The Garden Party by Katherine Mansfield

The Garden Party
by
Katherine Mansfield
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.
Chapter 1.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 shockhaired
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 milkgirl.
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 charredlooking
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.
Chapter 1.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.
Chapter 1.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-inlaw
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.
Chapter 1.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 washhand basin of very brown
fruit-salad, buns cut into four and a washhand 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.
Chapter 1.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.
Chapter 1.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.
Chapter 1.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.
Chapter 1.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 brownpaper
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 lifesize
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.
Chapter 1.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 sandhills,
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.
Chapter 1.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.
Chapter 1.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.
Chapter 1.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.
Chapter 1.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 toolbags
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 breadand-
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-andbutter
as she stared at the little drawing. She felt just like a workgirl.
"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.
Chapter 3.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 dressinggown,
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.
Chapter 3.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."
Chapter 3.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.
Chapter 3.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 drawingroom
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."
Chapter 3.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!"
Chapter 3.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 doorhandle 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.
Chapter 3.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 laboursaving
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 sisterin-
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."
Chapter 3.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."
Chapter 3.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 meringueshell
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."
Chapter 3.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?"
Chapter 3.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--"
Chapter 3.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 windowledge.
"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," be 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 orangetrees
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 inkblack
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 armchairs.
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, blindlooking
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 woodpile,
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 indiarubber. 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 wateringcan
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 marblewhite
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. 'Dreear!'"
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 harbourmaster
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 harbourmaster--"
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 tomorrow,
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 elevatorbell.
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 dressingtable.
"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 today.
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 firstclass
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 telephoneroom
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!..."