."
"Hans, move these tables into the
smoking-room, and bring a sweeper to take these marks off the carpet and—one
moment, Hans—" Jose loved giving orders to the servants, and they loved
obeying her. She always made them feel they were taking part in some drama. "Tell
mother and Miss Laura to come here at once.
"Very good, Miss Jose."
She turned to Meg. "I want to hear what the
piano sounds like, just in case I'm asked to sing this afternoon. Let's try
over 'This life is Weary.'"
Pom! Ta-ta-ta Tee-ta! The piano burst out so
passionately that Jose's face changed. She clasped her hands. She looked
mournfully and enigmatically at her mother and Laura as they came in.
"This Life is Wee-ary,
A Tear—a Sigh.
A Love that Chan-ges,
This Life is Wee-ary,
A Tear—a Sigh.
A Love that Chan-ges,
And then...Good-bye!"
But at the word "Good-bye," and
although the piano sounded more desperate than ever, her face broke into a
brilliant, dreadfully unsympathetic smile.
"Aren't I in good voice, mummy?" she
beamed.
"This Life is Wee-ary,
Hope comes to Die.
A Dream—a Wa-kening."
But now Sadie interrupted them. "What is
it, Sadie?"
"If you please, m'm, cook says have you got
the flags for the sandwiches?"
"The flags for the sandwiches, Sadie?"
echoed Mrs. Sheridan dreamily. And the children knew by her face that she
hadn't got them. "Let me see." And she said to Sadie firmly,
"Tell cook I'll let her have them in ten minutes."
Sadie went.
"Now, Laura," said her mother quickly,
"come with me into the smoking-room. I've got the names somewhere on the back
of an envelope. You'll have to write them out for me. Meg, go upstairs this
minute and take that wet thing off your head. Jose, run and finish dressing
this instant. Do you hear me, children, or shall I have to tell your father
when he comes home to-night? And—and, Jose, pacify cook if you do go into the
kitchen, will you? I'm terrified of her this morning."
The envelope was found at last behind the
dining-room clock, though how it had got there Mrs. Sheridan could not imagine.
"One of you children must have stolen it
out of my bag, because I remember vividly—cream cheese and lemon-curd. Have you
done that?"
"Yes."
"Egg and—" Mrs. Sheridan held the
envelope away from her. "It looks like mice. It can't be mice, can
it?"
"Olive, pet," said Laura, looking over
her shoulder.
"Yes, of course, olive. What a horrible
combination it sounds. Egg and olive."
They were finished at last, and Laura took them
off to the kitchen. She found Jose there pacifying the cook, who did not look
at all terrifying.
"I have never seen such exquisite
sandwiches," said Jose's rapturous voice. "How many kinds did you say
there were, cook? Fifteen?"
"Fifteen, Miss Jose."
"Well, cook, I congratulate you."
Cook swept up crusts with the long sandwich
knife, and smiled broadly.
"Godber's has come," announced Sadie,
issuing out of the pantry. She had seen the man pass the window.
That meant the cream puffs had come. Godber's
were famous for their cream puffs. Nobody ever thought of making them at home.
"Bring them in and put them on the table,
my girl," ordered cook.
Sadie brought them in and went back to the door.
Of course Laura and Jose were far too grown-up to really care about such
things. All the same, they couldn't help agreeing that the puffs looked very
attractive. Very. Cook began arranging them, shaking off the extra icing sugar.
"Don't they carry one back to all one's
parties?" said Laura.
"I suppose they do," said practical
Jose, who never liked to be carried back. "They look beautifully light and
feathery, I must say."
"Have one each, my dears," said cook
in her comfortable voice. "Yer ma won't know."
Oh, impossible. Fancy cream puffs so soon after
breakfast. The very idea made one shudder. All the same, two minutes later Jose
and Laura were licking their fingers with that absorbed inward look that only
comes from whipped cream.
"Let's go into the garden, out by the back
way," suggested Laura. "I want to see how the men are getting on with
the marquee. They're such awfully nice men."
But the back door was blocked by cook, Sadie, Godber's
man and Hans.
Something had happened.
"Tuk-tuk-tuk," clucked cook like an
agitated hen. Sadie had her hand clapped to her cheek as though she had
toothache. Hans's face was screwed up in the effort to understand. Only
Godber's man seemed to be enjoying himself; it was his story.
"What's the matter? What's happened?"
"There's been a horrible accident,"
said Cook. "A man killed."
"A man killed! Where? How? When?"
But Godber's man wasn't going to have his story
snatched from under his very nose.
"Know those little cottages just below
here, miss?" Know them? Of course, she knew them. "Well, there's a
young chap living there, name of Scott, a carter. His horse shied at a
traction-engine, corner of Hawke Street this morning, and he was thrown out on
the back of his head. Killed."
"Dead!" Laura stared at Godber's man.
"Dead when they picked him up," said
Godber's man with relish. "They were taking the body home as I come up
here." And he said to the cook, "He's left a wife and five little
ones."
"Jose, come here." Laura caught hold
of her sister's sleeve and dragged her through the kitchen to the other side of
the green baize door. There she paused and leaned against it. "Jose!"
she said, horrified, "however are we going to stop everything?"
"Stop everything, Laura!" cried Jose
in astonishment. "What do you mean?"
"Stop the garden-party, of course."
Why did Jose pretend?
But Jose was still more amazed. "Stop the
garden-party? My dear Laura, don't be so absurd. Of course we can't do anything
of the kind. Nobody expects us to. Don't be so extravagant."
"But we can't possibly have a garden-party
with a man dead just outside the front gate."
That really was extravagant, for the little
cottages were in a lane to themselves at the very bottom of a steep rise that
led up to the house. A broad road ran between. True, they were far too near.
They were the greatest possible eyesore, and they had no right to be in that
neighbourhood at all. They were little mean dwellings painted a chocolate
brown. In the garden patches there was nothing but cabbage stalks, sick hens
and tomato cans. The very smoke coming out of their chimneys was
poverty-stricken. Little rags and shreds of smoke, so unlike the great silvery
plumes that uncurled from the Sheridans' chimneys. Washerwomen lived in the
lane and sweeps and a cobbler, and a man whose house-front was studded all over
with minute bird-cages. Children swarmed. When the Sheridans were little they
were forbidden to set foot there because of the revolting language and of what
they might catch. But since they were grown up, Laura and Laurie on their
prowls sometimes walked through. It was disgusting and sordid. They came out
with a shudder. But still one must go everywhere; one must see everything. So
through they went.
"And just think of what the band would
sound like to that poor woman," said Laura.
"Oh, Laura!" Jose began to be
seriously annoyed. "If you're going to stop a band playing every time some
one has an accident, you'll lead a very strenuous life. I'm every bit as sorry
about it as you. I feel just as sympathetic." Her eyes hardened. She
looked at her sister just as she used to when they were little and fighting
together. "You won't bring a drunken workman back to life by being
sentimental," she said softly.
"Drunk! Who said he was drunk?" Laura
turned furiously on Jose. She said, just as they had used to say on those
occasions, "I'm going straight up to tell mother."
"Do, dear," cooed Jose.
"Mother, can I come into your room?"
Laura turned the big glass door-knob.
"Of course, child. Why, what's the matter?
What's given you such a colour?" And Mrs. Sheridan turned round from her
dressing-table. She was trying on a new hat.
"Mother, a man's been killed," began
Laura.
"Not in the garden?" interrupted her
mother.
"No, no!"
"Oh, what a fright you gave me!" Mrs.
Sheridan sighed with relief, and took off the big hat and held it on her knees.
"But listen, mother," said Laura.
Breathless, half-choking, she told the dreadful story. "Of course, we
can't have our party, can we?" she pleaded. "The band and everybody
arriving. They'd hear us, mother; they're nearly neighbours!"
To Laura's astonishment her mother behaved just
like Jose; it was harder to bear because she seemed amused. She refused to take
Laura seriously.
"But, my dear child, use your common sense.
It's only by accident we've heard of it. If some one had died there
normally—and I can't understand how they keep alive in those poky little
holes—we should still be having our party, shouldn't we?"
Laura had to say "yes" to that, but she
felt it was all wrong. She sat down on her mother's sofa and pinched the
cushion frill.
"Mother, isn't it terribly heartless of
us?" she asked.
"Darling!" Mrs. Sheridan got up and
came over to her, carrying the hat. Before Laura could stop her she had popped
it on. "My child!" said her mother, "the hat is yours. It's made
for you. It's much too young for me. I have never seen you look such a picture.
Look at yourself!" And she held up her hand-mirror.
"But, mother," Laura began again. She
couldn't look at herself; she turned aside.
This time Mrs. Sheridan lost patience just as
Jose had done.
"You are being very absurd, Laura,"
she said coldly. "People like that don't expect sacrifices from us. And
it's not very sympathetic to spoil everybody's enjoyment as you're doing
now."
"I don't understand," said Laura, and
she walked quickly out of the room into her own bedroom. There, quite by
chance, the first thing she saw was this charming girl in the mirror, in her
black hat trimmed with gold daisies, and a long black velvet ribbon. Never had
she imagined she could look like that. Is mother right? she thought. And now
she hoped her mother was right. Am I being extravagant? Perhaps it was
extravagant. Just for a moment she had another glimpse of that poor woman and
those little children, and the body being carried into the house. But it all
seemed blurred, unreal, like a picture in the newspaper. I'll remember it again
after the party's over, she decided. And somehow that seemed quite the best
plan...
Lunch was over by half-past one. By half-past
two they were all ready for the fray. The green-coated band had arrived and was
established in a corner of the tennis-court.
"My dear!" trilled Kitty Maitland,
"aren't they too like frogs for words? You ought to have arranged them
round the pond with the conductor in the middle on a leaf."
Laurie arrived and hailed them on his way to
dress. At the sight of him Laura remembered the accident again. She wanted to
tell him. If Laurie agreed with the others, then it was bound to be all right.
And she followed him into the hall.
"Laurie!"
"Hallo!" He was half-way upstairs, but
when he turned round and saw Laura he suddenly puffed out his cheeks and
goggled his eyes at her. "My word, Laura! You do look stunning," said
Laurie. "What an absolutely topping hat!"
Laura said faintly "Is it?" and smiled
up at Laurie, and didn't tell him after all.
Soon after that people began coming in streams.
The band struck up; the hired waiters ran from the house to the marquee.
Wherever you looked there were couples strolling, bending to the flowers,
greeting, moving on over the lawn. They were like bright birds that had
alighted in the Sheridans' garden for this one afternoon, on their way
to—where? Ah, what happiness it is to be with people who all are happy, to
press hands, press cheeks, smile into eyes.
"Darling Laura, how well you look!"
"What a becoming hat, child!"
"Laura, you look quite Spanish. I've never
seen you look so striking."
And Laura, glowing, answered softly, "Have
you had tea? Won't you have an ice? The passion-fruit ices really are rather
special." She ran to her father and begged him. "Daddy darling, can't
the band have something to drink?"
And the perfect afternoon slowly ripened, slowly
faded, slowly its petals closed.
"Never a more delightful
garden-party..." "The greatest success..." "Quite the
most..."
Laura helped her mother with the good-byes. They
stood side by side in the porch till it was all over.
"All over, all over, thank heaven,"
said Mrs. Sheridan. "Round up the others, Laura. Let's go and have some
fresh coffee. I'm exhausted. Yes, it's been very successful. But oh, these
parties, these parties! Why will you children insist on giving parties!"
And they all of them sat down in the deserted marquee.
"Have a sandwich, daddy dear. I wrote the
flag."
"Thanks." Mr. Sheridan took a bite and
the sandwich was gone. He took another. "I suppose you didn't hear of a
beastly accident that happened to-day?" he said.
"My dear," said Mrs. Sheridan, holding
up her hand, "we did. It nearly ruined the party. Laura insisted we should
put it off."
"Oh, mother!" Laura didn't want to be
teased about it.
"It was a horrible affair all the
same," said Mr. Sheridan. "The chap was married too. Lived just below
in the lane, and leaves a wife and half a dozen kiddies, so they say."
An awkward little silence fell. Mrs. Sheridan
fidgeted with her cup. Really, it was very tactless of father...
Suddenly she looked up. There on the table were
all those sandwiches, cakes, puffs, all uneaten, all going to be wasted. She
had one of her brilliant ideas.
"I know," she said. "Let's make
up a basket. Let's send that poor creature some of this perfectly good food. At
any rate, it will be the greatest treat for the children. Don't you agree? And
she's sure to have neighbours calling in and so on. What a point to have it all
ready prepared. Laura!" She jumped up. "Get me the big basket out of
the stairs cupboard."
"But, mother, do you really think it's a
good idea?" said Laura.
Again, how curious, she seemed to be different
from them all. To take scraps from their party. Would the poor woman really
like that?
"Of course! What's the matter with you
to-day? An hour or two ago you were insisting on us being sympathetic, and
now—"
Oh well! Laura ran for the basket. It was
filled, it was heaped by her mother.
"Take it yourself, darling," said she.
"Run down just as you are. No, wait, take the arum lilies too. People of
that class are so impressed by arum lilies."
"The stems will ruin her lace frock,"
said practical Jose.
So they would. Just in time. "Only the
basket, then. And, Laura!"—her mother followed her out of the
marquee—"don't on any account—"
"What mother?"
No, better not put such ideas into the child's
head! "Nothing! Run along."
It was just growing dusky as Laura shut their
garden gates. A big dog ran by like a shadow. The road gleamed white, and down
below in the hollow the little cottages were in deep shade. How quiet it seemed
after the afternoon. Here she was going down the hill to somewhere where a man
lay dead, and she couldn't realize it. Why couldn't she? She stopped a minute.
And it seemed to her that kisses, voices, tinkling spoons, laughter, the smell
of crushed grass were somehow inside her. She had no room for anything else.
How strange! She looked up at the pale sky, and all she thought was, "Yes,
it was the most successful party."
Now the broad road was crossed. The lane began,
smoky and dark. Women in shawls and men's tweed caps hurried by. Men hung over
the palings; the children played in the doorways. A low hum came from the mean
little cottages. In some of them there was a flicker of light, and a shadow, crab-like,
moved across the window. Laura bent her head and hurried on. She wished now she
had put on a coat. How her frock shone! And the big hat with the velvet
streamer—if only it was another hat! Were the people looking at her? They must
be. It was a mistake to have come; she knew all along it was a mistake. Should
she go back even now?
No, too late. This was the house. It must be. A
dark knot of people stood outside. Beside the gate an old, old woman with a
crutch sat in a chair, watching. She had her feet on a newspaper. The voices
stopped as Laura drew near. The group parted. It was as though she was
expected, as though they had known she was coming here.
Laura was terribly nervous. Tossing the velvet
ribbon over her shoulder, she said to a woman standing by, "Is this Mrs.
Scott's house?" and the woman, smiling queerly, said, "It is, my
lass."
Oh, to be away from this! She actually said,
"Help me, God," as she walked up the tiny path and knocked. To be
away from those staring eyes, or to be covered up in anything, one of those
women's shawls even. I'll just leave the basket and go, she decided. I shan't
even wait for it to be emptied.
Then the door opened. A little woman in black
showed in the gloom.
Laura said, "Are you Mrs. Scott?" But
to her horror the woman answered, "Walk in please, miss," and she was
shut in the passage.
"No," said Laura, "I don't want
to come in. I only want to leave this basket. Mother sent—"
The little woman in the gloomy passage seemed
not to have heard her. "Step this way, please, miss," she said in an
oily voice, and Laura followed her.
She found herself in a wretched little low
kitchen, lighted by a smoky lamp. There was a woman sitting before the fire.
"Em," said the little creature who had
let her in. "Em! It's a young lady." She turned to Laura. She said
meaningly, "I'm 'er sister, miss. You'll excuse 'er, won't you?"
"Oh, but of course!" said Laura.
"Please, please don't disturb her. I—I only want to leave—"
But at that moment the woman at the fire turned
round. Her face, puffed up, red, with swollen eyes and swollen lips, looked
terrible. She seemed as though she couldn't understand why Laura was there.
What did it mean? Why was this stranger standing in the kitchen with a basket?
What was it all about? And the poor face puckered up again.
"All right, my dear," said the other.
"I'll thenk the young lady."
And again she began, "You'll excuse her,
miss, I'm sure," and her face, swollen too, tried an oily smile.
Laura only wanted to get out, to get away. She
was back in the passage. The door opened. She walked straight through into the
bedroom, where the dead man was lying.
"You'd like a look at 'im, wouldn't
you?" said Em's sister, and she brushed past Laura over to the bed.
"Don't be afraid, my lass,"—and now her voice sounded fond and sly,
and fondly she drew down the sheet—"'e looks a picture. There's nothing to
show. Come along, my dear."
Laura came.
There lay a young man, fast asleep—sleeping so
soundly, so deeply, that he was far, far away from them both. Oh, so remote, so
peaceful. He was dreaming. Never wake him up again. His head was sunk in the
pillow, his eyes were closed; they were blind under the closed eyelids. He was
given up to his dream. What did garden-parties and baskets and lace frocks
matter to him? He was far from all those things. He was wonderful, beautiful.
While they were laughing and while the band was playing, this marvel had come
to the lane. Happy...happy...All is well, said that sleeping face. This is just
as it should be. I am content.
But all the same you had to cry, and she
couldn't go out of the room without saying something to him. Laura gave a loud
childish sob.
"Forgive my hat," she said.
And this time she didn't wait for Em's sister.
She found her way out of the door, down the path, past all those dark people.
At the corner of the lane she met Laurie.
He stepped out of the shadow. "Is that you,
Laura?"
"Yes."
"Mother was getting anxious. Was it all
right?"
"Yes, quite. Oh, Laurie!" She took his
arm, she pressed up against him.
"I say, you're not crying, are you?"
asked her brother.
Laura shook her head. She was.
Laurie put his arm round her shoulder.
"Don't cry," he said in his warm, loving voice. "Was it
awful?"
"No," sobbed Laura. "It was
simply marvellous. But Laurie—" She stopped, she looked at her brother.
"Isn't life," she stammered, "isn't life—" But what life
was she couldn't explain. No matter. He quite understood.
"Isn't it, darling?" said Laurie.
3. THE DAUGHTERS OF
THE LATE COLONEL
I.
The week after was one of the busiest weeks of
their lives. Even when they went to bed it was only their bodies that lay down
and rested; their minds went on, thinking things out, talking things over,
wondering, deciding, trying to remember where...
Constantia lay like a statue, her hands by her
sides, her feet just overlapping each other, the sheet up to her chin. She
stared at the ceiling.
"Do you think father would mind if we gave
his top-hat to the porter?"
"The porter?" snapped Josephine.
"Why ever the porter? What a very extraordinary idea!"
"Because," said Constantia slowly,
"he must often have to go to funerals. And I noticed at—at the cemetery
that he only had a bowler." She paused. "I thought then how very much
he'd appreciate a top-hat. We ought to give him a present, too. He was always
very nice to father."
"But," cried Josephine, flouncing on
her pillow and staring across the dark at Constantia, "father's
head!" And suddenly, for one awful moment, she nearly giggled. Not, of
course, that she felt in the least like giggling. It must have been habit.
Years ago, when they had stayed awake at night talking, their beds had simply
heaved. And now the porter's head, disappearing, popped out, like a candle,
under father's hat...The giggle mounted, mounted; she clenched her hands; she
fought it down; she frowned fiercely at the dark and said "Remember"
terribly sternly.
"We can decide to-morrow," she said.
Constantia had noticed nothing; she sighed.
"Do you think we ought to have our
dressing-gowns dyed as well?"
"Black?" almost shrieked Josephine.
"Well, what else?" said Constantia.
"I was thinking—it doesn't seem quite sincere, in a way, to wear black out
of doors and when we're fully dressed, and then when we're at home—"
"But nobody sees us," said Josephine.
She gave the bedclothes such a twitch that both her feet became uncovered, and
she had to creep up the pillows to get them well under again.
"Kate does," said Constantia.
"And the postman very well might."
Josephine thought of her dark-red slippers,
which matched her dressing-gown, and of Constantia's favourite indefinite green
ones which went with hers. Black! Two black dressing-gowns and two pairs of
black woolly slippers, creeping off to the bathroom like black cats.
"I don't think it's absolutely
necessary," said she.
Silence. Then Constantia said, "We shall
have to post the papers with the notice in them to-morrow to catch the Ceylon
mail...How many letters have we had up till now?"
"Twenty-three."
Josephine had replied to them all, and
twenty-three times when she came to "We miss our dear father so much"
she had broken down and had to use her handkerchief, and on some of them even
to soak up a very light-blue tear with an edge of blotting-paper. Strange! She
couldn't have put it on—but twenty-three times. Even now, though, when she said
over to herself sadly "We miss our dear father so much," she could
have cried if she'd wanted to.
"Have you got enough stamps?" came
from Constantia.
"Oh, how can I tell?" said Josephine
crossly. "What's the good of asking me that now?"
"I was just wondering," said Constantia
mildly.
Silence again. There came a little rustle, a
scurry, a hop.
"A mouse," said Constantia.
"It can't be a mouse because there aren't
any crumbs," said Josephine.
"But it doesn't know there aren't,"
said Constantia.
A spasm of pity squeezed her heart. Poor little
thing! She wished she'd left a tiny piece of biscuit on the dressing-table. It
was awful to think of it not finding anything. What would it do?
"I can't think how they manage to live at
all," she said slowly.
"Who?" demanded Josephine.
And Constantia said more loudly than she meant
to, "Mice."
Josephine was furious. "Oh, what nonsense,
Con!" she said. "What have mice got to do with it? You're
asleep."
"I don't think I am," said Constantia.
She shut her eyes to make sure. She was.
Josephine arched her spine, pulled up her knees,
folded her arms so that her fists came under her ears, and pressed her cheek
hard against the pillow.
II.
Another thing which complicated matters was they
had Nurse Andrews staying on with them that week. It was their own fault; they
had asked her. It was Josephine's idea. On the morning—well, on the last
morning, when the doctor had gone, Josephine had said to Constantia,
"Don't you think it would be rather nice if we asked Nurse Andrews to stay
on for a week as our guest?"
"Very nice," said Constantia.
"I thought," went on Josephine
quickly, "I should just say this afternoon, after I've paid her, 'My
sister and I would be very pleased, after all you've done for us, Nurse
Andrews, if you would stay on for a week as our guest.' I'd have to put that in
about being our guest in case—"
"Oh, but she could hardly expect to be
paid!" cried Constantia.
"One never knows," said Josephine
sagely.
Nurse Andrews had, of course, jumped at the
idea. But it was a bother. It meant they had to have regular sit-down meals at
the proper times, whereas if they'd been alone they could just have asked Kate
if she wouldn't have minded bringing them a tray wherever they were. And
meal-times now that the strain was over were rather a trial.
Nurse Andrews was simply fearful about butter.
Really they couldn't help feeling that about butter, at least, she took
advantage of their kindness. And she had that maddening habit of asking for
just an inch more of bread to finish what she had on her plate, and then, at
the last mouthful, absent-mindedly—of course it wasn't absent-mindedly—taking
another helping. Josephine got very red when this happened, and she fastened
her small, bead-like eyes on the tablecloth as if she saw a minute strange
insect creeping through the web of it. But Constantia's long, pale face
lengthened and set, and she gazed away—away—far over the desert, to where that
line of camels unwound like a thread of wool...
"When I was with Lady Tukes," said
Nurse Andrews, "she had such a dainty little contrayvance for the buttah.
It was a silvah Cupid balanced on the—on the bordah of a glass dish, holding a
tayny fork. And when you wanted some buttah you simply pressed his foot and he
bent down and speared you a piece. It was quite a gayme."
Josephine could hardly bear that. But "I
think those things are very extravagant" was all she said.
"But whey?" asked Nurse Andrews,
beaming through her eyeglasses. "No one, surely, would take more buttah
than one wanted—would one?"
"Ring, Con," cried Josephine. She
couldn't trust herself to reply.
And proud young Kate, the enchanted princess,
came in to see what the old tabbies wanted now. She snatched away their plates
of mock something or other and slapped down a white, terrified blancmange.
"Jam, please, Kate," said Josephine
kindly.
Kate knelt and burst open the sideboard, lifted
the lid of the jam-pot, saw it was empty, put it on the table, and stalked off.
"I'm afraid," said Nurse Andrews a
moment later, "there isn't any."
"Oh, what a bother!" said Josephine.
She bit her lip. "What had we better do?"
Constantia looked dubious. "We can't
disturb Kate again," she said softly.
Nurse Andrews waited, smiling at them both. Her
eyes wandered, spying at everything behind her eyeglasses. Constantia in
despair went back to her camels. Josephine frowned heavily—concentrated. If it
hadn't been for this idiotic woman she and Con would, of course, have eaten
their blancmange without. Suddenly the idea came.
"I know," she said. "Marmalade.
There's some marmalade in the sideboard. Get it, Con."
"I hope," laughed Nurse Andrews—and
her laugh was like a spoon tinkling against a medicine-glass—"I hope it's
not very bittah marmalayde."
III.
But, after all, it was not long now, and then
she'd be gone for good. And there was no getting over the fact that she had
been very kind to father. She had nursed him day and night at the end. Indeed,
both Constantia and Josephine felt privately she had rather overdone the not
leaving him at the very last. For when they had gone in to say good-bye Nurse
Andrews had sat beside his bed the whole time, holding his wrist and pretending
to look at her watch. It couldn't have been necessary. It was so tactless, too.
Supposing father had wanted to say something—something private to them. Not that
he had. Oh, far from it! He lay there, purple, a dark, angry purple in the
face, and never even looked at them when they came in. Then, as they were
standing there, wondering what to do, he had suddenly opened one eye. Oh, what
a difference it would have made, what a difference to their memory of him, how
much easier to tell people about it, if he had only opened both! But no—one eye
only. It glared at them a moment and then...went out.
IV.
It had made it very awkward for them when Mr.
Farolles, of St. John's, called the same afternoon.
"The end was quite peaceful, I trust?"
were the first words he said as he glided towards them through the dark
drawing-room.
"Quite," said Josephine faintly. They
both hung their heads. Both of them felt certain that eye wasn't at all a
peaceful eye.
"Won't you sit down?" said Josephine.
"Thank you, Miss Pinner," said Mr.
Farolles gratefully. He folded his coat-tails and began to lower himself into
father's arm-chair, but just as he touched it he almost sprang up and slid into
the next chair instead.
He coughed. Josephine clasped her hands;
Constantia looked vague.
"I want you to feel, Miss Pinner,"
said Mr. Farolles, "and you, Miss Constantia, that I'm trying to be
helpful. I want to be helpful to you both, if you will let me. These are the
times," said Mr Farolles, very simply and earnestly, "when God means
us to be helpful to one another."
"Thank you very much, Mr. Farolles,"
said Josephine and Constantia.
"Not at all," said Mr. Farolles
gently. He drew his kid gloves through his fingers and leaned forward.
"And if either of you would like a little Communion, either or both of
you, here and now, you have only to tell me. A little Communion is often very
help—a great comfort," he added tenderly.
But the idea of a little Communion terrified
them. What! In the drawing-room by themselves—with no—no altar or anything! The
piano would be much too high, thought Constantia, and Mr. Farolles could not
possibly lean over it with the chalice. And Kate would be sure to come bursting
in and interrupt them, thought Josephine. And supposing the bell rang in the
middle? It might be somebody important—about their mourning. Would they get up
reverently and go out, or would they have to wait...in torture?
"Perhaps you will send round a note by your
good Kate if you would care for it later," said Mr. Farolles.
"Oh yes, thank you very much!" they
both said.
Mr. Farolles got up and took his black straw hat
from the round table.
"And about the funeral," he said
softly. "I may arrange that—as your dear father's old friend and yours,
Miss Pinner—and Miss Constantia?"
Josephine and Constantia got up too.
"I should like it to be quite simple,"
said Josephine firmly, "and not too expensive. At the same time, I should
like—"
"A good one that will last," thought
dreamy Constantia, as if Josephine were buying a nightgown. But, of course,
Josephine didn't say that. "One suitable to our father's position."
She was very nervous.
"I'll run round to our good friend Mr.
Knight," said Mr. Farolles soothingly. "I will ask him to come and
see you. I am sure you will find him very helpful indeed."
V.
Well, at any rate, all that part of it was over,
though neither of them could possibly believe that father was never coming
back. Josephine had had a moment of absolute terror at the cemetery, while the
coffin was lowered, to think that she and Constantia had done this thing
without asking his permission. What would father say when he found out? For he
was bound to find out sooner or later. He always did. "Buried. You two
girls had me buried!" She heard his stick thumping. Oh, what would they
say? What possible excuse could they make? It sounded such an appallingly
heartless thing to do. Such a wicked advantage to take of a person because he
happened to be helpless at the moment. The other people seemed to treat it all
as a matter of course. They were strangers; they couldn't be expected to
understand that father was the very last person for such a thing to happen to.
No, the entire blame for it all would fall on her and Constantia. And the
expense, she thought, stepping into the tight-buttoned cab. When she had to
show him the bills. What would he say then?
She heard him absolutely roaring. "And do
you expect me to pay for this gimcrack excursion of yours?"
"Oh," groaned poor Josephine aloud,
"we shouldn't have done it, Con!"
And Constantia, pale as a lemon in all that
blackness, said in a frightened whisper, "Done what, Jug?"
"Let them bu-bury father like that,"
said Josephine, breaking down and crying into her new, queer-smelling mourning
handkerchief.
"But what else could we have done?"
asked Constantia wonderingly. "We couldn't have kept him, Jug—we couldn't
have kept him unburied. At any rate, not in a flat that size."
Josephine blew her nose; the cab was dreadfully
stuffy.
"I don't know," she said forlornly.
"It is all so dreadful. I feel we ought to have tried to, just for a time
at least. To make perfectly sure. One thing's certain"—and her tears
sprang out again—"father will never forgive us for this—never!"
VI.
Father would never forgive them. That was what
they felt more than ever when, two mornings later, they went into his room to
go through his things. They had discussed it quite calmly. It was even down on
Josephine's list of things to be done. "Go through father's things and
settle about them." But that was a very different matter from saying after
breakfast:
"Well, are you ready, Con?"
"Yes, Jug—when you are."
"Then I think we'd better get it
over."
It was dark in the hall. It had been a rule for
years never to disturb father in the morning, whatever happened. And now they
were going to open the door without knocking even...Constantia's eyes were
enormous at the idea; Josephine felt weak in the knees.
"You—you go first," she gasped,
pushing Constantia.
But Constantia said, as she always had said on
those occasions, "No, Jug, that's not fair. You're the eldest."
Josephine was just going to say—what at other
times she wouldn't have owned to for the world—what she kept for her very last
weapon, "But you're the tallest," when they noticed that the kitchen
door was open, and there stood Kate...
"Very stiff," said Josephine, grasping
the door handle and doing her best to turn it. As if anything ever deceived
Kate!
It couldn't be helped. That girl was...Then the
door was shut behind them, but—but they weren't in father's room at all. They
might have suddenly walked through the wall by mistake into a different flat
altogether. Was the door just behind them? They were too frightened to look.
Josephine knew that if it was it was holding itself tight shut; Constantia felt
that, like the doors in dreams, it hadn't any handle at all. It was the
coldness which made it so awful. Or the whiteness—which? Everything was
covered. The blinds were down, a cloth hung over the mirror, a sheet hid the
bed; a huge fan of white paper filled the fireplace. Constantia timidly put out
her hand; she almost expected a snowflake to fall. Josephine felt a queer
tingling in her nose, as if her nose was freezing. Then a cab klop-klopped over
the cobbles below, and the quiet seemed to shake into little pieces.
"I had better pull up a blind," said
Josephine bravely.
"Yes, it might be a good idea,"
whispered Constantia.
They only gave the blind a touch, but it flew up
and the cord flew after, rolling round the blind-stick, and the little tassel
tapped as if trying to get free. That was too much for Constantia.
"Don't you think—don't you think we might
put it off for another day?" she whispered.
"Why?" snapped Josephine, feeling, as
usual, much better now that she knew for certain that Constantia was terrified.
"It's got to be done. But I do wish you wouldn't whisper, Con."
"I didn't know I was whispering,"
whispered Constantia.
"And why do you keep staring at the
bed?" said Josephine, raising her voice almost defiantly. "There's
nothing on the bed."
"Oh, Jug, don't say so!" said poor
Connie. "At any rate, not so loudly."
Josephine felt herself that she had gone too
far. She took a wide swerve over to the chest of drawers, put out her hand, but
quickly drew it back again.
"Connie!" she gasped, and she wheeled
round and leaned with her back against the chest of drawers.
"Oh, Jug—what?"
Josephine could only glare. She had the most
extraordinary feeling that she had just escaped something simply awful. But how
could she explain to Constantia that father was in the chest of drawers? He was
in the top drawer with his handkerchiefs and neckties, or in the next with his
shirts and pyjamas, or in the lowest of all with his suits. He was watching
there, hidden away—just behind the door-handle—ready to spring.
She pulled a funny old-fashioned face at
Constantia, just as she used to in the old days when she was going to cry.
"I can't open," she nearly wailed.
"No, don't, Jug," whispered Constantia
earnestly. "It's much better not to. Don't let's open anything. At any
rate, not for a long time."
"But—but it seems so weak," said
Josephine, breaking down.
"But why not be weak for once, Jug?"
argued Constantia, whispering quite fiercely. "If it is weak." And
her pale stare flew from the locked writing-table—so safe—to the huge
glittering wardrobe, and she began to breathe in a queer, panting away.
"Why shouldn't we be weak for once in our lives, Jug? It's quite
excusable. Let's be weak—be weak, Jug. It's much nicer to be weak than to be
strong."
And then she did one of those amazingly bold
things that she'd done about twice before in their lives: she marched over to
the wardrobe, turned the key, and took it out of the lock. Took it out of the
lock and held it up to Josephine, showing Josephine by her extraordinary smile
that she knew what she'd done—she'd risked deliberately father being in there
among his overcoats.
If the huge wardrobe had lurched forward, had
crashed down on Constantia, Josephine wouldn't have been surprised. On the
contrary, she would have thought it the only suitable thing to happen. But
nothing happened. Only the room seemed quieter than ever, and the bigger flakes
of cold air fell on Josephine's shoulders and knees. She began to shiver.
"Come, Jug," said Constantia, still
with that awful callous smile, and Josephine followed just as she had that last
time, when Constantia had pushed Benny into the round pond.
VII.
But the strain told on them when they were back
in the dining-room. They sat down, very shaky, and looked at each other.
"I don't feel I can settle to
anything," said Josephine, "until I've had something. Do you think we
could ask Kate for two cups of hot water?"
"I really don't see why we shouldn't,"
said Constantia carefully. She was quite normal again. "I won't ring. I'll
go to the kitchen door and ask her."
"Yes, do," said Josephine, sinking
down into a chair. "Tell her, just two cups, Con, nothing else—on a
tray."
"She needn't even put the jug on, need
she?" said Constantia, as though Kate might very well complain if the jug
had been there.
"Oh no, certainly not! The jug's not at all
necessary. She can pour it direct out of the kettle," cried Josephine,
feeling that would be a labour-saving indeed.
Their cold lips quivered at the greenish brims.
Josephine curved her small red hands round the cup; Constantia sat up and blew
on the wavy steam, making it flutter from one side to the other.
"Speaking of Benny," said Josephine.
And though Benny hadn't been mentioned
Constantia immediately looked as though he had.
"He'll expect us to send him something of
father's, of course. But it's so difficult to know what to send to
Ceylon."
"You mean things get unstuck so on the
voyage," murmured Constantia.
"No, lost," said Josephine sharply.
"You know there's no post. Only runners."
Both paused to watch a black man in white linen
drawers running through the pale fields for dear life, with a large brown-paper
parcel in his hands. Josephine's black man was tiny; he scurried along
glistening like an ant. But there was something blind and tireless about
Constantia's tall, thin fellow, which made him, she decided, a very unpleasant
person indeed...On the veranda, dressed all in white and wearing a cork helmet,
stood Benny. His right hand shook up and down, as father's did when he was
impatient. And behind him, not in the least interested, sat Hilda, the unknown
sister-in-law. She swung in a cane rocker and flicked over the leaves of the
"Tatler."
"I think his watch would be the most
suitable present," said Josephine.
Constantia looked up; she seemed surprised.
"Oh, would you trust a gold watch to a
native?"
"But of course, I'd disguise it," said
Josephine. "No one would know it was a watch." She liked the idea of
having to make a parcel such a curious shape that no one could possibly guess
what it was. She even thought for a moment of hiding the watch in a narrow
cardboard corset-box that she'd kept by her for a long time, waiting for it to
come in for something. It was such beautiful, firm cardboard. But, no, it wouldn't
be appropriate for this occasion. It had lettering on it: "Medium Women's
28. Extra Firm Busks." It would be almost too much of a surprise for Benny
to open that and find father's watch inside.
"And of course it isn't as though it would
be going—ticking, I mean," said Constantia, who was still thinking of the
native love of jewellery. "At least," she added, "it would be
very strange if after all that time it was."
VIII.
Josephine made no reply. She had flown off on
one of her tangents. She had suddenly thought of Cyril. Wasn't it more usual
for the only grandson to have the watch? And then dear Cyril was so
appreciative, and a gold watch meant so much to a young man. Benny, in all
probability, had quite got out of the habit of watches; men so seldom wore
waistcoats in those hot climates. Whereas Cyril in London wore them from year's
end to year's end. And it would be so nice for her and Constantia, when he came
to tea, to know it was there. "I see you've got on grandfather's watch,
Cyril." It would be somehow so satisfactory.
Dear boy! What a blow his sweet, sympathetic
little note had been! Of course they quite understood; but it was most
unfortunate.
"It would have been such a point, having
him," said Josephine.
"And he would have enjoyed it so,"
said Constantia, not thinking what she was saying.
However, as soon as he got back he was coming to
tea with his aunties. Cyril to tea was one of their rare treats.
"Now, Cyril, you mustn't be frightened of
our cakes. Your Auntie Con and I bought them at Buszard's this morning. We know
what a man's appetite is. So don't be ashamed of making a good tea."
Josephine cut recklessly into the rich dark cake
that stood for her winter gloves or the soling and heeling of Constantia's only
respectable shoes. But Cyril was most unmanlike in appetite.
"I say, Aunt Josephine, I simply can't.
I've only just had lunch, you know."
"Oh, Cyril, that can't be true! It's after
four," cried Josephine. Constantia sat with her knife poised over the
chocolate-roll.
"It is, all the same," said Cyril.
"I had to meet a man at Victoria, and he kept me hanging about
till...there was only time to get lunch and to come on here. And he gave
me—phew"—Cyril put his hand to his forehead— "a terrific
blow-out," he said.
It was disappointing—to-day of all days. But
still he couldn't be expected to know.
"But you'll have a meringue, won't you,
Cyril?" said Aunt Josephine. "These meringues were bought specially
for you. Your dear father was so fond of them. We were sure you are, too."
"I am, Aunt Josephine," cried Cyril
ardently. "Do you mind if I take half to begin with?"
"Not at all, dear boy; but we mustn't let
you off with that."
"Is your dear father still so fond of
meringues?" asked Auntie Con gently. She winced faintly as she broke
through the shell of hers.
"Well, I don't quite know, Auntie
Con," said Cyril breezily.
At that they both looked up.
"Don't know?" almost snapped
Josephine. "Don't know a thing like that about your own father,
Cyril?"
"Surely," said Auntie Con softly.
Cyril tried to laugh it off. "Oh,
well," he said, "it's such a long time since—" He faltered. He
stopped. Their faces were too much for him.
"Even so," said Josephine.
And Auntie Con looked.
Cyril put down his teacup. "Wait a
bit," he cried. "Wait a bit, Aunt Josephine. What am I thinking
of?"
He looked up. They were beginning to brighten.
Cyril slapped his knee.
"Of course," he said, "it was
meringues. How could I have forgotten? Yes, Aunt Josephine, you're perfectly
right. Father's most frightfully keen on meringues."
They didn't only beam. Aunt Josephine went
scarlet with pleasure; Auntie Con gave a deep, deep sigh.
"And now, Cyril, you must come and see
father," said Josephine. "He knows you were coming to-day."
"Right," said Cyril, very firmly and
heartily. He got up from his chair; suddenly he glanced at the clock.
"I say, Auntie Con, isn't your clock a bit
slow? I've got to meet a man at—at Paddington just after five. I'm afraid I
shan't be able to stay very long with grandfather."
"Oh, he won't expect you to stay very
long!" said Aunt Josephine.
Constantia was still gazing at the clock. She
couldn't make up her mind if it was fast or slow. It was one or the other, she
felt almost certain of that. At any rate, it had been.
Cyril still lingered. "Aren't you coming along,
Auntie Con?"
"Of course," said Josephine, "we
shall all go. Come on, Con."
IX.
They knocked at the door, and Cyril followed his
aunts into grandfather's hot, sweetish room.
"Come on," said Grandfather Pinner.
"Don't hang about. What is it? What've you been up to?"
He was sitting in front of a roaring fire,
clasping his stick. He had a thick rug over his knees. On his lap there lay a
beautiful pale yellow silk handkerchief.
"It's Cyril, father," said Josephine
shyly. And she took Cyril's hand and led him forward.
"Good afternoon, grandfather," said
Cyril, trying to take his hand out of Aunt Josephine's. Grandfather Pinner shot
his eyes at Cyril in the way he was famous for. Where was Auntie Con? She stood
on the other side of Aunt Josephine; her long arms hung down in front of her;
her hands were clasped. She never took her eyes off grandfather.
"Well," said Grandfather Pinner,
beginning to thump, "what have you got to tell me?"
What had he, what had he got to tell him? Cyril
felt himself smiling like a perfect imbecile. The room was stifling, too.
But Aunt Josephine came to his rescue. She cried
brightly, "Cyril says his father is still very fond of meringues, father
dear."
"Eh?" said Grandfather Pinner, curving
his hand like a purple meringue-shell over one ear.
Josephine repeated, "Cyril says his father
is still very fond of meringues."
"Can't hear," said old Colonel Pinner.
And he waved Josephine away with his stick, then pointed with his stick to
Cyril. "Tell me what she's trying to say," he said.
(My God!) "Must I?" said Cyril,
blushing and staring at Aunt Josephine.
"Do, dear," she smiled. "It will
please him so much."
"Come on, out with it!" cried Colonel
Pinner testily, beginning to thump again.
And Cyril leaned forward and yelled,
"Father's still very fond of meringues."
At that Grandfather Pinner jumped as though he
had been shot.
"Don't shout!" he cried. "What's
the matter with the boy? Meringues! What about 'em?"
"Oh, Aunt Josephine, must we go on?"
groaned Cyril desperately.
"It's quite all right, dear boy," said
Aunt Josephine, as though he and she were at the dentist's together.
"He'll understand in a minute." And she whispered to Cyril,
"He's getting a bit deaf, you know." Then she leaned forward and
really bawled at Grandfather Pinner, "Cyril only wanted to tell you,
father dear, that his father is still very fond of meringues."
Colonel Pinner heard that time, heard and
brooded, looking Cyril up and down.
"What an esstrordinary thing!" said
old Grandfather Pinner. "What an esstrordinary thing to come all this way
here to tell me!"
And Cyril felt it was.
"Yes, I shall send Cyril the watch,"
said Josephine.
"That would be very nice," said
Constantia. "I seem to remember last time he came there was some little
trouble about the time."
X.
They were interrupted by Kate bursting through
the door in her usual fashion, as though she had discovered some secret panel
in the wall.
"Fried or boiled?" asked the bold
voice.
Fried or boiled? Josephine and Constantia were
quite bewildered for the moment. They could hardly take it in.
"Fried or boiled what, Kate?" asked
Josephine, trying to begin to concentrate.
Kate gave a loud sniff. "Fish."
"Well, why didn't you say so
immediately?" Josephine reproached her gently. "How could you expect
us to understand, Kate? There are a great many things in this world you know,
which are fried or boiled." And after such a display of courage she said
quite brightly to Constantia, "Which do you prefer, Con?"
"I think it might be nice to have it
fried," said Constantia. "On the other hand, of course, boiled fish
is very nice. I think I prefer both equally well...Unless you...In that
case—"
"I shall fry it," said Kate, and she
bounced back, leaving their door open and slamming the door of her kitchen.
Josephine gazed at Constantia; she raised her
pale eyebrows until they rippled away into her pale hair. She got up. She said
in a very lofty, imposing way, "Do you mind following me into the
drawing-room, Constantia? I've got something of great importance to discuss
with you."
For it was always to the drawing-room they
retired when they wanted to talk over Kate.
Josephine closed the door meaningly. "Sit
down, Constantia," she said, still very grand. She might have been
receiving Constantia for the first time. And Con looked round vaguely for a
chair, as though she felt indeed quite a stranger.
"Now the question is," said Josephine,
bending forward, "whether we shall keep her or not."
"That is the question," agreed
Constantia.
"And this time," said Josephine
firmly, "we must come to a definite decision."
Constantia looked for a moment as though she
might begin going over all the other times, but she pulled herself together and
said, "Yes, Jug."
"You see, Con," explained Josephine,
"everything is so changed now." Constantia looked up quickly. "I
mean," went on Josephine, "we're not dependent on Kate as we
were." And she blushed faintly. "There's not father to cook
for."
"That is perfectly true," agreed
Constantia. "Father certainly doesn't want any cooking now, whatever
else—"
Josephine broke in sharply, "You're not
sleepy, are you, Con?"
"Sleepy, Jug?" Constantia was
wide-eyed.
"Well, concentrate more," said
Josephine sharply, and she returned to the subject. "What it comes to is,
if we did"—and this she barely breathed, glancing at the door—"give
Kate notice"—she raised her voice again—"we could manage our own
food."
"Why not?" cried Constantia. She
couldn't help smiling. The idea was so exciting. She clasped her hands.
"What should we live on, Jug?"
"Oh, eggs in various forms!" said Jug,
lofty again. "And, besides, there are all the cooked foods."
"But I've always heard," said
Constantia, "they are considered so very expensive."
"Not if one buys them in moderation,"
said Josephine. But she tore herself away from this fascinating bypath and
dragged Constantia after her.
"What we've got to decide now, however, is
whether we really do trust Kate or not."
Constantia leaned back. Her flat little laugh
flew from her lips.
"Isn't it curious, Jug," said she,
"that just on this one subject I've never been able to quite make up my
mind?"
XI.
She never had. The whole difficulty was to prove
anything. How did one prove things, how could one? Suppose Kate had stood in
front of her and deliberately made a face. Mightn't she very well have been in
pain? Wasn't it impossible, at any rate, to ask Kate if she was making a face
at her? If Kate answered "No"—and, of course, she would say
"No"—what a position! How undignified! Then again Constantia
suspected, she was almost certain that Kate went to her chest of drawers when
she and Josephine were out, not to take things but to spy. Many times she had
come back to find her amethyst cross in the most unlikely places, under her
lace ties or on top of her evening Bertha. More than once she had laid a trap
for Kate. She had arranged things in a special order and then called Josephine
to witness.
"You see, Jug?"
"Quite, Con."
"Now we shall be able to tell."
But, oh dear, when she did go to look, she was
as far off from a proof as ever! If anything was displaced, it might so very
well have happened as she closed the drawer; a jolt might have done it so
easily.
"You come, Jug, and decide. I really can't.
It's too difficult."
But after a pause and a long glare Josephine
would sigh, "Now you've put the doubt into my mind, Con, I'm sure I can't
tell myself."
"Well, we can't postpone it again,"
said Josephine. "If we postpone it this time—"
XII.
But at that moment in the street below a
barrel-organ struck up. Josephine and Constantia sprang to their feet together.
"Run, Con," said Josephine. "Run
quickly. There's sixpence on the—"
Then they remembered. It didn't matter. They
would never have to stop the organ-grinder again. Never again would she and
Constantia be told to make that monkey take his noise somewhere else. Never would
sound that loud, strange bellow when father thought they were not hurrying
enough. The organ-grinder might play there all day and the stick would not
thump.
It never will thump again, It never will thump
again,
played the barrel-organ.
What was Constantia thinking? She had such a
strange smile; she looked different. She couldn't be going to cry.
"Jug, Jug," said Constantia softly,
pressing her hands together. "Do you know what day it is? It's Saturday.
It's a week to-day, a whole week."
"A week since father died,
A week since father died,"
cried the barrel-organ. And Josephine, too,
forgot to be practical and sensible; she smiled faintly, strangely. On the
Indian carpet there fell a square of sunlight, pale red; it came and went and
came—and stayed, deepened—until it shone almost golden.
"The sun's out," said Josephine, as
though it really mattered.
A perfect fountain of bubbling notes shook from
the barrel-organ, round, bright notes, carelessly scattered.
Constantia lifted her big, cold hands as if to catch
them, and then her hands fell again. She walked over to the mantelpiece to her
favourite Buddha. And the stone and gilt image, whose smile always gave her
such a queer feeling, almost a pain and yet a pleasant pain, seemed to-day to
be more than smiling. He knew something; he had a secret. "I know
something that you don't know," said her Buddha. Oh, what was it, what
could it be? And yet she had always felt there was...something.
The sunlight pressed through the windows,
thieved its way in, flashed its light over the furniture and the photographs.
Josephine watched it. When it came to mother's photograph, the enlargement over
the piano, it lingered as though puzzled to find so little remained of mother,
except the earrings shaped like tiny pagodas and a black feather boa. Why did
the photographs of dead people always fade so? wondered Josephine. As soon as a
person was dead their photograph died too. But, of course, this one of mother
was very old. It was thirty-five years old. Josephine remembered standing on a
chair and pointing out that feather boa to Constantia and telling her that it
was a snake that had killed their mother in Ceylon...Would everything have been
different if mother hadn't died? She didn't see why. Aunt Florence had lived
with them until they had left school, and they had moved three times and had
their yearly holiday and...and there'd been changes of servants, of course.
Some little sparrows, young sparrows they
sounded, chirped on the window-ledge. "Yeep—eyeep—yeep." But
Josephine felt they were not sparrows, not on the window-ledge. It was inside
her, that queer little crying noise. "Yeep—eyeep—yeep." Ah, what was
it crying, so weak and forlorn?
If mother had lived, might they have married?
But there had been nobody for them to marry. There had been father's
Anglo-Indian friends before he quarrelled with them. But after that she and
Constantia never met a single man except clergymen. How did one meet men? Or
even if they'd met them, how could they have got to know men well enough to be
more than strangers? One read of people having adventures, being followed, and
so on. But nobody had ever followed Constantia and her. Oh yes, there had been
one year at Eastbourne a mysterious man at their boarding-house who had put a
note on the jug of hot water outside their bedroom door! But by the time Connie
had found it the steam had made the writing too faint to read; they couldn't
even make out to which of them it was addressed. And he had left next day. And
that was all. The rest had been looking after father, and at the same time
keeping out of father's way. But now? But now? The thieving sun touched
Josephine gently. She lifted her face. She was drawn over to the window by
gentle beams...
Until the barrel-organ stopped playing
Constantia stayed before the Buddha, wondering, but not as usual, not vaguely.
This time her wonder was like longing. She remembered the times she had come in
here, crept out of bed in her nightgown when the moon was full, and lain on the
floor with her arms outstretched, as though she was crucified. Why? The big,
pale moon had made her do it. The horrible dancing figures on the carved screen
had leered at her and she hadn't minded. She remembered too how, whenever they
were at the seaside, she had gone off by herself and got as close to the sea as
she could, and sung something, something she had made up, while she gazed all
over that restless water. There had been this other life, running out, bringing
things home in bags, getting things on approval, discussing them with Jug, and
taking them back to get more things on approval, and arranging father's trays
and trying not to annoy father. But it all seemed to have happened in a kind of
tunnel. It wasn't real. It was only when she came out of the tunnel into the
moonlight or by the sea or into a thunderstorm that she really felt herself.
What did it mean? What was it she was always wanting? What did it all lead to?
Now? Now?
She turned away from the Buddha with one of her
vague gestures. She went over to where Josephine was standing. She wanted to
say something to Josephine, something frightfully important, about—about the
future and what...
"Don't you think perhaps—" she began.
But Josephine interrupted her. "I was
wondering if now—" she murmured. They stopped; they waited for each other.
"Go on, Con," said Josephine.
"No, no, Jug; after you," said
Constantia.
"No, say what you were going to say. You
began," said Josephine.
"I...I'd rather hear what you were going to
say first," said Constantia.
"Don't be absurd, Con."
"Really, Jug."
"Connie!"
"Oh, Jug!"
A pause. Then Constantia said faintly, "I
can't say what I was going to say, Jug, because I've forgotten what it
was...that I was going to say."
Josephine was silent for a moment. She stared at
a big cloud where the sun had been. Then she replied shortly, "I've
forgotten too."
4. MR. AND MRS. DOVE
Of course he knew—no man better—that he hadn't a
ghost of a chance, he hadn't an earthly. The very idea of such a thing was
preposterous. So preposterous that he'd perfectly understand it if her
father—well, whatever her father chose to do he'd perfectly understand. In
fact, nothing short of desperation, nothing short of the fact that this was
positively his last day in England for God knows how long, would have screwed
him up to it. And even now...He chose a tie out of the chest of drawers, a blue
and cream check tie, and sat on the side of his bed. Supposing she replied,
"What impertinence!" would he be surprised? Not in the least, he
decided, turning up his soft collar and turning it down over the tie. He
expected her to say something like that. He didn't see, if he looked at the
affair dead soberly, what else she could say.
Here he was! And nervously he tied a bow in
front of the mirror, jammed his hair down with both hands, pulled out the flaps
of his jacket pockets. Making between 500 and 600 pounds a year on a fruit farm
in—of all places—Rhodesia. No capital. Not a penny coming to him. No chance of
his income increasing for at least four years. As for looks and all that sort
of thing, he was completely out of the running. He couldn't even boast of
top-hole health, for the East Africa business had knocked him out so thoroughly
that he'd had to take six months' leave. He was still fearfully pale—worse even
than usual this afternoon, he thought, bending forward and peering into the
mirror. Good heavens! What had happened? His hair looked almost bright green.
Dash it all, he hadn't green hair at all events. That was a bit too steep. And
then the green light trembled in the glass; it was the shadow from the tree
outside. Reggie turned away, took out his cigarette case, but remembering how
the mater hated him to smoke in his bedroom, put it back again and drifted over
to the chest of drawers. No, he was dashed if he could think of one blessed
thing in his favour, while she...Ah!...He stopped dead, folded his arms, and
leaned hard against the chest of drawers.
And in spite of her position, her father's
wealth, the fact that she was an only child and far and away the most popular
girl in the neighbourhood; in spite of her beauty and her
cleverness—cleverness!—it was a great deal more than that, there was really
nothing she couldn't do; he fully believed, had it been necessary, she would
have been a genius at anything— in spite of the fact that her parents adored
her, and she them, and they'd as soon let her go all that way as...In spite of
every single thing you could think of, so terrific was his love that he
couldn't help hoping. Well, was it hope? Or was this queer, timid longing to
have the chance of looking after her, of making it his job to see that she had
everything she wanted, and that nothing came near her that wasn't perfect—just
love? How he loved her! He squeezed hard against the chest of drawers and
murmured to it, "I love her, I love her!" And just for the moment he
was with her on the way to Umtali. It was night. She sat in a corner asleep.
Her soft chin was tucked into her soft collar, her gold-brown lashes lay on her
cheeks. He doted on her delicate little nose, her perfect lips, her ear like a
baby's, and the gold-brown curl that half covered it. They were passing through
the jungle. It was warm and dark and far away. Then she woke up and said,
"Have I been asleep?" and he answered, "Yes. Are you all right?
Here, let me—" And he leaned forward to...He bent over her. This was such
bliss that he could dream no further. But it gave him the courage to bound
downstairs, to snatch his straw hat from the hall, and to say as he closed the
front door, "Well, I can only try my luck, that's all."
But his luck gave him a nasty jar, to say the
least, almost immediately. Promenading up and down the garden path with Chinny
and Biddy, the ancient Pekes, was the mater. Of course Reginald was fond of the
mater and all that. She—she meant well, she had no end of grit, and so on. But
there was no denying it, she was rather a grim parent. And there had been
moments, many of them, in Reggie's life, before Uncle Alick died and left him
the fruit farm, when he was convinced that to be a widow's only son was about
the worst punishment a chap could have. And what made it rougher than ever was
that she was positively all that he had. She wasn't only a combined parent, as
it were, but she had quarrelled with all her own and the governor's relations
before Reggie had won his first trouser pockets. So that whenever Reggie was
homesick out there, sitting on his dark veranda by starlight, while the
gramophone cried, "Dear, what is Life but Love?" his only vision was
of the mater, tall and stout, rustling down the garden path, with Chinny and
Biddy at her heels...
The mater, with her scissors outspread to snap
the head of a dead something or other, stopped at the sight of Reggie.
"You are not going out, Reginald?" she
asked, seeing that he was.
"I'll be back for tea, mater," said
Reggie weakly, plunging his hands into his jacket pockets.
Snip. Off came a head. Reggie almost jumped.
"I should have thought you could have
spared your mother your last afternoon," said she.
Silence. The Pekes stared. They understood every
word of the mater's. Biddy lay down with her tongue poked out; she was so fat
and glossy she looked like a lump of half-melted toffee. But Chinny's porcelain
eyes gloomed at Reginald, and he sniffed faintly, as though the whole world
were one unpleasant smell. Snip, went the scissors again. Poor little beggars;
they were getting it!
"And where are you going, if your mother
may ask?" asked the mater.
It was over at last, but Reggie did not slow
down until he was out of sight of the house and half-way to Colonel Proctor's.
Then only he noticed what a top-hole afternoon it was. It had been raining all
the morning, late summer rain, warm, heavy, quick, and now the sky was clear,
except for a long tail of little clouds, like duckings, sailing over the
forest. There was just enough wind to shake the last drops off the trees; one
warm star splashed on his hand. Ping!—another drummed on his hat. The empty
road gleamed, the hedges smelled of briar, and how big and bright the
hollyhocks glowed in the cottage gardens. And here was Colonel Proctor's—here
it was already. His hand was on the gate, his elbow jogged the syringa bushes,
and petals and pollen scattered over his coat sleeve. But wait a bit. This was
too quick altogether. He'd meant to think the whole thing out again. Here,
steady. But he was walking up the path, with the huge rose bushes on either
side. It can't be done like this. But his hand had grasped the bell, given it a
pull, and started it pealing wildly, as if he'd come to say the house was on
fire. The housemaid must have been in the hall, too, for the front door flashed
open, and Reggie was shut in the empty drawing-room before that confounded bell
had stopped ringing. Strangely enough, when it did, the big room, shadowy, with
some one's parasol lying on top of the grand piano, bucked him up—or rather,
excited him. It was so quiet, and yet in one moment the door would open, and
his fate be decided. The feeling was not unlike that of being at the dentist's;
he was almost reckless. But at the same time, to his immense surprise, Reggie
heard himself saying, "Lord, Thou knowest, Thou hast not done much for
me..." That pulled him up; that made him realize again how dead serious it
was. Too late. The door handle turned. Anne came in, crossed the shadowy space
between them, gave him her hand, and said, in her small, soft voice, "I'm
so sorry, father is out. And mother is having a day in town, hat-hunting.
There's only me to entertain you, Reggie."
Reggie gasped, pressed his own hat to his jacket
buttons, and stammered out, "As a matter of fact, I've only come...to say
good-bye."
"Oh!" cried Anne softly—she stepped
back from him and her grey eyes danced—"what a very short visit!"
Then, watching him, her chin tilted, she laughed
outright, a long, soft peal, and walked away from him over to the piano, and
leaned against it, playing with the tassel of the parasol.
"I'm so sorry," she said, "to be
laughing like this. I don't know why I do. It's just a bad ha—habit." And
suddenly she stamped her grey shoe, and took a pocket-handkerchief out of her
white woolly jacket. "I really must conquer it, it's too absurd,"
said she.
"Good heavens, Anne," cried Reggie,
"I love to hear you laughing! I can't imagine anything more—"
But the truth was, and they both knew it, she
wasn't always laughing; it wasn't really a habit. Only ever since the day
they'd met, ever since that very first moment, for some strange reason that
Reggie wished to God he understood, Anne had laughed at him. Why? It didn't
matter where they were or what they were talking about. They might begin by
being as serious as possible, dead serious—at any rate, as far as he was
concerned—but then suddenly, in the middle of a sentence, Anne would glance at
him, and a little quick quiver passed over her face. Her lips parted, her eyes
danced, and she began laughing.
Another queer thing about it was, Reggie had an
idea she didn't herself know why she laughed. He had seen her turn away, frown,
suck in her cheeks, press her hands together. But it was no use. The long, soft
peal sounded, even while she cried, "I don't know why I'm laughing."
It was a mystery...
Now she tucked the handkerchief away.
"Do sit down," said she. "And
smoke, won't you? There are cigarettes in that little box beside you. I'll have
one too." He lighted a match for her, and as she bent forward he saw the
tiny flame glow in the pearl ring she wore. "It is to-morrow that you're
going, isn't it?" said Anne.
"Yes, to-morrow as ever was," said
Reggie, and he blew a little fan of smoke. Why on earth was he so nervous?
Nervous wasn't the word for it.
"It's—it's frightfully hard to
believe," he added.
"Yes—isn't it?" said Anne softly, and
she leaned forward and rolled the point of her cigarette round the green
ash-tray. How beautiful she looked like that!—simply beautiful—and she was so
small in that immense chair. Reginald's heart swelled with tenderness, but it
was her voice, her soft voice, that made him tremble. "I feel you've been
here for years," she said.
Reginald took a deep breath of his cigarette.
"It's ghastly, this idea of going
back," he said.
"Coo-roo-coo-coo-coo," sounded from
the quiet.
"But you're fond of being out there, aren't
you?" said Anne. She hooked her finger through her pearl necklace.
"Father was saying only the other night how lucky he thought you were to
have a life of your own." And she looked up at him. Reginald's smile was
rather wan. "I don't feel fearfully lucky," he said lightly.
"Roo-coo-coo-coo," came again. And
Anne murmured, "You mean it's lonely."
"Oh, it isn't the loneliness I care
about," said Reginald, and he stumped his cigarette savagely on the green
ash-tray. "I could stand any amount of it, used to like it even. It's the
idea of—" Suddenly, to his horror, he felt himself blushing.
"Roo-coo-coo-coo! Roo-coo-coo-coo!"
Anne jumped up. "Come and say good-bye to
my doves," she said. "They've been moved to the side veranda. You do
like doves, don't you, Reggie?"
"Awfully," said Reggie, so fervently
that as he opened the French window for her and stood to one side, Anne ran forward
and laughed at the doves instead.
To and fro, to and fro over the fine red sand on
the floor of the dove house, walked the two doves. One was always in front of
the other. One ran forward, uttering a little cry, and the other followed,
solemnly bowing and bowing. "You see," explained Anne, "the one
in front, she's Mrs. Dove. She looks at Mr. Dove and gives that little laugh
and runs forward, and he follows her, bowing and bowing. And that makes her
laugh again. Away she runs, and after her," cried Anne, and she sat back
on her heels, "comes poor Mr. Dove, bowing and bowing...and that's their
whole life. They never do anything else, you know." She got up and took
some yellow grains out of a bag on the roof of the dove house. "When you think
of them, out in Rhodesia, Reggie, you can be sure that is what they will be
doing..."
Reggie gave no sign of having seen the doves or
of having heard a word. For the moment he was conscious only of the immense
effort it took to tear his secret out of himself and offer it to Anne.
"Anne, do you think you could ever care for me?" It was done. It was
over. And in the little pause that followed Reginald saw the garden open to the
light, the blue quivering sky, the flutter of leaves on the veranda poles, and
Anne turning over the grains of maize on her palm with one finger. Then slowly
she shut her hand, and the new world faded as she murmured slowly, "No,
never in that way." But he had scarcely time to feel anything before she
walked quickly away, and he followed her down the steps, along the garden path,
under the pink rose arches, across the lawn. There, with the gay herbaceous
border behind her, Anne faced Reginald. "It isn't that I'm not awfully
fond of you," she said. "I am. But"—her eyes widened—"not
in the way"—a quiver passed over her face—"one ought to be fond
of—" Her lips parted, and she couldn't stop herself. She began laughing.
"There, you see, you see," she cried, "it's your check t-tie.
Even at this moment, when one would think one really would be solemn, your tie
reminds me fearfully of the bow-tie that cats wear in pictures! Oh, please
forgive me for being so horrid, please!"
Reggie caught hold of her little warm hand.
"There's no question of forgiving you," he said quickly. "How
could there be? And I do believe I know why I make you laugh. It's because
you're so far above me in every way that I am somehow ridiculous. I see that,
Anne. But if I were to—"
"No, no." Anne squeezed his hand hard.
"It's not that. That's all wrong. I'm not far above you at all. You're
much better than I am. You're marvellously unselfish and...and kind and simple.
I'm none of those things. You don't know me. I'm the most awful
character," said Anne. "Please don't interrupt. And besides, that's
not the point. The point is"—she shook her head—"I couldn't possibly
marry a man I laughed at. Surely you see that. The man I marry—" breathed
Anne softly. She broke off. She drew her hand away, and looking at Reggie she
smiled strangely, dreamily. "The man I marry—"
And it seemed to Reggie that a tall, handsome,
brilliant stranger stepped in front of him and took his place—the kind of man
that Anne and he had seen often at the theatre, walking on to the stage from
nowhere, without a word catching the heroine in his arms, and after one long,
tremendous look, carrying her off to anywhere...
Reggie bowed to his vision. "Yes, I
see," he said huskily.
"Do you?" said Anne. "Oh, I do
hope you do. Because I feel so horrid about it. It's so hard to explain. You
know I've never—" She stopped. Reggie looked at her. She was smiling.
"Isn't it funny?" she said. "I can say anything to you. I always
have been able to from the very beginning."
He tried to smile, to say "I'm glad."
She went on. "I've never known any one I like as much as I like you. I've
never felt so happy with any one. But I'm sure it's not what people and what
books mean when they talk about love. Do you understand? Oh, if you only knew
how horrid I feel. But we'd be like...like Mr. and Mrs. Dove."
That did it. That seemed to Reginald final, and
so terribly true that he could hardly bear it. "Don't drive it home,"
he said, and he turned away from Anne and looked across the lawn. There was the
gardener's cottage, with the dark ilex-tree beside it. A wet, blue thumb of
transparent smoke hung above the chimney. It didn't look real. How his throat
ached! Could he speak? He had a shot. "I must be getting along home,"
he croaked, and he began walking across the lawn. But Anne ran after him.
"No, don't. You can't go yet," she said imploringly. "You can't
possibly go away feeling like that." And she stared up at him frowning,
biting her lip.
"Oh, that's all right," said Reggie,
giving himself a shake. "I'll...I'll—" And he waved his hand as much
to say "get over it."
"But this is awful," said Anne. She
clasped her hands and stood in front of him. "Surely you do see how fatal
it would be for us to marry, don't you?"
"Oh, quite, quite," said Reggie,
looking at her with haggard eyes.
"How wrong, how wicked, feeling as I do. I
mean, it's all very well for Mr. and Mrs. Dove. But imagine that in real
life—imagine it!"
"Oh, absolutely," said Reggie, and he
started to walk on. But again Anne stopped him. She tugged at his sleeve, and
to his astonishment, this time, instead of laughing, she looked like a little
girl who was going to cry.
"Then why, if you understand, are you so
un-unhappy?" she wailed. "Why do you mind so fearfully? Why do you
look so aw-awful?"
Reggie gulped, and again he waved something
away. "I can't help it," he said, "I've had a blow. If I cut off
now, I'll be able to—"
"How can you talk of cutting off now?"
said Anne scornfully. She stamped her foot at Reggie; she was crimson.
"How can you be so cruel? I can't let you go until I know for certain that
you are just as happy as you were before you asked me to marry you. Surely you
must see that, it's so simple."
But it did not seem at all simple to Reginald.
It seemed impossibly difficult.
"Even if I can't marry you, how can I know
that you're all that way away, with only that awful mother to write to, and
that you're miserable, and that it's all my fault?"
"It's not your fault. Don't think that.
It's just fate." Reggie took her hand off his sleeve and kissed it.
"Don't pity me, dear little Anne," he said gently. And this time he
nearly ran, under the pink arches, along the garden path.
"Roo-coo-coo-coo! Roo-coo-coo-coo!"
sounded from the veranda. "Reggie, Reggie," from the garden.
He stopped, he turned. But when she saw his
timid, puzzled look, she gave a little laugh.
"Come back, Mr. Dove," said Anne. And
Reginald came slowly across the lawn.
5. THE YOUNG GIRL
In her blue dress, with her cheeks lightly
flushed, her blue, blue eyes, and her gold curls pinned up as though for the
first time—pinned up to be out of the way for her flight—Mrs. Raddick's
daughter might have just dropped from this radiant heaven. Mrs. Raddick's
timid, faintly astonished, but deeply admiring glance looked as if she believed
it, too; but the daughter didn't appear any too pleased—why should she?—to have
alighted on the steps of the Casino. Indeed, she was bored—bored as though
Heaven had been full of casinos with snuffy old saints for croupiers and crowns
to play with.
"You don't mind taking Hennie?" said
Mrs. Raddick. "Sure you don't? There's the car, and you'll have tea and
we'll be back here on this step— right here—in an hour. You see, I want her to
go in. She's not been before, and it's worth seeing. I feel it wouldn't be fair
to her."
"Oh, shut up, mother," said she
wearily. "Come along. Don't talk so much. And your bag's open; you'll be
losing all your money again."
"I'm sorry, darling," said Mrs.
Raddick.
"Oh, do come in! I want to make
money," said the impatient voice. "It's all jolly well for you—but
I'm broke!"
"Here—take fifty francs, darling, take a
hundred!" I saw Mrs. Raddick pressing notes into her hand as they passed
through the swing doors.
Hennie and I stood on the steps a minute,
watching the people. He had a very broad, delighted smile.
"I say," he cried, "there's an
English bulldog. Are they allowed to take dogs in there?"
"No, they're not."
"He's a ripping chap, isn't he? I wish I
had one. They're such fun. They frighten people so, and they're never fierce
with their—the people they belong to." Suddenly he squeezed my arm.
"I say, do look at that old woman. Who is she? Why does she look like
that? Is she a gambler?"
The ancient, withered creature, wearing a green
satin dress, a black velvet cloak and a white hat with purple feathers, jerked
slowly, slowly up the steps as though she were being drawn up on wires. She
stared in front of her, she was laughing and nodding and cackling to herself;
her claws clutched round what looked like a dirty boot-bag.
But just at that moment there was Mrs. Raddick
again with—her—and another lady hovering in the background. Mrs. Raddick rushed
at me. She was brightly flushed, gay, a different creature. She was like a
woman who is saying "good-bye" to her friends on the station
platform, with not a minute to spare before the train starts.
"Oh, you're here, still. Isn't that lucky!
You've not gone. Isn't that fine! I've had the most dreadful time
with—her," and she waved to her daughter, who stood absolutely still,
disdainful, looking down, twiddling her foot on the step, miles away.
"They won't let her in. I swore she was twenty-one. But they won't believe
me. I showed the man my purse; I didn't dare to do more. But it was no use. He
simply scoffed...And now I've just met Mrs. MacEwen from New York, and she just
won thirteen thousand in the Salle Privee—and she wants me to go back with her
while the luck lasts. Of course I can't leave—her. But if you'd—"
At that "she" looked up; she simply
withered her mother. "Why can't you leave me?" she said furiously.
"What utter rot! How dare you make a scene like this? This is the last
time I'll come out with you. You really are too awful for words." She
looked her mother up and down. "Calm yourself," she said superbly.
Mrs. Raddick was desperate, just desperate. She
was "wild" to go back with Mrs. MacEwen, but at the same time...
I seized my courage. "Would you—do you care
to come to tea with—us?"
"Yes, yes, she'll be delighted. That's just
what I wanted, isn't it, darling? Mrs. MacEwen...I'll be back here in an
hour...or less...I'll—"
Mrs. R. dashed up the steps. I saw her bag was
open again.
So we three were left. But really it wasn't my
fault. Hennie looked crushed to the earth, too. When the car was there she
wrapped her dark coat round her—to escape contamination. Even her little feet
looked as though they scorned to carry her down the steps to us.
"I am so awfully sorry," I murmured as
the car started.
"Oh, I don't mind," said she. "I
don't want to look twenty-one. Who would—if they were seventeen! It's"—and
she gave a faint shudder—"the stupidity I loathe, and being stared at by
old fat men. Beasts!"
Hennie gave her a quick look and then peered out
of the window.
We drew up before an immense palace of
pink-and-white marble with orange-trees outside the doors in gold-and-black
tubs.
"Would you care to go in?" I
suggested.
She hesitated, glanced, bit her lip, and
resigned herself. "Oh well, there seems nowhere else," said she.
"Get out, Hennie."
I went first—to find the table, of course—she
followed. But the worst of it was having her little brother, who was only
twelve, with us. That was the last, final straw—having that child, trailing at
her heels.
There was one table. It had pink carnations and
pink plates with little blue tea-napkins for sails.
"Shall we sit here?"
She put her hand wearily on the back of a white
wicker chair.
"We may as well. Why not?" said she.
Hennie squeezed past her and wriggled on to a
stool at the end. He felt awfully out of it. She didn't even take her gloves
off. She lowered her eyes and drummed on the table. When a faint violin sounded
she winced and bit her lip again. Silence.
The waitress appeared. I hardly dared to ask
her. "Tea—coffee? China tea—or iced tea with lemon?"
Really she didn't mind. It was all the same to
her. She didn't really want anything. Hennie whispered, "Chocolate!"
But just as the waitress turned away she cried
out carelessly, "Oh, you may as well bring me a chocolate, too."
While we waited she took out a little, gold
powder-box with a mirror in the lid, shook the poor little puff as though she
loathed it, and dabbed her lovely nose.
"Hennie," she said, "take those
flowers away." She pointed with her puff to the carnations, and I heard
her murmur, "I can't bear flowers on a table." They had evidently
been giving her intense pain, for she positively closed her eyes as I moved
them away.
The waitress came back with the chocolate and
the tea. She put the big, frothing cups before them and pushed across my clear
glass. Hennie buried his nose, emerged, with, for one dreadful moment, a little
trembling blob of cream on the tip. But he hastily wiped it off like a little
gentleman. I wondered if I should dare draw her attention to her cup. She
didn't notice it—didn't see it—until suddenly, quite by chance, she took a sip.
I watched anxiously; she faintly shuddered.
"Dreadfully sweet!" said she.
A tiny boy with a head like a raisin and a
chocolate body came round with a tray of pastries—row upon row of little
freaks, little inspirations, little melting dreams. He offered them to her.
"Oh, I'm not at all hungry. Take them away."
He offered them to Hennie. Hennie gave me a
swift look—it must have been satisfactory—for he took a chocolate cream, a
coffee eclair, a meringue stuffed with chestnut and a tiny horn filled with
fresh strawberries. She could hardly bear to watch him. But just as the boy
swerved away she held up her plate.
"Oh well, give me one," said she.
The silver tongs dropped one, two, three—and a
cherry tartlet. "I don't know why you're giving me all these," she
said, and nearly smiled. "I shan't eat them; I couldn't!"
I felt much more comfortable. I sipped my tea,
leaned back, and even asked if I might smoke. At that she paused, the fork in
her hand, opened her eyes, and really did smile. "Of course," said
she. "I always expect people to."
But at that moment a tragedy happened to Hennie.
He speared his pastry horn too hard, and it flew in two, and one half spilled
on the table. Ghastly affair! He turned crimson. Even his ears flared, and one
ashamed hand crept across the table to take what was left of the body away.
"You utter little beast!" said she.
Good heavens! I had to fly to the rescue. I
cried hastily, "Will you be abroad long?"
But she had already forgotten Hennie. I was
forgotten, too. She was trying to remember something...She was miles away.
"I—don't—know," she said slowly, from
that far place.
"I suppose you prefer it to London. It's
more—more—"
When I didn't go on she came back and looked at
me, very puzzled. "More—?"
"Enfin—gayer," I cried, waving my
cigarette.
But that took a whole cake to consider. Even
then, "Oh well, that depends!" was all she could safely say.
Hennie had finished. He was still very warm.
I seized the butterfly list off the table.
"I say—what about an ice, Hennie? What about tangerine and ginger? No,
something cooler. What about a fresh pineapple cream?"
Hennie strongly approved. The waitress had her
eye on us. The order was taken when she looked up from her crumbs.
"Did you say tangerine and ginger? I like
ginger. You can bring me one." And then quickly, "I wish that
orchestra wouldn't play things from the year One. We were dancing to that all
last Christmas. It's too sickening!"
But it was a charming air. Now that I noticed
it, it warmed me.
"I think this is rather a nice place, don't
you, Hennie?" I said.
Hennie said: "Ripping!" He meant to
say it very low, but it came out very high in a kind of squeak.
Nice? This place? Nice? For the first time she
stared about her, trying to see what there was...She blinked; her lovely eyes
wondered. A very good-looking elderly man stared back at her through a monocle
on a black ribbon. But him she simply couldn't see. There was a hole in the air
where he was. She looked through and through him.
Finally the little flat spoons lay still on the
glass plates. Hennie looked rather exhausted, but she pulled on her white
gloves again. She had some trouble with her diamond wrist-watch; it got in her
way. She tugged at it—tried to break the stupid little thing—it wouldn't break.
Finally, she had to drag her glove over. I saw, after that, she couldn't stand
this place a moment longer, and, indeed, she jumped up and turned away while I
went through the vulgar act of paying for the tea.
And then we were outside again. It had grown dusky.
The sky was sprinkled with small stars; the big lamps glowed. While we waited
for the car to come up she stood on the step, just as before, twiddling her
foot, looking down.
Hennie bounded forward to open the door and she
got in and sank back with— oh—such a sigh!
"Tell him," she gasped, "to drive
as fast as he can."
Hennie grinned at his friend the chauffeur.
"Allie veet!" said he. Then he composed himself and sat on the small
seat facing us.
The gold powder-box came out again. Again the
poor little puff was shaken; again there was that swift, deadly-secret glance
between her and the mirror.
We tore through the black-and-gold town like a
pair of scissors tearing through brocade. Hennie had great difficulty not to
look as though he were hanging on to something.
And when we reached the Casino, of course Mrs.
Raddick wasn't there. There wasn't a sign of her on the steps—not a sign.
"Will you stay in the car while I go and
look?"
But no—she wouldn't do that. Good heavens, no!
Hennie could stay. She couldn't bear sitting in a car. She'd wait on the steps.
"But I scarcely like to leave you," I
murmured. "I'd very much rather not leave you here."
At that she threw back her coat; she turned and
faced me; her lips parted. "Good heavens—why! I—I don't mind it a bit. I—I
like waiting." And suddenly her cheeks crimsoned, her eyes grew dark—for a
moment I thought she was going to cry. "L—let me, please," she
stammered, in a warm, eager voice. "I like it. I love waiting!
Really—really I do! I'm always waiting—in all kinds of places..."
Her dark coat fell open, and her white
throat—all her soft young body in the blue dress—was like a flower that is just
emerging from its dark bud.
6. LIFE OF MA PARKER
When the literary gentleman, whose flat old Ma
Parker cleaned every Tuesday, opened the door to her that morning, he asked
after her grandson. Ma Parker stood on the doormat inside the dark little hall,
and she stretched out her hand to help her gentleman shut the door before she
replied. "We buried 'im yesterday, sir," she said quietly.
"Oh, dear me! I'm sorry to hear that,"
said the literary gentleman in a shocked tone. He was in the middle of his
breakfast. He wore a very shabby dressing-gown and carried a crumpled newspaper
in one hand. But he felt awkward. He could hardly go back to the warm
sitting-room without saying something—something more. Then because these people
set such store by funerals he said kindly, "I hope the funeral went off
all right."
"Beg parding, sir?" said old Ma Parker
huskily.
Poor old bird! She did look dashed. "I hope
the funeral was a—a— success," said he. Ma Parker gave no answer. She bent
her head and hobbled off to the kitchen, clasping the old fish bag that held
her cleaning things and an apron and a pair of felt shoes. The literary
gentleman raised his eyebrows and went back to his breakfast.
"Overcome, I suppose," he said aloud,
helping himself to the marmalade.
Ma Parker drew the two jetty spears out of her
toque and hung it behind the door. She unhooked her worn jacket and hung that
up too. Then she tied her apron and sat down to take off her boots. To take off
her boots or to put them on was an agony to her, but it had been an agony for
years. In fact, she was so accustomed to the pain that her face was drawn and
screwed up ready for the twinge before she'd so much as untied the laces. That
over, she sat back with a sigh and softly rubbed her knees...
"Gran! Gran!" Her little grandson
stood on her lap in his button boots. He'd just come in from playing in the
street.
"Look what a state you've made your gran's
skirt into—you wicked boy!"
But he put his arms round her neck and rubbed
his cheek against hers.
"Gran, gi' us a penny!" he coaxed.
"Be off with you; Gran ain't got no
pennies."
"Yes, you 'ave."
"No, I ain't."
"Yes, you 'ave. Gi' us one!"
Already she was feeling for the old, squashed,
black leather purse.
"Well, what'll you give your gran?"
He gave a shy little laugh and pressed closer.
She felt his eyelid quivering against her cheek. "I ain't got
nothing," he murmured...
The old woman sprang up, seized the iron kettle
off the gas stove and took it over to the sink. The noise of the water drumming
in the kettle deadened her pain, it seemed. She filled the pail, too, and the
washing-up bowl.
It would take a whole book to describe the state
of that kitchen. During the week the literary gentleman "did" for
himself. That is to say, he emptied the tea leaves now and again into a jam jar
set aside for that purpose, and if he ran out of clean forks he wiped over one
or two on the roller towel. Otherwise, as he explained to his friends, his
"system" was quite simple, and he couldn't understand why people made
all this fuss about housekeeping.
"You simply dirty everything you've got,
get a hag in once a week to clean up, and the thing's done."
The result looked like a gigantic dustbin. Even
the floor was littered with toast crusts, envelopes, cigarette ends. But Ma
Parker bore him no grudge. She pitied the poor young gentleman for having no
one to look after him. Out of the smudgy little window you could see an immense
expanse of sad-looking sky, and whenever there were clouds they looked very
worn, old clouds, frayed at the edges, with holes in them, or dark stains like
tea.
While the water was heating, Ma Parker began
sweeping the floor. "Yes," she thought, as the broom knocked,
"what with one thing and another I've had my share. I've had a hard
life."
Even the neighbours said that of her. Many a
time, hobbling home with her fish bag she heard them, waiting at the corner, or
leaning over the area railings, say among themselves, "She's had a hard
life, has Ma Parker." And it was so true she wasn't in the least proud of
it. It was just as if you were to say she lived in the basement-back at Number
27. A hard life!...
At sixteen she'd left Stratford and come up to
London as kitching-maid. Yes, she was born in Stratford-on-Avon. Shakespeare,
sir? No, people were always arsking her about him. But she'd never heard his
name until she saw it on the theatres.
Nothing remained of Stratford except that
"sitting in the fire-place of a evening you could see the stars through
the chimley," and "Mother always 'ad 'er side of bacon, 'anging from
the ceiling." And there was something—a bush, there was—at the front door,
that smelt ever so nice. But the bush was very vague. She'd only remembered it
once or twice in the hospital, when she'd been taken bad.
That was a dreadful place—her first place. She
was never allowed out. She never went upstairs except for prayers morning and
evening. It was a fair cellar. And the cook was a cruel woman. She used to
snatch away her letters from home before she'd read them, and throw them in the
range because they made her dreamy...And the beedles! Would you believe it?—
until she came to London she'd never seen a black beedle. Here Ma always gave a
little laugh, as though—not to have seen a black beedle! Well! It was as if to
say you'd never seen your own feet.
When that family was sold up she went as
"help" to a doctor's house, and after two years there, on the run
from morning till night, she married her husband. He was a baker.
"A baker, Mrs. Parker!" the literary
gentleman would say. For occasionally he laid aside his tomes and lent an ear,
at least, to this product called Life. "It must be rather nice to be
married to a baker!"
Mrs. Parker didn't look so sure.
"Such a clean trade," said the
gentleman.
Mrs. Parker didn't look convinced.
"And didn't you like handing the new loaves
to the customers?"
"Well, sir," said Mrs. Parker, "I
wasn't in the shop above a great deal. We had thirteen little ones and buried
seven of them. If it wasn't the 'ospital it was the infirmary, you might
say!"
"You might, indeed, Mrs. Parker!" said
the gentleman, shuddering, and taking up his pen again.
Yes, seven had gone, and while the six were
still small her husband was taken ill with consumption. It was flour on the
lungs, the doctor told her at the time...Her husband sat up in bed with his
shirt pulled over his head, and the doctor's finger drew a circle on his back.
"Now, if we were to cut him open here, Mrs.
Parker," said the doctor, "you'd find his lungs chock-a-block with
white powder. Breathe, my good fellow!" And Mrs. Parker never knew for
certain whether she saw or whether she fancied she saw a great fan of white
dust come out of her poor dead husband's lips...
But the struggle she'd had to bring up those six
little children and keep herself to herself. Terrible it had been! Then, just
when they were old enough to go to school her husband's sister came to stop
with them to help things along, and she hadn't been there more than two months
when she fell down a flight of steps and hurt her spine. And for five years Ma
Parker had another baby—and such a one for crying!—to look after. Then young
Maudie went wrong and took her sister Alice with her; the two boys emigrimated,
and young Jim went to India with the army, and Ethel, the youngest, married a
good-for-nothing little waiter who died of ulcers the year little Lennie was
born. And now little Lennie—my grandson...
The piles of dirty cups, dirty dishes, were
washed and dried. The ink-black knives were cleaned with a piece of potato and
finished off with a piece of cork. The table was scrubbed, and the dresser and
the sink that had sardine tails swimming in it...
He'd never been a strong child—never from the
first. He'd been one of those fair babies that everybody took for a girl.
Silvery fair curls he had, blue eyes, and a little freckle like a diamond on
one side of his nose. The trouble she and Ethel had had to rear that child! The
things out of the newspapers they tried him with! Every Sunday morning Ethel
would read aloud while Ma Parker did her washing.
"Dear Sir,—Just a line to let you know my
little Myrtil was laid out for dead...After four bottils...gained 8 lbs. in 9
weeks, and is still putting it on."
And then the egg-cup of ink would come off the
dresser and the letter would be written, and Ma would buy a postal order on her
way to work next morning. But it was no use. Nothing made little Lennie put it
on. Taking him to the cemetery, even, never gave him a colour; a nice shake-up
in the bus never improved his appetite.
But he was gran's boy from the first...
"Whose boy are you?" said old Ma
Parker, straightening up from the stove and going over to the smudgy window.
And a little voice, so warm, so close, it half stifled her—it seemed to be in
her breast under her heart— laughed out, and said, "I'm gran's boy!"
At that moment there was a sound of steps, and
the literary gentleman appeared, dressed for walking.
"Oh, Mrs. Parker, I'm going out."
"Very good, sir."
"And you'll find your half-crown in the
tray of the inkstand."
"Thank you, sir."
"Oh, by the way, Mrs. Parker," said
the literary gentleman quickly, "you didn't throw away any cocoa last time
you were here—did you?"
"No, sir." "Very strange. I could
have sworn I left a teaspoonful of cocoa in the tin." He broke off. He
said softly and firmly, "You'll always tell me when you throw things
away—won't you, Mrs. Parker?" And he walked off very well pleased with
himself, convinced, in fact, he'd shown Mrs. Parker that under his apparent
carelessness he was as vigilant as a woman.
The door banged. She took her brushes and cloths
into the bedroom. But when she began to make the bed, smoothing, tucking,
patting, the thought of little Lennie was unbearable. Why did he have to suffer
so? That's what she couldn't understand. Why should a little angel child have
to arsk for his breath and fight for it? There was no sense in making a child
suffer like that.
...From Lennie's little box of a chest there
came a sound as though something was boiling. There was a great lump of
something bubbling in his chest that he couldn't get rid of. When he coughed
the sweat sprang out on his head; his eyes bulged, his hands waved, and the
great lump bubbled as a potato knocks in a saucepan. But what was more awful
than all was when he didn't cough he sat against the pillow and never spoke or
answered, or even made as if he heard. Only he looked offended.
"It's not your poor old gran's doing it, my
lovey," said old Ma Parker, patting back the damp hair from his little
scarlet ears. But Lennie moved his head and edged away. Dreadfully offended
with her he looked—and solemn. He bent his head and looked at her sideways as
though he couldn't have believed it of his gran.
But at the last...Ma Parker threw the
counterpane over the bed. No, she simply couldn't think about it. It was too
much—she'd had too much in her life to bear. She'd borne it up till now, she'd
kept herself to herself, and never once had she been seen to cry. Never by a
living soul. Not even her own children had seen Ma break down. She'd kept a
proud face always. But now! Lennie gone—what had she? She had nothing. He was
all she'd got from life, and now he was took too. Why must it all have happened
to me? she wondered. "What have I done?" said old Ma Parker.
"What have I done?"
As she said those words she suddenly let fall
her brush. She found herself in the kitchen. Her misery was so terrible that
she pinned on her hat, put on her jacket and walked out of the flat like a
person in a dream. She did not know what she was doing. She was like a person
so dazed by the horror of what has happened that he walks away—anywhere, as
though by walking away he could escape...
It was cold in the street. There was a wind like
ice. People went flitting by, very fast; the men walked like scissors; the
women trod like cats. And nobody knew—nobody cared. Even if she broke down, if
at last, after all these years, she were to cry, she'd find herself in the
lock-up as like as not.
But at the thought of crying it was as though
little Lennie leapt in his gran's arms. Ah, that's what she wants to do, my
dove. Gran wants to cry. If she could only cry now, cry for a long time, over
everything, beginning with her first place and the cruel cook, going on to the
doctor's, and then the seven little ones, death of her husband, the children's
leaving her, and all the years of misery that led up to Lennie. But to have a
proper cry over all these things would take a long time. All the same, the time
for it had come. She must do it. She couldn't put it off any longer; she
couldn't wait any more...Where could she go?
"She's had a hard life, has Ma
Parker." Yes, a hard life, indeed! Her chin began to tremble; there was no
time to lose. But where? Where?
She couldn't go home; Ethel was there. It would
frighten Ethel out of her life. She couldn't sit on a bench anywhere; people
would come arsking her questions. She couldn't possibly go back to the
gentleman's flat; she had no right to cry in strangers' houses. If she sat on
some steps a policeman would speak to her.
Oh, wasn't there anywhere where she could hide
and keep herself to herself and stay as long as she liked, not disturbing
anybody, and nobody worrying her? Wasn't there anywhere in the world where she
could have her cry out— at last?
Ma Parker stood, looking up and down. The icy
wind blew out her apron into a balloon. And now it began to rain. There was
nowhere.
7. MARRIAGE A LA MODE
On his way to the station William remembered
with a fresh pang of disappointment that he was taking nothing down to the
kiddies. Poor little chaps! It was hard lines on them. Their first words always
were as they ran to greet him, "What have you got for me, daddy?" and
he had nothing. He would have to buy them some sweets at the station. But that
was what he had done for the past four Saturdays; their faces had fallen last
time when they saw the same old boxes produced again.
And Paddy had said, "I had red ribbing on
mine bee-fore!"
And Johnny had said, "It's always pink on
mine. I hate pink."
But what was William to do? The affair wasn't so
easily settled. In the old days, of course, he would have taken a taxi off to a
decent toyshop and chosen them something in five minutes. But nowadays they had
Russian toys, French toys, Serbian toys—toys from God knows where. It was over
a year since Isabel had scrapped the old donkeys and engines and so on because
they were so "dreadfully sentimental" and "so appallingly bad
for the babies' sense of form."
"It's so important," the new Isabel
had explained, "that they should like the right things from the very
beginning. It saves so much time later on. Really, if the poor pets have to
spend their infant years staring at these horrors, one can imagine them growing
up and asking to be taken to the Royal Academy."
And she spoke as though a visit to the Royal
Academy was certain immediate death to any one...
"Well, I don't know," said William
slowly. "When I was their age I used to go to bed hugging an old towel
with a knot in it."
The new Isabel looked at him, her eyes narrowed,
her lips apart.
"Dear William! I'm sure you did!" She
laughed in the new way.
Sweets it would have to be, however, thought
William gloomily, fishing in his pocket for change for the taxi-man. And he saw
the kiddies handing the boxes round—they were awfully generous little
chaps—while Isabel's precious friends didn't hesitate to help themselves...
What about fruit? William hovered before a stall
just inside the station. What about a melon each? Would they have to share
that, too? Or a pineapple, for Pad, and a melon for Johnny? Isabel's friends
could hardly go sneaking up to the nursery at the children's meal-times. All
the same, as he bought the melon William had a horrible vision of one of
Isabel's young poets lapping up a slice, for some reason, behind the nursery
door.
With his two very awkward parcels he strode off
to his train. The platform was crowded, the train was in. Doors banged open and
shut. There came such a loud hissing from the engine that people looked dazed
as they scurried to and fro. William made straight for a first-class smoker,
stowed away his suit-case and parcels, and taking a huge wad of papers out of
his inner pocket, he flung down in the corner and began to read.
"Our client moreover is positive...We are
inclined to reconsider...in the event of—" Ah, that was better. William
pressed back his flattened hair and stretched his legs across the carriage
floor. The familiar dull gnawing in his breast quietened down. "With
regard to our decision—" He took out a blue pencil and scored a paragraph
slowly.
Two men came in, stepped across him, and made
for the farther corner. A young fellow swung his golf clubs into the rack and
sat down opposite. The train gave a gentle lurch, they were off. William
glanced up and saw the hot, bright station slipping away. A red-faced girl
raced along by the carriages, there was something strained and almost desperate
in the way she waved and called. "Hysterical!" thought William dully.
Then a greasy, black-faced workman at the end of the platform grinned at the
passing train. And William thought, "A filthy life!" and went back to
his papers.
When he looked up again there were fields, and
beasts standing for shelter under the dark trees. A wide river, with naked
children splashing in the shallows, glided into sight and was gone again. The
sky shone pale, and one bird drifted high like a dark fleck in a jewel.
"We have examined our client's
correspondence files..." The last sentence he had read echoed in his mind.
"We have examined..." William hung on to that sentence, but it was no
good; it snapped in the middle, and the fields, the sky, the sailing bird, the
water, all said, "Isabel." The same thing happened every Saturday
afternoon. When he was on his way to meet Isabel there began those countless
imaginary meetings. She was at the station, standing just a little apart from
everybody else; she was sitting in the open taxi outside; she was at the garden
gate; walking across the parched grass; at the door, or just inside the hall.
And her clear, light voice said, "It's
William," or "Hillo, William!" or "So William has
come!" He touched her cool hand, her cool cheek.
The exquisite freshness of Isabel! When he had
been a little boy, it was his delight to run into the garden after a shower of
rain and shake the rose-bush over him. Isabel was that rose-bush, petal-soft,
sparkling and cool. And he was still that little boy. But there was no running
into the garden now, no laughing and shaking. The dull, persistent gnawing in
his breast started again. He drew up his legs, tossed the papers aside, and
shut his eyes.
"What is it, Isabel? What is it?" he
said tenderly. They were in their bedroom in the new house. Isabel sat on a
painted stool before the dressing-table that was strewn with little black and
green boxes.
"What is what, William?" And she bent
forward, and her fine light hair fell over her cheeks.
"Ah, you know!" He stood in the middle
of the room and he felt a stranger. At that Isabel wheeled round quickly and
faced him.
"Oh, William!" she cried imploringly,
and she held up the hair-brush: "Please! Please don't be so dreadfully
stuffy and—tragic. You're always saying or looking or hinting that I've
changed. Just because I've got to know really congenial people, and go about
more, and am frightfully keen on—on everything, you behave as though I'd—"
Isabel tossed back her hair and laughed—"killed our love or something.
It's so awfully absurd"—she bit her lip—"and it's so maddening,
William. Even this new house and the servants you grudge me."
"Isabel!"
"Yes, yes, it's true in a way," said
Isabel quickly. "You think they are another bad sign. Oh, I know you do. I
feel it," she said softly, "every time you come up the stairs. But we
couldn't have gone on living in that other poky little hole, William. Be
practical, at least! Why, there wasn't enough room for the babies even."
No, it was true. Every morning when he came back
from chambers it was to find the babies with Isabel in the back drawing-room.
They were having rides on the leopard skin thrown over the sofa back, or they
were playing shops with Isabel's desk for a counter, or Pad was sitting on the
hearthrug rowing away for dear life with a little brass fire shovel, while
Johnny shot at pirates with the tongs. Every evening they each had a
pick-a-back up the narrow stairs to their fat old Nanny.
Yes, he supposed it was a poky little house. A
little white house with blue curtains and a window-box of petunias. William met
their friends at the door with "Seen our petunias? Pretty terrific for
London, don't you think?"
But the imbecile thing, the absolutely
extraordinary thing was that he hadn't the slightest idea that Isabel wasn't as
happy as he. God, what blindness! He hadn't the remotest notion in those days
that she really hated that inconvenient little house, that she thought the fat
Nanny was ruining the babies, that she was desperately lonely, pining for new
people and new music and pictures and so on. If they hadn't gone to that studio
party at Moira Morrison's—if Moira Morrison hadn't said as they were leaving,
"I'm going to rescue your wife, selfish man. She's like an exquisite
little Titania"—if Isabel hadn't gone with Moira to Paris—if—if...
The train stopped at another station.
Bettingford. Good heavens! They'd be there in ten minutes. William stuffed that
papers back into his pockets; the young man opposite had long since
disappeared. Now the other two got out. The late afternoon sun shone on women
in cotton frocks and little sunburnt, barefoot children. It blazed on a silky
yellow flower with coarse leaves which sprawled over a bank of rock. The air
ruffling through the window smelled of the sea. Had Isabel the same crowd with
her this week-end, wondered William?
And he remembered the holidays they used to
have, the four of them, with a little farm girl, Rose, to look after the
babies. Isabel wore a jersey and her hair in a plait; she looked about
fourteen. Lord! how his nose used to peel! And the amount they ate, and the
amount they slept in that immense feather bed with their feet locked
together...William couldn't help a grim smile as he thought of Isabel's horror
if she knew the full extent of his sentimentality.
>
"Hillo, William!" She was at the
station after all, standing just as he had imagined, apart from the others,
and—William's heart leapt—she was alone.
"Hallo, Isabel!" William stared. He
thought she looked so beautiful that he had to say something, "You look
very cool."
"Do I?" said Isabel. "I don't
feel very cool. Come along, your horrid old train is late. The taxi's
outside." She put her hand lightly on his arm as they passed the ticket
collector. "We've all come to meet you," she said. "But we've
left Bobby Kane at the sweet shop, to be called for."
"Oh!" said William. It was all he
could say for the moment.
There in the glare waited the taxi, with Bill
Hunt and Dennis Green sprawling on one side, their hats tilted over their
faces, while on the other, Moira Morrison, in a bonnet like a huge strawberry,
jumped up and down.
"No ice! No ice! No ice!" she shouted
gaily.
And Dennis chimed in from under his hat.
"Only to be had from the fishmonger's."
And Bill Hunt, emerging, added, "With whole
fish in it."
"Oh, what a bore!" wailed Isabel. And
she explained to William how they had been chasing round the town for ice while
she waited for him. "Simply everything is running down the steep cliffs
into the sea, beginning with the butter."
"We shall have to anoint ourselves with
butter," said Dennis. "May thy head, William, lack not
ointment."
"Look here," said William, "how
are we going to sit? I'd better get up by the driver."
"No, Bobby Kane's by the driver," said
Isabel. "You're to sit between Moira and me." The taxi started.
"What have you got in those mysterious parcels?"
"De-cap-it-ated heads!" said Bill
Hunt, shuddering beneath his hat.
"Oh, fruit!" Isabel sounded very
pleased. "Wise William! A melon and a pineapple. How too nice!"
"No, wait a bit," said William,
smiling. But he really was anxious. "I brought them down for the
kiddies."
"Oh, my dear!" Isabel laughed, and
slipped her hand through his arm. "They'd be rolling in agonies if they
were to eat them. No"—she patted his hand—"you must bring them
something next time. I refuse to part with my pineapple."
"Cruel Isabel! Do let me smell it!"
said Moira. She flung her arms across William appealingly. "Oh!" The
strawberry bonnet fell forward: she sounded quite faint.
"A Lady in Love with a Pineapple,"
said Dennis, as the taxi drew up before a little shop with a striped blind. Out
came Bobby Kane, his arms full of little packets.
"I do hope they'll be good. I've chosen
them because of the colours. There are some round things which really look too
divine. And just look at this nougat," he cried ecstatically, "just
look at it! It's a perfect little ballet."
But at that moment the shopman appeared.
"Oh, I forgot. They're none of them paid for," said Bobby, looking
frightened. Isabel gave the shopman a note, and Bobby was radiant again.
"Hallo, William! I'm sitting by the driver." And bareheaded, all in
white, with his sleeves rolled up to the shoulders, he leapt into his place.
"Avanti!" he cried...
After tea the others went off to bathe, while
William stayed and made his peace with the kiddies. But Johnny and Paddy were
asleep, the rose-red glow had paled, bats were flying, and still the bathers
had not returned. As William wandered downstairs, the maid crossed the hall
carrying a lamp. He followed her into the sitting-room. It was a long room,
coloured yellow. On the wall opposite William some one had painted a young man,
over life-size, with very wobbly legs, offering a wide-eyed daisy to a young
woman who had one very short arm and one very long, thin one. Over the chairs
and sofa there hung strips of black material, covered with big splashes like
broken eggs, and everywhere one looked there seemed to be an ash-tray full of
cigarette ends. William sat down in one of the arm-chairs. Nowadays, when one
felt with one hand down the sides, it wasn't to come upon a sheep with three
legs or a cow that had lost one horn, or a very fat dove out of the Noah's Ark.
One fished up yet another little paper-covered book of smudged-looking poems...He
thought of the wad of papers in his pocket, but he was too hungry and tired to
read. The door was open; sounds came from the kitchen. The servants were
talking as if they were alone in the house. Suddenly there came a loud screech
of laughter and an equally loud "Sh!" They had remembered him.
William got up and went through the French windows into the garden, and as he
stood there in the shadow he heard the bathers coming up the sandy road; their
voices rang through the quiet.
"I think its up to Moira to use her little
arts and wiles."
A tragic moan from Moira.
"We ought to have a gramophone for the
weekends that played 'The Maid of the Mountains.'"
"Oh no! Oh no!" cried Isabel's voice.
"That's not fair to William. Be nice to him, my children! He's only staying
until to-morrow evening."
"Leave him to me," cried Bobby Kane.
"I'm awfully good at looking after people."
The gate swung open and shut. William moved on
the terrace; they had seen him. "Hallo, William!" And Bobby Kane,
flapping his towel, began to leap and pirouette on the parched lawn. "Pity
you didn't come, William. The water was divine. And we all went to a little pub
afterwards and had sloe gin."
The others had reached the house. "I say,
Isabel," called Bobby, "would you like me to wear my Nijinsky dress
to-night?"
"No," said Isabel, "nobody's
going to dress. We're all starving. William's starving, too. Come along, mes
amis, let's begin with sardines."
"I've found the sardines," said Moira,
and she ran into the hall, holding a box high in the air.
"A Lady with a Box of Sardines," said
Dennis gravely.
"Well, William, and how's London?"
asked Bill Hunt, drawing the cork out of a bottle of whisky.
"Oh, London's not much changed,"
answered William.
"Good old London," said Bobby, very
hearty, spearing a sardine.
But a moment later William was forgotten. Moira
Morrison began wondering what colour one's legs really were under water.
"Mine are the palest, palest mushroom
colour."
Bill and Dennis ate enormously. And Isabel
filled glasses, and changed plates, and found matches, smiling blissfully. At
one moment, she said, "I do wish, Bill, you'd paint it."
"Paint what?" said Bill loudly,
stuffing his mouth with bread.
"Us," said Isabel, "round the
table. It would be so fascinating in twenty years' time."
Bill screwed up his eyes and chewed.
"Light's wrong," he said rudely, "far too much yellow"; and
went on eating. And that seemed to charm Isabel, too.
But after supper they were all so tired they
could do nothing but yawn until it was late enough to go to bed...
It was not until William was waiting for his
taxi the next afternoon that he found himself alone with Isabel. When he
brought his suit-case down into the hall, Isabel left the others and went over
to him. She stooped down and picked up the suit-case. "What a
weight!" she said, and she gave a little awkward laugh. "Let me carry
it! To the gate."
"No, why should you?" said William.
"Of course, not. Give it to me."
"Oh, please, do let me," said Isabel.
"I want to, really." They walked together silently. William felt
there was nothing to say now.
"There," said Isabel triumphantly,
setting the suit-case down, and she looked anxiously along the sandy road.
"I hardly seem to have seen you this time," she said breathlessly.
"It's so short, isn't it? I feel you've only just come. Next time—"
The taxi came into sight. "I hope they look after you properly in London.
I'm so sorry the babies have been out all day, but Miss Neil had arranged it.
They'll hate missing you. Poor William, going back to London." The taxi
turned. "Good-bye!" She gave him a little hurried kiss; she was gone.
Fields, trees, hedges streamed by. They shook
through the empty, blind-looking little town, ground up the steep pull to the
station.
The train was in. William made straight for a
first-class smoker, flung back into the corner, but this time he let the papers
alone. He folded his arms against the dull, persistent gnawing, and began in
his mind to write a letter to Isabel.
The post was late as usual. They sat outside the
house in long chairs under coloured parasols. Only Bobby Kane lay on the turf
at Isabel's feet. It was dull, stifling; the day drooped like a flag.
"Do you think there will be Mondays in
Heaven?" asked Bobby childishly.
And Dennis murmured, "Heaven will be one
long Monday."
But Isabel couldn't help wondering what had
happened to the salmon they had for supper last night. She had meant to have
fish mayonnaise for lunch and now...
Moira was asleep. Sleeping was her latest
discovery. "It's so wonderful. One simply shuts one's eyes, that's all.
It's so delicious."
When the old ruddy postman came beating along
the sandy road on his tricycle one felt the handle-bars ought to have been
oars.
Bill Hunt put down his book.
"Letters," he said complacently, and they all waited. But, heartless
postman—O malignant world! There was only one, a fat one for Isabel. Not even a
paper.
"And mine's only from William," said
Isabel mournfully.
"From William—already?"
"He's sending you back your marriage lines
as a gentle reminder."
"Does everybody have marriage lines? I
thought they were only for servants."
"Pages and pages! Look at her! A Lady
reading a Letter," said Dennis.
"My darling, precious Isabel." Pages
and pages there were. As Isabel read on her feeling of astonishment changed to
a stifled feeling. What on earth had induced William...? How extraordinary it
was...What could have made him...? She felt confused, more and more excited,
even frightened. It was just like William. Was it? It was absurd, of course, it
must be absurd, ridiculous. "Ha, ha, ha! Oh dear!" What was she to
do? Isabel flung back in her chair and laughed till she couldn't stop laughing.
"Do, do tell us," said the others.
"You must tell us."
"I'm longing to," gurgled Isabel. She
sat up, gathered the letter, and waved it at them. "Gather round,"
she said. "Listen, it's too marvellous. A love-letter!"
"A love-letter! But how divine!"
'Darling, precious Isabel.' But she had hardly begun before their laughter
interrupted her.
"Go on, Isabel, it's perfect."
"It's the most marvellous find."
"Oh, do go on, Isabel!"
"God forbid, my darling, that I should be a
drag on your happiness."
"Oh! oh! oh!"
"Sh! sh! sh!"
And Isabel went on. When she reached the end
they were hysterical: Bobby rolled on the turf and almost sobbed.
"You must let me have it just as it is,
entire, for my new book," said Dennis firmly. "I shall give it a
whole chapter."
"Oh, Isabel," moaned Moira, "that
wonderful bit about holding you in his arms!"
"I always thought those letters in divorce
cases were made up. But they pale before this."
"Let me hold it. Let me read it, mine own
self," said Bobby Kane.
But, to their surprise, Isabel crushed the
letter in her hand. She was laughing no longer. She glanced quickly at them
all; she looked exhausted. "No, not just now. Not just now," she
stammered.
And before they could recover she had run into
the house, through the hall, up the stairs into her bedroom. Down she sat on
the side of the bed. "How vile, odious, abominable, vulgar," muttered
Isabel. She pressed her eyes with her knuckles and rocked to and fro. And again
she saw them, but not four, more like forty, laughing, sneering, jeering,
stretching out their hands while she read them William's letter. Oh, what a
loathsome thing to have done. How could she have done it! "God forbid, my
darling, that I should be a drag on your happiness." William! Isabel
pressed her face into the pillow. But she felt that even the grave bedroom knew
her for what she was, shallow, tinkling, vain...
Presently from the garden below there came
voices.
"Isabel, we're all going for a bathe. Do
come!"
"Come, thou wife of William!"
"Call her once before you go, call once
yet!"
Isabel sat up. Now was the moment, now she must
decide. Would she go with them, or stay here and write to William. Which, which
should it be? "I must make up my mind." Oh, but how could there be
any question? Of course she would stay here and write.
"Titania!" piped Moira.
"Isa-bel?"
No, it was too difficult. "I'll—I'll go
with them, and write to William later. Some other time. Later. Not now. But I
shall certainly write," thought Isabel hurriedly.
And, laughing, in the new way, she ran down the
stairs.
8. THE VOYAGE
The Picton boat was due to leave at half-past
eleven. It was a beautiful night, mild, starry, only when they got out of the
cab and started to walk down the Old Wharf that jutted out into the harbour, a
faint wind blowing off the water ruffled under Fenella's hat, and she put up
her hand to keep it on. It was dark on the Old Wharf, very dark; the wool
sheds, the cattle trucks, the cranes standing up so high, the little squat
railway engine, all seemed carved out of solid darkness. Here and there on a
rounded wood-pile, that was like the stalk of a huge black mushroom, there hung
a lantern, but it seemed afraid to unfurl its timid, quivering light in all
that blackness; it burned softly, as if for itself.
Fenella's father pushed on with quick, nervous
strides. Beside him her grandma bustled along in her crackling black ulster;
they went so fast that she had now and again to give an undignified little skip
to keep up with them. As well as her luggage strapped into a neat sausage,
Fenella carried clasped to her her grandma's umbrella, and the handle, which
was a swan's head, kept giving her shoulder a sharp little peck as if it too
wanted her to hurry...Men, their caps pulled down, their collars turned up, swung
by; a few women all muffled scurried along; and one tiny boy, only his little
black arms and legs showing out of a white woolly shawl, was jerked along
angrily between his father and mother; he looked like a baby fly that had
fallen into the cream.
Then suddenly, so suddenly that Fenella and her
grandma both leapt, there sounded from behind the largest wool shed, that had a
trail of smoke hanging over it, "Mia-oo-oo-O-O!"
"First whistle," said her father
briefly, and at that moment they came in sight of the Picton boat. Lying beside
the dark wharf, all strung, all beaded with round golden lights, the Picton
boat looked as if she was more ready to sail among stars than out into the cold
sea. People pressed along the gangway. First went her grandma, then her father,
then Fenella. There was a high step down on to the deck, and an old sailor in a
jersey standing by gave her his dry, hard hand. They were there; they stepped
out of the way of the hurrying people, and standing under a little iron
stairway that led to the upper deck they began to say good-bye.
"There, mother, there's your luggage!"
said Fenella's father, giving grandma another strapped-up sausage.
"Thank you, Frank."
"And you've got your cabin tickets
safe?"
"Yes, dear."
"And your other tickets?"
Grandma felt for them inside her glove and
showed him the tips.
"That's right."
He sounded stern, but Fenella, eagerly watching
him, saw that he looked tired and sad. "Mia-oo-oo-O-O!" The second
whistle blared just above their heads, and a voice like a cry shouted,
"Any more for the gangway?"
"You'll give my love to father,"
Fenella saw her father's lips say. And her grandma, very agitated, answered,
"Of course I will, dear. Go now. You'll be left. Go now, Frank. Go
now."
"It's all right, mother. I've got another
three minutes." To her surprise Fenella saw her father take off his hat.
He clasped grandma in his arms and pressed her to him. "God bless you,
mother!" she heard him say.
And grandma put her hand, with the black thread
glove that was worn through on her ring finger, against his cheek, and she
sobbed, "God bless you, my own brave son!"
This was so awful that Fenella quickly turned
her back on them, swallowed once, twice, and frowned terribly at a little green
star on a mast head. But she had to turn round again; her father was going.
"Good-bye, Fenella. Be a good girl."
His cold, wet moustache brushed her cheek. But Fenella caught hold of the
lapels of his coat.
"How long am I going to stay?" she
whispered anxiously. He wouldn't look at her. He shook her off gently, and
gently said, "We'll see about that. Here! Where's your hand?" He
pressed something into her palm. "Here's a shilling in case you should
need it."
A shilling! She must be going away for ever!
"Father!" cried Fenella. But he was gone. He was the last off the
ship. The sailors put their shoulders to the gangway. A huge coil of dark rope
went flying through the air and fell "thump" on the wharf. A bell
rang; a whistle shrilled. Silently the dark wharf began to slip, to slide, to edge
away from them. Now there was a rush of water between. Fenella strained to see
with all her might. "Was that father turning round?"—or waving?—or
standing alone?—or walking off by himself? The strip of water grew broader,
darker. Now the Picton boat began to swing round steady, pointing out to sea.
It was no good looking any longer. There was nothing to be seen but a few
lights, the face of the town clock hanging in the air, and more lights, little
patches of them, on the dark hills.
The freshening wind tugged at Fenella's skirts;
she went back to her grandma. To her relief grandma seemed no longer sad. She
had put the two sausages of luggage one on top of the other, and she was
sitting on them, her hands folded, her head a little on one side. There was an
intent, bright look on her face. Then Fenella saw that her lips were moving and
guessed that she was praying. But the old woman gave her a bright nod as if to
say the prayer was nearly over. She unclasped her hands, sighed, clasped them
again, bent forward, and at last gave herself a soft shake.
"And now, child," she said, fingering
the bow of her bonnet-strings, "I think we ought to see about our cabins.
Keep close to me, and mind you don't slip."
"Yes, grandma!"
"And be careful the umbrellas aren't caught
in the stair rail. I saw a beautiful umbrella broken in half like that on my
way over."
"Yes, grandma."
Dark figures of men lounged against the rails.
In the glow of their pipes a nose shone out, or the peak of a cap, or a pair of
surprised-looking eyebrows. Fenella glanced up. High in the air, a little
figure, his hands thrust in his short jacket pockets, stood staring out to sea.
The ship rocked ever so little, and she thought the stars rocked too. And now a
pale steward in a linen coat, holding a tray high in the palm of his hand,
stepped out of a lighted doorway and skimmed past them. They went through that
doorway. Carefully over the high brass-bound step on to the rubber mat and then
down such a terribly steep flight of stairs that grandma had to put both feet
on each step, and Fenella clutched the clammy brass rail and forgot all about
the swan-necked umbrella.
At the bottom grandma stopped; Fenella was
rather afraid she was going to pray again. But no, it was only to get out the
cabin tickets. They were in the saloon. It was glaring bright and stifling; the
air smelled of paint and burnt chop-bones and india rubber. Fenella wished her
grandma would go on, but the old woman was not to be hurried. An immense basket
of ham sandwiches caught her eye. She went up to them and touched the top one
delicately with her finger.
"How much are the sandwiches?" she
asked.
"Tuppence!" bawled a rude steward,
slamming down a knife and fork.
Grandma could hardly believe it.
"Twopence each?" she asked.
"That's right," said the steward, and
he winked at his companion.
Grandma made a small, astonished face. Then she
whispered primly to Fenella. "What wickedness!" And they sailed out
at the further door and along a passage that had cabins on either side. Such a
very nice stewardess came to meet them. She was dressed all in blue, and her
collar and cuffs were fastened with large brass buttons. She seemed to know
grandma well.
"Well, Mrs. Crane," said she,
unlocking their washstand. "We've got you back again. It's not often you
give yourself a cabin."
"No," said grandma. "But this
time my dear son's thoughtfulness—"
"I hope—" began the stewardess. Then
she turned round and took a long, mournful look at grandma's blackness and at
Fenella's black coat and skirt, black blouse, and hat with a crape rose.
Grandma nodded. "It was God's will,"
said she.
The stewardess shut her lips and, taking a deep
breath, she seemed to expand.
"What I always say is," she said, as
though it was her own discovery, "sooner or later each of us has to go,
and that's a certingty." She paused. "Now, can I bring you anything,
Mrs Crane? A cup of tea? I know it's no good offering you a little something to
keep the cold out."
Grandma shook her head. "Nothing, thank
you. We've got a few wine biscuits, and Fenella has a very nice banana."
"Then I'll give you a look later on,"
said the stewardess, and she went out, shutting the door.
What a very small cabin it was! It was like
being shut up in a box with grandma. The dark round eye above the washstand
gleamed at them dully. Fenella felt shy. She stood against the door, still
clasping her luggage and the umbrella. Were they going to get undressed in
here? Already her grandma had taken off her bonnet, and, rolling up the
strings, she fixed each with a pin to the lining before she hung the bonnet up.
Her white hair shone like silk; the little bun at the back was covered with a
black net. Fenella hardly ever saw her grandma with her head uncovered; she
looked strange.
"I shall put on the woollen fascinator your
dear mother crocheted for me," said grandma, and, unstrapping the sausage,
she took it out and wound it round her head; the fringe of grey bobbles danced
at her eyebrows as she smiled tenderly and mournfully at Fenella. Then she
undid her bodice, and something under that, and something else underneath that.
Then there seemed a short, sharp tussle, and grandma flushed faintly. Snip!
Snap! She had undone her stays. She breathed a sigh of relief, and sitting on
the plush couch, she slowly and carefully pulled off her elastic-sided boots
and stood them side by side.
By the time Fenella had taken off her coat and
skirt and put on her flannel dressing-gown grandma was quite ready.
"Must I take off my boots, grandma? They're
lace."
Grandma gave them a moment's deep consideration.
"You'd feel a great deal more comfortable if you did, child," said
she. She kissed Fenella. "Don't forget to say your prayers. Our dear Lord
is with us when we are at sea even more than when we are on dry land. And
because I am an experienced traveller," said grandma briskly, "I
shall take the upper berth."
"But, grandma, however will you get up
there?"
Three little spider-like steps were all Fenella
saw. The old woman gave a small silent laugh before she mounted them nimbly,
and she peered over the high bunk at the astonished Fenella.
"You didn't think your grandma could do
that, did you?" said she. And as she sank back Fenella heard her light
laugh again.
The hard square of brown soap would not lather,
and the water in the bottle was like a kind of blue jelly. How hard it was,
too, to turn down those stiff sheets; you simply had to tear your way in. If
everything had been different, Fenella might have got the giggles...At last she
was inside, and while she lay there panting, there sounded from above a long,
soft whispering, as though some one was gently, gently rustling among tissue
paper to find something. It was grandma saying her prayers...
A long time passed. Then the stewardess came in;
she trod softly and leaned her hand on grandma's bunk.
"We're just entering the Straits," she
said.
"Oh!"
"It's a fine night, but we're rather empty.
We may pitch a little."
And indeed at that moment the Picton Boat rose
and rose and hung in the air just long enough to give a shiver before she swung
down again, and there was the sound of heavy water slapping against her sides.
Fenella remembered she had left the swan-necked umbrella standing up on the
little couch. If it fell over, would it break? But grandma remembered too, at
the same time.
"I wonder if you'd mind, stewardess, laying
down my umbrella," she whispered.
"Not at all, Mrs. Crane." And the
stewardess, coming back to grandma, breathed, "Your little granddaughter's
in such a beautiful sleep."
"God be praised for that!" said
grandma.
"Poor little motherless mite!" said
the stewardess. And grandma was still telling the stewardess all about what
happened when Fenella fell asleep.
But she hadn't been asleep long enough to dream
before she woke up again to see something waving in the air above her head.
What was it? What could it be? It was a small grey foot. Now another joined it.
They seemed to be feeling about for something; there came a sigh.
"I'm awake, grandma," said Fenella.
"Oh, dear, am I near the ladder?"
asked grandma. "I thought it was this end."
"No, grandma, it's the other. I'll put your
foot on it. Are we there?" asked Fenella.
"In the harbour," said grandma.
"We must get up, child. You'd better have a biscuit to steady yourself
before you move."
But Fenella had hopped out of her bunk. The lamp
was still burning, but night was over, and it was cold. Peering through that
round eye she could see far off some rocks. Now they were scattered over with
foam; now a gull flipped by; and now there came a long piece of real land.
"It's land, grandma," said Fenella, wonderingly,
as though they had been at sea for weeks together. She hugged herself; she
stood on one leg and rubbed it with the toes of the other foot; she was
trembling. Oh, it had all been so sad lately. Was it going to change? But all
her grandma said was, "Make haste, child. I should leave your nice banana
for the stewardess as you haven't eaten it." And Fenella put on her black
clothes again and a button sprang off one of her gloves and rolled to where she
couldn't reach it. They went up on deck.
But if it had been cold in the cabin, on deck it
was like ice. The sun was not up yet, but the stars were dim, and the cold pale
sky was the same colour as the cold pale sea. On the land a white mist rose and
fell. Now they could see quite plainly dark bush. Even the shapes of the
umbrella ferns showed, and those strange silvery withered trees that are like
skeletons...Now they could see the landing-stage and some little houses, pale
too, clustered together, like shells on the lid of a box. The other passengers
tramped up and down, but more slowly than they had the night before, and they
looked gloomy.
And now the landing-stage came out to meet them.
Slowly it swam towards the Picton boat, and a man holding a coil of rope, and a
cart with a small drooping horse and another man sitting on the step, came too.
"It's Mr. Penreddy, Fenella, come for
us," said grandma. She sounded pleased. Her white waxen cheeks were blue
with cold, her chin trembled, and she had to keep wiping her eyes and her
little pink nose.
"You've got my—"
"Yes, grandma." Fenella showed it to
her.
The rope came flying through the air, and
"smack" it fell on to the deck. The gangway was lowered. Again
Fenella followed her grandma on to the wharf over to the little cart, and a
moment later they were bowling away. The hooves of the little horse drummed
over the wooden piles, then sank softly into the sandy road. Not a soul was to
be seen; there was not even a feather of smoke. The mist rose and fell and the
sea still sounded asleep as slowly it turned on the beach.
"I seen Mr. Crane yestiddy," said Mr.
Penreddy. "He looked himself then. Missus knocked him up a batch of scones
last week."
And now the little horse pulled up before one of
the shell-like houses. They got down. Fenella put her hand on the gate, and the
big, trembling dew-drops soaked through her glove-tips. Up a little path of
round white pebbles they went, with drenched sleeping flowers on either side.
Grandma's delicate white picotees were so heavy with dew that they were fallen,
but their sweet smell was part of the cold morning. The blinds were down in the
little house; they mounted the steps on to the veranda. A pair of old bluchers
was on one side of the door, and a large red watering-can on the other.
"Tut! tut! Your grandpa," said grandma.
She turned the handle. Not a sound. She called, "Walter!" And
immediately a deep voice that sounded half stifled called back, "Is that
you, Mary?"
"Wait, dear," said grandma. "Go
in there." She pushed Fenella gently into a small dusky sitting-room.
On the table a white cat, that had been folded
up like a camel, rose, stretched itself, yawned, and then sprang on to the tips
of its toes. Fenella buried one cold little hand in the white, warm fur, and
smiled timidly while she stroked and listened to grandma's gentle voice and the
rolling tones of grandpa.
A door creaked. "Come in, dear." The
old woman beckoned, Fenella followed. There, lying to one side on an immense
bed, lay grandpa. Just his head with a white tuft and his rosy face and long
silver beard showed over the quilt. He was like a very old wide-awake bird.
"Well, my girl!" said grandpa.
"Give us a kiss!" Fenella kissed him. "Ugh!" said grandpa.
"Her little nose is as cold as a button. What's that she's holding? Her
grandma's umbrella?"
Fenella smiled again, and crooked the swan neck
over the bed-rail. Above the bed there was a big text in a deep black frame:—
"Lost! One Golden Hour
Set with Sixty Diamond Minutes.
No Reward Is Offered
For It Is Gone For Ever!"
"Yer grandma painted that," said
grandpa. And he ruffled his white tuft and looked at Fenella so merrily she
almost thought he winked at her.
9. MISS BRILL
Although it was so brilliantly fine—the blue sky
powdered with gold and great spots of light like white wine splashed over the
Jardins Publiques— Miss Brill was glad that she had decided on her fur. The air
was motionless, but when you opened your mouth there was just a faint chill,
like a chill from a glass of iced water before you sip, and now and again a
leaf came drifting—from nowhere, from the sky. Miss Brill put up her hand and
touched her fur. Dear little thing! It was nice to feel it again. She had taken
it out of its box that afternoon, shaken out the moth-powder, given it a good
brush, and rubbed the life back into the dim little eyes. "What has been
happening to me?" said the sad little eyes. Oh, how sweet it was to see
them snap at her again from the red eiderdown!...But the nose, which was of
some black composition, wasn't at all firm. It must have had a knock, somehow.
Never mind—a little dab of black sealing-wax when the time came—when it was
absolutely necessary...Little rogue! Yes, she really felt like that about it.
Little rogue biting its tail just by her left ear. She could have taken it off
and laid it on her lap and stroked it. She felt a tingling in her hands and
arms, but that came from walking, she supposed. And when she breathed,
something light and sad—no, not sad, exactly—something gentle seemed to move in
her bosom.
There were a number of people out this
afternoon, far more than last Sunday. And the band sounded louder and gayer.
That was because the Season had begun. For although the band played all the
year round on Sundays, out of season it was never the same. It was like some
one playing with only the family to listen; it didn't care how it played if
there weren't any strangers present. Wasn't the conductor wearing a new coat,
too? She was sure it was new. He scraped with his foot and flapped his arms
like a rooster about to crow, and the bandsmen sitting in the green rotunda
blew out their cheeks and glared at the music. Now there came a little
"flutey" bit—very pretty!—a little chain of bright drops. She was
sure it would be repeated. It was; she lifted her head and smiled.
Only two people shared her "special"
seat: a fine old man in a velvet coat, his hands clasped over a huge carved
walking-stick, and a big old woman, sitting upright, with a roll of knitting on
her embroidered apron. They did not speak. This was disappointing, for Miss
Brill always looked forward to the conversation. She had become really quite
expert, she thought, at listening as though she didn't listen, at sitting in
other people's lives just for a minute while they talked round her.
She glanced, sideways, at the old couple.
Perhaps they would go soon. Last Sunday, too, hadn't been as interesting as
usual. An Englishman and his wife, he wearing a dreadful Panama hat and she
button boots. And she'd gone on the whole time about how she ought to wear
spectacles; she knew she needed them; but that it was no good getting any;
they'd be sure to break and they'd never keep on. And he'd been so patient.
He'd suggested everything—gold rims, the kind that curved round your ears,
little pads inside the bridge. No, nothing would please her. "They'll
always be sliding down my nose!" Miss Brill had wanted to shake her.
The old people sat on the bench, still as
statues. Never mind, there was always the crowd to watch. To and fro, in front
of the flower-beds and the band rotunda, the couples and groups paraded,
stopped to talk, to greet, to buy a handful of flowers from the old beggar who
had his tray fixed to the railings. Little children ran among them, swooping
and laughing; little boys with big white silk bows under their chins, little
girls, little French dolls, dressed up in velvet and lace. And sometimes a tiny
staggerer came suddenly rocking into the open from under the trees, stopped,
stared, as suddenly sat down "flop," until its small high-stepping
mother, like a young hen, rushed scolding to its rescue. Other people sat on
the benches and green chairs, but they were nearly always the same, Sunday
after Sunday, and—Miss Brill had often noticed—there was something funny about
nearly all of them. They were odd, silent, nearly all old, and from the way
they stared they looked as though they'd just come from dark little rooms or
even—even cupboards!
Behind the rotunda the slender trees with yellow
leaves down drooping, and through them just a line of sea, and beyond the blue
sky with gold-veined clouds.
Tum-tum-tum tiddle-um! tiddle-um! tum tiddley-um
tum ta! blew the band.
Two young girls in red came by and two young
soldiers in blue met them, and they laughed and paired and went off arm-in-arm.
Two peasant women with funny straw hats passed, gravely, leading beautiful
smoke-coloured donkeys. A cold, pale nun hurried by. A beautiful woman came
along and dropped her bunch of violets, and a little boy ran after to hand them
to her, and she took them and threw them away as if they'd been poisoned. Dear
me! Miss Brill didn't know whether to admire that or not! And now an ermine
toque and a gentleman in grey met just in front of her. He was tall, stiff,
dignified, and she was wearing the ermine toque she'd bought when her hair was
yellow. Now everything, her hair, her face, even her eyes, was the same colour
as the shabby ermine, and her hand, in its cleaned glove, lifted to dab her
lips, was a tiny yellowish paw. Oh, she was so pleased to see him—delighted!
She rather thought they were going to meet that afternoon. She described where
she'd been—everywhere, here, there, along by the sea. The day was so
charming—didn't he agree? And wouldn't he, perhaps?...But he shook his head,
lighted a cigarette, slowly breathed a great deep puff into her face, and even
while she was still talking and laughing, flicked the match away and walked on.
The ermine toque was alone; she smiled more brightly than ever. But even the
band seemed to know what she was feeling and played more softly, played
tenderly, and the drum beat, "The Brute! The Brute!" over and over.
What would she do? What was going to happen now? But as Miss Brill wondered,
the ermine toque turned, raised her hand as though she'd seen some one else,
much nicer, just over there, and pattered away. And the band changed again and
played more quickly, more gayly than ever, and the old couple on Miss Brill's
seat got up and marched away, and such a funny old man with long whiskers
hobbled along in time to the music and was nearly knocked over by four girls
walking abreast.
Oh, how fascinating it was! How she enjoyed it!
How she loved sitting here, watching it all! It was like a play. It was exactly
like a play. Who could believe the sky at the back wasn't painted? But it
wasn't till a little brown dog trotted on solemn and then slowly trotted off,
like a little "theatre" dog, a little dog that had been drugged, that
Miss Brill discovered what it was that made it so exciting. They were all on
the stage. They weren't only the audience, not only looking on; they were
acting. Even she had a part and came every Sunday. No doubt somebody would have
noticed if she hadn't been there; she was part of the performance after all.
How strange she'd never thought of it like that before! And yet it explained
why she made such a point of starting from home at just the same time each
week—so as not to be late for the performance—and it also explained why she had
quite a queer, shy feeling at telling her English pupils how she spent her
Sunday afternoons. No wonder! Miss Brill nearly laughed out loud. She was on
the stage. She thought of the old invalid gentleman to whom she read the
newspaper four afternoons a week while he slept in the garden. She had got
quite used to the frail head on the cotton pillow, the hollowed eyes, the open
mouth and the high pinched nose. If he'd been dead she mightn't have noticed
for weeks; she wouldn't have minded. But suddenly he knew he was having the
paper read to him by an actress! "An actress!" The old head lifted;
two points of light quivered in the old eyes. "An actress—are ye?"
And Miss Brill smoothed the newspaper as though it were the manuscript of her
part and said gently; "Yes, I have been an actress for a long time."
The band had been having a rest. Now they
started again. And what they played was warm, sunny, yet there was just a faint
chill—a something, what was it?—not sadness—no, not sadness—a something that
made you want to sing. The tune lifted, lifted, the light shone; and it seemed
to Miss Brill that in another moment all of them, all the whole company, would
begin singing. The young ones, the laughing ones who were moving together, they
would begin, and the men's voices, very resolute and brave, would join them.
And then she too, she too, and the others on the benches—they would come in
with a kind of accompaniment—something low, that scarcely rose or fell,
something so beautiful—moving...And Miss Brill's eyes filled with tears and she
looked smiling at all the other members of the company. Yes, we understand, we
understand, she thought—though what they understood she didn't know.
Just at that moment a boy and girl came and sat
down where the old couple had been. They were beautifully dressed; they were in
love. The hero and heroine, of course, just arrived from his father's yacht.
And still soundlessly singing, still with that trembling smile, Miss Brill
prepared to listen.
"No, not now," said the girl.
"Not here, I can't."
"But why? Because of that stupid old thing
at the end there?" asked the boy. "Why does she come here at all—who
wants her? Why doesn't she keep her silly old mug at home?"
"It's her fu-ur which is so funny,"
giggled the girl. "It's exactly like a fried whiting."
"Ah, be off with you!" said the boy in
an angry whisper. Then: "Tell me, ma petite chere—"
"No, not here," said the girl.
"Not yet."
On her way home she usually bought a slice of
honey-cake at the baker's. It was her Sunday treat. Sometimes there was an
almond in her slice, sometimes not. It made a great difference. If there was an
almond it was like carrying home a tiny present—a surprise—something that might
very well not have been there. She hurried on the almond Sundays and struck the
match for the kettle in quite a dashing way.
But to-day she passed the baker's by, climbed
the stairs, went into the little dark room—her room like a cupboard—and sat
down on the red eiderdown. She sat there for a long time. The box that the fur
came out of was on the bed. She unclasped the necklet quickly; quickly, without
looking, laid it inside. But when she put the lid on she thought she heard
something crying.
10. HER FIRST BALL
Exactly when the ball began Leila would have
found it hard to say. Perhaps her first real partner was the cab. It did not
matter that she shared the cab with the Sheridan girls and their brother. She
sat back in her own little corner of it, and the bolster on which her hand
rested felt like the sleeve of an unknown young man's dress suit; and away they
bowled, past waltzing lamp-posts and houses and fences and trees.
"Have you really never been to a ball
before, Leila? But, my child, how too weird—" cried the Sheridan girls.
"Our nearest neighbour was fifteen
miles," said Leila softly, gently opening and shutting her fan.
Oh dear, how hard it was to be indifferent like
the others! She tried not to smile too much; she tried not to care. But every
single thing was so new and exciting...Meg's tuberoses, Jose's long loop of
amber, Laura's little dark head, pushing above her white fur like a flower
through snow. She would remember for ever. It even gave her a pang to see her
cousin Laurie throw away the wisps of tissue paper he pulled from the
fastenings of his new gloves. She would like to have kept those wisps as a
keepsake, as a remembrance. Laurie leaned forward and put his hand on Laura's
knee.
"Look here, darling," he said.
"The third and the ninth as usual. Twig?"
Oh, how marvellous to have a brother! In her
excitement Leila felt that if there had been time, if it hadn't been
impossible, she couldn't have helped crying because she was an only child, and
no brother had ever said "Twig?" to her; no sister would ever say, as
Meg said to Jose that moment, "I've never known your hair go up more
successfully than it has to-night!"
But, of course, there was no time. They were at
the drill hall already; there were cabs in front of them and cabs behind. The
road was bright on either side with moving fan-like lights, and on the pavement
gay couples seemed to float through the air; little satin shoes chased each
other like birds.
"Hold on to me, Leila; you'll get
lost," said Laura.
"Come on, girls, let's make a dash for
it," said Laurie.
Leila put two fingers on Laura's pink velvet
cloak, and they were somehow lifted past the big golden lantern, carried along
the passage, and pushed into the little room marked "Ladies." Here
the crowd was so great there was hardly space to take off their things; the
noise was deafening. Two benches on either side were stacked high with wraps.
Two old women in white aprons ran up and down tossing fresh armfuls. And
everybody was pressing forward trying to get at the little dressing-table and
mirror at the far end.
A great quivering jet of gas lighted the ladies'
room. It couldn't wait; it was dancing already. When the door opened again and
there came a burst of tuning from the drill hall, it leaped almost to the
ceiling.
Dark girls, fair girls were patting their hair,
tying ribbons again, tucking handkerchiefs down the fronts of their bodices,
smoothing marble-white gloves. And because they were all laughing it seemed to
Leila that they were all lovely.
"Aren't there any invisible
hair-pins?" cried a voice. "How most extraordinary! I can't see a
single invisible hair-pin."
"Powder my back, there's a darling,"
cried some one else.
"But I must have a needle and cotton. I've
torn simply miles and miles of the frill," wailed a third.
Then, "Pass them along, pass them
along!" The straw basket of programmes was tossed from arm to arm. Darling
little pink-and-silver programmes, with pink pencils and fluffy tassels.
Leila's fingers shook as she took one out of the basket. She wanted to ask some
one, "Am I meant to have one too?" but she had just time to read:
"Waltz 3. 'Two, Two in a Canoe.' Polka 4. 'Making the Feathers Fly,'"
when Meg cried, "Ready, Leila?" and they pressed their way through
the crush in the passage towards the big double doors of the drill hall.
Dancing had not begun yet, but the band had
stopped tuning, and the noise was so great it seemed that when it did begin to
play it would never be heard. Leila, pressing close to Meg, looking over Meg's
shoulder, felt that even the little quivering coloured flags strung across the
ceiling were talking. She quite forgot to be shy; she forgot how in the middle
of dressing she had sat down on the bed with one shoe off and one shoe on and
begged her mother to ring up her cousins and say she couldn't go after all. And
the rush of longing she had had to be sitting on the veranda of their forsaken
up-country home, listening to the baby owls crying "More pork" in the
moonlight, was changed to a rush of joy so sweet that it was hard to bear
alone. She clutched her fan, and, gazing at the gleaming, golden floor, the
azaleas, the lanterns, the stage at one end with its red carpet and gilt chairs
and the band in a corner, she thought breathlessly, "How heavenly; how
simply heavenly!"
All the girls stood grouped together at one side
of the doors, the men at the other, and the chaperones in dark dresses, smiling
rather foolishly, walked with little careful steps over the polished floor
towards the stage.
"This is my little country cousin Leila. Be
nice to her. Find her partners; she's under my wing," said Meg, going up
to one girl after another.
Strange faces smiled at Leila—sweetly, vaguely.
Strange voices answered, "Of course, my dear." But Leila felt the
girls didn't really see her. They were looking towards the men. Why didn't the
men begin? What were they waiting for? There they stood, smoothing their
gloves, patting their glossy hair and smiling among themselves. Then, quite
suddenly, as if they had only just made up their minds that that was what they
had to do, the men came gliding over the parquet. There was a joyful flutter
among the girls. A tall, fair man flew up to Meg, seized her programme,
scribbled something; Meg passed him on to Leila. "May I have the
pleasure?" He ducked and smiled. There came a dark man wearing an
eyeglass, then cousin Laurie with a friend, and Laura with a little freckled
fellow whose tie was crooked. Then quite an old man—fat, with a big bald patch
on his head— took her programme and murmured, "Let me see, let me
see!" And he was a long time comparing his programme, which looked black
with names, with hers. It seemed to give him so much trouble that Leila was
ashamed. "Oh, please don't bother," she said eagerly. But instead of
replying the fat man wrote something, glanced at her again. "Do I remember
this bright little face?" he said softly. "Is it known to me of
yore?" At that moment the band began playing; the fat man disappeared. He
was tossed away on a great wave of music that came flying over the gleaming
floor, breaking the groups up into couples, scattering them, sending them
spinning...
Leila had learned to dance at boarding school.
Every Saturday afternoon the boarders were hurried off to a little corrugated
iron mission hall where Miss Eccles (of London) held her "select"
classes. But the difference between that dusty-smelling hall—with calico texts
on the walls, the poor terrified little woman in a brown velvet toque with
rabbit's ears thumping the cold piano, Miss Eccles poking the girls' feet with
her long white wand—and this was so tremendous that Leila was sure if her
partner didn't come and she had to listen to that marvellous music and to watch
the others sliding, gliding over the golden floor, she would die at least, or
faint, or lift her arms and fly out of one of those dark windows that showed
the stars.
"Ours, I think—" Some one bowed,
smiled, and offered her his arm; she hadn't to die after all. Some one's hand
pressed her waist, and she floated away like a flower that is tossed into a
pool.
"Quite a good floor, isn't it?"
drawled a faint voice close to her ear.
"I think it's most beautifully
slippery," said Leila.
"Pardon!" The faint voice sounded
surprised. Leila said it again. And there was a tiny pause before the voice
echoed, "Oh, quite!" and she was swung round again.
He steered so beautifully. That was the great
difference between dancing with girls and men, Leila decided. Girls banged into
each other, and stamped on each other's feet; the girl who was gentleman always
clutched you so.
The azaleas were separate flowers no longer;
they were pink and white flags streaming by.
"Were you at the Bells' last week?"
the voice came again. It sounded tired. Leila wondered whether she ought to ask
him if he would like to stop.
"No, this is my first dance," said
she.
Her partner gave a little gasping laugh.
"Oh, I say," he protested.
"Yes, it is really the first dance I've
ever been to." Leila was most fervent. It was such a relief to be able to
tell somebody. "You see, I've lived in the country all my life up till
now..."
At that moment the music stopped, and they went
to sit on two chairs against the wall. Leila tucked her pink satin feet under
and fanned herself, while she blissfully watched the other couples passing and
disappearing through the swing doors.
"Enjoying yourself, Leila?" asked
Jose, nodding her golden head.
Laura passed and gave her the faintest little
wink; it made Leila wonder for a moment whether she was quite grown up after
all. Certainly her partner did not say very much. He coughed, tucked his
handkerchief away, pulled down his waistcoat, took a minute thread off his
sleeve. But it didn't matter. Almost immediately the band started and her
second partner seemed to spring from the ceiling.
"Floor's not bad," said the new voice.
Did one always begin with the floor? And then, "Were you at the Neaves' on
Tuesday?" And again Leila explained. Perhaps it was a little strange that
her partners were not more interested. For it was thrilling. Her first ball!
She was only at the beginning of everything. It seemed to her that she had
never known what the night was like before. Up till now it had been dark,
silent, beautiful very often—oh yes—but mournful somehow. Solemn. And now it
would never be like that again—it had opened dazzling bright.
"Care for an ice?" said her partner.
And they went through the swing doors, down the passage, to the supper room.
Her cheeks burned, she was fearfully thirsty. How sweet the ices looked on
little glass plates and how cold the frosted spoon was, iced too! And when they
came back to the hall there was the fat man waiting for her by the door. It
gave her quite a shock again to see how old he was; he ought to have been on
the stage with the fathers and mothers. And when Leila compared him with her
other partners he looked shabby. His waistcoat was creased, there was a button
off his glove, his coat looked as if it was dusty with French chalk.
"Come along, little lady," said the
fat man. He scarcely troubled to clasp her, and they moved away so gently, it
was more like walking than dancing. But he said not a word about the floor.
"Your first dance, isn't it?" he murmured.
"How did you know?"
"Ah," said the fat man, "that's
what it is to be old!" He wheezed faintly as he steered her past an
awkward couple. "You see, I've been doing this kind of thing for the last
thirty years."
"Thirty years?" cried Leila. Twelve
years before she was born!
"It hardly bears thinking about, does
it?" said the fat man gloomily. Leila looked at his bald head, and she
felt quite sorry for him.
"I think it's marvellous to be still going
on," she said kindly.
"Kind little lady," said the fat man,
and he pressed her a little closer, and hummed a bar of the waltz. "Of
course," he said, "you can't hope to last anything like as long as
that. No-o," said the fat man, "long before that you'll be sitting up
there on the stage, looking on, in your nice black velvet. And these pretty
arms will have turned into little short fat ones, and you'll beat time with
such a different kind of fan—a black bony one." The fat man seemed to
shudder. "And you'll smile away like the poor old dears up there, and
point to your daughter, and tell the elderly lady next to you how some dreadful
man tried to kiss her at the club ball. And your heart will ache, ache"—the
fat man squeezed her closer still, as if he really was sorry for that poor
heart—"because no one wants to kiss you now. And you'll say how unpleasant
these polished floors are to walk on, how dangerous they are. Eh, Mademoiselle
Twinkletoes?" said the fat man softly.
Leila gave a light little laugh, but she did not
feel like laughing. Was it—could it all be true? It sounded terribly true. Was
this first ball only the beginning of her last ball, after all? At that the
music seemed to change; it sounded sad, sad; it rose upon a great sigh. Oh, how
quickly things changed! Why didn't happiness last for ever? For ever wasn't a
bit too long.
"I want to stop," she said in a
breathless voice. The fat man led her to the door.
"No," she said, "I won't go
outside. I won't sit down. I'll just stand here, thank you." She leaned
against the wall, tapping with her foot, pulling up her gloves and trying to
smile. But deep inside her a little girl threw her pinafore over her head and
sobbed. Why had he spoiled it all?
"I say, you know," said the fat man,
"you mustn't take me seriously, little lady."
"As if I should!" said Leila, tossing
her small dark head and sucking her underlip...
Again the couples paraded. The swing doors
opened and shut. Now new music was given out by the bandmaster. But Leila
didn't want to dance any more. She wanted to be home, or sitting on the veranda
listening to those baby owls. When she looked through the dark windows at the
stars, they had long beams like wings...
But presently a soft, melting, ravishing tune
began, and a young man with curly hair bowed before her. She would have to
dance, out of politeness, until she could find Meg. Very stiffly she walked
into the middle; very haughtily she put her hand on his sleeve. But in one
minute, in one turn, her feet glided, glided. The lights, the azaleas, the
dresses, the pink faces, the velvet chairs, all became one beautiful flying
wheel. And when her next partner bumped her into the fat man and he said,
"Pardon," she smiled at him more radiantly than ever. She didn't even
recognise him again.
11. THE SINGING LESSON
With despair—cold, sharp despair—buried deep in
her heart like a wicked knife, Miss Meadows, in cap and gown and carrying a
little baton, trod the cold corridors that led to the music hall. Girls of all
ages, rosy from the air, and bubbling over with that gleeful excitement that
comes from running to school on a fine autumn morning, hurried, skipped,
fluttered by; from the hollow class-rooms came a quick drumming of voices; a
bell rang; a voice like a bird cried, "Muriel." And then there came
from the staircase a tremendous knock-knock-knocking. Some one had dropped her
dumbbells.
The Science Mistress stopped Miss Meadows.
"Good mor-ning," she cried, in her
sweet, affected drawl. "Isn't it cold? It might be win-ter."
Miss Meadows, hugging the knife, stared in
hatred at the Science Mistress. Everything about her was sweet, pale, like
honey. You wold not have been surprised to see a bee caught in the tangles of
that yellow hair.
"It is rather sharp," said Miss
Meadows, grimly.
The other smiled her sugary smile.
"You look fro-zen," said she. Her blue
eyes opened wide; there came a mocking light in them. (Had she noticed
anything?)
"Oh, not quite as bad as that," said
Miss Meadows, and she gave the Science Mistress, in exchange for her smile, a
quick grimace and passed on...
Forms Four, Five, and Six were assembled in the
music hall. The noise was deafening. On the platform, by the piano, stood Mary
Beazley, Miss Meadows' favourite, who played accompaniments. She was turning
the music stool. When she saw Miss Meadows she gave a loud, warning
"Sh-sh! girls!" and Miss Meadows, her hands thrust in her sleeves,
the baton under her arm, strode down the centre aisle, mounted the steps,
turned sharply, seized the brass music stand, planted it in front of her, and
gave two sharp taps with her baton for silence.
"Silence, please! Immediately!" and,
looking at nobody, her glance swept over that sea of coloured flannel blouses,
with bobbing pink faces and hands, quivering butterfly hair-bows, and
music-books outspread. She knew perfectly well what they were thinking.
"Meady is in a wax." Well, let them think it! Her eyelids quivered;
she tossed her head, defying them. What could the thoughts of those creatures
matter to some one who stood there bleeding to death, pierced to the heart, to
the heart, by such a letter—
..."I feel more and more strongly that our
marriage would be a mistake. Not that I do not love you. I love you as much as
it is possible for me to love any woman, but, truth to tell, I have come to the
conclusion that I am not a marrying man, and the idea of settling down fills me
with nothing but—" and the word "disgust" was scratched out
lightly and "regret" written over the top.
Basil! Miss Meadows stalked over to the piano.
And Mary Beazley, who was waiting for this moment, bent forward; her curls fell
over her cheeks while she breathed, "Good morning, Miss Meadows," and
she motioned towards rather than handed to her mistress a beautiful yellow
chrysanthemum. This little ritual of the flower had been gone through for ages
and ages, quite a term and a half. It was as much part of the lesson as opening
the piano. But this morning, instead of taking it up, instead of tucking it
into her belt while she leant over Mary and said, "Thank you, Mary. How
very nice! Turn to page thirty-two," what was Mary's horror when Miss
Meadows totally ignored the chrysanthemum, made no reply to her greeting, but
said in a voice of ice, "Page fourteen, please, and mark the accents
well."
Staggering moment! Mary blushed until the tears
stood in her eyes, but Miss Meadows was gone back to the music stand; her voice
rang through the music hall.
"Page fourteen. We will begin with page
fourteen. 'A Lament.' Now, girls, you ought to know it by this time. We shall
take it all together; not in parts, all together. And without expression. Sing
it, though, quite simply, beating time with the left hand."
She raised the baton; she tapped the music stand
twice. Down came Mary on the opening chord; down came all those left hands,
beating the air, and in chimed those young, mournful voices:—
"Fast! Ah, too Fast Fade the Ro-o-ses of
Pleasure;
Soon Autumn yields unto Wi-i-nter Drear.
Fleetly! Ah, Fleetly Mu-u-sic's Gay Measure
Passes away from the Listening Ear."
Good Heavens, what could be more tragic than
that lament! Every note was a sigh, a sob, a groan of awful mournfulness. Miss
Meadows lifted her arms in the wide gown and began conducting with both hands.
"...I feel more and more strongly that our marriage would be a
mistake..." she beat. And the voices cried: "Fleetly! Ah,
Fleetly." What could have possessed him to write such a letter! What could
have led up to it! It came out of nothing. His last letter had been all about a
fumed-oak bookcase he had bought for "our" books, and a "natty
little hall-stand" he had seen, "a very neat affair with a carved owl
on a bracket, holding three hat-brushes in its claws." How she had smiled
at that! So like a man to think one needed three hat-brushes! "From the
Listening Ear," sang the voices.
"Once again," said Miss Meadows.
"But this time in parts. Still without expression." "Fast! Ah,
too Fast." With the gloom of the contraltos added, one could scarcely help
shuddering. "Fade the Roses of Pleasure." Last time he had come to
see her, Basil had worn a rose in his buttonhole. How handsome he had looked in
that bright blue suit, with that dark red rose! And he knew it, too. He
couldn't help knowing it. First he stroked his hair, then his moustache; his teeth
gleamed when he smiled.
"The headmaster's wife keeps on asking me
to dinner. It's a perfect nuisance. I never get an evening to myself in that
place."
"But can't you refuse?"
"Oh, well, it doesn't do for a man in my
position to be unpopular."
"Music's Gay Measure," wailed the
voices. The willow trees, outside the high, narrow windows, waved in the wind.
They had lost half their leaves. The tiny ones that clung wriggled like fishes
caught on a line. "...I am not a marrying man..." The voices were
silent; the piano waited.
"Quite good," said Miss Meadows, but
still in such a strange, stony tone that the younger girls began to feel
positively frightened. "But now that we know it, we shall take it with
expression. As much expression as you can put into it. Think of the words,
girls. Use your imaginations. 'Fast! Ah, too Fast,'" cried Miss Meadows.
"That ought to break out—a loud, strong forte—a lament. And then in the
second line, 'Winter Drear,' make that 'Drear' sound as if a cold wind were
blowing through it. 'Dre-ear!'" said she so awfully that Mary Beazley, on
the music stool, wriggled her spine. "The third line should be one
crescendo. 'Fleetly! Ah, Fleetly Music's Gay Measure.' Breaking on the first
word of the last line, Passes.' And then on the word, 'Away,' you must begin to
die...to fade...until 'The Listening Ear' is nothing more than a faint
whisper...You can slow down as much as you like almost on the last line. Now,
please."
Again the two light taps; she lifted her arms
again. 'Fast! Ah, too Fast.' "...and the idea of settling down fills me
with nothing but disgust—" Disgust was what he had written. That was as
good as to say their engagement was definitely broken off. Broken off! Their
engagement! People had been surprised enough that she had got engaged. The
Science Mistress would not believe it at first. But nobody had been as
surprised as she. She was thirty. Basil was twenty-five. It had been a miracle,
simply a miracle, to hear him say, as they walked home from church that very
dark night, "You know, somehow or other, I've got fond of you." And
he had taken hold of the end of her ostrich feather boa. "Passes away from
the Listening Ear."
"Repeat! Repeat!" said Miss Meadows.
"More expression, girls! Once more!"
"Fast! Ah, too Fast." The older girls
were crimson; some of the younger ones began to cry. Big spots of rain blew
against the windows, and one could hear the willows whispering, "...not
that I do not love you..."
"But, my darling, if you love me,"
thought Miss Meadows, "I don't mind how much it is. Love me as little as
you like." But she knew he didn't love her. Not to have cared enough to
scratch out that word "disgust," so that she couldn't read it!
"Soon Autumn yields unto Winter Drear." She would have to leave the
school, too. She could never face the Science Mistress or the girls after it
got known. She would have to disappear somewhere. "Passes away." The
voices began to die, to fade, to whisper...to vanish...
Suddenly the door opened. A little girl in blue
walked fussily up the aisle, hanging her head, biting her lips, and twisting
the silver bangle on her red little wrist. She came up the steps and stood
before Miss Meadows.
"Well, Monica, what is it?"
"Oh, if you please, Miss Meadows,"
said the little girl, gasping, "Miss Wyatt wants to see you in the
mistress's room."
"Very well," said Miss Meadows. And
she called to the girls, "I shall put you on your honour to talk quietly
while I am away." But they were too subdued to do anything else. Most of
them were blowing their noses.
The corridors were silent and cold; they echoed
to Miss Meadows' steps. The head mistress sat at her desk. For a moment she did
not look up. She was as usual disentangling her eyeglasses, which had got
caught in her lace tie. "Sit down, Miss Meadows," she said very
kindly. And then she picked up a pink envelope from the blotting-pad. "I
sent for you just now because this telegram has come for you."
"A telegram for me, Miss Wyatt?"
Basil! He had committed suicide, decided Miss
Meadows. Her hand flew out, but Miss Wyatt held the telegram back a moment.
"I hope it's not bad news," she said, so more than kindly. And Miss
Meadows tore it open.
"Pay no attention to letter, must have been
mad, bought hat-stand to-day— Basil," she read. She couldn't take her eyes
off the telegram.
"I do hope it's nothing very serious,"
said Miss Wyatt, leaning forward.
"Oh, no, thank you, Miss Wyatt,"
blushed Miss Meadows. "It's nothing bad at all. It's"—and she gave an
apologetic little laugh—"it's from my fiance saying that...saying that—"
There was a pause. "I see," said Miss Wyatt. And another pause.
Then—"You've fifteen minutes more of your class, Miss Meadows, haven't
you?"
"Yes, Miss Wyatt." She got up. She
half ran towards the door.
"Oh, just one minute, Miss Meadows,"
said Miss Wyatt. "I must say I don't approve of my teachers having
telegrams sent to them in school hours, unless in case of very bad news, such
as death," explained Miss Wyatt, "or a very serious accident, or
something to that effect. Good news, Miss Meadows, will always keep, you
know."
On the wings of hope, of love, of joy, Miss
Meadows sped back to the music hall, up the aisle, up the steps, over to the
piano.
"Page thirty-two, Mary," she said,
"page thirty-two," and, picking up the yellow chrysanthemum, she held
it to her lips to hide her smile. Then she turned to the girls, rapped with her
baton: "Page thirty-two, girls. Page thirty-two."
"We come here To-day with Flowers
o'erladen,
With Baskets of Fruit and Ribbons to boot,
To-oo Congratulate...
"Stop! Stop!" cried Miss Meadows.
"This is awful. This is dreadful." And she beamed at her girls.
"What's the matter with you all? Think, girls, think of what you're
singing. Use your imaginations. 'With Flowers o'erladen. Baskets of Fruit and
Ribbons to boot.' And 'Congratulate.'" Miss Meadows broke off. "Don't
look so doleful, girls. It ought to sound warm, joyful, eager. 'Congratulate.'
Once more. Quickly. All together. Now then!"
And this time Miss Meadows' voice sounded over
all the other voices—full, deep, glowing with expression.
12. THE STRANGER
It seemed to the little crowd on the wharf that
she was never going to move again. There she lay, immense, motionless on the
grey crinkled water, a loop of smoke above her, an immense flock of gulls
screaming and diving after the galley droppings at the stern. You could just
see little couples parading—little flies walking up and down the dish on the
grey crinkled tablecloth. Other flies clustered and swarmed at the edge. Now
there was a gleam of white on the lower deck—the cook's apron or the stewardess
perhaps. Now a tiny black spider raced up the ladder on to the bridge.
In the front of the crowd a strong-looking,
middle-aged man, dressed very well, very snugly in a grey overcoat, grey silk
scarf, thick gloves and dark felt hat, marched up and down, twirling his folded
umbrella. He seemed to be the leader of the little crowd on the wharf and at
the same time to keep them together. He was something between the sheep-dog and
the shepherd.
But what a fool—what a fool he had been not to
bring any glasses! There wasn't a pair of glasses between the whole lot of
them.
"Curious thing, Mr. Scott, that none of us
thought of glasses. We might have been able to stir 'em up a bit. We might have
managed a little signalling. 'Don't hesitate to land. Natives harmless.' Or: 'A
welcome awaits you. All is forgiven.' What? Eh?"
Mr. Hammond's quick, eager glance, so nervous
and yet so friendly and confiding, took in everybody on the wharf, roped in
even those old chaps lounging against the gangways. They knew, every man-jack
of them, that Mrs. Hammond was on that boat, and that he was so tremendously
excited it never entered his head not to believe that this marvellous fact
meant something to them too. It warmed his heart towards them. They were, he
decided, as decent a crowd of people—Those old chaps over by the gangways,
too—fine, solid old chaps. What chests—by Jove! And he squared his own, plunged
his thick-gloved hands into his pockets, rocked from heel to toe.
"Yes, my wife's been in Europe for the last
ten months. On a visit to our eldest girl, who was married last year. I brought
her up here, as far as Salisbury, myself. So I thought I'd better come and
fetch her back. Yes, yes, yes." The shrewd grey eyes narrowed again and
searched anxiously, quickly, the motionless liner. Again his overcoat was
unbuttoned. Out came the thin, butter-yellow watch again, and for the
twentieth—fiftieth— hundredth time he made the calculation.
"Let me see now. It was two fifteen when
the doctor's launch went off. Two fifteen. It is now exactly twenty-eight
minutes past four. That is to say, the doctor's been gone two hours and
thirteen minutes. Two hours and thirteen minutes! Whee-ooh!" He gave a
queer little half-whistle and snapped his watch to again. "But I think we
should have been told if there was anything up—don't you, Mr. Gaven?"
"Oh, yes, Mr. Hammond! I don't think
there's anything to—anything to worry about," said Mr. Gaven, knocking out
his pipe against the heel of his shoe. "At the same time—"
"Quite so! Quite so!" cried Mr.
Hammond. "Dashed annoying!" He paced quickly up and down and came
back again to his stand between Mr. and Mrs. Scott and Mr. Gaven. "It's
getting quite dark, too," and he waved his folded umbrella as though the
dusk at least might have had the decency to keep off for a bit. But the dusk
came slowly, spreading like a slow stain over the water. Little Jean Scott
dragged at her mother's hand.
"I wan' my tea, mammy!" she wailed.
"I expect you do," said Mr. Hammond.
"I expect all these ladies want their tea." And his kind, flushed,
almost pitiful glance roped them all in again. He wondered whether Janey was
having a final cup of tea in the saloon out there. He hoped so; he thought not.
It would be just like her not to leave the deck. In that case perhaps the deck
steward would bring her up a cup. If he'd been there he'd have got it for
her—somehow. And for a moment he was on deck, standing over her, watching her
little hand fold round the cup in the way she had, while she drank the only cup
of tea to be got on board...But now he was back here, and the Lord only knew
when that cursed Captain would stop hanging about in the stream. He took
another turn, up and down, up and down. He walked as far as the cab-stand to
make sure his driver hadn't disappeared; back he swerved again to the little
flock huddled in the shelter of the banana crates. Little Jean Scott was still
wanting her tea. Poor little beggar! He wished he had a bit of chocolate on
him.
"Here, Jean!" he said. "Like a
lift up?" And easily, gently, he swung the little girl on to a higher
barrel. The movement of holding her, steadying her, relieved him wonderfully,
lightened his heart.
"Hold on," he said, keeping an arm
round her.
"Oh, don't worry about Jean, Mr.
Hammond!" said Mrs. Scott.
"That's all right, Mrs. Scott. No trouble.
It's a pleasure. Jean's a little pal of mine, aren't you, Jean?"
"Yes, Mr. Hammond," said Jean, and she
ran her finger down the dent of his felt hat.
But suddenly she caught him by the ear and gave
a loud scream. "Lo-ok, Mr. Hammond! She's moving! Look, she's coming
in!"
By Jove! So she was. At last! She was slowly,
slowly turning round. A bell sounded far over the water and a great spout of
steam gushed into the air. The gulls rose; they fluttered away like bits of
white paper. And whether that deep throbbing was her engines or his heart Mr.
Hammond couldn't say. He had to nerve himself to bear it, whatever it was. At
that moment old Captain Johnson, the harbour-master, came striding down the
wharf, a leather portfolio under his arm.
"Jean'll be all right," said Mr.
Scott. "I'll hold her." He was just in time. Mr. Hammond had
forgotten about Jean. He sprang away to greet old Captain Johnson.
"Well, Captain," the eager, nervous
voice rang out again, "you've taken pity on us at last."
"It's no good blaming me, Mr.
Hammond," wheezed old Captain Johnson, staring at the liner. "You got
Mrs. Hammond on board, ain't yer?"
"Yes, yes!" said Hammond, and he kept
by the harbour-master's side. "Mrs. Hammond's there. Hul-lo! We shan't be
long now!"
With her telephone ring-ringing, the thrum of
her screw filling the air, the big liner bore down on them, cutting sharp
through the dark water so that big white shavings curled to either side.
Hammond and the harbour-master kept in front of the rest. Hammond took off his
hat; he raked the decks—they were crammed with passengers; he waved his hat and
bawled a loud, strange "Hul-lo!" across the water; and then turned
round and burst out laughing and said something—nothing—to old Captain Johnson.
"Seen her?" asked the harbour-master.
"No, not yet. Steady—wait a bit!" And
suddenly, between two great clumsy idiots—"Get out of the way there!"
he signed with his umbrella—he saw a hand raised—a white glove shaking a
handkerchief. Another moment, and— thank God, thank God!—there she was. There
was Janey. There was Mrs. Hammond, yes, yes, yes—standing by the rail and
smiling and nodding and waving her handkerchief.
"Well that's first class—first class! Well,
well, well!" He positively stamped. Like lightning he drew out his
cigar-case and offered it to old Captain Johnson. "Have a cigar, Captain!
They're pretty good. Have a couple! Here"—and he pressed all the cigars in
the case on the harbour-master—"I've a couple of boxes up at the
hotel."
"Thenks, Mr. Hammond!" wheezed old
Captain Johnson.
Hammond stuffed the cigar-case back. His hands
were shaking, but he'd got hold of himself again. He was able to face Janey.
There she was, leaning on the rail, talking to some woman and at the same time
watching him, ready for him. It struck him, as the gulf of water closed, how
small she looked on that huge ship. His heart was wrung with such a spasm that
he could have cried out. How little she looked to have come all that long way
and back by herself! Just like her, though. Just like Janey. She had the
courage of a—And now the crew had come forward and parted the passengers; they
had lowered the rails for the gangways.
The voices on shore and the voices on board flew
to greet each other.
"All well?"
"All well."
"How's mother?"
"Much better."
"Hullo, Jean!"
"Hillo, Aun' Emily!"
"Had a good voyage?"
"Splendid!"
"Shan't be long now!"
"Not long now."
The engines stopped. Slowly she edged to the
wharf-side.
"Make way there—make way—make way!"
And the wharf hands brought the heavy gangways along at a sweeping run. Hammond
signed to Janey to stay where she was. The old harbour-master stepped forward;
he followed. As to "ladies first," or any rot like that, it never
entered his head.
"After you, Captain!" he cried genially.
And, treading on the old man's heels, he strode up the gangway on to the deck
in a bee-line to Janey, and Janey was clasped in his arms.
"Well, well, well! Yes, yes! Here we are at
last!" he stammered. It was all he could say. And Janey emerged, and her
cool little voice—the only voice in the world for him—said,
"Well, darling! Have you been waiting
long?"
No; not long. Or, at any rate, it didn't matter.
It was over now. But the point was, he had a cab waiting at the end of the
wharf. Was she ready to go off. Was her luggage ready? In that case they could
cut off sharp with her cabin luggage and let the rest go hang until to-morrow.
He bent over her and she looked up with her familiar half-smile. She was just
the same. Not a day changed. Just as he'd always known her. She laid her small
hand on his sleeve.
"How are the children, John?" she
asked.
(Hang the children!) "Perfectly well. Never
better in their lives."
"Haven't they sent me letters?"
"Yes, yes—of course! I've left them at the
hotel for you to digest later on."
"We can't go quite so fast," said she.
"I've got people to say good-bye to—and then there's the Captain." As
his face fell she gave his arm a small understanding squeeze. "If the
Captain comes off the bridge I want you to thank him for having looked after
your wife so beautifully." Well, he'd got her. If she wanted another ten
minutes—As he gave way she was surrounded. The whole first-class seemed to want
to say good-bye to Janey.
"Good-bye, dear Mrs. Hammond! And next time
you're in Sydney I'll expect you."
"Darling Mrs. Hammond! You won't forget to
write to me, will you?"
"Well, Mrs. Hammond, what this boat would
have been without you!"
It was as plain as a pikestaff that she was by
far the most popular woman on board. And she took it all—just as usual.
Absolutely composed. Just her little self—just Janey all over; standing there
with her veil thrown back. Hammond never noticed what his wife had on. It was
all the same to him whatever she wore. But to-day he did notice that she wore a
black "costume"—didn't they call it?—with white frills, trimmings he
supposed they were, at the neck and sleeves. All this while Janey handed him
round.
"John, dear!" And then: "I want
to introduce you to—"
Finally they did escape, and she led the way to
her state-room. To follow Janey down the passage that she knew so well—that was
so strange to him; to part the green curtains after her and to step into the
cabin that had been hers gave him exquisite happiness. But—confound it!—the
stewardess was there on the floor, strapping up the rugs.
"That's the last, Mrs. Hammond," said
the stewardess, rising and pulling down her cuffs.
He was introduced again, and then Janey and the
stewardess disappeared into the passage. He heard whisperings. She was getting
the tipping business over, he supposed. He sat down on the striped sofa and
took his hat off. There were the rugs she had taken with her; they looked good
as new. All her luggage looked fresh, perfect. The labels were written in her
beautiful little clear hand—"Mrs. John Hammond."
"Mrs. John Hammond!" He gave a long
sigh of content and leaned back, crossing his arms. The strain was over. He
felt he could have sat there for ever sighing his relief—the relief at being
rid of that horrible tug, pull, grip on his heart. The danger was over. That
was the feeling. They were on dry land again.
But at that moment Janey's head came round the
corner.
"Darling—do you mind? I just want to go and
say good-bye to the doctor."
Hammond started up. "I'll come with
you."
"No, no!" she said. "Don't
bother. I'd rather not. I'll not be a minute."
And before he could answer she was gone. He had
half a mind to run after her; but instead he sat down again.
Would she really not be long? What was the time
now? Out came the watch; he stared at nothing. That was rather queer of Janey,
wasn't it? Why couldn't she have told the stewardess to say good-bye for her?
Why did she have to go chasing after the ship's doctor? She could have sent a
note from the hotel even if the affair had been urgent. Urgent? Did it—could it
mean that she had been ill on the voyage—she was keeping something from him?
That was it! He seized his hat. He was going off to find that fellow and to
wring the truth out of him at all costs. He thought he'd noticed just
something. She was just a touch too calm—too steady. From the very first
moment—
The curtains rang. Janey was back. He jumped to
his feet.
"Janey, have you been ill on this voyage?
You have!"
"Ill?" Her airy little voice mocked
him. She stepped over the rugs, and came up close, touched his breast, and
looked up at him.
"Darling," she said, "don't
frighten me. Of course I haven't! Whatever makes you think I have? Do I look
ill?"
But Hammond didn't see her. He only felt that
she was looking at him and that there was no need to worry about anything. She
was here to look after things. It was all right. Everything was.
The gentle pressure of her hand was so calming
that he put his over hers to hold it there. And she said:
"Stand still. I want to look at you. I
haven't seen you yet. You've had your beard beautifully trimmed, and you
look—younger, I think, and decidedly thinner! Bachelor life agrees with
you."
"Agrees with me!" He groaned for love
and caught her close again. And again, as always, he had the feeling that he
was holding something that never was quite his—his. Something too delicate, too
precious, that would fly away once he let go.
"For God's sake let's get off to the hotel
so that we can be by ourselves!" And he rang the bell hard for some one to
look sharp with the luggage.
Walking down the wharf together she took his
arm. He had her on his arm again. And the difference it made to get into the
cab after Janey—to throw the red-and-yellow striped blanket round them both—to
tell the driver to hurry because neither of them had had any tea. No more going
without his tea or pouring out his own. She was back. He turned to her,
squeezed her hand, and said gently, teasingly, in the "special" voice
he had for her: "Glad to be home again, dearie?" She smiled; she
didn't even bother to answer, but gently she drew his hand away as they came to
the brighter streets.
"We've got the best room in the
hotel," he said. "I wouldn't be put off with another. And I asked the
chambermaid to put in a bit of a fire in case you felt chilly. She's a nice,
attentive girl. And I thought now we were here we wouldn't bother to go home
to-morrow, but spend the day looking round and leave the morning after. Does
that suit you? There's no hurry, is there? The children will have you soon
enough...I thought a day's sight-seeing might make a nice break in your
journey—eh, Janey?"
"Have you taken the tickets for the day
after?" she asked.
"I should think I have!" He unbuttoned
his overcoat and took out his bulging pocket-book. "Here we are! I
reserved a first-class carriage to Cooktown. There it is—'Mr. and Mrs. John
Hammond.' I thought we might as well do ourselves comfortably, and we don't
want other people butting in, do we? But if you'd like to stop here a bit
longer—?"
"Oh, no!" said Janey quickly. "Not
for the world! The day after to-morrow, then. And the children—"
But they had reached the hotel. The manager was
standing in the broad, brilliantly-lighted porch. He came down to greet them. A
porter ran from the hall for their boxes.
"Well, Mr. Arnold, here's Mrs. Hammond at
last!"
The manager led them through the hall himself
and pressed the elevator-bell. Hammond knew there were business pals of his
sitting at the little hall tables having a drink before dinner. But he wasn't
going to risk interruption; he looked neither to the right nor the left. They
could think what they pleased. If they didn't understand, the more fools they—
and he stepped out of the lift, unlocked the door of their room, and shepherded
Janey in. The door shut. Now, at last, they were alone together. He turned up
the light. The curtains were drawn; the fire blazed. He flung his hat on to the
huge bed and went towards her.
But—would you believe it!—again they were
interrupted. This time it was the porter with the luggage. He made two journeys
of it, leaving the door open in between, taking his time, whistling through his
teeth in the corridor. Hammond paced up and down the room, tearing off his
gloves, tearing off his scarf. Finally he flung his overcoat on to the bedside.
At last the fool was gone. The door clicked. Now
they were alone. Said Hammond: "I feel I'll never have you to myself
again. These cursed people! Janey"—and he bent his flushed, eager gaze
upon her—"let's have dinner up here. If we go down to the restaurant we'll
be interrupted, and then there's the confounded music" (the music he'd
praised so highly, applauded so loudly last night!). "We shan't be able to
hear each other speak. Let's have something up here in front of the fire. It's
too late for tea. I'll order a little supper, shall I? How does that idea
strike you?"
"Do, darling!" said Janey. "And
while you're away—the children's letters—"
"Oh, later on will do!" said Hammond.
"But then we'd get it over," said
Janey. "And I'd first have time to—"
"Oh, I needn't go down!" explained
Hammond. "I'll just ring and give the order...you don't want to send me
away, do you?"
Janey shook her head and smiled.
"But you're thinking of something else.
You're worrying about something," said Hammond. "What is it? Come and
sit here—come and sit on my knee before the fire."
"I'll just unpin my hat," said Janey,
and she went over to the dressing-table. "A-ah!" She gave a little
cry.
"What is it?"
"Nothing, darling. I've just found the
children's letters. That's all right! They will keep. No hurry now!" She
turned to him, clasping them. She tucked them into her frilled blouse. She
cried quickly, gaily: "Oh, how typical this dressing-table is of
you!"
"Why? What's the matter with it?" said
Hammond.
"If it were floating in eternity I should
say 'John!'" laughed Janey, staring at the big bottle of hair tonic, the
wicker bottle of eau-de-Cologne, the two hair-brushes, and a dozen new collars
tied with pink tape. "Is this all your luggage?"
"Hang my luggage!" said Hammond; but
all the same he liked being laughed at by Janey. "Let's talk. Let's get
down to things. Tell me"—and as Janey perched on his knees he leaned back
and drew her into the deep, ugly chair—"tell me you're really glad to be
back, Janey."
"Yes, darling, I am glad," she said.
But just as when he embraced her he felt she
would fly away, so Hammond never knew—never knew for dead certain that she was
as glad as he was. How could he know? Would he ever know? Would he always have
this craving—this pang like hunger, somehow, to make Janey so much part of him
that there wasn't any of her to escape? He wanted to blot out everybody,
everything. He wished now he'd turned off the light. That might have brought
her nearer. And now those letters from the children rustled in her blouse. He could
have chucked them into the fire.
"Janey," he whispered.
"Yes, dear?" She lay on his breast,
but so lightly, so remotely. Their breathing rose and fell together.
"Janey!"
"What is it?"
"Turn to me," he whispered. A slow,
deep flush flowed into his forehead. "Kiss me, Janey! You kiss me!"
It seemed to him there was a tiny pause—but long
enough for him to suffer torture—before her lips touched his, firmly,
lightly—kissing them as she always kissed him, as though the kiss—how could he
describe it?—confirmed what they were saying, signed the contract. But that
wasn't what he wanted; that wasn't at all what he thirsted for. He felt
suddenly, horrible tired.
"If you knew," he said, opening his eyes,
"what it's been like—waiting to-day. I thought the boat never would come
in. There we were, hanging about. What kept you so long?"
She made no answer. She was looking away from
him at the fire. The flames hurried—hurried over the coals, flickered, fell.
"Not asleep, are you?" said Hammond,
and he jumped her up and down.
"No," she said. And then: "Don't
do that, dear. No, I was thinking. As a matter of fact," she said,
"one of the passengers died last night—a man. That's what held us up. We
brought him in—I mean, he wasn't buried at sea. So, of course, the ship's
doctor and the shore doctor—"
"What was it?" asked Hammond uneasily.
He hated to hear of death. He hated this to have happened. It was, in some
queer way, as though he and Janey had met a funeral on their way to the hotel.
"Oh, it wasn't anything in the least
infectious!" said Janey. She was speaking scarcely above her breath.
"It was heart." A pause. "Poor fellow!" she said.
"Quite young." And she watched the fire flicker and fall. "He
died in my arms," said Janey.
The blow was so sudden that Hammond thought he
would faint. He couldn't move; he couldn't breathe. He felt all his strength
flowing—flowing into the big dark chair, and the big dark chair held him fast,
gripped him, forced him to bear it.
"What?" he said dully. "What's
that you say?"
"The end was quite peaceful," said the
small voice. "He just"—and Hammond saw her lift her gentle
hand—"breathed his life away at the end." And her hand fell.
"Who—else was there?" Hammond managed
to ask.
"Nobody. I was alone with him."
Ah, my God, what was she saying! What was she
doing to him! This would kill him! And all the while she spoke:
"I saw the change coming and I sent the
steward for the doctor, but the doctor was too late. He couldn't have done
anything, anyway."
"But—why you, why you?" moaned
Hammond.
At that Janey turned quickly, quickly searched
his face.
"You don't mind, John, do you?" she
asked. "You don't—It's nothing to do with you and me."
Somehow or other he managed to shake some sort of
smile at her. Somehow or other he stammered: "No—go—on, go on! I want you
to tell me."
"But, John darling—"
"Tell me, Janey!"
"There's nothing to tell," she said,
wondering. "He was one of the first-class passengers. I saw he was very
ill when he came on board...But he seemed to be so much better until yesterday.
He had a severe attack in the afternoon—excitement—nervousness, I think, about
arriving. And after that he never recovered."
"But why didn't the stewardess—"
"Oh, my dear—the stewardess!" said Janey.
"What would he have felt? And besides...he might have wanted to leave a
message...to—"
"Didn't he?" muttered Hammond.
"Didn't he say anything?"
"No, darling, not a word!" She shook
her head softly. "All the time I was with him he was too weak...he was too
weak even to move a finger..."
Janey was silent. But her words, so light, so
soft, so chill, seemed to hover in the air, to rain into his breast like snow.
The fire had gone red. Now it fell in with a
sharp sound and the room was colder. Cold crept up his arms. The room was huge,
immense, glittering. It filled his whole world. There was the great blind bed,
with his coat flung across it like some headless man saying his prayers. There
was the luggage, ready to be carried away again, anywhere, tossed into trains,
carted on to boats.
..."He was too weak. He was too weak to
move a finger." And yet he died in Janey's arms. She—who'd never—never
once in all these years—never on one single solitary occasion—
No; he mustn't think of it. Madness lay in
thinking of it. No, he wouldn't face it. He couldn't stand it. It was too much
to bear!
And now Janey touched his tie with her fingers.
She pinched the edges of the tie together.
"You're not—sorry I told you, John darling?
It hasn't made you sad? It hasn't spoilt our evening—our being alone
together?"
But at that he had to hide his face. He put his
face into her bosom and his arms enfolded her.
Spoilt their evening! Spoilt their being alone
together! They would never be alone together again.
13. BANK HOLIDAY
A stout man with a pink face wears dingy white
flannel trousers, a blue coat with a pink handkerchief showing, and a straw hat
much too small for him, perched at the back of his head. He plays the guitar. A
little chap in white canvas shoes, his face hidden under a felt hat like a
broken wing, breathes into a flute; and a tall thin fellow, with bursting
over-ripe button boots, draws ribbons—long, twisted, streaming ribbons—of tune
out of a fiddle. They stand, unsmiling, but not serious, in the broad sunlight
opposite the fruit-shop; the pink spider of a hand beats the guitar, the little
squat hand, with a brass-and-turquoise ring, forces the reluctant flute, and
the fiddler's arm tries to saw the fiddle in two.
A crowd collects, eating oranges and bananas,
tearing off the skins, dividing, sharing. One young girl has even a basket of
strawberries, but she does not eat them. "Aren't they dear!" She
stares at the tiny pointed fruits as if she were afraid of them. The Australian
soldier laughs. "Here, go on, there's not more than a mouthful." But
he doesn't want her to eat them, either. He likes to watch her little
frightened face, and her puzzled eyes lifted to his: "Aren't they a
price!" He pushes out his chest and grins. Old fat women in velvet bodices—old
dusty pin-cushions— lean old hags like worn umbrellas with a quivering bonnet
on top; young women, in muslins, with hats that might have grown on hedges, and
high pointed shoes; men in khaki, sailors, shabby clerks, young Jews in fine
cloth suits with padded shoulders and wide trousers, "hospital boys"
in blue—the sun discovers them—the loud, bold music holds them together in one
big knot for a moment. The young ones are larking, pushing each other on and
off the pavement, dodging, nudging; the old ones are talking: "So I said
to 'im, if you wants the doctor to yourself, fetch 'im, says I."
"An' by the time they was cooked there
wasn't so much as you could put in the palm of me 'and!"
The only ones who are quiet are the ragged
children. They stand, as close up to the musicians as they can get, their hands
behind their backs, their eyes big. Occasionally a leg hops, an arm wags. A
tiny staggerer, overcome, turns round twice, sits down solemn, and then gets up
again.
"Ain't it lovely?" whispers a small
girl behind her hand.
And the music breaks into bright pieces, and
joins together again, and again breaks, and is dissolved, and the crowd
scatters, moving slowly up the hill.
At the corner of the road the stalls begin.
"Ticklers! Tuppence a tickler! 'Ool 'ave a
tickler? Tickle 'em up, boys." Little soft brooms on wire handles. They
are eagerly bought by the soldiers.
"Buy a golliwog! Tuppence a golliwog!"
"Buy a jumping donkey! All alive-oh!"
"Su-perior chewing gum. Buy something to
do, boys."
"Buy a rose. Give 'er a rose, boy. Roses,
lady?"
"Fevvers! Fevvers!" They are hard to
resist. Lovely, streaming feathers, emerald green, scarlet, bright blue, canary
yellow. Even the babies wear feathers threaded through their bonnets.
And an old woman in a three-cornered paper hat
cries as if it were her final parting advice, the only way of saving yourself
or of bringing him to his senses: "Buy a three-cornered 'at, my dear, an'
put it on!"
It is a flying day, half sun, half wind. When
the sun goes in a shadow flies over; when it comes out again it is fiery. The
men and women feel it burning their backs, their breasts and their arms; they
feel their bodies expanding, coming alive...so that they make large embracing
gestures, lift up their arms, for nothing, swoop down on a girl, blurt into
laughter.
Lemonade! A whole tank of it stands on a table
covered with a cloth; and lemons like blunted fishes blob in the yellow water.
It looks solid, like a jelly, in the thick glasses. Why can't they drink it
without spilling it? Everybody spills it, and before the glass is handed back
the last drops are thrown in a ring.
Round the ice-cream cart, with its striped
awning and bright brass cover, the children cluster. Little tongues lick, lick
round the cream trumpets, round the squares. The cover is lifted, the wooden
spoon plunges in; one shuts one's eyes to feel it, silently scrunching.
"Let these little birds tell you your
future!" She stands beside the cage, a shrivelled ageless Italian,
clasping and unclasping her dark claws. Her face, a treasure of delicate
carving, is tied in a green-and-gold scarf. And inside their prison the
love-birds flutter towards the papers in the seed-tray.
"You have great strength of character. You
will marry a red-haired man and have three children. Beware of a blonde woman."
Look out! Look out! A motor-car driven by a fat chauffeur comes rushing down
the hill. Inside there a blonde woman, pouting, leaning forward—rushing through
your life— beware! beware!
"Ladies and gentlemen, I am an auctioneer
by profession, and if what I tell you is not the truth I am liable to have my
licence taken away from me and a heavy imprisonment." He holds the licence
across his chest; the sweat pours down his face into his paper collar; his eyes
look glazed. When he takes off his hat there is a deep pucker of angry flesh on
his forehead. Nobody buys a watch.
Look out again! A huge barouche comes swinging
down the hill with two old, old babies inside. She holds up a lace parasol; he
sucks the knob of his cane, and the fat old bodies roll together as the cradle
rocks, and the steaming horse leaves a trail of manure as it ambles down the
hill.
Under a tree, Professor Leonard, in cap and
gown, stands beside his banner. He is here "for one day," from the
London, Paris and Brussels Exhibition, to tell your fortune from your face. And
he stands, smiling encouragement, like a clumsy dentist. When the big men,
romping and swearing a moment before, hand across their sixpence, and stand
before him, they are suddenly serious, dumb, timid, almost blushing as the
Professor's quick hand notches the printed card. They are like little children
caught playing in a forbidden garden by the owner, stepping from behind a tree.
The top of the hill is reached. How hot it is!
How fine it is! The public-house is open, and the crowd presses in. The mother
sits on the pavement edge with her baby, and the father brings her out a glass
of dark, brownish stuff, and then savagely elbows his way in again. A reek of
beer floats from the public-house, and a loud clatter and rattle of voices.
The wind has dropped, and the sun burns more
fiercely than ever. Outside the two swing-doors there is a thick mass of
children like flies at the mouth of a sweet-jar.
And up, up the hill come the people, with
ticklers and golliwogs, and roses and feathers. Up, up they thrust into the
light and heat, shouting, laughing, squealing, as though they were being pushed
by something, far below, and by the sun, far ahead of them—drawn up into the
full, bright, dazzling radiance to...what?
14. AN IDEAL FAMILY
That evening for the first time in his life, as
he pressed through the swing door and descended the three broad steps to the
pavement, old Mr. Neave felt he was too old for the spring. Spring—warm, eager,
restless— was there, waiting for him in the golden light, ready in front of
everybody to run up, to blow in his white beard, to drag sweetly on his arm.
And he couldn't meet her, no; he couldn't square up once more and stride off,
jaunty as a young man. He was tired and, although the late sun was still shining,
curiously cold, with a numbed feeling all over. Quite suddenly he hadn't the
energy, he hadn't the heart to stand this gaiety and bright movement any
longer; it confused him. He wanted to stand still, to wave it away with his
stick, to say, "Be off with you!" Suddenly it was a terrible effort
to greet as usual—tipping his wide-awake with his stick—all the people whom he
knew, the friends, acquaintances, shopkeepers, postmen, drivers. But the gay
glance that went with the gesture, the kindly twinkle that seemed to say,
"I'm a match and more for any of you"—that old Mr. Neave could not
manage at all. He stumped along, lifting his knees high as if he were walking
through air that had somehow grown heavy and solid like water. And the
homeward-looking crowd hurried by, the trams clanked, the light carts
clattered, the big swinging cabs bowled along with that reckless, defiant
indifference that one knows only in dreams...
It had been a day like other days at the office.
Nothing special had happened. Harold hadn't come back from lunch until close on
four. Where had he been? What had he been up to? He wasn't going to let his
father know. Old Mr. Neave had happened to be in the vestibule, saying good-bye
to a caller, when Harold sauntered in, perfectly turned out as usual, cool,
suave, smiling that peculiar little half-smile that women found so fascinating.
Ah, Harold was too handsome, too handsome by
far; that had been the trouble all along. No man had a right to such eyes, such
lashes, and such lips; it was uncanny. As for his mother, his sisters, and the
servants, it was not too much to say they made a young god of him; they
worshipped Harold, they forgave him everything; and he had needed some
forgiving ever since the time when he was thirteen and he had stolen his
mother's purse, taken the money, and hidden the purse in the cook's bedroom.
Old Mr. Neave struck sharply with his stick upon the pavement edge. But it
wasn't only his family who spoiled Harold, he reflected, it was everybody; he
had only to look and to smile, and down they went before him. So perhaps it
wasn't to be wondered at that he expected the office to carry on the tradition.
H'm, h'm! But it couldn't be done. No business—not even a successful,
established, big paying concern—could be played with. A man had either to put
his whole heart and soul into it, or it went all to pieces before his eyes...
And then Charlotte and the girls were always at
him to make the whole thing over to Harold, to retire, and to spend his time
enjoying himself. Enjoying himself! Old Mr. Neave stopped dead under a group of
ancient cabbage palms outside the Government buildings! Enjoying himself! The
wind of evening shook the dark leaves to a thin airy cackle. Sitting at home,
twiddling his thumbs, conscious all the while that his life's work was slipping
away, dissolving, disappearing through Harold's fine fingers, while Harold
smiled...
"Why will you be so unreasonable, father?
There's absolutely no need for you to go to the office. It only makes it very
awkward for us when people persist in saying how tired you're looking. Here's
this huge house and garden. Surely you could be happy in—in—appreciating it for
a change. Or you could take up some hobby."
And Lola the baby had chimed in loftily,
"All men ought to have hobbies. It makes life impossible if they
haven't."
Well, well! He couldn't help a grim smile as
painfully he began to climb the hill that led into Harcourt Avenue. Where would
Lola and her sisters and Charlotte be if he'd gone in for hobbies, he'd like to
know? Hobbies couldn't pay for the town house and the seaside bungalow, and
their horses, and their golf, and the sixty-guinea gramophone in the music-room
for them to dance to. Not that he grudged them these things. No, they were
smart, good-looking girls, and Charlotte was a remarkable woman; it was natural
for them to be in the swim. As a matter of fact, no other house in the town was
as popular as theirs; no other family entertained so much. And how many times
old Mr. Neave, pushing the cigar box across the smoking-room table, had
listened to praises of his wife, his girls, of himself even.
"You're an ideal family, sir, an ideal
family. It's like something one reads about or sees on the stage."
"That's all right, my boy," old Mr.
Neave would reply. "Try one of those; I think you'll like them. And if you
care to smoke in the garden, you'll find the girls on the lawn, I dare
say."
That was why the girls had never married, so
people said. They could have married anybody. But they had too good a time at
home. They were too happy together, the girls and Charlotte. H'm, h'm! Well,
well. Perhaps so...
By this time he had walked the length of
fashionable Harcourt Avenue; he had reached the corner house, their house. The
carriage gates were pushed back; there were fresh marks of wheels on the drive.
And then he faced the big white-painted house, with its wide-open windows, its
tulle curtains floating outwards, its blue jars of hyacinths on the broad
sills. On either side of the carriage porch their hydrangeas—famous in the
town— were coming into flower; the pinkish, bluish masses of flower lay like
light among the spreading leaves. And somehow, it seemed to old Mr. Neave that
the house and the flowers, and even the fresh marks on the drive, were saying,
"There is young life here. There are girls—"
The hall, as always, was dusky with wraps,
parasols, gloves, piled on the oak chests. From the music-room sounded the
piano, quick, loud and impatient. Through the drawing-room door that was ajar
voices floated.
"And were there ices?" came from
Charlotte. Then the creak, creak of her rocker.
"Ices!" cried Ethel. "My dear
mother, you never saw such ices. Only two kinds. And one a common little
strawberry shop ice, in a sopping wet frill."
"The food altogether was too
appalling," came from Marion.
"Still, it's rather early for ices,"
said Charlotte easily.
"But why, if one has them at all..."
began Ethel.
"Oh, quite so, darling," crooned
Charlotte.
Suddenly the music-room door opened and Lola
dashed out. She started, she nearly screamed, at the sight of old Mr. Neave.
"Gracious, father! What a fright you gave
me! Have you just come home? Why isn't Charles here to help you off with your
coat?"
Her cheeks were crimson from playing, her eyes
glittered, the hair fell over her forehead. And she breathed as though she had
come running through the dark and was frightened. Old Mr. Neave stared at his
youngest daughter; he felt he had never seen her before. So that was Lola, was
it? But she seemed to have forgotten her father; it was not for him that she
was waiting there. Now she put the tip of her crumpled handkerchief between her
teeth and tugged at it angrily. The telephone rang. A-ah! Lola gave a cry like
a sob and dashed past him. The door of the telephone-room slammed, and at the
same moment Charlotte called, "Is that you, father?"
"You're tired again," said Charlotte
reproachfully, and she stopped the rocker and offered her warm plum-like cheek.
Bright-haired Ethel pecked his beard, Marion's lips brushed his ear.
"Did you walk back, father?" asked
Charlotte.
"Yes, I walked home," said old Mr.
Neave, and he sank into one of the immense drawing-room chairs.
"But why didn't you take a cab?" said
Ethel. "There are hundred of cabs about at that time."
"My dear Ethel," cried Marion,
"if father prefers to tire himself out, I really don't see what business
of ours it is to interfere."
"Children, children?" coaxed
Charlotte.
But Marion wouldn't be stopped. "No,
mother, you spoil father, and it's not right. You ought to be stricter with
him. He's very naughty." She laughed her hard, bright laugh and patted her
hair in a mirror. Strange! When she was a little girl she had such a soft,
hesitating voice; she had even stuttered, and now, whatever she said—even if it
was only "Jam, please, father"—it rang out as though she were on the
stage.
"Did Harold leave the office before you,
dear?" asked Charlotte, beginning to rock again.
"I'm not sure," said Old Mr. Neave.
"I'm not sure. I didn't see him after four o'clock."
"He said—" began Charlotte.
But at that moment Ethel, who was twitching over
the leaves of some paper or other, ran to her mother and sank down beside her
chair.
"There, you see," she cried.
"That's what I mean, mummy. Yellow, with touches of silver. Don't you agree?"
"Give it to me, love," said Charlotte.
She fumbled for her tortoise-shell spectacles and put them on, gave the page a
little dab with her plump small fingers, and pursed up her lips. "Very
sweet!" she crooned vaguely; she looked at Ethel over her spectacles.
"But I shouldn't have the train."
"Not the train!" wailed Ethel
tragically. "But the train's the whole point."
"Here, mother, let me decide." Marion
snatched the paper playfully from Charlotte. "I agree with mother,"
she cried triumphantly. "The train overweights it."
Old Mr. Neave, forgotten, sank into the broad
lap of his chair, and, dozing, heard them as though he dreamed. There was no
doubt about it, he was tired out; he had lost his hold. Even Charlotte and the
girls were too much for him to-night. They were too...too...But all his
drowsing brain could think of was—too rich for him. And somewhere at the back
of everything he was watching a little withered ancient man climbing up endless
flights of stairs. Who was he?
"I shan't dress to-night," he
muttered.
"What do you say, father?"
"Eh, what, what?" Old Mr. Neave woke
with a start and stared across at them. "I shan't dress to-night," he
repeated.
"But, father, we've got Lucile coming, and
Henry Davenport, and Mrs. Teddie Walker."
"It will look so very out of the
picture."
"Don't you feel well, dear?"
"You needn't make any effort. What is
Charles for?"
"But if you're really not up to it,"
Charlotte wavered.
"Very well! Very well!" Old Mr. Neave
got up and went to join that little old climbing fellow just as far as his
dressing-room...
There young Charles was waiting for him.
Carefully, as though everything depended on it, he was tucking a towel round
the hot-water can. Young Charles had been a favourite of his ever since as a
little red-faced boy he had come into the house to look after the fires. Old
Mr. Neave lowered himself into the cane lounge by the window, stretched out his
legs, and made his little evening joke, "Dress him up, Charles!" And
Charles, breathing intensely and frowning, bent forward to take the pin out of
his tie.
H'm, h'm! Well, well! It was pleasant by the
open window, very pleasant— a fine mild evening. They were cutting the grass on
the tennis court below; he heard the soft churr of the mower. Soon the girls
would begin their tennis parties again. And at the thought he seemed to hear
Marion's voice ring out, "Good for you, partner...Oh, played,
partner...Oh, very nice indeed." Then Charlotte calling from the veranda, "Where
is Harold?" And Ethel, "He's certainly not here, mother." And
Charlotte's vague, "He said—"
Old Mr. Neave sighed, got up, and putting one
hand under his beard, he took the comb from young Charles, and carefully combed
the white beard over. Charles gave him a folded handkerchief, his watch and
seals, and spectacle case.
"That will do, my lad." The door shut,
he sank back, he was alone...
And now that little ancient fellow was climbing
down endless flights that led to a glittering, gay dining-room. What legs he
had! They were like a spider's—thin, withered.
"You're an ideal family, sir, an ideal
family."
But if that were true, why didn't Charlotte or
the girls stop him? Why was he all alone, climbing up and down? Where was
Harold? Ah, it was no good expecting anything from Harold. Down, down went the
little old spider, and then, to his horror, old Mr. Neave saw him slip past the
dining-room and make for the porch, the dark drive, the carriage gates, the
office. Stop him, stop him, somebody!
Old Mr. Neave started up. It was dark in his
dressing-room; the window shone pale. How long had he been asleep? He listened,
and through the big, airy, darkened house there floated far-away voices,
far-away sounds. Perhaps, he thought vaguely, he had been asleep for a long
time. He'd been forgotten. What had all this to do with him—this house and
Charlotte, the girls and Harold—what did he know about them? They were
strangers to him. Life had passed him by. Charlotte was not his wife. His wife!
...A dark porch, half hidden by a passion-vine,
that drooped sorrowful, mournful, as though it understood. Small, warm arms
were round his neck. A face, little and pale, lifted to his, and a voice
breathed, "Good-bye, my treasure."
My treasure! "Good-bye, my treasure!"
Which of them had spoken? Why had they said good-bye? There had been some
terrible mistake. She was his wife, that little pale girl, and all the rest of
his life had been a dream.
Then the door opened, and young Charles,
standing in the light, put his hands by his side and shouted like a young
soldier, "Dinner is on the table, sir!"
"I'm coming, I'm coming," said old Mr.
Neave.
15. THE LADY'S MAID
Eleven o'clock. A knock at the door...I hope I
haven't disturbed you, madam. You weren't asleep—were you? But I've just given
my lady her tea, and there was such a nice cup over, I thought, perhaps...
...Not at all, madam. I always make a cup of tea
last thing. She drinks it in bed after her prayers to warm her up. I put the
kettle on when she kneels down and I say to it, "Now you needn't be in too
much of a hurry to say your prayers." But it's always boiling before my
lady is half through. You see, madam, we know such a lot of people, and they've
all got to be prayed for—every one. My lady keeps a list of the names in a
little red book. Oh dear! whenever some one new has been to see us and my lady
says afterwards, "Ellen, give me my little red book," I feel quite
wild, I do. "There's another," I think, "keeping her out of her
bed in all weathers." And she won't have a cushion, you know, madam; she
kneels on the hard carpet. It fidgets me something dreadful to see her, knowing
her as I do. I've tried to cheat her; I've spread out the eiderdown. But the
first time I did it—oh, she gave me such a look—holy it was, madam. "Did
our Lord have an eiderdown, Ellen?" she said. But—I was younger at the
time—I felt inclined to say, "No, but our Lord wasn't your age, and he
didn't know what it was to have your lumbago." Wicked—wasn't it? But she's
too good, you know, madam. When I tucked her up just now and seen—saw her lying
back, her hands outside and her head on the pillow—so pretty—I couldn't help
thinking, "Now you look just like your dear mother when I laid her
out!"
...Yes, madam, it was all left to me. Oh, she
did look sweet. I did her hair, soft-like, round her forehead, all in dainty
curls, and just to one side of her neck I put a bunch of most beautiful purple
pansies. Those pansies made a picture of her, madam! I shall never forget them.
I thought to-night, when I looked at my lady, "Now, if only the pansies
was there no one could tell the difference."
...Only the last year, madam. Only after she'd
got a little—well—feeble as you might say. Of course, she was never dangerous;
she was the sweetest old lady. But how it took her was—she thought she'd lost
something. She couldn't keep still, she couldn't settle. All day long she'd be
up and down, up and down; you'd meet her everywhere,—on the stairs, in the
porch, making for the kitchen. And she'd look up at you, and she'd say—just
like a child, "I've lost it, I've lost it."
"Come along," I'd say, "come
along, and I'll lay out your patience for you."
"But she'd catch me by the hand—I was a
favourite of hers—and whisper, 'Find it for me, Ellen. Find it for me.'"
Sad, wasn't it?
...No, she never recovered, madam. She had a
stroke at the end. Last words she ever said was—very slow, "Look
in—the—Look—in—" And then she was gone.
...No, madam, I can't say I noticed it. Perhaps
some girls. But you see, it's like this, I've got nobody but my lady. My mother
died of consumption when I was four, and I lived with my grandfather, who kept
a hair-dresser's shop. I used to spend all my time in the shop under a table
dressing my doll's hair—copying the assistants, I suppose. They were ever so
kind to me. Used to make me little wigs, all colours, the latest fashions and
all. And there I'd sit all day, quiet as quiet—the customers never knew. Only
now and again I'd take my peep from under the table-cloth.
...But one day I managed to get a pair of
scissors and—would you believe it, madam? I cut off all my hair; snipped it off
all in bits, like the little monkey I was. Grandfather was furious! He caught
hold of the tongs—I shall never forget it—grabbed me by the hand and shut my
fingers in them. "That'll teach you!" he said. It was a fearful burn.
I've got the mark of it to-day.
...Well, you see, madam, he'd taken such pride
in my hair. He used to sit me up on the counter, before the customers came, and
do it something beautiful—big, soft curls and waved over the top. I remember
the assistants standing round, and me ever so solemn with the penny grandfather
gave me to hold while it was being done...But he always took the penny back
afterwards. Poor grandfather! Wild, he was, at the fright I'd made of myself.
But he frightened me that time. Do you know what I did, madam? I ran away. Yes,
I did, round the corners, in and out, I don't know how far I didn't run. Oh,
dear, I must have looked a sight, with my hand rolled up in my pinny and my
hair sticking out. People must have laughed when they saw me...
...No, madam, grandfather never got over it. He
couldn't bear the sight of me after. Couldn't eat his dinner, even, if I was
there. So my aunt took me. She was a cripple, an upholstress. Tiny! She had to
stand on the sofas when she wanted to cut out the backs. And it was helping her
I met my lady...
...Not so very, madam. I was thirteen, turned.
And I don't remember ever feeling—well—a child, as you might say. You see there
was my uniform, and one thing and another. My lady put me into collars and
cuffs from the first. Oh yes—once I did! That was—funny! It was like this. My
lady had her two little nieces staying with her—we were at Sheldon at the
time—and there was a fair on the common.
"Now, Ellen," she said, "I want
you to take the two young ladies for a ride on the donkeys." Off we went;
solemn little loves they were; each had a hand. But when we came to the donkeys
they were too shy to go on. So we stood and watched instead. Beautiful those
donkeys were! They were the first I'd seen out of a cart—for pleasure as you
might say. They were a lovely silver-grey, with little red saddles and blue
bridles and bells jing-a-jingling on their ears. And quite big girls—older than
me, even— were riding them, ever so gay. Not at all common, I don't mean,
madam, just enjoying themselves. And I don't know what it was, but the way the
little feet went, and the eyes—so gentle—and the soft ears—made me want to go
on a donkey more than anything in the world!
...Of course, I couldn't. I had my young ladies.
And what would I have looked like perched up there in my uniform? But all the
rest of the day it was donkeys—donkeys on the brain with me. I felt I should
have burst if I didn't tell some one; and who was there to tell? But when I
went to bed—I was sleeping in Mrs. James's bedroom, our cook that was, at the
time—as soon as the lights was out, there they were, my donkeys, jingling
along, with their neat little feet and sad eyes...Well, madam, would you believe
it, I waited for a long time and pretended to be asleep, and then suddenly I
sat up and called out as loud as I could, "I do want to go on a donkey. I
do want a donkey-ride!" You see, I had to say it, and I thought they
wouldn't laugh at me if they knew I was only dreaming. Artful—wasn't it? Just
what a silly child would think...
...No, madam, never now. Of course, I did think
of it at one time. But it wasn't to be. He had a little flower-shop just down
the road and across from where we was living. Funny—wasn't it? And me such a
one for flowers. We were having a lot of company at the time, and I was in and
out of the shop more often than not, as the saying is. And Harry and I (his
name was Harry) got to quarrelling about how things ought to be arranged— and
that began it. Flowers! you wouldn't believe it, madam, the flowers he used to
bring me. He'd stop at nothing. It was lilies-of-the-valley more than once, and
I'm not exaggerating! Well, of course, we were going to be married and live
over the shop, and it was all going to be just so, and I was to have the window
to arrange...Oh, how I've done that window of a Saturday! Not really, of
course, madam, just dreaming, as you might say. I've done it for
Christmas—motto in holly, and all—and I've had my Easter lilies with a gorgeous
star all daffodils in the middle. I've hung—well, that's enough of that. The
day came he was to call for me to choose the furniture. Shall I ever forget it?
It was a Tuesday. My lady wasn't quite herself that afternoon. Not that she'd
said anything, of course; she never does or will. But I knew by the way that
she kept wrapping herself up and asking me if it was cold—and her little nose
looked...pinched. I didn't like leaving her; I knew I'd be worrying all the
time. At last I asked her if she'd rather I put it off. "Oh no,
Ellen," she said, "you mustn't mind about me. You mustn't disappoint
your young man." And so cheerful, you know, madam, never thinking about
herself. It made me feel worse than ever. I began to wonder...then she dropped
her handkerchief and began to stoop down to pick it up herself—a thing she
never did. "Whatever are you doing!" I cried, running to stop her.
"Well," she said, smiling, you know, madam, "I shall have to
begin to practise." Oh, it was all I could do not to burst out crying. I
went over to the dressing-table and made believe to rub up the silver, and I
couldn't keep myself in, and I asked her if she'd rather I...didn't get
married. "No, Ellen," she said— that was her voice, madam, like I'm
giving you—"No, Ellen, not for the wide world!" But while she said
it, madam—I was looking in her glass; of course, she didn't know I could see
her—she put her little hand on her heart just like her dear mother used to, and
lifted her eyes...Oh, madam!
When Harry came I had his letters all ready, and
the ring and a ducky little brooch he'd given me—a silver bird it was, with a
chain in its beak, and on the end of the chain a heart with a dagger. Quite the
thing! I opened the door to him. I never gave him time for a word. "There
you are," I said. "Take them all back," I said, "it's all
over. I'm not going to marry you," I said, "I can't leave my
lady." White! he turned as white as a woman. I had to slam the door, and
there I stood, all of a tremble, till I knew he had gone. When I opened the
door—believe me or not, madam—that man was gone! I ran out into the road just
as I was, in my apron and my house-shoes, and there I stayed in the middle of
the road...staring. People must have laughed if they saw me...
...Goodness gracious!—What's that? It's the
clock striking! And here I've been keeping you awake. Oh, madam, you ought to
have stopped me...Can I tuck in your feet? I always tuck in my lady's feet,
every night, just the same. And she says, "Good night, Ellen. Sleep sound
and wake early!" I don't know what I should do if she didn't say that,
now.
...Oh dear, I sometimes think...whatever should
I do if anything were to...But, there, thinking's no good to any one—is it,
madam? Thinking won't help. Not that I do it often. And if ever I do I pull
myself up sharp, "Now, then, Ellen. At it again—you silly girl! If you
can't find anything better to do than to start thinking!..."
THE END
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