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| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:17:08 -0700 |
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| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:17:08 -0700 |
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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/1429-0.txt b/1429-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ef1e08c --- /dev/null +++ b/1429-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,6966 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1429 *** + +The Garden Party + +AND OTHER STORIES + +by Katherine Mansfield + +_Montaigne dit que les hommes vont béant +aux choses futures; j’ai la manie de béer +aux choses passées_ + +To John Middleton Murry + + +Contents + + At the Bay + The Garden-Party + The Daughters of the Late Colonel + Mr. and Mrs. Dove + The Young Girl + Life of Ma Parker + Marriage à la Mode + The Voyage + Miss Brill + Her First Ball + The Singing Lesson + The Stranger + Bank Holiday + An Ideal Family + The Lady’s Maid + + + + +At the Bay + +I + + +Very early morning. The sun was not yet risen, and the whole of +Crescent Bay was hidden under a white sea-mist. The big bush-covered +hills at the back were smothered. You could not see where they ended +and the paddocks and bungalows began. The sandy road was gone and the +paddocks and bungalows the other side of it; there were no white dunes +covered with reddish grass beyond them; there was nothing to mark which +was beach and where was the sea. A heavy dew had fallen. The grass was +blue. Big drops hung on the bushes and just did not fall; the silvery, +fluffy toi-toi was limp on its long stalks, and all the marigolds and +the pinks in the bungalow gardens were bowed to the earth with wetness. +Drenched were the cold fuchsias, round pearls of dew lay on the flat +nasturtium leaves. It looked as though the sea had beaten up softly in +the darkness, as though one immense wave had come rippling, +rippling—how far? Perhaps if you had waked up in the middle of the +night you might have seen a big fish flicking in at the window and gone +again.... + +Ah-Aah! sounded the sleepy sea. And from the bush there came the sound +of little streams flowing, quickly, lightly, slipping between the +smooth stones, gushing into ferny basins and out again; and there was +the splashing of big drops on large leaves, and something else—what was +it?—a faint stirring and shaking, the snapping of a twig and then such +silence that it seemed some one was listening. + +Round the corner of Crescent Bay, between the piled-up masses of broken +rock, a flock of sheep came pattering. They were huddled together, a +small, tossing, woolly mass, and their thin, stick-like legs trotted +along quickly as if the cold and the quiet had frightened them. Behind +them an old sheep-dog, his soaking paws covered with sand, ran along +with his nose to the ground, but carelessly, as if thinking of +something else. And then in the rocky gateway the shepherd himself +appeared. He was a lean, upright old man, in a frieze coat that was +covered with a web of tiny drops, velvet trousers tied under the knee, +and a wide-awake with a folded blue handkerchief round the brim. One +hand was crammed into his belt, the other grasped a beautifully smooth +yellow stick. And as he walked, taking his time, he kept up a very soft +light whistling, an airy, far-away fluting that sounded mournful and +tender. The old dog cut an ancient caper or two and then drew up sharp, +ashamed of his levity, and walked a few dignified paces by his master’s +side. The sheep ran forward in little pattering rushes; they began to +bleat, and ghostly flocks and herds answered them from under the sea. +“Baa! Baaa!” For a time they seemed to be always on the same piece of +ground. There ahead was stretched the sandy road with shallow puddles; +the same soaking bushes showed on either side and the same shadowy +palings. Then something immense came into view; an enormous +shock-haired giant with his arms stretched out. It was the big gum-tree +outside Mrs. Stubbs’ shop, and as they passed by there was a strong +whiff of eucalyptus. And now big spots of light gleamed in the mist. +The shepherd stopped whistling; he rubbed his red nose and wet beard on +his wet sleeve and, screwing up his eyes, glanced in the direction of +the sea. The sun was rising. It was marvellous how quickly the mist +thinned, sped away, dissolved from the shallow plain, rolled up from +the bush and was gone as if in a hurry to escape; big twists and curls +jostled and shouldered each other as the silvery beams broadened. The +far-away sky—a bright, pure blue—was reflected in the puddles, and the +drops, swimming along the telegraph poles, flashed into points of +light. Now the leaping, glittering sea was so bright it made one’s eyes +ache to look at it. The shepherd drew a pipe, the bowl as small as an +acorn, out of his breast pocket, fumbled for a chunk of speckled +tobacco, pared off a few shavings and stuffed the bowl. He was a grave, +fine-looking old man. As he lit up and the blue smoke wreathed his +head, the dog, watching, looked proud of him. + +“Baa! Baaa!” The sheep spread out into a fan. They were just clear of +the summer colony before the first sleeper turned over and lifted a +drowsy head; their cry sounded in the dreams of little children... who +lifted their arms to drag down, to cuddle the darling little woolly +lambs of sleep. Then the first inhabitant appeared; it was the +Burnells’ cat Florrie, sitting on the gatepost, far too early as usual, +looking for their milk-girl. When she saw the old sheep-dog she sprang +up quickly, arched her back, drew in her tabby head, and seemed to give +a little fastidious shiver. “Ugh! What a coarse, revolting creature!” +said Florrie. But the old sheep-dog, not looking up, waggled past, +flinging out his legs from side to side. Only one of his ears twitched +to prove that he saw, and thought her a silly young female. + +The breeze of morning lifted in the bush and the smell of leaves and +wet black earth mingled with the sharp smell of the sea. Myriads of +birds were singing. A goldfinch flew over the shepherd’s head and, +perching on the tiptop of a spray, it turned to the sun, ruffling its +small breast feathers. And now they had passed the fisherman’s hut, +passed the charred-looking little _whare_ where Leila the milk-girl +lived with her old Gran. The sheep strayed over a yellow swamp and Wag, +the sheep-dog, padded after, rounded them up and headed them for the +steeper, narrower rocky pass that led out of Crescent Bay and towards +Daylight Cove. “Baa! Baa!” Faint the cry came as they rocked along the +fast-drying road. The shepherd put away his pipe, dropping it into his +breast-pocket so that the little bowl hung over. And straightway the +soft airy whistling began again. Wag ran out along a ledge of rock +after something that smelled, and ran back again disgusted. Then +pushing, nudging, hurrying, the sheep rounded the bend and the shepherd +followed after out of sight. + + +II + +A few moments later the back door of one of the bungalows opened, and a +figure in a broad-striped bathing suit flung down the paddock, cleared +the stile, rushed through the tussock grass into the hollow, staggered +up the sandy hillock, and raced for dear life over the big porous +stones, over the cold, wet pebbles, on to the hard sand that gleamed +like oil. Splish-Splosh! Splish-Splosh! The water bubbled round his +legs as Stanley Burnell waded out exulting. First man in as usual! He’d +beaten them all again. And he swooped down to souse his head and neck. + +“Hail, brother! All hail, Thou Mighty One!” A velvety bass voice came +booming over the water. + +Great Scott! Damnation take it! Stanley lifted up to see a dark head +bobbing far out and an arm lifted. It was Jonathan Trout—there before +him! “Glorious morning!” sang the voice. + +“Yes, very fine!” said Stanley briefly. Why the dickens didn’t the +fellow stick to his part of the sea? Why should he come barging over to +this exact spot? Stanley gave a kick, a lunge and struck out, swimming +overarm. But Jonathan was a match for him. Up he came, his black hair +sleek on his forehead, his short beard sleek. + +“I had an extraordinary dream last night!” he shouted. + +What was the matter with the man? This mania for conversation irritated +Stanley beyond words. And it was always the same—always some piffle +about a dream he’d had, or some cranky idea he’d got hold of, or some +rot he’d been reading. Stanley turned over on his back and kicked with +his legs till he was a living waterspout. But even then.... “I dreamed +I was hanging over a terrifically high cliff, shouting to some one +below.” You would be! thought Stanley. He could stick no more of it. He +stopped splashing. “Look here, Trout,” he said, “I’m in rather a hurry +this morning.” + +“You’re WHAT?” Jonathan was so surprised—or pretended to be—that he +sank under the water, then reappeared again blowing. + +“All I mean is,” said Stanley, “I’ve no time to—to—to fool about. I +want to get this over. I’m in a hurry. I’ve work to do this +morning—see?” + +Jonathan was gone before Stanley had finished. “Pass, friend!” said the +bass voice gently, and he slid away through the water with scarcely a +ripple.... But curse the fellow! He’d ruined Stanley’s bathe. What an +unpractical idiot the man was! Stanley struck out to sea again, and +then as quickly swam in again, and away he rushed up the beach. He felt +cheated. + +Jonathan stayed a little longer in the water. He floated, gently moving +his hands like fins, and letting the sea rock his long, skinny body. It +was curious, but in spite of everything he was fond of Stanley Burnell. +True, he had a fiendish desire to tease him sometimes, to poke fun at +him, but at bottom he was sorry for the fellow. There was something +pathetic in his determination to make a job of everything. You couldn’t +help feeling he’d be caught out one day, and then what an almighty +cropper he’d come! At that moment an immense wave lifted Jonathan, rode +past him, and broke along the beach with a joyful sound. What a beauty! +And now there came another. That was the way to live—carelessly, +recklessly, spending oneself. He got on to his feet and began to wade +towards the shore, pressing his toes into the firm, wrinkled sand. To +take things easy, not to fight against the ebb and flow of life, but to +give way to it—that was what was needed. It was this tension that was +all wrong. To live—to live! And the perfect morning, so fresh and fair, +basking in the light, as though laughing at its own beauty, seemed to +whisper, “Why not?” + +But now he was out of the water Jonathan turned blue with cold. He +ached all over; it was as though some one was wringing the blood out of +him. And stalking up the beach, shivering, all his muscles tight, he +too felt his bathe was spoilt. He’d stayed in too long. + + +III + +Beryl was alone in the living-room when Stanley appeared, wearing a +blue serge suit, a stiff collar and a spotted tie. He looked almost +uncannily clean and brushed; he was going to town for the day. Dropping +into his chair, he pulled out his watch and put it beside his plate. + +“I’ve just got twenty-five minutes,” he said. “You might go and see if +the porridge is ready, Beryl?” + +“Mother’s just gone for it,” said Beryl. She sat down at the table and +poured out his tea. + +“Thanks!” Stanley took a sip. “Hallo!” he said in an astonished voice, +“you’ve forgotten the sugar.” + +“Oh, sorry!” But even then Beryl didn’t help him; she pushed the basin +across. What did this mean? As Stanley helped himself his blue eyes +widened; they seemed to quiver. He shot a quick glance at his +sister-in-law and leaned back. + +“Nothing wrong, is there?” he asked carelessly, fingering his collar. + +Beryl’s head was bent; she turned her plate in her fingers. + +“Nothing,” said her light voice. Then she too looked up, and smiled at +Stanley. “Why should there be?” + +“O-oh! No reason at all as far as I know. I thought you seemed rather—” + +At that moment the door opened and the three little girls appeared, +each carrying a porridge plate. They were dressed alike in blue jerseys +and knickers; their brown legs were bare, and each had her hair plaited +and pinned up in what was called a horse’s tail. Behind them came Mrs. +Fairfield with the tray. + +“Carefully, children,” she warned. But they were taking the very +greatest care. They loved being allowed to carry things. “Have you said +good morning to your father?” + +“Yes, grandma.” They settled themselves on the bench opposite Stanley +and Beryl. + +“Good morning, Stanley!” Old Mrs. Fairfield gave him his plate. + +“Morning, mother! How’s the boy?” + +“Splendid! He only woke up once last night. What a perfect morning!” +The old woman paused, her hand on the loaf of bread, to gaze out of the +open door into the garden. The sea sounded. Through the wide-open +window streamed the sun on to the yellow varnished walls and bare +floor. Everything on the table flashed and glittered. In the middle +there was an old salad bowl filled with yellow and red nasturtiums. She +smiled, and a look of deep content shone in her eyes. + +“You might _cut_ me a slice of that bread, mother,” said Stanley. “I’ve +only twelve and a half minutes before the coach passes. Has anyone +given my shoes to the servant girl?” + +“Yes, they’re ready for you.” Mrs. Fairfield was quite unruffled. + +“Oh, Kezia! Why are you such a messy child!” cried Beryl despairingly. + +“Me, Aunt Beryl?” Kezia stared at her. What had she done now? She had +only dug a river down the middle of her porridge, filled it, and was +eating the banks away. But she did that every single morning, and no +one had said a word up till now. + +“Why can’t you eat your food properly like Isabel and Lottie?” How +unfair grown-ups are! + +“But Lottie always makes a floating island, don’t you, Lottie?” + +“I don’t,” said Isabel smartly. “I just sprinkle mine with sugar and +put on the milk and finish it. Only babies play with their food.” + +Stanley pushed back his chair and got up. + +“Would you get me those shoes, mother? And, Beryl, if you’ve finished, +I wish you’d cut down to the gate and stop the coach. Run in to your +mother, Isabel, and ask her where my bowler hat’s been put. Wait a +minute—have you children been playing with my stick?” + +“No, father!” + +“But I put it here.” Stanley began to bluster. “I remember distinctly +putting it in this corner. Now, who’s had it? There’s no time to lose. +Look sharp! The stick’s got to be found.” + +Even Alice, the servant-girl, was drawn into the chase. “You haven’t +been using it to poke the kitchen fire with by any chance?” + +Stanley dashed into the bedroom where Linda was lying. “Most +extraordinary thing. I can’t keep a single possession to myself. +They’ve made away with my stick, now!” + +“Stick, dear? What stick?” Linda’s vagueness on these occasions could +not be real, Stanley decided. Would nobody sympathize with him? + +“Coach! Coach, Stanley!” Beryl’s voice cried from the gate. + +Stanley waved his arm to Linda. “No time to say good-bye!” he cried. +And he meant that as a punishment to her. + +He snatched his bowler hat, dashed out of the house, and swung down the +garden path. Yes, the coach was there waiting, and Beryl, leaning over +the open gate, was laughing up at somebody or other just as if nothing +had happened. The heartlessness of women! The way they took it for +granted it was your job to slave away for them while they didn’t even +take the trouble to see that your walking-stick wasn’t lost. Kelly +trailed his whip across the horses. + +“Good-bye, Stanley,” called Beryl, sweetly and gaily. It was easy +enough to say good-bye! And there she stood, idle, shading her eyes +with her hand. The worst of it was Stanley had to shout good-bye too, +for the sake of appearances. Then he saw her turn, give a little skip +and run back to the house. She was glad to be rid of him! + +Yes, she was thankful. Into the living-room she ran and called “He’s +gone!” Linda cried from her room: “Beryl! Has Stanley gone?” Old Mrs. +Fairfield appeared, carrying the boy in his little flannel coatee. + +“Gone?” + +“Gone!” + +Oh, the relief, the difference it made to have the man out of the +house. Their very voices were changed as they called to one another; +they sounded warm and loving and as if they shared a secret. Beryl went +over to the table. “Have another cup of tea, mother. It’s still hot.” +She wanted, somehow, to celebrate the fact that they could do what they +liked now. There was no man to disturb them; the whole perfect day was +theirs. + +“No, thank you, child,” said old Mrs. Fairfield, but the way at that +moment she tossed the boy up and said “a-goos-a-goos-a-ga!” to him +meant that she felt the same. The little girls ran into the paddock +like chickens let out of a coop. + +Even Alice, the servant-girl, washing up the dishes in the kitchen, +caught the infection and used the precious tank water in a perfectly +reckless fashion. + +“Oh, these men!” said she, and she plunged the teapot into the bowl and +held it under the water even after it had stopped bubbling, as if it +too was a man and drowning was too good for them. + + +IV + +“Wait for me, Isa-bel! Kezia, wait for me!” + +There was poor little Lottie, left behind again, because she found it +so fearfully hard to get over the stile by herself. When she stood on +the first step her knees began to wobble; she grasped the post. Then +you had to put one leg over. But which leg? She never could decide. And +when she did finally put one leg over with a sort of stamp of +despair—then the feeling was awful. She was half in the paddock still +and half in the tussock grass. She clutched the post desperately and +lifted up her voice. “Wait for me!” + +“No, don’t you wait for her, Kezia!” said Isabel. “She’s such a little +silly. She’s always making a fuss. Come on!” And she tugged Kezia’s +jersey. “You can use my bucket if you come with me,” she said kindly. +“It’s bigger than yours.” But Kezia couldn’t leave Lottie all by +herself. She ran back to her. By this time Lottie was very red in the +face and breathing heavily. + +“Here, put your other foot over,” said Kezia. + +“Where?” + +Lottie looked down at Kezia as if from a mountain height. + +“Here where my hand is.” Kezia patted the place. + +“Oh, _there_ do you mean!” Lottie gave a deep sigh and put the second +foot over. + +“Now—sort of turn round and sit down and slide,” said Kezia. + +“But there’s nothing to sit down _on_, Kezia,” said Lottie. + +She managed it at last, and once it was over she shook herself and +began to beam. + +“I’m getting better at climbing over stiles, aren’t I, Kezia?” + +Lottie’s was a very hopeful nature. + +The pink and the blue sunbonnet followed Isabel’s bright red sunbonnet +up that sliding, slipping hill. At the top they paused to decide where +to go and to have a good stare at who was there already. Seen from +behind, standing against the skyline, gesticulating largely with their +spades, they looked like minute puzzled explorers. + +The whole family of Samuel Josephs was there already with their +lady-help, who sat on a camp-stool and kept order with a whistle that +she wore tied round her neck, and a small cane with which she directed +operations. The Samuel Josephs never played by themselves or managed +their own game. If they did, it ended in the boys pouring water down +the girls’ necks or the girls trying to put little black crabs into the +boys’ pockets. So Mrs. S. J. and the poor lady-help drew up what she +called a “brogramme” every morning to keep them “abused and out of +bischief.” It was all competitions or races or round games. Everything +began with a piercing blast of the lady-help’s whistle and ended with +another. There were even prizes—large, rather dirty paper parcels which +the lady-help with a sour little smile drew out of a bulging string +kit. The Samuel Josephs fought fearfully for the prizes and cheated and +pinched one another’s arms—they were all expert pinchers. The only time +the Burnell children ever played with them Kezia had got a prize, and +when she undid three bits of paper she found a very small rusty +button-hook. She couldn’t understand why they made such a fuss.... + +But they never played with the Samuel Josephs now or even went to their +parties. The Samuel Josephs were always giving children’s parties at +the Bay and there was always the same food. A big washhand basin of +very brown fruit-salad, buns cut into four and a washhand jug full of +something the lady-help called “Limmonadear.” And you went away in the +evening with half the frill torn off your frock or something spilled +all down the front of your open-work pinafore, leaving the Samuel +Josephs leaping like savages on their lawn. No! They were too awful. + +On the other side of the beach, close down to the water, two little +boys, their knickers rolled up, twinkled like spiders. One was digging, +the other pattered in and out of the water, filling a small bucket. +They were the Trout boys, Pip and Rags. But Pip was so busy digging and +Rags was so busy helping that they didn’t see their little cousins +until they were quite close. + +“Look!” said Pip. “Look what I’ve discovered.” And he showed them an +old wet, squashed-looking boot. The three little girls stared. + +“Whatever are you going to do with it?” asked Kezia. + +“Keep it, of course!” Pip was very scornful. “It’s a find—see?” + +Yes, Kezia saw that. All the same.... + +“There’s lots of things buried in the sand,” explained Pip. “They get +chucked up from wrecks. Treasure. Why—you might find—” + +“But why does Rags have to keep on pouring water in?” asked Lottie. + +“Oh, that’s to moisten it,” said Pip, “to make the work a bit easier. +Keep it up, Rags.” + +And good little Rags ran up and down, pouring in the water that turned +brown like cocoa. + +“Here, shall I show you what I found yesterday?” said Pip mysteriously, +and he stuck his spade into the sand. “Promise not to tell.” + +They promised. + +“Say, cross my heart straight dinkum.” + +The little girls said it. + +Pip took something out of his pocket, rubbed it a long time on the +front of his jersey, then breathed on it and rubbed it again. + +“Now turn round!” he ordered. + +They turned round. + +“All look the same way! Keep still! Now!” + +And his hand opened; he held up to the light something that flashed, +that winked, that was a most lovely green. + +“It’s a nemeral,” said Pip solemnly. + +“Is it really, Pip?” Even Isabel was impressed. + +The lovely green thing seemed to dance in Pip’s fingers. Aunt Beryl had +a nemeral in a ring, but it was a very small one. This one was as big +as a star and far more beautiful. + + +V + +As the morning lengthened whole parties appeared over the sand-hills +and came down on the beach to bathe. It was understood that at eleven +o’clock the women and children of the summer colony had the sea to +themselves. First the women undressed, pulled on their bathing dresses +and covered their heads in hideous caps like sponge bags; then the +children were unbuttoned. The beach was strewn with little heaps of +clothes and shoes; the big summer hats, with stones on them to keep +them from blowing away, looked like immense shells. It was strange that +even the sea seemed to sound differently when all those leaping, +laughing figures ran into the waves. Old Mrs. Fairfield, in a lilac +cotton dress and a black hat tied under the chin, gathered her little +brood and got them ready. The little Trout boys whipped their shirts +over their heads, and away the five sped, while their grandma sat with +one hand in her knitting-bag ready to draw out the ball of wool when +she was satisfied they were safely in. + +The firm compact little girls were not half so brave as the tender, +delicate-looking little boys. Pip and Rags, shivering, crouching down, +slapping the water, never hesitated. But Isabel, who could swim twelve +strokes, and Kezia, who could nearly swim eight, only followed on the +strict understanding they were not to be splashed. As for Lottie, she +didn’t follow at all. She liked to be left to go in her own way, +please. And that way was to sit down at the edge of the water, her legs +straight, her knees pressed together, and to make vague motions with +her arms as if she expected to be wafted out to sea. But when a bigger +wave than usual, an old whiskery one, came lolloping along in her +direction, she scrambled to her feet with a face of horror and flew up +the beach again. + +“Here, mother, keep those for me, will you?” + +Two rings and a thin gold chain were dropped into Mrs Fairfield’s lap. + +“Yes, dear. But aren’t you going to bathe here?” + +“No-o,” Beryl drawled. She sounded vague. “I’m undressing farther +along. I’m going to bathe with Mrs. Harry Kember.” + +“Very well.” But Mrs. Fairfield’s lips set. She disapproved of Mrs +Harry Kember. Beryl knew it. + +Poor old mother, she smiled, as she skimmed over the stones. Poor old +mother! Old! Oh, what joy, what bliss it was to be young.... + +“You look very pleased,” said Mrs. Harry Kember. She sat hunched up on +the stones, her arms round her knees, smoking. + +“It’s such a lovely day,” said Beryl, smiling down at her. + +“Oh my _dear_!” Mrs. Harry Kember’s voice sounded as though she knew +better than that. But then her voice always sounded as though she knew +something better about you than you did yourself. She was a long, +strange-looking woman with narrow hands and feet. Her face, too, was +long and narrow and exhausted-looking; even her fair curled fringe +looked burnt out and withered. She was the only woman at the Bay who +smoked, and she smoked incessantly, keeping the cigarette between her +lips while she talked, and only taking it out when the ash was so long +you could not understand why it did not fall. When she was not playing +bridge—she played bridge every day of her life—she spent her time lying +in the full glare of the sun. She could stand any amount of it; she +never had enough. All the same, it did not seem to warm her. Parched, +withered, cold, she lay stretched on the stones like a piece of +tossed-up driftwood. The women at the Bay thought she was very, very +fast. Her lack of vanity, her slang, the way she treated men as though +she was one of them, and the fact that she didn’t care twopence about +her house and called the servant Gladys “Glad-eyes,” was disgraceful. +Standing on the veranda steps Mrs. Kember would call in her +indifferent, tired voice, “I say, Glad-eyes, you might heave me a +handkerchief if I’ve got one, will you?” And Glad-eyes, a red bow in +her hair instead of a cap, and white shoes, came running with an +impudent smile. It was an absolute scandal! True, she had no children, +and her husband.... Here the voices were always raised; they became +fervent. How can he have married her? How can he, how can he? It must +have been money, of course, but even then! + +Mrs. Kember’s husband was at least ten years younger than she was, and +so incredibly handsome that he looked like a mask or a most perfect +illustration in an American novel rather than a man. Black hair, dark +blue eyes, red lips, a slow sleepy smile, a fine tennis player, a +perfect dancer, and with it all a mystery. Harry Kember was like a man +walking in his sleep. Men couldn’t stand him, they couldn’t get a word +out of the chap; he ignored his wife just as she ignored him. How did +he live? Of course there were stories, but such stories! They simply +couldn’t be told. The women he’d been seen with, the places he’d been +seen in... but nothing was ever certain, nothing definite. Some of the +women at the Bay privately thought he’d commit a murder one day. Yes, +even while they talked to Mrs. Kember and took in the awful concoction +she was wearing, they saw her, stretched as she lay on the beach; but +cold, bloody, and still with a cigarette stuck in the corner of her +mouth. + +Mrs. Kember rose, yawned, unsnapped her belt buckle, and tugged at the +tape of her blouse. And Beryl stepped out of her skirt and shed her +jersey, and stood up in her short white petticoat, and her camisole +with ribbon bows on the shoulders. + +“Mercy on us,” said Mrs. Harry Kember, “what a little beauty you are!” + +“Don’t!” said Beryl softly; but, drawing off one stocking and then the +other, she felt a little beauty. + +“My dear—why not?” said Mrs. Harry Kember, stamping on her own +petticoat. Really—her underclothes! A pair of blue cotton knickers and +a linen bodice that reminded one somehow of a pillow-case.... “And you +don’t wear stays, do you?” She touched Beryl’s waist, and Beryl sprang +away with a small affected cry. Then “Never!” she said firmly. + +“Lucky little creature,” sighed Mrs. Kember, unfastening her own. + +Beryl turned her back and began the complicated movements of some one +who is trying to take off her clothes and to pull on her bathing-dress +all at one and the same time. + +“Oh, my dear—don’t mind me,” said Mrs. Harry Kember. “Why be shy? I +shan’t eat you. I shan’t be shocked like those other ninnies.” And she +gave her strange neighing laugh and grimaced at the other women. + +But Beryl was shy. She never undressed in front of anybody. Was that +silly? Mrs. Harry Kember made her feel it was silly, even something to +be ashamed of. Why be shy indeed! She glanced quickly at her friend +standing so boldly in her torn chemise and lighting a fresh cigarette; +and a quick, bold, evil feeling started up in her breast. Laughing +recklessly, she drew on the limp, sandy-feeling bathing-dress that was +not quite dry and fastened the twisted buttons. + +“That’s better,” said Mrs. Harry Kember. They began to go down the +beach together. “Really, it’s a sin for you to wear clothes, my dear. +Somebody’s got to tell you some day.” + +The water was quite warm. It was that marvellous transparent blue, +flecked with silver, but the sand at the bottom looked gold; when you +kicked with your toes there rose a little puff of gold-dust. Now the +waves just reached her breast. Beryl stood, her arms outstretched, +gazing out, and as each wave came she gave the slightest little jump, +so that it seemed it was the wave which lifted her so gently. + +“I believe in pretty girls having a good time,” said Mrs. Harry Kember. +“Why not? Don’t you make a mistake, my dear. Enjoy yourself.” And +suddenly she turned turtle, disappeared, and swam away quickly, +quickly, like a rat. Then she flicked round and began swimming back. +She was going to say something else. Beryl felt that she was being +poisoned by this cold woman, but she longed to hear. But oh, how +strange, how horrible! As Mrs. Harry Kember came up close she looked, +in her black waterproof bathing-cap, with her sleepy face lifted above +the water, just her chin touching, like a horrible caricature of her +husband. + + +VI + +In a steamer chair, under a manuka tree that grew in the middle of the +front grass patch, Linda Burnell dreamed the morning away. She did +nothing. She looked up at the dark, close, dry leaves of the manuka, at +the chinks of blue between, and now and again a tiny yellowish flower +dropped on her. Pretty—yes, if you held one of those flowers on the +palm of your hand and looked at it closely, it was an exquisite small +thing. Each pale yellow petal shone as if each was the careful work of +a loving hand. The tiny tongue in the centre gave it the shape of a +bell. And when you turned it over the outside was a deep bronze colour. +But as soon as they flowered, they fell and were scattered. You brushed +them off your frock as you talked; the horrid little things got caught +in one’s hair. Why, then, flower at all? Who takes the trouble—or the +joy—to make all these things that are wasted, wasted.... It was +uncanny. + +On the grass beside her, lying between two pillows, was the boy. Sound +asleep he lay, his head turned away from his mother. His fine dark hair +looked more like a shadow than like real hair, but his ear was a +bright, deep coral. Linda clasped her hands above her head and crossed +her feet. It was very pleasant to know that all these bungalows were +empty, that everybody was down on the beach, out of sight, out of +hearing. She had the garden to herself; she was alone. + +Dazzling white the picotees shone; the golden-eyed marigold glittered; +the nasturtiums wreathed the veranda poles in green and gold flame. If +only one had time to look at these flowers long enough, time to get +over the sense of novelty and strangeness, time to know them! But as +soon as one paused to part the petals, to discover the under-side of +the leaf, along came Life and one was swept away. And, lying in her +cane chair, Linda felt so light; she felt like a leaf. Along came Life +like a wind and she was seized and shaken; she had to go. Oh dear, +would it always be so? Was there no escape? + +... Now she sat on the veranda of their Tasmanian home, leaning against +her father’s knee. And he promised, “As soon as you and I are old +enough, Linny, we’ll cut off somewhere, we’ll escape. Two boys +together. I have a fancy I’d like to sail up a river in China.” Linda +saw that river, very wide, covered with little rafts and boats. She saw +the yellow hats of the boatmen and she heard their high, thin voices as +they called.... + +“Yes, papa.” + +But just then a very broad young man with bright ginger hair walked +slowly past their house, and slowly, solemnly even, uncovered. Linda’s +father pulled her ear teasingly, in the way he had. + +“Linny’s beau,” he whispered. + +“Oh, papa, fancy being married to Stanley Burnell!” + +Well, she was married to him. And what was more she loved him. Not the +Stanley whom every one saw, not the everyday one; but a timid, +sensitive, innocent Stanley who knelt down every night to say his +prayers, and who longed to be good. Stanley was simple. If he believed +in people—as he believed in her, for instance—it was with his whole +heart. He could not be disloyal; he could not tell a lie. And how +terribly he suffered if he thought anyone—she—was not being dead +straight, dead sincere with him! “This is too subtle for me!” He flung +out the words, but his open, quivering, distraught look was like the +look of a trapped beast. + +But the trouble was—here Linda felt almost inclined to laugh, though +Heaven knows it was no laughing matter—she saw _her_ Stanley so seldom. +There were glimpses, moments, breathing spaces of calm, but all the +rest of the time it was like living in a house that couldn’t be cured +of the habit of catching on fire, on a ship that got wrecked every day. +And it was always Stanley who was in the thick of the danger. Her whole +time was spent in rescuing him, and restoring him, and calming him +down, and listening to his story. And what was left of her time was +spent in the dread of having children. + +Linda frowned; she sat up quickly in her steamer chair and clasped her +ankles. Yes, that was her real grudge against life; that was what she +could not understand. That was the question she asked and asked, and +listened in vain for the answer. It was all very well to say it was the +common lot of women to bear children. It wasn’t true. She, for one, +could prove that wrong. She was broken, made weak, her courage was +gone, through child-bearing. And what made it doubly hard to bear was, +she did not love her children. It was useless pretending. Even if she +had had the strength she never would have nursed and played with the +little girls. No, it was as though a cold breath had chilled her +through and through on each of those awful journeys; she had no warmth +left to give them. As to the boy—well, thank Heaven, mother had taken +him; he was mother’s, or Beryl’s, or anybody’s who wanted him. She had +hardly held him in her arms. She was so indifferent about him that as +he lay there... Linda glanced down. + +The boy had turned over. He lay facing her, and he was no longer +asleep. His dark-blue, baby eyes were open; he looked as though he was +peeping at his mother. And suddenly his face dimpled; it broke into a +wide, toothless smile, a perfect beam, no less. + +“I’m here!” that happy smile seemed to say. “Why don’t you like me?” + +There was something so quaint, so unexpected about that smile that +Linda smiled herself. But she checked herself and said to the boy +coldly, “I don’t like babies.” + +“Don’t like babies?” The boy couldn’t believe her. “Don’t like _me_?” +He waved his arms foolishly at his mother. + +Linda dropped off her chair on to the grass. + +“Why do you keep on smiling?” she said severely. “If you knew what I +was thinking about, you wouldn’t.” + +But he only squeezed up his eyes, slyly, and rolled his head on the +pillow. He didn’t believe a word she said. + +“We know all about that!” smiled the boy. + +Linda was so astonished at the confidence of this little creature.... +Ah no, be sincere. That was not what she felt; it was something far +different, it was something so new, so.... The tears danced in her +eyes; she breathed in a small whisper to the boy, “Hallo, my funny!” + +But by now the boy had forgotten his mother. He was serious again. +Something pink, something soft waved in front of him. He made a grab at +it and it immediately disappeared. But when he lay back, another, like +the first, appeared. This time he determined to catch it. He made a +tremendous effort and rolled right over. + + +VII + +The tide was out; the beach was deserted; lazily flopped the warm sea. +The sun beat down, beat down hot and fiery on the fine sand, baking the +grey and blue and black and white-veined pebbles. It sucked up the +little drop of water that lay in the hollow of the curved shells; it +bleached the pink convolvulus that threaded through and through the +sand-hills. Nothing seemed to move but the small sand-hoppers. +Pit-pit-pit! They were never still. + +Over there on the weed-hung rocks that looked at low tide like shaggy +beasts come down to the water to drink, the sunlight seemed to spin +like a silver coin dropped into each of the small rock pools. They +danced, they quivered, and minute ripples laved the porous shores. +Looking down, bending over, each pool was like a lake with pink and +blue houses clustered on the shores; and oh! the vast mountainous +country behind those houses—the ravines, the passes, the dangerous +creeks and fearful tracks that led to the water’s edge. Underneath +waved the sea-forest—pink thread-like trees, velvet anemones, and +orange berry-spotted weeds. Now a stone on the bottom moved, rocked, +and there was a glimpse of a black feeler; now a thread-like creature +wavered by and was lost. Something was happening to the pink, waving +trees; they were changing to a cold moonlight blue. And now there +sounded the faintest “plop.” Who made that sound? What was going on +down there? And how strong, how damp the seaweed smelt in the hot +sun.... + +The green blinds were drawn in the bungalows of the summer colony. Over +the verandas, prone on the paddock, flung over the fences, there were +exhausted-looking bathing-dresses and rough striped towels. Each back +window seemed to have a pair of sand-shoes on the sill and some lumps +of rock or a bucket or a collection of pawa shells. The bush quivered +in a haze of heat; the sandy road was empty except for the Trouts’ dog +Snooker, who lay stretched in the very middle of it. His blue eye was +turned up, his legs stuck out stiffly, and he gave an occasional +desperate-sounding puff, as much as to say he had decided to make an +end of it and was only waiting for some kind cart to come along. + +“What are you looking at, my grandma? Why do you keep stopping and sort +of staring at the wall?” + +Kezia and her grandmother were taking their siesta together. The little +girl, wearing only her short drawers and her under-bodice, her arms and +legs bare, lay on one of the puffed-up pillows of her grandma’s bed, +and the old woman, in a white ruffled dressing-gown, sat in a rocker at +the window, with a long piece of pink knitting in her lap. This room +that they shared, like the other rooms of the bungalow, was of light +varnished wood and the floor was bare. The furniture was of the +shabbiest, the simplest. The dressing-table, for instance, was a +packing-case in a sprigged muslin petticoat, and the mirror above was +very strange; it was as though a little piece of forked lightning was +imprisoned in it. On the table there stood a jar of sea-pinks, pressed +so tightly together they looked more like a velvet pincushion, and a +special shell which Kezia had given her grandma for a pin-tray, and +another even more special which she had thought would make a very nice +place for a watch to curl up in. + +“Tell me, grandma,” said Kezia. + +The old woman sighed, whipped the wool twice round her thumb, and drew +the bone needle through. She was casting on. + +“I was thinking of your Uncle William, darling,” she said quietly. + +“My Australian Uncle William?” said Kezia. She had another. + +“Yes, of course.” + +“The one I never saw?” + +“That was the one.” + +“Well, what happened to him?” Kezia knew perfectly well, but she wanted +to be told again. + +“He went to the mines, and he got a sunstroke there and died,” said old +Mrs. Fairfield. + +Kezia blinked and considered the picture again.... A little man fallen +over like a tin soldier by the side of a big black hole. + +“Does it make you sad to think about him, grandma?” She hated her +grandma to be sad. + +It was the old woman’s turn to consider. Did it make her sad? To look +back, back. To stare down the years, as Kezia had seen her doing. To +look after _them_ as a woman does, long after _they_ were out of sight. +Did it make her sad? No, life was like that. + +“No, Kezia.” + +“But why?” asked Kezia. She lifted one bare arm and began to draw +things in the air. “Why did Uncle William have to die? He wasn’t old.” + +Mrs. Fairfield began counting the stitches in threes. “It just +happened,” she said in an absorbed voice. + +“Does everybody have to die?” asked Kezia. + +“Everybody!” + +“_Me?_” Kezia sounded fearfully incredulous. + +“Some day, my darling.” + +“But, grandma.” Kezia waved her left leg and waggled the toes. They +felt sandy. “What if I just won’t?” + +The old woman sighed again and drew a long thread from the ball. + +“We’re not asked, Kezia,” she said sadly. “It happens to all of us +sooner or later.” + +Kezia lay still thinking this over. She didn’t want to die. It meant +she would have to leave here, leave everywhere, for ever, leave—leave +her grandma. She rolled over quickly. + +“Grandma,” she said in a startled voice. + +“What, my pet!” + +“_You’re_ not to die.” Kezia was very decided. + +“Ah, Kezia”—her grandma looked up and smiled and shook her head—“don’t +let’s talk about it.” + +“But you’re not to. You couldn’t leave me. You couldn’t not be there.” +This was awful. “Promise me you won’t ever do it, grandma,” pleaded +Kezia. + +The old woman went on knitting. + +“Promise me! Say never!” + +But still her grandma was silent. + +Kezia rolled off her bed; she couldn’t bear it any longer, and lightly +she leapt on to her grandma’s knees, clasped her hands round the old +woman’s throat and began kissing her, under the chin, behind the ear, +and blowing down her neck. + +“Say never... say never... say never—” She gasped between the kisses. +And then she began, very softly and lightly, to tickle her grandma. + +“Kezia!” The old woman dropped her knitting. She swung back in the +rocker. She began to tickle Kezia. “Say never, say never, say never,” +gurgled Kezia, while they lay there laughing in each other’s arms. +“Come, that’s enough, my squirrel! That’s enough, my wild pony!” said +old Mrs. Fairfield, setting her cap straight. “Pick up my knitting.” + +Both of them had forgotten what the “never” was about. + + +VIII + +The sun was still full on the garden when the back door of the +Burnells’ shut with a bang, and a very gay figure walked down the path +to the gate. It was Alice, the servant-girl, dressed for her afternoon +out. She wore a white cotton dress with such large red spots on it and +so many that they made you shudder, white shoes and a leghorn turned up +under the brim with poppies. Of course she wore gloves, white ones, +stained at the fastenings with iron-mould, and in one hand she carried +a very dashed-looking sunshade which she referred to as her +“_perishall_.” + +Beryl, sitting in the window, fanning her freshly-washed hair, thought +she had never seen such a guy. If Alice had only blacked her face with +a piece of cork before she started out, the picture would have been +complete. And where did a girl like that go to in a place like this? +The heart-shaped Fijian fan beat scornfully at that lovely bright mane. +She supposed Alice had picked up some horrible common larrikin and +they’d go off into the bush together. Pity to have made herself so +conspicuous; they’d have hard work to hide with Alice in that rig-out. + +But no, Beryl was unfair. Alice was going to tea with Mrs Stubbs, who’d +sent her an “invite” by the little boy who called for orders. She had +taken ever such a liking to Mrs. Stubbs ever since the first time she +went to the shop to get something for her mosquitoes. + +“Dear heart!” Mrs. Stubbs had clapped her hand to her side. “I never +seen anyone so eaten. You might have been attacked by canningbals.” + +Alice did wish there’d been a bit of life on the road though. Made her +feel so queer, having nobody behind her. Made her feel all weak in the +spine. She couldn’t believe that some one wasn’t watching her. And yet +it was silly to turn round; it gave you away. She pulled up her gloves, +hummed to herself and said to the distant gum-tree, “Shan’t be long +now.” But that was hardly company. + +Mrs. Stubbs’s shop was perched on a little hillock just off the road. +It had two big windows for eyes, a broad veranda for a hat, and the +sign on the roof, scrawled MRS. STUBBS’S, was like a little card stuck +rakishly in the hat crown. + +On the veranda there hung a long string of bathing-dresses, clinging +together as though they’d just been rescued from the sea rather than +waiting to go in, and beside them there hung a cluster of sandshoes so +extraordinarily mixed that to get at one pair you had to tear apart and +forcibly separate at least fifty. Even then it was the rarest thing to +find the left that belonged to the right. So many people had lost +patience and gone off with one shoe that fitted and one that was a +little too big.... Mrs. Stubbs prided herself on keeping something of +everything. The two windows, arranged in the form of precarious +pyramids, were crammed so tight, piled so high, that it seemed only a +conjurer could prevent them from toppling over. In the left-hand corner +of one window, glued to the pane by four gelatine lozenges, there +was—and there had been from time immemorial—a notice. + + LOST! HANSOME GOLE BROOCH + SOLID GOLD + ON OR NEAR BEACH + REWARD OFFERED + +Alice pressed open the door. The bell jangled, the red serge curtains +parted, and Mrs. Stubbs appeared. With her broad smile and the long +bacon knife in her hand, she looked like a friendly brigand. Alice was +welcomed so warmly that she found it quite difficult to keep up her +“manners.” They consisted of persistent little coughs and hems, pulls +at her gloves, tweaks at her skirt, and a curious difficulty in seeing +what was set before her or understanding what was said. + +Tea was laid on the parlour table—ham, sardines, a whole pound of +butter, and such a large johnny cake that it looked like an +advertisement for somebody’s baking-powder. But the Primus stove roared +so loudly that it was useless to try to talk above it. Alice sat down +on the edge of a basket-chair while Mrs. Stubbs pumped the stove still +higher. Suddenly Mrs. Stubbs whipped the cushion off a chair and +disclosed a large brown-paper parcel. + +“I’ve just had some new photers taken, my dear,” she shouted cheerfully +to Alice. “Tell me what you think of them.” + +In a very dainty, refined way Alice wet her finger and put the tissue +back from the first one. Life! How many there were! There were three +dozzing at least. And she held it up to the light. + +Mrs. Stubbs sat in an arm-chair, leaning very much to one side. There +was a look of mild astonishment on her large face, and well there might +be. For though the arm-chair stood on a carpet, to the left of it, +miraculously skirting the carpet-border, there was a dashing +water-fall. On her right stood a Grecian pillar with a giant fern-tree +on either side of it, and in the background towered a gaunt mountain, +pale with snow. + +“It is a nice style, isn’t it?” shouted Mrs. Stubbs; and Alice had just +screamed “Sweetly” when the roaring of the Primus stove died down, +fizzled out, ceased, and she said “Pretty” in a silence that was +frightening. + +“Draw up your chair, my dear,” said Mrs. Stubbs, beginning to pour out. +“Yes,” she said thoughtfully, as she handed the tea, “but I don’t care +about the size. I’m having an enlargemint. All very well for Christmas +cards, but I never was the one for small photers myself. You get no +comfort out of them. To say the truth, I find them dis’eartening.” + +Alice quite saw what she meant. + +“Size,” said Mrs. Stubbs. “Give me size. That was what my poor dear +husband was always saying. He couldn’t stand anything small. Gave him +the creeps. And, strange as it may seem, my dear”—here Mrs. Stubbs +creaked and seemed to expand herself at the memory—“it was dropsy that +carried him off at the larst. Many’s the time they drawn one and a half +pints from ’im at the ’ospital... It seemed like a judgmint.” + +Alice burned to know exactly what it was that was drawn from him. She +ventured, “I suppose it was water.” + +But Mrs. Stubbs fixed Alice with her eyes and replied meaningly, “It +was _liquid_, my dear.” + +Liquid! Alice jumped away from the word like a cat and came back to it, +nosing and wary. + +“That’s ’im!” said Mrs. Stubbs, and she pointed dramatically to the +life-size head and shoulders of a burly man with a dead white rose in +the buttonhole of his coat that made you think of a curl of cold +mutting fat. Just below, in silver letters on a red cardboard ground, +were the words, “Be not afraid, it is I.” + +“It’s ever such a fine face,” said Alice faintly. + +The pale-blue bow on the top of Mrs. Stubbs’s fair frizzy hair +quivered. She arched her plump neck. What a neck she had! It was bright +pink where it began and then it changed to warm apricot, and that faded +to the colour of a brown egg and then to a deep creamy. + +“All the same, my dear,” she said surprisingly, “freedom’s best!” Her +soft, fat chuckle sounded like a purr. “Freedom’s best,” said Mrs. +Stubbs again. + +Freedom! Alice gave a loud, silly little titter. She felt awkward. Her +mind flew back to her own kitching. Ever so queer! She wanted to be +back in it again. + + +IX + +A strange company assembled in the Burnells’ washhouse after tea. Round +the table there sat a bull, a rooster, a donkey that kept forgetting it +was a donkey, a sheep and a bee. The washhouse was the perfect place +for such a meeting because they could make as much noise as they liked, +and nobody ever interrupted. It was a small tin shed standing apart +from the bungalow. Against the wall there was a deep trough and in the +corner a copper with a basket of clothes-pegs on top of it. The little +window, spun over with cobwebs, had a piece of candle and a mouse-trap +on the dusty sill. There were clotheslines criss-crossed overhead and, +hanging from a peg on the wall, a very big, a huge, rusty horseshoe. +The table was in the middle with a form at either side. + +“You can’t be a bee, Kezia. A bee’s not an animal. It’s a ninseck.” + +“Oh, but I do want to be a bee frightfully,” wailed Kezia.... A tiny +bee, all yellow-furry, with striped legs. She drew her legs up under +her and leaned over the table. She felt she was a bee. + +“A ninseck must be an animal,” she said stoutly. “It makes a noise. +It’s not like a fish.” + +“I’m a bull, I’m a bull!” cried Pip. And he gave such a tremendous +bellow—how did he make that noise?—that Lottie looked quite alarmed. + +“I’ll be a sheep,” said little Rags. “A whole lot of sheep went past +this morning.” + +“How do you know?” + +“Dad heard them. Baa!” He sounded like the little lamb that trots +behind and seems to wait to be carried. + +“Cock-a-doodle-do!” shrilled Isabel. With her red cheeks and bright +eyes she looked like a rooster. + +“What’ll I be?” Lottie asked everybody, and she sat there smiling, +waiting for them to decide for her. It had to be an easy one. + +“Be a donkey, Lottie.” It was Kezia’s suggestion. “Hee-haw! You can’t +forget that.” + +“Hee-haw!” said Lottie solemnly. “When do I have to say it?” + +“I’ll explain, I’ll explain,” said the bull. It was he who had the +cards. He waved them round his head. “All be quiet! All listen!” And he +waited for them. “Look here, Lottie.” He turned up a card. “It’s got +two spots on it—see? Now, if you put that card in the middle and +somebody else has one with two spots as well, you say ‘Hee-haw,’ and +the card’s yours.” + +“Mine?” Lottie was round-eyed. “To keep?” + +“No, silly. Just for the game, see? Just while we’re playing.” The bull +was very cross with her. + +“Oh, Lottie, you _are_ a little silly,” said the proud rooster. + +Lottie looked at both of them. Then she hung her head; her lip +quivered. “I don’t want to play,” she whispered. The others glanced at +one another like conspirators. All of them knew what that meant. She +would go away and be discovered somewhere standing with her pinny +thrown over her head, in a corner, or against a wall, or even behind a +chair. + +“Yes, you _do_, Lottie. It’s quite easy,” said Kezia. + +And Isabel, repentant, said exactly like a grown-up, “Watch _me_, +Lottie, and you’ll soon learn.” + +“Cheer up, Lot,” said Pip. “There, I know what I’ll do. I’ll give you +the first one. It’s mine, really, but I’ll give it to you. Here you +are.” And he slammed the card down in front of Lottie. + +Lottie revived at that. But now she was in another difficulty. “I +haven’t got a hanky,” she said; “I want one badly, too.” + +“Here, Lottie, you can use mine.” Rags dipped into his sailor blouse +and brought up a very wet-looking one, knotted together. “Be very +careful,” he warned her. “Only use that corner. Don’t undo it. I’ve got +a little starfish inside I’m going to try and tame.” + +“Oh, come on, you girls,” said the bull. “And mind—you’re not to look +at your cards. You’ve got to keep your hands under the table till I say +‘Go.’” + +Smack went the cards round the table. They tried with all their might +to see, but Pip was too quick for them. It was very exciting, sitting +there in the washhouse; it was all they could do not to burst into a +little chorus of animals before Pip had finished dealing. + +“Now, Lottie, you begin.” + +Timidly Lottie stretched out a hand, took the top card off her pack, +had a good look at it—it was plain she was counting the spots—and put +it down. + +“No, Lottie, you can’t do that. You mustn’t look first. You must turn +it the other way over.” + +“But then everybody will see it the same time as me,” said Lottie. + +The game proceeded. Mooe-ooo-er! The bull was terrible. He charged over +the table and seemed to eat the cards up. + +Bss-ss! said the bee. + +Cock-a-doodle-do! Isabel stood up in her excitement and moved her +elbows like wings. + +Baa! Little Rags put down the King of Diamonds and Lottie put down the +one they called the King of Spain. She had hardly any cards left. + +“Why don’t you call out, Lottie?” + +“I’ve forgotten what I am,” said the donkey woefully. + +“Well, change! Be a dog instead! Bow-wow!” + +“Oh yes. That’s _much_ easier.” Lottie smiled again. But when she and +Kezia both had a one Kezia waited on purpose. The others made signs to +Lottie and pointed. Lottie turned very red; she looked bewildered, and +at last she said, “Hee-haw! Ke-zia.” + +“Ss! Wait a minute!” They were in the very thick of it when the bull +stopped them, holding up his hand. “What’s that? What’s that noise?” + +“What noise? What do you mean?” asked the rooster. + +“Ss! Shut up! Listen!” They were mouse-still. “I thought I heard a—a +sort of knocking,” said the bull. + +“What was it like?” asked the sheep faintly. + +No answer. + +The bee gave a shudder. “Whatever did we shut the door for?” she said +softly. Oh, why, why had they shut the door? + +While they were playing, the day had faded; the gorgeous sunset had +blazed and died. And now the quick dark came racing over the sea, over +the sand-hills, up the paddock. You were frightened to look in the +corners of the washhouse, and yet you had to look with all your might. +And somewhere, far away, grandma was lighting a lamp. The blinds were +being pulled down; the kitchen fire leapt in the tins on the +mantelpiece. + +“It would be awful now,” said the bull, “if a spider was to fall from +the ceiling on to the table, wouldn’t it?” + +“Spiders don’t fall from ceilings.” + +“Yes, they do. Our Min told us she’d seen a spider as big as a saucer, +with long hairs on it like a gooseberry.” + +Quickly all the little heads were jerked up; all the little bodies drew +together, pressed together. + +“Why doesn’t somebody come and call us?” cried the rooster. + +Oh, those grown-ups, laughing and snug, sitting in the lamp-light, +drinking out of cups! They’d forgotten about them. No, not really +forgotten. That was what their smile meant. They had decided to leave +them there all by themselves. + +Suddenly Lottie gave such a piercing scream that all of them jumped off +the forms, all of them screamed too. “A face—a face looking!” shrieked +Lottie. + +It was true, it was real. Pressed against the window was a pale face, +black eyes, a black beard. + +“Grandma! Mother! Somebody!” + +But they had not got to the door, tumbling over one another, before it +opened for Uncle Jonathan. He had come to take the little boys home. + + +X + +He had meant to be there before, but in the front garden he had come +upon Linda walking up and down the grass, stopping to pick off a dead +pink or give a top-heavy carnation something to lean against, or to +take a deep breath of something, and then walking on again, with her +little air of remoteness. Over her white frock she wore a yellow, +pink-fringed shawl from the Chinaman’s shop. + +“Hallo, Jonathan!” called Linda. And Jonathan whipped off his shabby +panama, pressed it against his breast, dropped on one knee, and kissed +Linda’s hand. + +“Greeting, my Fair One! Greeting, my Celestial Peach Blossom!” boomed +the bass voice gently. “Where are the other noble dames?” + +“Beryl’s out playing bridge and mother’s giving the boy his bath.... +Have you come to borrow something?” + +The Trouts were for ever running out of things and sending across to +the Burnells’ at the last moment. + +But Jonathan only answered, “A little love, a little kindness;” and he +walked by his sister-in-law’s side. + +Linda dropped into Beryl’s hammock under the manuka-tree, and Jonathan +stretched himself on the grass beside her, pulled a long stalk and +began chewing it. They knew each other well. The voices of children +cried from the other gardens. A fisherman’s light cart shook along the +sandy road, and from far away they heard a dog barking; it was muffled +as though the dog had its head in a sack. If you listened you could +just hear the soft swish of the sea at full tide sweeping the pebbles. +The sun was sinking. + +“And so you go back to the office on Monday, do you, Jonathan?” asked +Linda. + +“On Monday the cage door opens and clangs to upon the victim for +another eleven months and a week,” answered Jonathan. + +Linda swung a little. “It must be awful,” she said slowly. + +“Would ye have me laugh, my fair sister? Would ye have me weep?” + +Linda was so accustomed to Jonathan’s way of talking that she paid no +attention to it. + +“I suppose,” she said vaguely, “one gets used to it. One gets used to +anything.” + +“Does one? Hum!” The “Hum” was so deep it seemed to boom from +underneath the ground. “I wonder how it’s done,” brooded Jonathan; +“I’ve never managed it.” + +Looking at him as he lay there, Linda thought again how attractive he +was. It was strange to think that he was only an ordinary clerk, that +Stanley earned twice as much money as he. What was the matter with +Jonathan? He had no ambition; she supposed that was it. And yet one +felt he was gifted, exceptional. He was passionately fond of music; +every spare penny he had went on books. He was always full of new +ideas, schemes, plans. But nothing came of it all. The new fire blazed +in Jonathan; you almost heard it roaring softly as he explained, +described and dilated on the new thing; but a moment later it had +fallen in and there was nothing but ashes, and Jonathan went about with +a look like hunger in his black eyes. At these times he exaggerated his +absurd manner of speaking, and he sang in church—he was the leader of +the choir—with such fearful dramatic intensity that the meanest hymn +put on an unholy splendour. + +“It seems to me just as imbecile, just as infernal, to have to go to +the office on Monday,” said Jonathan, “as it always has done and always +will do. To spend all the best years of one’s life sitting on a stool +from nine to five, scratching in somebody’s ledger! It’s a queer use to +make of one’s... one and only life, isn’t it? Or do I fondly dream?” He +rolled over on the grass and looked up at Linda. “Tell me, what is the +difference between my life and that of an ordinary prisoner. The only +difference I can see is that I put myself in jail and nobody’s ever +going to let me out. That’s a more intolerable situation than the +other. For if I’d been—pushed in, against my will—kicking, even—once +the door was locked, or at any rate in five years or so, I might have +accepted the fact and begun to take an interest in the flight of flies +or counting the warder’s steps along the passage with particular +attention to variations of tread and so on. But as it is, I’m like an +insect that’s flown into a room of its own accord. I dash against the +walls, dash against the windows, flop against the ceiling, do +everything on God’s earth, in fact, except fly out again. And all the +while I’m thinking, like that moth, or that butterfly, or whatever it +is, ‘The shortness of life! The shortness of life!’ I’ve only one night +or one day, and there’s this vast dangerous garden, waiting out there, +undiscovered, unexplored.” + +“But, if you feel like that, why—” began Linda quickly. + +“_Ah!_” cried Jonathan. And that “ah!” was somehow almost exultant. +“There you have me. Why? Why indeed? There’s the maddening, mysterious +question. Why don’t I fly out again? There’s the window or the door or +whatever it was I came in by. It’s not hopelessly shut—is it? Why don’t +I find it and be off? Answer me that, little sister.” But he gave her +no time to answer. + +“I’m exactly like that insect again. For some reason”—Jonathan paused +between the words—“it’s not allowed, it’s forbidden, it’s against the +insect law, to stop banging and flopping and crawling up the pane even +for an instant. Why don’t I leave the office? Why don’t I seriously +consider, this moment, for instance, what it is that prevents me +leaving? It’s not as though I’m tremendously tied. I’ve two boys to +provide for, but, after all, they’re boys. I could cut off to sea, or +get a job up-country, or—” Suddenly he smiled at Linda and said in a +changed voice, as if he were confiding a secret, “Weak... weak. No +stamina. No anchor. No guiding principle, let us call it.” But then the +dark velvety voice rolled out: + + Would ye hear the story + How it unfolds itself. . . + +and they were silent. + +The sun had set. In the western sky there were great masses of +crushed-up rose-coloured clouds. Broad beams of light shone through the +clouds and beyond them as if they would cover the whole sky. Overhead +the blue faded; it turned a pale gold, and the bush outlined against it +gleamed dark and brilliant like metal. Sometimes when those beams of +light show in the sky they are very awful. They remind you that up +there sits Jehovah, the jealous God, the Almighty, Whose eye is upon +you, ever watchful, never weary. You remember that at His coming the +whole earth will shake into one ruined graveyard; the cold, bright +angels will drive you this way and that, and there will be no time to +explain what could be explained so simply.... But to-night it seemed to +Linda there was something infinitely joyful and loving in those silver +beams. And now no sound came from the sea. It breathed softly as if it +would draw that tender, joyful beauty into its own bosom. + +“It’s all wrong, it’s all wrong,” came the shadowy voice of Jonathan. +“It’s not the scene, it’s not the setting for... three stools, three +desks, three inkpots and a wire blind.” + +Linda knew that he would never change, but she said, “Is it too late, +even now?” + +“I’m old—I’m old,” intoned Jonathan. He bent towards her, he passed his +hand over his head. “Look!” His black hair was speckled all over with +silver, like the breast plumage of a black fowl. + +Linda was surprised. She had no idea that he was grey. And yet, as he +stood up beside her and sighed and stretched, she saw him, for the +first time, not resolute, not gallant, not careless, but touched +already with age. He looked very tall on the darkening grass, and the +thought crossed her mind, “He is like a weed.” + +Jonathan stooped again and kissed her fingers. + +“Heaven reward thy sweet patience, lady mine,” he murmured. “I must go +seek those heirs to my fame and fortune....” He was gone. + + +XI + +Light shone in the windows of the bungalow. Two square patches of gold +fell upon the pinks and the peaked marigolds. Florrie, the cat, came +out on to the veranda, and sat on the top step, her white paws close +together, her tail curled round. She looked content, as though she had +been waiting for this moment all day. + +“Thank goodness, it’s getting late,” said Florrie. “Thank goodness, the +long day is over.” Her greengage eyes opened. + +Presently there sounded the rumble of the coach, the crack of Kelly’s +whip. It came near enough for one to hear the voices of the men from +town, talking loudly together. It stopped at the Burnells’ gate. + +Stanley was half-way up the path before he saw Linda. “Is that you, +darling?” + +“Yes, Stanley.” + +He leapt across the flower-bed and seized her in his arms. She was +enfolded in that familiar, eager, strong embrace. + +“Forgive me, darling, forgive me,” stammered Stanley, and he put his +hand under her chin and lifted her face to him. + +“Forgive you?” smiled Linda. “But whatever for?” + +“Good God! You can’t have forgotten,” cried Stanley Burnell. “I’ve +thought of nothing else all day. I’ve had the hell of a day. I made up +my mind to dash out and telegraph, and then I thought the wire mightn’t +reach you before I did. I’ve been in tortures, Linda.” + +“But, Stanley,” said Linda, “what must I forgive you for?” + +“Linda!”—Stanley was very hurt—“didn’t you realize—you must have +realized—I went away without saying good-bye to you this morning? I +can’t imagine how I can have done such a thing. My confounded temper, +of course. But—well”—and he sighed and took her in his arms again—“I’ve +suffered for it enough to-day.” + +“What’s that you’ve got in your hand?” asked Linda. “New gloves? Let me +see.” + +“Oh, just a cheap pair of wash-leather ones,” said Stanley humbly. “I +noticed Bell was wearing some in the coach this morning, so, as I was +passing the shop, I dashed in and got myself a pair. What are you +smiling at? You don’t think it was wrong of me, do you?” + +“On the _con_-trary, darling,” said Linda, “I think it was most +sensible.” + +She pulled one of the large, pale gloves on her own fingers and looked +at her hand, turning it this way and that. She was still smiling. + +Stanley wanted to say, “I was thinking of you the whole time I bought +them.” It was true, but for some reason he couldn’t say it. “Let’s go +in,” said he. + + +XII + +Why does one feel so different at night? Why is it so exciting to be +awake when everybody else is asleep? Late—it is very late! And yet +every moment you feel more and more wakeful, as though you were slowly, +almost with every breath, waking up into a new, wonderful, far more +thrilling and exciting world than the daylight one. And what is this +queer sensation that you’re a conspirator? Lightly, stealthily you move +about your room. You take something off the dressing-table and put it +down again without a sound. And everything, even the bed-post, knows +you, responds, shares your secret.... + +You’re not very fond of your room by day. You never think about it. +You’re in and out, the door opens and slams, the cupboard creaks. You +sit down on the side of your bed, change your shoes and dash out again. +A dive down to the glass, two pins in your hair, powder your nose and +off again. But now—it’s suddenly dear to you. It’s a darling little +funny room. It’s yours. Oh, what a joy it is to own things! Mine—my +own! + +“My very own for ever?” + +“Yes.” Their lips met. + +No, of course, that had nothing to do with it. That was all nonsense +and rubbish. But, in spite of herself, Beryl saw so plainly two people +standing in the middle of her room. Her arms were round his neck; he +held her. And now he whispered, “My beauty, my little beauty!” She +jumped off her bed, ran over to the window and kneeled on the +window-seat, with her elbows on the sill. But the beautiful night, the +garden, every bush, every leaf, even the white palings, even the stars, +were conspirators too. So bright was the moon that the flowers were +bright as by day; the shadow of the nasturtiums, exquisite lily-like +leaves and wide-open flowers, lay across the silvery veranda. The +manuka-tree, bent by the southerly winds, was like a bird on one leg +stretching out a wing. + +But when Beryl looked at the bush, it seemed to her the bush was sad. + +“We are dumb trees, reaching up in the night, imploring we know not +what,” said the sorrowful bush. + +It is true when you are by yourself and you think about life, it is +always sad. All that excitement and so on has a way of suddenly leaving +you, and it’s as though, in the silence, somebody called your name, and +you heard your name for the first time. “Beryl!” + +“Yes, I’m here. I’m Beryl. Who wants me?” + +“Beryl!” + +“Let me come.” + +It is lonely living by oneself. Of course, there are relations, +friends, heaps of them; but that’s not what she means. She wants some +one who will find the Beryl they none of them know, who will expect her +to be that Beryl always. She wants a lover. + +“Take me away from all these other people, my love. Let us go far away. +Let us live our life, all new, all ours, from the very beginning. Let +us make our fire. Let us sit down to eat together. Let us have long +talks at night.” + +And the thought was almost, “Save me, my love. Save me!” + +... “Oh, go on! Don’t be a prude, my dear. You enjoy yourself while +you’re young. That’s my advice.” And a high rush of silly laughter +joined Mrs. Harry Kember’s loud, indifferent neigh. + +You see, it’s so frightfully difficult when you’ve nobody. You’re so at +the mercy of things. You can’t just be rude. And you’ve always this +horror of seeming inexperienced and stuffy like the other ninnies at +the Bay. And—and it’s fascinating to know you’ve power over people. +Yes, that is fascinating.... + +Oh why, oh why doesn’t “he” come soon? + +If I go on living here, thought Beryl, anything may happen to me. + +“But how do you know he is coming at all?” mocked a small voice within +her. + +But Beryl dismissed it. She couldn’t be left. Other people, perhaps, +but not she. It wasn’t possible to think that Beryl Fairfield never +married, that lovely fascinating girl. + +“Do you remember Beryl Fairfield?” + +“Remember her! As if I could forget her! It was one summer at the Bay +that I saw her. She was standing on the beach in a blue”—no, +pink—“muslin frock, holding on a big cream”—no, black—“straw hat. But +it’s years ago now.” + +“She’s as lovely as ever, more so if anything.” + +Beryl smiled, bit her lip, and gazed over the garden. As she gazed, she +saw somebody, a man, leave the road, step along the paddock beside +their palings as if he was coming straight towards her. Her heart beat. +Who was it? Who could it be? It couldn’t be a burglar, certainly not a +burglar, for he was smoking and he strolled lightly. Beryl’s heart +leapt; it seemed to turn right over, and then to stop. She recognized +him. + +“Good evening, Miss Beryl,” said the voice softly. + +“Good evening.” + +“Won’t you come for a little walk?” it drawled. + +Come for a walk—at that time of night! “I couldn’t. Everybody’s in bed. +Everybody’s asleep.” + +“Oh,” said the voice lightly, and a whiff of sweet smoke reached her. +“What does everybody matter? Do come! It’s such a fine night. There’s +not a soul about.” + +Beryl shook her head. But already something stirred in her, something +reared its head. + +The voice said, “Frightened?” It mocked, “Poor little girl!” + +“Not in the least,” said she. As she spoke that weak thing within her +seemed to uncoil, to grow suddenly tremendously strong; she longed to +go! + +And just as if this was quite understood by the other, the voice said, +gently and softly, but finally, “Come along!” + +Beryl stepped over her low window, crossed the veranda, ran down the +grass to the gate. He was there before her. + +“That’s right,” breathed the voice, and it teased, “You’re not +frightened, are you? You’re not frightened?” + +She was; now she was here she was terrified, and it seemed to her +everything was different. The moonlight stared and glittered; the +shadows were like bars of iron. Her hand was taken. + +“Not in the least,” she said lightly. “Why should I be?” + +Her hand was pulled gently, tugged. She held back. + +“No, I’m not coming any farther,” said Beryl. + +“Oh, rot!” Harry Kember didn’t believe her. “Come along! We’ll just go +as far as that fuchsia bush. Come along!” + +The fuchsia bush was tall. It fell over the fence in a shower. There +was a little pit of darkness beneath. + +“No, really, I don’t want to,” said Beryl. + +For a moment Harry Kember didn’t answer. Then he came close to her, +turned to her, smiled and said quickly, “Don’t be silly! Don’t be +silly!” + +His smile was something she’d never seen before. Was he drunk? That +bright, blind, terrifying smile froze her with horror. What was she +doing? How had she got here? the stern garden asked her as the gate +pushed open, and quick as a cat Harry Kember came through and snatched +her to him. + +“Cold little devil! Cold little devil!” said the hateful voice. + +But Beryl was strong. She slipped, ducked, wrenched free. + +“You are vile, vile,” said she. + +“Then why in God’s name did you come?” stammered Harry Kember. + +Nobody answered him. + +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. + + + + +The Garden-Party + + +And after all the weather was ideal. They could not have had a more +perfect day for a garden-party if they had ordered it. Windless, warm, +the sky without a cloud. Only the blue was veiled with a haze of light +gold, as it is sometimes in early summer. The gardener had been up +since dawn, mowing the lawns and sweeping them, until the grass and the +dark flat rosettes where the daisy plants had been seemed to shine. As +for the roses, you could not help feeling they understood that roses +are the only flowers that impress people at garden-parties; the only +flowers that everybody is certain of knowing. Hundreds, yes, literally +hundreds, had come out in a single night; the green bushes bowed down +as though they had been visited by archangels. + +Breakfast was not yet over before the men came to put up the marquee. + +“Where do you want the marquee put, mother?” + +“My dear child, it’s no use asking me. I’m determined to leave +everything to you children this year. Forget I am your mother. Treat me +as an honoured guest.” + +But Meg could not possibly go and supervise the men. She had washed her +hair before breakfast, and she sat drinking her coffee in a green +turban, with a dark wet curl stamped on each cheek. Jose, the +butterfly, always came down in a silk petticoat and a kimono jacket. + +“You’ll have to go, Laura; you’re the artistic one.” + +Away Laura flew, still holding her piece of bread-and-butter. It’s so +delicious to have an excuse for eating out of doors, and besides, she +loved having to arrange things; she always felt she could do it so much +better than anybody else. + +Four men in their shirt-sleeves stood grouped together on the garden +path. They carried staves covered with rolls of canvas, and they had +big tool-bags slung on their backs. They looked impressive. Laura +wished now that she had not got the bread-and-butter, but there was +nowhere to put it, and she couldn’t possibly throw it away. She blushed +and tried to look severe and even a little bit short-sighted as she +came up to them. + +“Good morning,” she said, copying her mother’s voice. But that sounded +so fearfully affected that she was ashamed, and stammered like a little +girl, “Oh—er—have you come—is it about the marquee?” + +“That’s right, miss,” said the tallest of the men, a lanky, freckled +fellow, and he shifted his tool-bag, knocked back his straw hat and +smiled down at her. “That’s about it.” + +His smile was so easy, so friendly that Laura recovered. What nice eyes +he had, small, but such a dark blue! And now she looked at the others, +they were smiling too. “Cheer up, we won’t bite,” their smile seemed to +say. How very nice workmen were! And what a beautiful morning! She +mustn’t mention the morning; she must be business-like. The marquee. + +“Well, what about the lily-lawn? Would that do?” + +And she pointed to the lily-lawn with the hand that didn’t hold the +bread-and-butter. They turned, they stared in the direction. A little +fat chap thrust out his under-lip, and the tall fellow frowned. + +“I don’t fancy it,” said he. “Not conspicuous enough. You see, with a +thing like a marquee,” and he turned to Laura in his easy way, “you +want to put it somewhere where it’ll give you a bang slap in the eye, +if you follow me.” + +Laura’s upbringing made her wonder for a moment whether it was quite +respectful of a workman to talk to her of bangs slap in the eye. But +she did quite follow him. + +“A corner of the tennis-court,” she suggested. “But the band’s going to +be in one corner.” + +“H’m, going to have a band, are you?” said another of the workmen. He +was pale. He had a haggard look as his dark eyes scanned the +tennis-court. What was he thinking? + +“Only a very small band,” said Laura gently. Perhaps he wouldn’t mind +so much if the band was quite small. But the tall fellow interrupted. + +“Look here, miss, that’s the place. Against those trees. Over there. +That’ll do fine.” + +Against the karakas. Then the karaka-trees would be hidden. And they +were so lovely, with their broad, gleaming leaves, and their clusters +of yellow fruit. They were like trees you imagined growing on a desert +island, proud, solitary, lifting their leaves and fruits to the sun in +a kind of silent splendour. Must they be hidden by a marquee? + +They must. Already the men had shouldered their staves and were making +for the place. Only the tall fellow was left. He bent down, pinched a +sprig of lavender, put his thumb and forefinger to his nose and snuffed +up the smell. When Laura saw that gesture she forgot all about the +karakas in her wonder at him caring for things like that—caring for the +smell of lavender. How many men that she knew would have done such a +thing? Oh, how extraordinarily nice workmen were, she thought. Why +couldn’t she have workmen for her friends rather than the silly boys +she danced with and who came to Sunday night supper? She would get on +much better with men like these. + +It’s all the fault, she decided, as the tall fellow drew something on +the back of an envelope, something that was to be looped up or left to +hang, of these absurd class distinctions. Well, for her part, she +didn’t feel them. Not a bit, not an atom.... And now there came the +chock-chock of wooden hammers. Some one whistled, some one sang out, +“Are you right there, matey?” “Matey!” The friendliness of it, +the—the—Just to prove how happy she was, just to show the tall fellow +how at home she felt, and how she despised stupid conventions, Laura +took a big bite of her bread-and-butter as she stared at the little +drawing. She felt just like a work-girl. + +“Laura, Laura, where are you? Telephone, Laura!” a voice cried from the +house. + +“Coming!” Away she skimmed, over the lawn, up the path, up the steps, +across the veranda, and into the porch. In the hall her father and +Laurie were brushing their hats ready to go to the office. + +“I say, Laura,” said Laurie very fast, “you might just give a squiz at +my coat before this afternoon. See if it wants pressing.” + +“I will,” said she. Suddenly she couldn’t stop herself. She ran at +Laurie and gave him a small, quick squeeze. “Oh, I do love parties, +don’t you?” gasped Laura. + +“Ra-ther,” said Laurie’s warm, boyish voice, and he squeezed his sister +too, and gave her a gentle push. “Dash off to the telephone, old girl.” + +The telephone. “Yes, yes; oh yes. Kitty? Good morning, dear. Come to +lunch? Do, dear. Delighted of course. It will only be a very scratch +meal—just the sandwich crusts and broken meringue-shells and what’s +left over. Yes, isn’t it a perfect morning? Your white? Oh, I certainly +should. One moment—hold the line. Mother’s calling.” And Laura sat +back. “What, mother? Can’t hear.” + +Mrs. Sheridan’s voice floated down the stairs. “Tell her to wear that +sweet hat she had on last Sunday.” + +“Mother says you’re to wear that _sweet_ hat you had on last Sunday. +Good. One o’clock. Bye-bye.” + +Laura put back the receiver, flung her arms over her head, took a deep +breath, stretched and let them fall. “Huh,” she sighed, and the moment +after the sigh she sat up quickly. She was still, listening. All the +doors in the house seemed to be open. The house was alive with soft, +quick steps and running voices. The green baize door that led to the +kitchen regions swung open and shut with a muffled thud. And now there +came a long, chuckling absurd sound. It was the heavy piano being moved +on its stiff castors. But the air! If you stopped to notice, was the +air always like this? Little faint winds were playing chase, in at the +tops of the windows, out at the doors. And there were two tiny spots of +sun, one on the inkpot, one on a silver photograph frame, playing too. +Darling little spots. Especially the one on the inkpot lid. It was +quite warm. A warm little silver star. She could have kissed it. + +The front door bell pealed, and there sounded the rustle of Sadie’s +print skirt on the stairs. A man’s voice murmured; Sadie answered, +careless, “I’m sure I don’t know. Wait. I’ll ask Mrs Sheridan.” + +“What is it, Sadie?” Laura came into the hall. + +“It’s the florist, Miss Laura.” + +It was, indeed. There, just inside the door, stood a wide, shallow tray +full of pots of pink lilies. No other kind. Nothing but lilies—canna +lilies, big pink flowers, wide open, radiant, almost frighteningly +alive on bright crimson stems. + +“O-oh, Sadie!” said Laura, and the sound was like a little moan. She +crouched down as if to warm herself at that blaze of lilies; she felt +they were in her fingers, on her lips, growing in her breast. + +“It’s some mistake,” she said faintly. “Nobody ever ordered so many. +Sadie, go and find mother.” + +But at that moment Mrs. Sheridan joined them. + +“It’s quite right,” she said calmly. “Yes, I ordered them. Aren’t they +lovely?” She pressed Laura’s arm. “I was passing the shop yesterday, +and I saw them in the window. And I suddenly thought for once in my +life I shall have enough canna lilies. The garden-party will be a good +excuse.” + +“But I thought you said you didn’t mean to interfere,” said Laura. +Sadie had gone. The florist’s man was still outside at his van. She put +her arm round her mother’s neck and gently, very gently, she bit her +mother’s ear. + +“My darling child, you wouldn’t like a logical mother, would you? Don’t +do that. Here’s the man.” + +He carried more lilies still, another whole tray. + +“Bank them up, just inside the door, on both sides of the porch, +please,” said Mrs. Sheridan. “Don’t you agree, Laura?” + +“Oh, I _do_, mother.” + +In the drawing-room Meg, Jose and good little Hans had at last +succeeded in moving the piano. + +“Now, if we put this chesterfield against the wall and move everything +out of the room except the chairs, don’t you think?” + +“Quite.” + +“Hans, move these tables into the smoking-room, and bring a sweeper to +take these marks off the carpet and—one moment, Hans—” Jose loved +giving orders to the servants, and they loved obeying her. She always +made them feel they were taking part in some drama. “Tell mother and +Miss Laura to come here at once.” + +“Very good, Miss Jose.” + +She turned to Meg. “I want to hear what the piano sounds like, just in +case I’m asked to sing this afternoon. Let’s try over ‘This life is +Weary.’” + +_Pom!_ Ta-ta-ta _Tee_-ta! The piano burst out so passionately that +Jose’s face changed. She clasped her hands. She looked mournfully and +enigmatically at her mother and Laura as they came in. + + This Life is _Wee_-ary, + A Tear—a Sigh. + A Love that _Chan_-ges, + This Life is _Wee_-ary, + A Tear—a Sigh. + A Love that _Chan_-ges, + And then. . . Good-bye! + +But at the word “Good-bye,” and although the piano sounded more +desperate than ever, her face broke into a brilliant, dreadfully +unsympathetic smile. + +“Aren’t I in good voice, mummy?” she beamed. + + This Life is _Wee_-ary, + Hope comes to Die. + A Dream—a _Wa_-kening. + +But now Sadie interrupted them. “What is it, Sadie?” + +“If you please, m’m, cook says have you got the flags for the +sandwiches?” + +“The flags for the sandwiches, Sadie?” echoed Mrs. Sheridan dreamily. +And the children knew by her face that she hadn’t got them. “Let me +see.” And she said to Sadie firmly, “Tell cook I’ll let her have them +in ten minutes.” + +Sadie went. + +“Now, Laura,” said her mother quickly, “come with me into the +smoking-room. I’ve got the names somewhere on the back of an envelope. +You’ll have to write them out for me. Meg, go upstairs this minute and +take that wet thing off your head. Jose, run and finish dressing this +instant. Do you hear me, children, or shall I have to tell your father +when he comes home to-night? And—and, Jose, pacify cook if you do go +into the kitchen, will you? I’m terrified of her this morning.” + +The envelope was found at last behind the dining-room clock, though how +it had got there Mrs. Sheridan could not imagine. + +“One of you children must have stolen it out of my bag, because I +remember vividly—cream-cheese and lemon-curd. Have you done that?” + +“Yes.” + +“Egg and—” Mrs. Sheridan held the envelope away from her. “It looks +like mice. It can’t be mice, can it?” + +“Olive, pet,” said Laura, looking over her shoulder. + +“Yes, of course, olive. What a horrible combination it sounds. Egg and +olive.” + +They were finished at last, and Laura took them off to the kitchen. She +found Jose there pacifying the cook, who did not look at all +terrifying. + +“I have never seen such exquisite sandwiches,” said Jose’s rapturous +voice. “How many kinds did you say there were, cook? Fifteen?” + +“Fifteen, Miss Jose.” + +“Well, cook, I congratulate you.” + +Cook swept up crusts with the long sandwich knife, and smiled broadly. + +“Godber’s has come,” announced Sadie, issuing out of the pantry. She +had seen the man pass the window. + +That meant the cream puffs had come. Godber’s were famous for their +cream puffs. Nobody ever thought of making them at home. + +“Bring them in and put them on the table, my girl,” ordered cook. + +Sadie brought them in and went back to the door. Of course Laura and +Jose were far too grown-up to really care about such things. All the +same, they couldn’t help agreeing that the puffs looked very +attractive. Very. Cook began arranging them, shaking off the extra +icing sugar. + +“Don’t they carry one back to all one’s parties?” said Laura. + +“I suppose they do,” said practical Jose, who never liked to be carried +back. “They look beautifully light and feathery, I must say.” + +“Have one each, my dears,” said cook in her comfortable voice. “Yer ma +won’t know.” + +Oh, impossible. Fancy cream puffs so soon after breakfast. The very +idea made one shudder. All the same, two minutes later Jose and Laura +were licking their fingers with that absorbed inward look that only +comes from whipped cream. + +“Let’s go into the garden, out by the back way,” suggested Laura. “I +want to see how the men are getting on with the marquee. They’re such +awfully nice men.” + +But the back door was blocked by cook, Sadie, Godber’s man and Hans. + +Something had happened. + +“Tuk-tuk-tuk,” clucked cook like an agitated hen. Sadie had her hand +clapped to her cheek as though she had toothache. Hans’s face was +screwed up in the effort to understand. Only Godber’s man seemed to be +enjoying himself; it was his story. + +“What’s the matter? What’s happened?” + +“There’s been a horrible accident,” said Cook. “A man killed.” + +“A man killed! Where? How? When?” + +But Godber’s man wasn’t going to have his story snatched from under his +very nose. + +“Know those little cottages just below here, miss?” Know them? Of +course, she knew them. “Well, there’s a young chap living there, name +of Scott, a carter. His horse shied at a traction-engine, corner of +Hawke Street this morning, and he was thrown out on the back of his +head. Killed.” + +“Dead!” Laura stared at Godber’s man. + +“Dead when they picked him up,” said Godber’s man with relish. “They +were taking the body home as I come up here.” And he said to the cook, +“He’s left a wife and five little ones.” + +“Jose, come here.” Laura caught hold of her sister’s sleeve and dragged +her through the kitchen to the other side of the green baize door. +There she paused and leaned against it. “Jose!” she said, horrified, +“however are we going to stop everything?” + +“Stop everything, Laura!” cried Jose in astonishment. “What do you +mean?” + +“Stop the garden-party, of course.” Why did Jose pretend? + +But Jose was still more amazed. “Stop the garden-party? My dear Laura, +don’t be so absurd. Of course we can’t do anything of the kind. Nobody +expects us to. Don’t be so extravagant.” + +“But we can’t possibly have a garden-party with a man dead just outside +the front gate.” + +That really was extravagant, for the little cottages were in a lane to +themselves at the very bottom of a steep rise that led up to the house. +A broad road ran between. True, they were far too near. They were the +greatest possible eyesore, and they had no right to be in that +neighbourhood at all. They were little mean dwellings painted a +chocolate brown. In the garden patches there was nothing but cabbage +stalks, sick hens and tomato cans. The very smoke coming out of their +chimneys was poverty-stricken. Little rags and shreds of smoke, so +unlike the great silvery plumes that uncurled from the Sheridans’ +chimneys. Washerwomen lived in the lane and sweeps and a cobbler, and a +man whose house-front was studded all over with minute bird-cages. +Children swarmed. When the Sheridans were little they were forbidden to +set foot there because of the revolting language and of what they might +catch. But since they were grown up, Laura and Laurie on their prowls +sometimes walked through. It was disgusting and sordid. They came out +with a shudder. But still one must go everywhere; one must see +everything. So through they went. + +“And just think of what the band would sound like to that poor woman,” +said Laura. + +“Oh, Laura!” Jose began to be seriously annoyed. “If you’re going to +stop a band playing every time some one has an accident, you’ll lead a +very strenuous life. I’m every bit as sorry about it as you. I feel +just as sympathetic.” Her eyes hardened. She looked at her sister just +as she used to when they were little and fighting together. “You won’t +bring a drunken workman back to life by being sentimental,” she said +softly. + +“Drunk! Who said he was drunk?” Laura turned furiously on Jose. She +said, just as they had used to say on those occasions, “I’m going +straight up to tell mother.” + +“Do, dear,” cooed Jose. + +“Mother, can I come into your room?” Laura turned the big glass +door-knob. + +“Of course, child. Why, what’s the matter? What’s given you such a +colour?” And Mrs. Sheridan turned round from her dressing-table. She +was trying on a new hat. + +“Mother, a man’s been killed,” began Laura. + +“_Not_ in the garden?” interrupted her mother. + +“No, no!” + +“Oh, what a fright you gave me!” Mrs. Sheridan sighed with relief, and +took off the big hat and held it on her knees. + +“But listen, mother,” said Laura. Breathless, half-choking, she told +the dreadful story. “Of course, we can’t have our party, can we?” she +pleaded. “The band and everybody arriving. They’d hear us, mother; +they’re nearly neighbours!” + +To Laura’s astonishment her mother behaved just like Jose; it was +harder to bear because she seemed amused. She refused to take Laura +seriously. + +“But, my dear child, use your common sense. It’s only by accident we’ve +heard of it. If some one had died there normally—and I can’t understand +how they keep alive in those poky little holes—we should still be +having our party, shouldn’t we?” + +Laura had to say “yes” to that, but she felt it was all wrong. She sat +down on her mother’s sofa and pinched the cushion frill. + +“Mother, isn’t it terribly heartless of us?” she asked. + +“Darling!” Mrs. Sheridan got up and came over to her, carrying the hat. +Before Laura could stop her she had popped it on. “My child!” said her +mother, “the hat is yours. It’s made for you. It’s much too young for +me. I have never seen you look such a picture. Look at yourself!” And +she held up her hand-mirror. + +“But, mother,” Laura began again. She couldn’t look at herself; she +turned aside. + +This time Mrs. Sheridan lost patience just as Jose had done. + +“You are being very absurd, Laura,” she said coldly. “People like that +don’t expect sacrifices from us. And it’s not very sympathetic to spoil +everybody’s enjoyment as you’re doing now.” + +“I don’t understand,” said Laura, and she walked quickly out of the +room into her own bedroom. There, quite by chance, the first thing she +saw was this charming girl in the mirror, in her black hat trimmed with +gold daisies, and a long black velvet ribbon. Never had she imagined +she could look like that. Is mother right? she thought. And now she +hoped her mother was right. Am I being extravagant? Perhaps it was +extravagant. Just for a moment she had another glimpse of that poor +woman and those little children, and the body being carried into the +house. But it all seemed blurred, unreal, like a picture in the +newspaper. I’ll remember it again after the party’s over, she decided. +And somehow that seemed quite the best plan.... + +Lunch was over by half-past one. By half-past two they were all ready +for the fray. The green-coated band had arrived and was established in +a corner of the tennis-court. + +“My dear!” trilled Kitty Maitland, “aren’t they too like frogs for +words? You ought to have arranged them round the pond with the +conductor in the middle on a leaf.” + +Laurie arrived and hailed them on his way to dress. At the sight of him +Laura remembered the accident again. She wanted to tell him. If Laurie +agreed with the others, then it was bound to be all right. And she +followed him into the hall. + +“Laurie!” + +“Hallo!” He was half-way upstairs, but when he turned round and saw +Laura he suddenly puffed out his cheeks and goggled his eyes at her. +“My word, Laura! You do look stunning,” said Laurie. “What an +absolutely topping hat!” + +Laura said faintly “Is it?” and smiled up at Laurie, and didn’t tell +him after all. + +Soon after that people began coming in streams. The band struck up; the +hired waiters ran from the house to the marquee. Wherever you looked +there were couples strolling, bending to the flowers, greeting, moving +on over the lawn. They were like bright birds that had alighted in the +Sheridans’ garden for this one afternoon, on their way to—where? Ah, +what happiness it is to be with people who all are happy, to press +hands, press cheeks, smile into eyes. + +“Darling Laura, how well you look!” + +“What a becoming hat, child!” + +“Laura, you look quite Spanish. I’ve never seen you look so striking.” + +And Laura, glowing, answered softly, “Have you had tea? Won’t you have +an ice? The passion-fruit ices really are rather special.” She ran to +her father and begged him. “Daddy darling, can’t the band have +something to drink?” + +And the perfect afternoon slowly ripened, slowly faded, slowly its +petals closed. + +“Never a more delightful garden-party....” “The greatest success....” +“Quite the most....” + +Laura helped her mother with the good-byes. They stood side by side in +the porch till it was all over. + +“All over, all over, thank heaven,” said Mrs. Sheridan. “Round up the +others, Laura. Let’s go and have some fresh coffee. I’m exhausted. Yes, +it’s been very successful. But oh, these parties, these parties! Why +will you children insist on giving parties!” And they all of them sat +down in the deserted marquee. + +“Have a sandwich, daddy dear. I wrote the flag.” + +“Thanks.” Mr. Sheridan took a bite and the sandwich was gone. He took +another. “I suppose you didn’t hear of a beastly accident that happened +to-day?” he said. + +“My dear,” said Mrs. Sheridan, holding up her hand, “we did. It nearly +ruined the party. Laura insisted we should put it off.” + +“Oh, mother!” Laura didn’t want to be teased about it. + +“It was a horrible affair all the same,” said Mr. Sheridan. “The chap +was married too. Lived just below in the lane, and leaves a wife and +half a dozen kiddies, so they say.” + +An awkward little silence fell. Mrs. Sheridan fidgeted with her cup. +Really, it was very tactless of father.... + +Suddenly she looked up. There on the table were all those sandwiches, +cakes, puffs, all uneaten, all going to be wasted. She had one of her +brilliant ideas. + +“I know,” she said. “Let’s make up a basket. Let’s send that poor +creature some of this perfectly good food. At any rate, it will be the +greatest treat for the children. Don’t you agree? And she’s sure to +have neighbours calling in and so on. What a point to have it all ready +prepared. Laura!” She jumped up. “Get me the big basket out of the +stairs cupboard.” + +“But, mother, do you really think it’s a good idea?” said Laura. + +Again, how curious, she seemed to be different from them all. To take +scraps from their party. Would the poor woman really like that? + +“Of course! What’s the matter with you to-day? An hour or two ago you +were insisting on us being sympathetic, and now—” + +Oh well! Laura ran for the basket. It was filled, it was heaped by her +mother. + +“Take it yourself, darling,” said she. “Run down just as you are. No, +wait, take the arum lilies too. People of that class are so impressed +by arum lilies.” + +“The stems will ruin her lace frock,” said practical Jose. + +So they would. Just in time. “Only the basket, then. And, Laura!”—her +mother followed her out of the marquee—“don’t on any account—” + +“What mother?” + +No, better not put such ideas into the child’s head! “Nothing! Run +along.” + +It was just growing dusky as Laura shut their garden gates. A big dog +ran by like a shadow. The road gleamed white, and down below in the +hollow the little cottages were in deep shade. How quiet it seemed +after the afternoon. Here she was going down the hill to somewhere +where a man lay dead, and she couldn’t realize it. Why couldn’t she? +She stopped a minute. And it seemed to her that kisses, voices, +tinkling spoons, laughter, the smell of crushed grass were somehow +inside her. She had no room for anything else. How strange! She looked +up at the pale sky, and all she thought was, “Yes, it was the most +successful party.” + +Now the broad road was crossed. The lane began, smoky and dark. Women +in shawls and men’s tweed caps hurried by. Men hung over the palings; +the children played in the doorways. A low hum came from the mean +little cottages. In some of them there was a flicker of light, and a +shadow, crab-like, moved across the window. Laura bent her head and +hurried on. She wished now she had put on a coat. How her frock shone! +And the big hat with the velvet streamer—if only it was another hat! +Were the people looking at her? They must be. It was a mistake to have +come; she knew all along it was a mistake. Should she go back even now? + +No, too late. This was the house. It must be. A dark knot of people +stood outside. Beside the gate an old, old woman with a crutch sat in a +chair, watching. She had her feet on a newspaper. The voices stopped as +Laura drew near. The group parted. It was as though she was expected, +as though they had known she was coming here. + +Laura was terribly nervous. Tossing the velvet ribbon over her +shoulder, she said to a woman standing by, “Is this Mrs. Scott’s +house?” and the woman, smiling queerly, said, “It is, my lass.” + +Oh, to be away from this! She actually said, “Help me, God,” as she +walked up the tiny path and knocked. To be away from those staring +eyes, or to be covered up in anything, one of those women’s shawls +even. I’ll just leave the basket and go, she decided. I shan’t even +wait for it to be emptied. + +Then the door opened. A little woman in black showed in the gloom. + +Laura said, “Are you Mrs. Scott?” But to her horror the woman answered, +“Walk in please, miss,” and she was shut in the passage. + +“No,” said Laura, “I don’t want to come in. I only want to leave this +basket. Mother sent—” + +The little woman in the gloomy passage seemed not to have heard her. +“Step this way, please, miss,” she said in an oily voice, and Laura +followed her. + +She found herself in a wretched little low kitchen, lighted by a smoky +lamp. There was a woman sitting before the fire. + +“Em,” said the little creature who had let her in. “Em! It’s a young +lady.” She turned to Laura. She said meaningly, “I’m ’er sister, miss. +You’ll excuse ’er, won’t you?” + +“Oh, but of course!” said Laura. “Please, please don’t disturb her. I—I +only want to leave—” + +But at that moment the woman at the fire turned round. Her face, puffed +up, red, with swollen eyes and swollen lips, looked terrible. She +seemed as though she couldn’t understand why Laura was there. What did +it mean? Why was this stranger standing in the kitchen with a basket? +What was it all about? And the poor face puckered up again. + +“All right, my dear,” said the other. “I’ll thenk the young lady.” + +And again she began, “You’ll excuse her, miss, I’m sure,” and her face, +swollen too, tried an oily smile. + +Laura only wanted to get out, to get away. She was back in the passage. +The door opened. She walked straight through into the bedroom, where +the dead man was lying. + +“You’d like a look at ’im, wouldn’t you?” said Em’s sister, and she +brushed past Laura over to the bed. “Don’t be afraid, my lass,”—and now +her voice sounded fond and sly, and fondly she drew down the sheet—“’e +looks a picture. There’s nothing to show. Come along, my dear.” + +Laura came. + +There lay a young man, fast asleep—sleeping so soundly, so deeply, that +he was far, far away from them both. Oh, so remote, so peaceful. He was +dreaming. Never wake him up again. His head was sunk in the pillow, his +eyes were closed; they were blind under the closed eyelids. He was +given up to his dream. What did garden-parties and baskets and lace +frocks matter to him? He was far from all those things. He was +wonderful, beautiful. While they were laughing and while the band was +playing, this marvel had come to the lane. Happy... happy.... All is +well, said that sleeping face. This is just as it should be. I am +content. + +But all the same you had to cry, and she couldn’t go out of the room +without saying something to him. Laura gave a loud childish sob. + +“Forgive my hat,” she said. + +And this time she didn’t wait for Em’s sister. She found her way out of +the door, down the path, past all those dark people. At the corner of +the lane she met Laurie. + +He stepped out of the shadow. “Is that you, Laura?” + +“Yes.” + +“Mother was getting anxious. Was it all right?” + +“Yes, quite. Oh, Laurie!” She took his arm, she pressed up against him. + +“I say, you’re not crying, are you?” asked her brother. + +Laura shook her head. She was. + +Laurie put his arm round her shoulder. “Don’t cry,” he said in his +warm, loving voice. “Was it awful?” + +“No,” sobbed Laura. “It was simply marvellous. But Laurie—” She +stopped, she looked at her brother. “Isn’t life,” she stammered, “isn’t +life—” But what life was she couldn’t explain. No matter. He quite +understood. + +“_Isn’t_ it, darling?” said Laurie. + + + + +The Daughters of the Late Colonel + + +I + +The week after was one of the busiest weeks of their lives. Even when +they went to bed it was only their bodies that lay down and rested; +their minds went on, thinking things out, talking things over, +wondering, deciding, trying to remember where.... + +Constantia lay like a statue, her hands by her sides, her feet just +overlapping each other, the sheet up to her chin. She stared at the +ceiling. + +“Do you think father would mind if we gave his top-hat to the porter?” + +“The porter?” snapped Josephine. “Why ever the porter? What a very +extraordinary idea!” + +“Because,” said Constantia slowly, “he must often have to go to +funerals. And I noticed at—at the cemetery that he only had a bowler.” +She paused. “I thought then how very much he’d appreciate a top-hat. We +ought to give him a present, too. He was always very nice to father.” + +“But,” cried Josephine, flouncing on her pillow and staring across the +dark at Constantia, “father’s head!” And suddenly, for one awful +moment, she nearly giggled. Not, of course, that she felt in the least +like giggling. It must have been habit. Years ago, when they had stayed +awake at night talking, their beds had simply heaved. And now the +porter’s head, disappearing, popped out, like a candle, under father’s +hat.... The giggle mounted, mounted; she clenched her hands; she fought +it down; she frowned fiercely at the dark and said “Remember” terribly +sternly. + +“We can decide to-morrow,” she said. + +Constantia had noticed nothing; she sighed. + +“Do you think we ought to have our dressing-gowns dyed as well?” + +“Black?” almost shrieked Josephine. + +“Well, what else?” said Constantia. “I was thinking—it doesn’t seem +quite sincere, in a way, to wear black out of doors and when we’re +fully dressed, and then when we’re at home—” + +“But nobody sees us,” said Josephine. She gave the bedclothes such a +twitch that both her feet became uncovered, and she had to creep up the +pillows to get them well under again. + +“Kate does,” said Constantia. “And the postman very well might.” + +Josephine thought of her dark-red slippers, which matched her +dressing-gown, and of Constantia’s favourite indefinite green ones +which went with hers. Black! Two black dressing-gowns and two pairs of +black woolly slippers, creeping off to the bathroom like black cats. + +“I don’t think it’s absolutely necessary,” said she. + +Silence. Then Constantia said, “We shall have to post the papers with +the notice in them to-morrow to catch the Ceylon mail.... How many +letters have we had up till now?” + +“Twenty-three.” + +Josephine had replied to them all, and twenty-three times when she came +to “We miss our dear father so much” she had broken down and had to use +her handkerchief, and on some of them even to soak up a very light-blue +tear with an edge of blotting-paper. Strange! She couldn’t have put it +on—but twenty-three times. Even now, though, when she said over to +herself sadly “We miss our dear father _so_ much,” she could have cried +if she’d wanted to. + +“Have you got enough stamps?” came from Constantia. + +“Oh, how can I tell?” said Josephine crossly. “What’s the good of +asking me that now?” + +“I was just wondering,” said Constantia mildly. + +Silence again. There came a little rustle, a scurry, a hop. + +“A mouse,” said Constantia. + +“It can’t be a mouse because there aren’t any crumbs,” said Josephine. + +“But it doesn’t know there aren’t,” said Constantia. + +A spasm of pity squeezed her heart. Poor little thing! She wished she’d +left a tiny piece of biscuit on the dressing-table. It was awful to +think of it not finding anything. What would it do? + +“I can’t think how they manage to live at all,” she said slowly. + +“Who?” demanded Josephine. + +And Constantia said more loudly than she meant to, “Mice.” + +Josephine was furious. “Oh, what nonsense, Con!” she said. “What have +mice got to do with it? You’re asleep.” + +“I don’t think I am,” said Constantia. She shut her eyes to make sure. +She was. + +Josephine arched her spine, pulled up her knees, folded her arms so +that her fists came under her ears, and pressed her cheek hard against +the pillow. + + +II + +Another thing which complicated matters was they had Nurse Andrews +staying on with them that week. It was their own fault; they had asked +her. It was Josephine’s idea. On the morning—well, on the last morning, +when the doctor had gone, Josephine had said to Constantia, “Don’t you +think it would be rather nice if we asked Nurse Andrews to stay on for +a week as our guest?” + +“Very nice,” said Constantia. + +“I thought,” went on Josephine quickly, “I should just say this +afternoon, after I’ve paid her, ‘My sister and I would be very pleased, +after all you’ve done for us, Nurse Andrews, if you would stay on for a +week as our guest.’ I’d have to put that in about being our guest in +case—” + +“Oh, but she could hardly expect to be paid!” cried Constantia. + +“One never knows,” said Josephine sagely. + +Nurse Andrews had, of course, jumped at the idea. But it was a bother. +It meant they had to have regular sit-down meals at the proper times, +whereas if they’d been alone they could just have asked Kate if she +wouldn’t have minded bringing them a tray wherever they were. And +meal-times now that the strain was over were rather a trial. + +Nurse Andrews was simply fearful about butter. Really they couldn’t +help feeling that about butter, at least, she took advantage of their +kindness. And she had that maddening habit of asking for just an inch +more of bread to finish what she had on her plate, and then, at the +last mouthful, absent-mindedly—of course it wasn’t +absent-mindedly—taking another helping. Josephine got very red when +this happened, and she fastened her small, bead-like eyes on the +tablecloth as if she saw a minute strange insect creeping through the +web of it. But Constantia’s long, pale face lengthened and set, and she +gazed away—away—far over the desert, to where that line of camels +unwound like a thread of wool.... + +“When I was with Lady Tukes,” said Nurse Andrews, “she had such a +dainty little contrayvance for the buttah. It was a silvah Cupid +balanced on the—on the bordah of a glass dish, holding a tayny fork. +And when you wanted some buttah you simply pressed his foot and he bent +down and speared you a piece. It was quite a gayme.” + +Josephine could hardly bear that. But “I think those things are very +extravagant” was all she said. + +“But whey?” asked Nurse Andrews, beaming through her eyeglasses. “No +one, surely, would take more buttah than one wanted—would one?” + +“Ring, Con,” cried Josephine. She couldn’t trust herself to reply. + +And proud young Kate, the enchanted princess, came in to see what the +old tabbies wanted now. She snatched away their plates of mock +something or other and slapped down a white, terrified blancmange. + +“Jam, please, Kate,” said Josephine kindly. + +Kate knelt and burst open the sideboard, lifted the lid of the jam-pot, +saw it was empty, put it on the table, and stalked off. + +“I’m afraid,” said Nurse Andrews a moment later, “there isn’t any.” + +“Oh, what a bother!” said Josephine. She bit her lip. “What had we +better do?” + +Constantia looked dubious. “We can’t disturb Kate again,” she said +softly. + +Nurse Andrews waited, smiling at them both. Her eyes wandered, spying +at everything behind her eyeglasses. Constantia in despair went back to +her camels. Josephine frowned heavily—concentrated. If it hadn’t been +for this idiotic woman she and Con would, of course, have eaten their +blancmange without. Suddenly the idea came. + +“I know,” she said. “Marmalade. There’s some marmalade in the +sideboard. Get it, Con.” + +“I hope,” laughed Nurse Andrews—and her laugh was like a spoon tinkling +against a medicine-glass—“I hope it’s not very bittah marmalayde.” + + +III + +But, after all, it was not long now, and then she’d be gone for good. +And there was no getting over the fact that she had been very kind to +father. She had nursed him day and night at the end. Indeed, both +Constantia and Josephine felt privately she had rather overdone the not +leaving him at the very last. For when they had gone in to say good-bye +Nurse Andrews had sat beside his bed the whole time, holding his wrist +and pretending to look at her watch. It couldn’t have been necessary. +It was so tactless, too. Supposing father had wanted to say +something—something private to them. Not that he had. Oh, far from it! +He lay there, purple, a dark, angry purple in the face, and never even +looked at them when they came in. Then, as they were standing there, +wondering what to do, he had suddenly opened one eye. Oh, what a +difference it would have made, what a difference to their memory of +him, how much easier to tell people about it, if he had only opened +both! But no—one eye only. It glared at them a moment and then... went +out. + + +IV + +It had made it very awkward for them when Mr. Farolles, of St. John’s, +called the same afternoon. + +“The end was quite peaceful, I trust?” were the first words he said as +he glided towards them through the dark drawing-room. + +“Quite,” said Josephine faintly. They both hung their heads. Both of +them felt certain that eye wasn’t at all a peaceful eye. + +“Won’t you sit down?” said Josephine. + +“Thank you, Miss Pinner,” said Mr. Farolles gratefully. He folded his +coat-tails and began to lower himself into father’s arm-chair, but just +as he touched it he almost sprang up and slid into the next chair +instead. + +He coughed. Josephine clasped her hands; Constantia looked vague. + +“I want you to feel, Miss Pinner,” said Mr. Farolles, “and you, Miss +Constantia, that I’m trying to be helpful. I want to be helpful to you +both, if you will let me. These are the times,” said Mr Farolles, very +simply and earnestly, “when God means us to be helpful to one another.” + +“Thank you very much, Mr. Farolles,” said Josephine and Constantia. + +“Not at all,” said Mr. Farolles gently. He drew his kid gloves through +his fingers and leaned forward. “And if either of you would like a +little Communion, either or both of you, here _and_ now, you have only +to tell me. A little Communion is often very help—a great comfort,” he +added tenderly. + +But the idea of a little Communion terrified them. What! In the +drawing-room by themselves—with no—no altar or anything! The piano +would be much too high, thought Constantia, and Mr. Farolles could not +possibly lean over it with the chalice. And Kate would be sure to come +bursting in and interrupt them, thought Josephine. And supposing the +bell rang in the middle? It might be somebody important—about their +mourning. Would they get up reverently and go out, or would they have +to wait... in torture? + +“Perhaps you will send round a note by your good Kate if you would care +for it later,” said Mr. Farolles. + +“Oh yes, thank you very much!” they both said. + +Mr. Farolles got up and took his black straw hat from the round table. + +“And about the funeral,” he said softly. “I may arrange that—as your +dear father’s old friend and yours, Miss Pinner—and Miss Constantia?” + +Josephine and Constantia got up too. + +“I should like it to be quite simple,” said Josephine firmly, “and not +too expensive. At the same time, I should like—” + +“A good one that will last,” thought dreamy Constantia, as if Josephine +were buying a nightgown. But, of course, Josephine didn’t say that. +“One suitable to our father’s position.” She was very nervous. + +“I’ll run round to our good friend Mr. Knight,” said Mr. Farolles +soothingly. “I will ask him to come and see you. I am sure you will +find him very helpful indeed.” + + +V + +Well, at any rate, all that part of it was over, though neither of them +could possibly believe that father was never coming back. Josephine had +had a moment of absolute terror at the cemetery, while the coffin was +lowered, to think that she and Constantia had done this thing without +asking his permission. What would father say when he found out? For he +was bound to find out sooner or later. He always did. “Buried. You two +girls had me _buried_!” She heard his stick thumping. Oh, what would +they say? What possible excuse could they make? It sounded such an +appallingly heartless thing to do. Such a wicked advantage to take of a +person because he happened to be helpless at the moment. The other +people seemed to treat it all as a matter of course. They were +strangers; they couldn’t be expected to understand that father was the +very last person for such a thing to happen to. No, the entire blame +for it all would fall on her and Constantia. And the expense, she +thought, stepping into the tight-buttoned cab. When she had to show him +the bills. What would he say then? + +She heard him absolutely roaring. “And do you expect me to pay for this +gimcrack excursion of yours?” + +“Oh,” groaned poor Josephine aloud, “we shouldn’t have done it, Con!” + +And Constantia, pale as a lemon in all that blackness, said in a +frightened whisper, “Done what, Jug?” + +“Let them bu-bury father like that,” said Josephine, breaking down and +crying into her new, queer-smelling mourning handkerchief. + +“But what else could we have done?” asked Constantia wonderingly. “We +couldn’t have kept him, Jug—we couldn’t have kept him unburied. At any +rate, not in a flat that size.” + +Josephine blew her nose; the cab was dreadfully stuffy. + +“I don’t know,” she said forlornly. “It is all so dreadful. I feel we +ought to have tried to, just for a time at least. To make perfectly +sure. One thing’s certain”—and her tears sprang out again—“father will +never forgive us for this—never!” + + +VI + +Father would never forgive them. That was what they felt more than ever +when, two mornings later, they went into his room to go through his +things. They had discussed it quite calmly. It was even down on +Josephine’s list of things to be done. “_Go through father’s things and +settle about them._” But that was a very different matter from saying +after breakfast: + +“Well, are you ready, Con?” + +“Yes, Jug—when you are.” + +“Then I think we’d better get it over.” + +It was dark in the hall. It had been a rule for years never to disturb +father in the morning, whatever happened. And now they were going to +open the door without knocking even.... Constantia’s eyes were enormous +at the idea; Josephine felt weak in the knees. + +“You—you go first,” she gasped, pushing Constantia. + +But Constantia said, as she always had said on those occasions, “No, +Jug, that’s not fair. You’re the eldest.” + +Josephine was just going to say—what at other times she wouldn’t have +owned to for the world—what she kept for her very last weapon, “But +you’re the tallest,” when they noticed that the kitchen door was open, +and there stood Kate.... + +“Very stiff,” said Josephine, grasping the 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. + + +VII + +But the strain told on them when they were back in the dining-room. +They sat down, very shaky, and looked at each other. + +“I don’t feel I can settle to anything,” said Josephine, “until I’ve +had something. Do you think we could ask Kate for two cups of hot +water?” + +“I really don’t see why we shouldn’t,” said Constantia carefully. She +was quite normal again. “I won’t ring. I’ll go to the kitchen door and +ask her.” + +“Yes, do,” said Josephine, sinking down into a chair. “Tell her, just +two cups, Con, nothing else—on a tray.” + +“She needn’t even put the jug on, need she?” said Constantia, as though +Kate might very well complain if the jug had been there. + +“Oh no, certainly not! The jug’s not at all necessary. She can pour it +direct out of the kettle,” cried Josephine, feeling that would be a +labour-saving indeed. + +Their cold lips quivered at the greenish brims. Josephine curved her +small red hands round the cup; Constantia sat up and blew on the wavy +steam, making it flutter from one side to the other. + +“Speaking of Benny,” said Josephine. + +And though Benny hadn’t been mentioned Constantia immediately looked as +though he had. + +“He’ll expect us to send him something of father’s, of course. But it’s +so difficult to know what to send to Ceylon.” + +“You mean things get unstuck so on the voyage,” murmured Constantia. + +“No, lost,” said Josephine sharply. “You know there’s no post. Only +runners.” + +Both paused to watch a black man in white linen drawers running through +the pale fields for dear life, with a large brown-paper parcel in his +hands. Josephine’s black man was tiny; he scurried along glistening +like an ant. But there was something blind and tireless about +Constantia’s tall, thin fellow, which made him, she decided, a very +unpleasant person indeed.... On the veranda, dressed all in white and +wearing a cork helmet, stood Benny. His right hand shook up and down, +as father’s did when he was impatient. And behind him, not in the least +interested, sat Hilda, the unknown sister-in-law. She swung in a cane +rocker and flicked over the leaves of the _Tatler_. + +“I think his watch would be the most suitable present,” said Josephine. + +Constantia looked up; she seemed surprised. + +“Oh, would you trust a gold watch to a native?” + +“But of course, I’d disguise it,” said Josephine. “No one would know it +was a watch.” She liked the idea of having to make a parcel such a +curious shape that no one could possibly guess what it was. She even +thought for a moment of hiding the watch in a narrow cardboard +corset-box that she’d kept by her for a long time, waiting for it to +come in for something. It was such beautiful, firm cardboard. But, no, +it wouldn’t be appropriate for this occasion. It had lettering on it: +_Medium Women’s_ 28. _Extra Firm Busks._ It would be almost too much of +a surprise for Benny to open that and find father’s watch inside. + +“And of course it isn’t as though it would be going—ticking, I mean,” +said Constantia, who was still thinking of the native love of +jewellery. “At least,” she added, “it would be very strange if after +all that time it was.” + + +VIII + +Josephine made no reply. She had flown off on one of her tangents. She +had suddenly thought of Cyril. Wasn’t it more usual for the only +grandson to have the watch? And then dear Cyril was so appreciative, +and a gold watch meant so much to a young man. Benny, in all +probability, had quite got out of the habit of watches; men so seldom +wore waistcoats in those hot climates. Whereas Cyril in London wore +them from year’s end to year’s end. And it would be so nice for her and +Constantia, when he came to tea, to know it was there. “I see you’ve +got on grandfather’s watch, Cyril.” It would be somehow so +satisfactory. + +Dear boy! What a blow his sweet, sympathetic little note had been! Of +course they quite understood; but it was most unfortunate. + +“It would have been such a point, having him,” said Josephine. + +“And he would have enjoyed it so,” said Constantia, not thinking what +she was saying. + +However, as soon as he got back he was coming to tea with his aunties. +Cyril to tea was one of their rare treats. + +“Now, Cyril, you mustn’t be frightened of our cakes. Your Auntie Con +and I bought them at Buszard’s this morning. We know what a man’s +appetite is. So don’t be ashamed of making a good tea.” + +Josephine cut recklessly into the rich dark cake that stood for her +winter gloves or the soling and heeling of Constantia’s only +respectable shoes. But Cyril was most unmanlike in appetite. + +“I say, Aunt Josephine, I simply can’t. I’ve only just had lunch, you +know.” + +“Oh, Cyril, that can’t be true! It’s after four,” cried Josephine. +Constantia sat with her knife poised over the chocolate-roll. + +“It is, all the same,” said Cyril. “I had to meet a man at Victoria, +and he kept me hanging about till... there was only time to get lunch +and to come on here. And he gave me—phew”—Cyril put his hand to his +forehead—“a terrific blow-out,” he said. + +It was disappointing—to-day of all days. But still he couldn’t be +expected to know. + +“But you’ll have a meringue, won’t you, Cyril?” said Aunt Josephine. +“These meringues were bought specially for you. Your dear father was so +fond of them. We were sure you are, too.” + +“I _am_, Aunt Josephine,” cried Cyril ardently. “Do you mind if I take +half to begin with?” + +“Not at all, dear boy; but we mustn’t let you off with that.” + +“Is your dear father still so fond of meringues?” asked Auntie Con +gently. She winced faintly as she broke through the shell of hers. + +“Well, I don’t quite know, Auntie Con,” said Cyril breezily. + +At that they both looked up. + +“Don’t know?” almost snapped Josephine. “Don’t know a thing like that +about your own father, Cyril?” + +“Surely,” said Auntie Con softly. + +Cyril tried to laugh it off. “Oh, well,” he said, “it’s such a long +time since—” He faltered. He stopped. Their faces were too much for +him. + +“Even _so_,” said Josephine. + +And Auntie Con looked. + +Cyril put down his teacup. “Wait a bit,” he cried. “Wait a bit, Aunt +Josephine. What am I thinking of?” + +He looked up. They were beginning to brighten. Cyril slapped his knee. + +“Of course,” he said, “it was meringues. How could I have forgotten? +Yes, Aunt Josephine, you’re perfectly right. Father’s most frightfully +keen on meringues.” + +They didn’t only beam. Aunt Josephine went scarlet with pleasure; +Auntie Con gave a deep, deep sigh. + +“And now, Cyril, you must come and see father,” said Josephine. “He +knows you were coming to-day.” + +“Right,” said Cyril, very firmly and heartily. He got up from his +chair; suddenly he glanced at the clock. + +“I say, Auntie Con, isn’t your clock a bit slow? I’ve got to meet a man +at—at Paddington just after five. I’m afraid I shan’t be able to stay +very long with grandfather.” + +“Oh, he won’t expect you to stay _very_ long!” said Aunt Josephine. + +Constantia was still gazing at the clock. She couldn’t make up her mind +if it was fast or slow. It was one or the other, she felt almost +certain of that. At any rate, it had been. + +Cyril still lingered. “Aren’t you coming along, Auntie Con?” + +“Of course,” said Josephine, “we shall all go. Come on, Con.” + + +IX + +They knocked at the door, and Cyril followed his aunts into +grandfather’s hot, sweetish room. + +“Come on,” said Grandfather Pinner. “Don’t hang about. What is it? +What’ve you been up to?” + +He was sitting in front of a roaring fire, clasping his stick. He had a +thick rug over his knees. On his lap there lay a beautiful pale yellow +silk handkerchief. + +“It’s Cyril, father,” said Josephine shyly. And she took Cyril’s hand +and led him forward. + +“Good afternoon, grandfather,” said Cyril, trying to take his hand out +of Aunt Josephine’s. Grandfather Pinner shot his eyes at Cyril in the +way he was famous for. Where was Auntie Con? She stood on the other +side of Aunt Josephine; her long arms hung down in front of her; her +hands were clasped. She never took her eyes off grandfather. + +“Well,” said Grandfather Pinner, beginning to thump, “what have you got +to tell me?” + +What had he, what had he got to tell him? Cyril felt himself smiling +like a perfect imbecile. The room was stifling, too. + +But Aunt Josephine came to his rescue. She cried brightly, “Cyril says +his father is still very fond of meringues, father dear.” + +“Eh?” said Grandfather Pinner, curving his hand like a purple +meringue-shell over one ear. + +Josephine repeated, “Cyril says his father is still very fond of +meringues.” + +“Can’t hear,” said old Colonel Pinner. And he waved Josephine away with +his stick, then pointed with his stick to Cyril. “Tell me what she’s +trying to say,” he said. + +(My God!) “Must I?” said Cyril, blushing and staring at Aunt Josephine. + +“Do, dear,” she smiled. “It will please him so much.” + +“Come on, out with it!” cried Colonel Pinner testily, beginning to +thump again. + +And Cyril leaned forward and yelled, “Father’s still very fond of +meringues.” + +At that Grandfather Pinner jumped as though he had been shot. + +“Don’t shout!” he cried. “What’s the matter with the boy? _Meringues!_ +What about ’em?” + +“Oh, Aunt Josephine, must we go on?” groaned Cyril desperately. + +“It’s quite all right, dear boy,” said Aunt Josephine, as though he and +she were at the dentist’s together. “He’ll understand in a minute.” And +she whispered to Cyril, “He’s getting a bit deaf, you know.” Then she +leaned forward and really bawled at Grandfather Pinner, “Cyril only +wanted to tell you, father dear, that _his_ father is still very fond +of meringues.” + +Colonel Pinner heard that time, heard and brooded, looking Cyril up and +down. + +“What an esstrordinary thing!” said old Grandfather Pinner. “What an +esstrordinary thing to come all this way here to tell me!” + +And Cyril felt it _was_. + + +“Yes, I shall send Cyril the watch,” said Josephine. + +“That would be very nice,” said Constantia. “I seem to remember last +time he came there was some little trouble about the time.” + + +X + +They were interrupted by Kate bursting through the door in her usual +fashion, as though she had discovered some secret panel in the wall. + +“Fried or boiled?” asked the bold voice. + +Fried or boiled? Josephine and Constantia were quite bewildered for the +moment. They could hardly take it in. + +“Fried or boiled what, Kate?” asked Josephine, trying to begin to +concentrate. + +Kate gave a loud sniff. “Fish.” + +“Well, why didn’t you say so immediately?” Josephine reproached her +gently. “How could you expect us to understand, Kate? There are a great +many things in this world you know, which are fried or boiled.” And +after such a display of courage she said quite brightly to Constantia, +“Which do you prefer, Con?” + +“I think it might be nice to have it fried,” said Constantia. “On the +other hand, of course, boiled fish is very nice. I think I prefer both +equally well.... Unless you.... In that case—” + +“I shall fry it,” said Kate, and she bounced back, leaving their door +open and slamming the door of her kitchen. + +Josephine gazed at Constantia; she raised her pale eyebrows until they +rippled away into her pale hair. She got up. She said in a very lofty, +imposing way, “Do you mind following me into the drawing-room, +Constantia? I’ve got something of great importance to discuss with +you.” + +For it was always to the drawing-room they retired when they wanted to +talk over Kate. + +Josephine closed the door meaningly. “Sit down, Constantia,” she said, +still very grand. She might have been receiving Constantia for the +first time. And Con looked round vaguely for a chair, as though she +felt indeed quite a stranger. + +“Now the question is,” said Josephine, bending forward, “whether we +shall keep her or not.” + +“That is the question,” agreed Constantia. + +“And this time,” said Josephine firmly, “we must come to a definite +decision.” + +Constantia looked for a moment as though she might begin going over all +the other times, but she pulled herself together and said, “Yes, Jug.” + +“You see, Con,” explained Josephine, “everything is so changed now.” +Constantia looked up quickly. “I mean,” went on Josephine, “we’re not +dependent on Kate as we were.” And she blushed faintly. “There’s not +father to cook for.” + +“That is perfectly true,” agreed Constantia. “Father certainly doesn’t +want any cooking now, whatever else—” + +Josephine broke in sharply, “You’re not sleepy, are you, Con?” + +“Sleepy, Jug?” Constantia was wide-eyed. + +“Well, concentrate more,” said Josephine sharply, and she returned to +the subject. “What it comes to is, if we did”—and this she barely +breathed, glancing at the door—“give Kate notice”—she raised her voice +again—“we could manage our own food.” + +“Why not?” cried Constantia. She couldn’t help smiling. The idea was so +exciting. She clasped her hands. “What should we live on, Jug?” + +“Oh, eggs in various forms!” said Jug, lofty again. “And, besides, +there are all the cooked foods.” + +“But I’ve always heard,” said Constantia, “they are considered so very +expensive.” + +“Not if one buys them in moderation,” said Josephine. But she tore +herself away from this fascinating bypath and dragged Constantia after +her. + +“What we’ve got to decide now, however, is whether we really do trust +Kate or not.” + +Constantia leaned back. Her flat little laugh flew from her lips. + +“Isn’t it curious, Jug,” said she, “that just on this one subject I’ve +never been able to quite make up my mind?” + + +XI + +She never had. The whole difficulty was to prove anything. How did one +prove things, how could one? Suppose Kate had stood in front of her and +deliberately made a face. Mightn’t she very well have been in pain? +Wasn’t it impossible, at any rate, to ask Kate if she was making a face +at her? If Kate answered “No”—and, of course, she would say “No”—what a +position! How undignified! Then again Constantia suspected, she was +almost certain that Kate went to her chest of drawers when she and +Josephine were out, not to take things but to spy. Many times she had +come back to find her amethyst cross in the most unlikely places, under +her lace ties or on top of her evening Bertha. More than once she had +laid a trap for Kate. She had arranged things in a special order and +then called Josephine to witness. + +“You see, Jug?” + +“Quite, Con.” + +“Now we shall be able to tell.” + +But, oh dear, when she did go to look, she was as far off from a proof +as ever! If anything was displaced, it might so very well have happened +as she closed the drawer; a jolt might have done it so easily. + +“You come, Jug, and decide. I really can’t. It’s too difficult.” + +But after a pause and a long glare Josephine would sigh, “Now you’ve +put the doubt into my mind, Con, I’m sure I can’t tell myself.” + + +“Well, we can’t postpone it again,” said Josephine. “If we postpone it +this time—” + + +XII + +But at that moment in the street below a barrel-organ struck up. +Josephine and Constantia sprang to their feet together. + +“Run, Con,” said Josephine. “Run quickly. There’s sixpence on the—” + +Then they remembered. It didn’t matter. They would never have to stop +the organ-grinder again. Never again would she and Constantia be told +to make that monkey take his noise somewhere else. Never would sound +that loud, strange bellow when father thought they were not hurrying +enough. The organ-grinder might play there all day and the stick would +not thump. + + It never will thump again, + It never will thump again, + +played the barrel-organ. + +What was Constantia thinking? She had such a strange smile; she looked +different. She couldn’t be going to cry. + +“Jug, Jug,” said Constantia softly, pressing her hands together. “Do +you know what day it is? It’s Saturday. It’s a week to-day, a whole +week.” + + A week since father died, + A week since father died, + +cried the barrel-organ. And Josephine, too, forgot to be practical and +sensible; she smiled faintly, strangely. On the Indian carpet there +fell a square of sunlight, pale red; it came and went and came—and +stayed, deepened—until it shone almost golden. + +“The sun’s out,” said Josephine, as though it really mattered. + +A perfect fountain of bubbling notes shook from the barrel-organ, +round, bright notes, carelessly scattered. + +Constantia lifted her big, cold hands as if to catch them, and then her +hands fell again. She walked over to the mantelpiece to her favourite +Buddha. And the stone and gilt image, whose smile always gave her such +a queer feeling, almost a pain and yet a pleasant pain, seemed to-day +to be more than smiling. He knew something; he had a secret. “I know +something that you don’t know,” said her Buddha. Oh, what was it, what +could it be? And yet she had always felt there was... something. + +The sunlight pressed through the windows, thieved its way in, flashed +its light over the furniture and the photographs. Josephine watched it. +When it came to mother’s photograph, the enlargement over the piano, it +lingered as though puzzled to find so little remained of mother, except +the earrings shaped like tiny pagodas and a black feather boa. Why did +the photographs of dead people always fade so? wondered Josephine. As +soon as a person was dead their photograph died too. But, of course, +this one of mother was very old. It was thirty-five years old. +Josephine remembered standing on a chair and pointing out that feather +boa to Constantia and telling her that it was a snake that had killed +their mother in Ceylon.... Would everything have been different if +mother hadn’t died? She didn’t see why. Aunt Florence had lived with +them until they had left school, and they had moved three times and had +their yearly holiday and... and there’d been changes of servants, of +course. + +Some little sparrows, young sparrows they sounded, chirped on the +window-ledge. _Yeep—eyeep—yeep._ But Josephine felt they were not +sparrows, not on the window-ledge. It was inside her, that queer little +crying noise. _Yeep—eyeep—yeep._ Ah, what was it crying, so weak and +forlorn? + +If mother had lived, might they have married? But there had been nobody +for them to marry. There had been father’s Anglo-Indian friends before +he quarrelled with them. But after that she and Constantia never met a +single man except clergymen. How did one meet men? Or even if they’d +met them, how could they have got to know men well enough to be more +than strangers? One read of people having adventures, being followed, +and so on. But nobody had ever followed Constantia and her. Oh yes, +there had been one year at Eastbourne a mysterious man at their +boarding-house who had put a note on the jug of hot water outside their +bedroom door! But by the time Connie had found it the steam had made +the writing too faint to read; they couldn’t even make out to which of +them it was addressed. And he had left next day. And that was all. The +rest had been looking after father, and at the same time keeping out of +father’s way. But now? But now? The thieving sun touched Josephine +gently. She lifted her face. She was drawn over to the window by gentle +beams.... + +Until the barrel-organ stopped playing Constantia stayed before the +Buddha, wondering, but not as usual, not vaguely. This time her wonder +was like longing. She remembered the times she had come in here, crept +out of bed in her nightgown when the moon was full, and lain on the +floor with her arms outstretched, as though she was crucified. Why? The +big, pale moon had made her do it. The horrible dancing figures on the +carved screen had leered at her and she hadn’t minded. She remembered +too how, whenever they were at the seaside, she had gone off by herself +and got as close to the sea as she could, and sung something, something +she had made up, while she gazed all over that restless water. There +had been this other life, running out, bringing things home in bags, +getting things on approval, discussing them with Jug, and taking them +back to get more things on approval, and arranging father’s trays and +trying not to annoy father. But it all seemed to have happened in a +kind of tunnel. It wasn’t real. It was only when she came out of the +tunnel into the moonlight or by the sea or into a thunderstorm that she +really felt herself. What did it mean? What was it she was always +wanting? What did it all lead to? Now? Now? + +She turned away from the Buddha with one of her vague gestures. She +went over to where Josephine was standing. She wanted to say something +to Josephine, something frightfully important, about—about the future +and what.... + +“Don’t you think perhaps—” she began. + +But Josephine interrupted her. “I was wondering if now—” she murmured. +They stopped; they waited for each other. + +“Go on, Con,” said Josephine. + +“No, no, Jug; after you,” said Constantia. + +“No, say what you were going to say. You began,” said Josephine. + +“I... I’d rather hear what you were going to say first,” said +Constantia. + +“Don’t be absurd, Con.” + +“Really, Jug.” + +“Connie!” + +“Oh, _Jug_!” + +A pause. Then Constantia said faintly, “I can’t say what I was going to +say, Jug, because I’ve forgotten what it was... that I was going to +say.” + +Josephine was silent for a moment. She stared at a big cloud where the +sun had been. Then she replied shortly, “I’ve forgotten too.” + + + + +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 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 ducklings, sailing +over the forest. There was just enough wind to shake the last drops off +the trees; one warm star splashed on his hand. Ping!—another drummed on +his hat. The empty road gleamed, the hedges smelled of briar, and how +big and bright the hollyhocks glowed in the cottage gardens. And here +was Colonel Proctor’s—here it was already. His hand was on the gate, +his elbow jogged the syringa bushes, and petals and pollen scattered +over his coat sleeve. But wait a bit. This was too quick altogether. +He’d meant to think the whole thing out again. Here, steady. But he was +walking up the path, with the huge rose bushes on either side. It can’t +be done like this. But his hand had grasped the bell, given it a pull, +and started it pealing wildly, as if he’d come to say the house was on +fire. The housemaid must have been in the hall, too, for the front door +flashed open, and Reggie was shut in the empty drawing-room before that +confounded bell had stopped ringing. Strangely enough, when it did, the +big room, shadowy, with some one’s parasol lying on top of the grand +piano, bucked him up—or rather, excited him. It was so quiet, and yet +in one moment the door would open, and his fate be decided. The feeling +was not unlike that of being at the dentist’s; he was almost reckless. +But at the same time, to his immense surprise, Reggie heard himself +saying, “Lord, Thou knowest, Thou hast not done _much_ for me....” That +pulled him up; that made him realize again how dead serious it was. Too +late. The door handle turned. Anne came in, crossed the shadowy space +between them, gave him her hand, and said, in her small, soft voice, +“I’m so sorry, father is out. And mother is having a day in town, +hat-hunting. There’s only me to entertain you, Reggie.” + +Reggie gasped, pressed his own hat to his jacket buttons, and stammered +out, “As a matter of fact, I’ve only come... to say good-bye.” + +“Oh!” cried Anne softly—she stepped back from him and her grey eyes +danced—“what a _very_ short visit!” + +Then, watching him, her chin tilted, she laughed outright, a long, soft +peal, and walked away from him over to the piano, and leaned against +it, playing with the tassel of the parasol. + +“I’m so sorry,” she said, “to be laughing like this. I don’t know why I +do. It’s just a bad ha-habit.” And suddenly she stamped her grey shoe, +and took a pocket-handkerchief out of her white woolly jacket. “I +really must conquer it, it’s too absurd,” said she. + +“Good heavens, Anne,” cried Reggie, “I love to hear you laughing! I +can’t imagine anything more—” + +But the truth was, and they both knew it, she wasn’t always laughing; +it wasn’t really a habit. Only ever since the day they’d met, ever +since that very first moment, for some strange reason that Reggie +wished to God he understood, Anne had laughed at him. Why? It didn’t +matter where they were or what they were talking about. They might +begin by being as serious as possible, dead serious—at any rate, as far +as he was concerned—but then suddenly, in the middle of a sentence, +Anne would glance at him, and a little quick quiver passed over her +face. Her lips parted, her eyes danced, and she began laughing. + +Another queer thing about it was, Reggie had an idea she didn’t herself +know why she laughed. He had seen her turn away, frown, suck in her +cheeks, press her hands together. But it was no use. The long, soft +peal sounded, even while she cried, “I don’t know why I’m laughing.” It +was a mystery.... + +Now she tucked the handkerchief away. + +“Do sit down,” said she. “And smoke, won’t you? There are cigarettes in +that little box beside you. I’ll have one too.” He lighted a match for +her, and as she bent forward he saw the tiny flame glow in the pearl +ring she wore. “It is to-morrow that you’re going, isn’t it?” said +Anne. + +“Yes, to-morrow as ever was,” said Reggie, and he blew a little fan of +smoke. Why on earth was he so nervous? Nervous wasn’t the word for it. + +“It’s—it’s frightfully hard to believe,” he added. + +“Yes—isn’t it?” said Anne softly, and she leaned forward and rolled the +point of her cigarette round the green ash-tray. How beautiful she +looked like that!—simply beautiful—and she was so small in that immense +chair. Reginald’s heart swelled with tenderness, but it was her voice, +her soft voice, that made him tremble. “I feel you’ve been here for +years,” she said. + +Reginald took a deep breath of his cigarette. “It’s ghastly, this idea +of going back,” he said. + +“_Coo-roo-coo-coo-coo_,” sounded from the quiet. + +“But you’re fond of being out there, aren’t you?” said Anne. She hooked +her finger through her pearl necklace. “Father was saying only the +other night how lucky he thought you were to have a life of your own.” +And she looked up at him. Reginald’s smile was rather wan. “I don’t +feel fearfully lucky,” he said lightly. + +“_Roo-coo-coo-coo_,” came again. And Anne murmured, “You mean it’s +lonely.” + +“Oh, it isn’t the loneliness I care about,” said Reginald, and he +stumped his cigarette savagely on the green ash-tray. “I could stand +any amount of it, used to like it even. It’s the idea of—” Suddenly, to +his horror, he felt himself blushing. + +“_Roo-coo-coo-coo! Roo-coo-coo-coo!_” + +Anne jumped up. “Come and say good-bye to my doves,” she said. “They’ve +been moved to the side veranda. You do like doves, don’t you, Reggie?” + +“Awfully,” said Reggie, so fervently that as he opened the French +window for her and stood to one side, Anne ran forward and laughed at +the doves instead. + +To and fro, to and fro over the fine red sand on the floor of the dove +house, walked the two doves. One was always in front of the other. One +ran forward, uttering a little cry, and the other followed, solemnly +bowing and bowing. “You see,” explained Anne, “the one in front, she’s +Mrs. Dove. She looks at Mr. Dove and gives that little laugh and runs +forward, and he follows her, bowing and bowing. And that makes her +laugh again. Away she runs, and after her,” cried Anne, and she sat +back on her heels, “comes poor Mr. Dove, bowing and bowing... and +that’s their whole life. They never do anything else, you know.” She +got up and took some yellow grains out of a bag on the roof of the dove +house. “When you think of them, out in Rhodesia, Reggie, you can be +sure that is what they will be doing....” + +Reggie gave no sign of having seen the doves or of having heard a word. +For the moment he was conscious only of the immense effort it took to +tear his secret out of himself and offer it to Anne. “Anne, do you +think you could ever care for me?” It was done. It was over. And in the +little pause that followed Reginald saw the garden open to the light, +the blue quivering sky, the flutter of leaves on the veranda poles, and +Anne turning over the grains of maize on her palm with one finger. Then +slowly she shut her hand, and the new world faded as she murmured +slowly, “No, never in that way.” But he had scarcely time to feel +anything before she walked quickly away, and he followed her down the +steps, along the garden path, under the pink rose arches, across the +lawn. There, with the gay herbaceous border behind her, Anne faced +Reginald. “It isn’t that I’m not awfully fond of you,” she said. “I am. +But”—her eyes widened—“not in the way”—a quiver passed over her +face—“one ought to be fond of—” Her lips parted, and she couldn’t stop +herself. She began laughing. “There, you see, you see,” she cried, +“it’s your check t-tie. Even at this moment, when one would think one +really would be solemn, your tie reminds me fearfully of the bow-tie +that cats wear in pictures! Oh, please forgive me for being so horrid, +please!” + +Reggie caught hold of her little warm hand. “There’s no question of +forgiving you,” he said quickly. “How could there be? And I do believe +I know why I make you laugh. It’s because you’re so far above me in +every way that I am somehow ridiculous. I see that, Anne. But if I were +to—” + +“No, no.” Anne squeezed his hand hard. “It’s not that. That’s all +wrong. I’m not far above you at all. You’re much better than I am. +You’re marvellously unselfish and... and kind and simple. I’m none of +those things. You don’t know me. I’m the most awful character,” said +Anne. “Please don’t interrupt. And besides, that’s not the point. The +point is”—she shook her head—“I couldn’t possibly marry a man I laughed +at. Surely you see that. The man I marry—” breathed Anne softly. She +broke off. She drew her hand away, and looking at Reggie she smiled +strangely, dreamily. “The man I marry—” + +And it seemed to Reggie that a tall, handsome, brilliant stranger +stepped in front of him and took his place—the kind of man that Anne +and he had seen often at the theatre, walking on to the stage from +nowhere, without a word catching the heroine in his arms, and after one +long, tremendous look, carrying her off to anywhere.... + +Reggie bowed to his vision. “Yes, I see,” he said huskily. + +“Do you?” said Anne. “Oh, I do hope you do. Because I feel so horrid +about it. It’s so hard to explain. You know I’ve never—” She stopped. +Reggie looked at her. She was smiling. “Isn’t it funny?” she said. “I +can say anything to you. I always have been able to from the very +beginning.” + +He tried to smile, to say “I’m glad.” She went on. “I’ve never known +anyone I like as much as I like you. I’ve never felt so happy with +anyone. 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. + + + + +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 Privée_—and she wants me to go +back with her while the luck lasts. Of course I can’t leave—her. But if +you’d—” + +At that “she” looked up; she simply withered her mother. “Why can’t you +leave me?” she said furiously. “What utter rot! How dare you make a +scene like this? This is the last time I’ll come out with you. You +really are too awful for words.” She looked her mother up and down. +“Calm yourself,” she said superbly. + +Mrs. Raddick was desperate, just desperate. She was “wild” to go back +with Mrs. MacEwen, but at the same time.... + +I seized my courage. “Would you—do you care to come to tea with—us?” + +“Yes, yes, she’ll be delighted. That’s just what I wanted, isn’t it, +darling? Mrs. MacEwen... I’ll be back here in an hour... or less... +I’ll—” + +Mrs. R. dashed up the steps. I saw her bag was open again. + +So we three were left. But really it wasn’t my fault. Hennie looked +crushed to the earth, too. When the car was there she wrapped her dark +coat round her—to escape contamination. Even her little feet looked as +though they scorned to carry her down the steps to us. + +“I am so awfully sorry,” I murmured as the car started. + +“Oh, I don’t _mind_,” said she. “I don’t _want_ to look twenty-one. Who +would—if they were seventeen! It’s”—and she gave a faint shudder—“the +stupidity I loathe, and being stared at by old fat men. Beasts!” + +Hennie gave her a quick look and then peered out of the window. + +We drew up before an immense palace of pink-and-white marble with +orange-trees outside the doors in gold-and-black tubs. + +“Would you care to go in?” I suggested. + +She hesitated, glanced, bit her lip, and resigned herself. “Oh well, +there seems nowhere else,” said she. “Get out, Hennie.” + +I went first—to find the table, of course—she followed. But the worst +of it was having her little brother, who was only twelve, with us. That +was the last, final straw—having that child, trailing at her heels. + +There was one table. It had pink carnations and pink plates with little +blue tea-napkins for sails. + +“Shall we sit here?” + +She put her hand wearily on the back of a white wicker chair. + +“We may as well. Why not?” said she. + +Hennie squeezed past her and wriggled on to a stool at the end. He felt +awfully out of it. She didn’t even take her gloves off. She lowered her +eyes and drummed on the table. When a faint violin sounded she winced +and bit her lip again. Silence. + +The waitress appeared. I hardly dared to ask her. “Tea—coffee? China +tea—or iced tea with lemon?” + +Really she didn’t mind. It was all the same to her. She didn’t really +want anything. Hennie whispered, “Chocolate!” + +But just as the waitress turned away she cried out carelessly, “Oh, you +may as well bring me a chocolate, too.” + +While we waited she took out a little, gold powder-box with a mirror in +the lid, shook the poor little puff as though she loathed it, and +dabbed her lovely nose. + +“Hennie,” she said, “take those flowers away.” She pointed with her +puff to the carnations, and I heard her murmur, “I can’t bear flowers +on a table.” They had evidently been giving her intense pain, for she +positively closed her eyes as I moved them away. + +The waitress came back with the chocolate and the tea. She put the big, +frothing cups before them and pushed across my clear glass. Hennie +buried his nose, emerged, with, for one dreadful moment, a little +trembling blob of cream on the tip. But he hastily wiped it off like a +little gentleman. I wondered if I should dare draw her attention to her +cup. She didn’t notice it—didn’t see it—until suddenly, quite by +chance, she took a sip. I watched anxiously; she faintly shuddered. + +“Dreadfully sweet!” said she. + +A tiny boy with a head like a raisin and a chocolate body came round +with a tray of pastries—row upon row of little freaks, little +inspirations, little melting dreams. He offered them to her. “Oh, I’m +not at all hungry. Take them away.” + +He offered them to Hennie. Hennie gave me a swift look—it must have +been satisfactory—for he took a chocolate cream, a coffee éclair, 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. + + + + +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 emigrated, and young Jim went to India with the army, +and Ethel, the youngest, married a good-for-nothing little waiter who +died of ulcers the year little Lennie was born. And now little +Lennie—my grandson.... + +The piles of dirty cups, dirty dishes, were washed and dried. The +ink-black knives were cleaned with a piece of potato and finished off +with a piece of cork. The table was scrubbed, and the dresser and the +sink that had sardine tails swimming in it.... + +He’d never been a strong child—never from the first. He’d been one of +those fair babies that everybody took for a girl. Silvery fair curls he +had, blue eyes, and a little freckle like a diamond on one side of his +nose. The trouble she and Ethel had had to rear that child! The things +out of the newspapers they tried him with! Every Sunday morning Ethel +would read aloud while Ma Parker did her washing. + +“Dear Sir,—Just a line to let you know my little Myrtil was laid out +for dead.... After four bottils... gained 8 lbs. in 9 weeks, _and is +still putting it on_.” + + +And then the egg-cup of ink would come off the dresser and the letter +would be written, and Ma would buy a postal order on her way to work +next morning. But it was no use. Nothing made little Lennie put it on. +Taking him to the cemetery, even, never gave him a colour; a nice +shake-up in the bus never improved his appetite. + +But he was gran’s boy from the first.... + +“Whose boy are you?” said old Ma Parker, straightening up from the +stove and going over to the smudgy window. And a little voice, so warm, +so close, it half stifled her—it seemed to be in her breast under her +heart—laughed out, and said, “I’m gran’s boy!” + +At that moment there was a sound of steps, and the literary gentleman +appeared, dressed for walking. + +“Oh, Mrs. Parker, I’m going out.” + +“Very good, sir.” + +“And you’ll find your half-crown in the tray of the inkstand.” + +“Thank you, sir.” + +“Oh, by the way, Mrs. Parker,” said the literary gentleman quickly, +“you didn’t throw away any cocoa last time you were here—did you?” + +“No, sir.” + +“_Very_ strange. I could have sworn I left a teaspoonful of cocoa in +the tin.” He broke off. He said softly and firmly, “You’ll always tell +me when you throw things away—won’t you, Mrs. Parker?” And he walked +off very well pleased with himself, convinced, in fact, he’d shown Mrs. +Parker that under his apparent carelessness he was as vigilant as a +woman. + +The door banged. She took her brushes and cloths into the bedroom. But +when she began to make the bed, smoothing, tucking, patting, the +thought of little Lennie was unbearable. Why did he have to suffer so? +That’s what she couldn’t understand. Why should a little angel child +have to arsk for his breath and fight for it? There was no sense in +making a child suffer like that. + +... From Lennie’s little box of a chest there came a sound as though +something was boiling. There was a great lump of something bubbling in +his chest that he couldn’t get rid of. When he coughed the sweat sprang +out on his head; his eyes bulged, his hands waved, and the great lump +bubbled as a potato knocks in a saucepan. But what was more awful than +all was when he didn’t cough he sat against the pillow and never spoke +or answered, or even made as if he heard. Only he looked offended. + +“It’s not your poor old gran’s doing it, my lovey,” said old Ma Parker, +patting back the damp hair from his little scarlet ears. But Lennie +moved his head and edged away. Dreadfully offended with her he +looked—and solemn. He bent his head and looked at her sideways as +though he couldn’t have believed it of his gran. + +But at the last... Ma Parker threw the counterpane over the bed. No, +she simply couldn’t think about it. It was too much—she’d had too much +in her life to bear. She’d borne it up till now, she’d kept herself to +herself, and never once had she been seen to cry. Never by a living +soul. Not even her own children had seen Ma break down. She’d kept a +proud face always. But now! Lennie gone—what had she? She had nothing. +He was all she’d got from life, and now he was took too. Why must it +all have happened to me? she wondered. “What have I done?” said old Ma +Parker. “What have I done?” + +As she said those words she suddenly let fall her brush. She found +herself in the kitchen. Her misery was so terrible that she pinned on +her hat, put on her jacket and walked out of the flat like a person in +a dream. She did not know what she was doing. She was like a person so +dazed by the horror of what has happened that he walks away—anywhere, +as though by walking away he could escape.... + + +It was cold in the street. There was a wind like ice. People went +flitting by, very fast; the men walked like scissors; the women trod +like cats. And nobody knew—nobody cared. Even if she broke down, if at +last, after all these years, she were to cry, she’d find herself in the +lock-up as like as not. + +But at the thought of crying it was as though little Lennie leapt in +his gran’s arms. Ah, that’s what she wants to do, my dove. Gran wants +to cry. If she could only cry now, cry for a long time, over +everything, beginning with her first place and the cruel cook, going on +to the doctor’s, and then the seven little ones, death of her husband, +the children’s leaving her, and all the years of misery that led up to +Lennie. But to have a proper cry over all these things would take a +long time. All the same, the time for it had come. She must do it. She +couldn’t put it off any longer; she couldn’t wait any more.... Where +could she go? + +“She’s had a hard life, has Ma Parker.” Yes, a hard life, indeed! Her +chin began to tremble; there was no time to lose. But where? Where? + +She couldn’t go home; Ethel was there. It would frighten Ethel out of +her life. She couldn’t sit on a bench anywhere; people would come +arsking her questions. She couldn’t possibly go back to the gentleman’s +flat; she had no right to cry in strangers’ houses. If she sat on some +steps a policeman would speak to her. + +Oh, wasn’t there anywhere where she could hide and keep herself to +herself and stay as long as she liked, not disturbing anybody, and +nobody worrying her? Wasn’t there anywhere in the world where she could +have her cry out—at last? + +Ma Parker stood, looking up and down. The icy wind blew out her apron +into a balloon. And now it began to rain. There was nowhere. + + + + +Marriage à 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 anyone.... + +“Well, I don’t know,” said William slowly. “When I was their age I used +to go to bed hugging an old towel with a knot in it.” + +The new Isabel looked at him, her eyes narrowed, her lips apart. + +“_Dear_ William! I’m sure you did!” She laughed in the new way. + +Sweets it would have to be, however, thought William gloomily, fishing +in his pocket for change for the taxi-man. And he saw the kiddies +handing the boxes round—they were awfully generous little chaps—while +Isabel’s precious friends didn’t hesitate to help themselves.... + +What about fruit? William hovered before a stall just inside the +station. What about a melon each? Would they have to share that, too? +Or a pineapple, for Pad, and a melon for Johnny? Isabel’s friends could +hardly go sneaking up to the nursery at the children’s meal-times. All +the same, as he bought the melon William had a horrible vision of one +of Isabel’s young poets lapping up a slice, for some reason, behind the +nursery door. + +With his two very awkward parcels he strode off to his train. The +platform was crowded, the train was in. Doors banged open and shut. +There came such a loud hissing from the engine that people looked dazed +as they scurried to and fro. William made straight for a first-class +smoker, stowed away his suit-case and parcels, and taking a huge wad of +papers out of his inner pocket, he flung down in the corner and began +to read. + +“Our client moreover is positive.... We are inclined to reconsider... +in the event of—” Ah, that was better. William pressed back his +flattened hair and stretched his legs across the carriage floor. The +familiar dull gnawing in his breast quietened down. “With regard to our +decision—” He took out a blue pencil and scored a paragraph slowly. + +Two men came in, stepped across him, and made for the farther corner. A +young fellow swung his golf clubs into the rack and sat down opposite. +The train gave a gentle lurch, they were off. William glanced up and +saw the hot, bright station slipping away. A red-faced girl raced along +by the carriages, there was something strained and almost desperate in +the way she waved and called. “Hysterical!” thought William dully. Then +a greasy, black-faced workman at the end of the platform grinned at the +passing train. And William thought, “A filthy life!” and went back to +his papers. + +When he looked up again there were fields, and beasts standing for +shelter under the dark trees. A wide river, with naked children +splashing in the shallows, glided into sight and was gone again. The +sky shone pale, and one bird drifted high like a dark fleck in a jewel. + +“We have examined our client’s correspondence files....” The last +sentence he had read echoed in his mind. “We have examined....” William +hung on to that sentence, but it was no good; it snapped in the middle, +and the fields, the sky, the sailing bird, the water, all said, +“Isabel.” The same thing happened every Saturday afternoon. When he was +on his way to meet Isabel there began those countless imaginary +meetings. She was at the station, standing just a little apart from +everybody else; she was sitting in the open taxi outside; she was at +the garden gate; walking across the parched grass; at the door, or just +inside the hall. + +And her clear, light voice said, “It’s William,” or “Hillo, William!” +or “So William has come!” He touched her cool hand, her cool cheek. + +The exquisite freshness of Isabel! When he had been a little boy, it +was his delight to run into the garden after a shower of rain and shake +the rose-bush over him. Isabel was that rose-bush, petal-soft, +sparkling and cool. And he was still that little boy. But there was no +running into the garden now, no laughing and shaking. The dull, +persistent gnawing in his breast started again. He drew up his legs, +tossed the papers aside, and shut his eyes. + +“What is it, Isabel? What is it?” he said tenderly. They were in their +bedroom in the new house. Isabel sat on a painted stool before the +dressing-table that was strewn with little black and green boxes. + +“What is what, William?” And she bent forward, and her fine light hair +fell over her cheeks. + +“Ah, you know!” He stood in the middle of the room and he felt a +stranger. At that Isabel wheeled round quickly and faced him. + +“Oh, William!” she cried imploringly, and she held up the hair-brush: +“Please! Please don’t be so dreadfully stuffy and—tragic. You’re always +saying or looking or hinting that I’ve changed. Just because I’ve got +to know really congenial people, and go about more, and am frightfully +keen on—on everything, you behave as though I’d—” Isabel tossed back +her hair and laughed—“killed our love or something. It’s so awfully +absurd”—she bit her lip—“and it’s so maddening, William. Even this new +house and the servants you grudge me.” + +“Isabel!” + +“Yes, yes, it’s true in a way,” said Isabel quickly. “You think they +are another bad sign. Oh, I know you do. I feel it,” she said softly, +“every time you come up the stairs. But we couldn’t have gone on living +in that other poky little hole, William. Be practical, at least! Why, +there wasn’t enough room for the babies even.” + +No, it was true. Every morning when he came back from chambers it was +to find the babies with Isabel in the back drawing-room. They were +having rides on the leopard skin thrown over the sofa back, or they +were playing shops with Isabel’s desk for a counter, or Pad was sitting +on the hearthrug rowing away for dear life with a little brass fire +shovel, while Johnny shot at pirates with the tongs. Every evening they +each had a pick-a-back up the narrow stairs to their fat old Nanny. + +Yes, he supposed it was a poky little house. A little white house with +blue curtains and a window-box of petunias. William met their friends +at the door with “Seen our petunias? Pretty terrific for London, don’t +you think?” + +But the imbecile thing, the absolutely extraordinary thing was that he +hadn’t the slightest idea that Isabel wasn’t as happy as he. God, what +blindness! He hadn’t the remotest notion in those days that she really +hated that inconvenient little house, that she thought the fat Nanny +was ruining the babies, that she was desperately lonely, pining for new +people and new music and pictures and so on. If they hadn’t gone to +that studio party at Moira Morrison’s—if Moira Morrison hadn’t said as +they were leaving, “I’m going to rescue your wife, selfish man. She’s +like an exquisite little Titania”—if Isabel hadn’t gone with Moira to +Paris—if—if.... + +The train stopped at another station. Bettingford. Good heavens! They’d +be there in ten minutes. William stuffed that papers back into his +pockets; the young man opposite had long since disappeared. Now the +other two got out. The late afternoon sun shone on women in cotton +frocks and little sunburnt, barefoot children. It blazed on a silky +yellow flower with coarse leaves which sprawled over a bank of rock. +The air ruffling through the window smelled of the sea. Had Isabel the +same crowd with her this week-end, wondered William? + +And he remembered the holidays they used to have, the four of them, +with a little farm girl, Rose, to look after the babies. Isabel wore a +jersey and her hair in a plait; she looked about fourteen. Lord! how +his nose used to peel! And the amount they ate, and the amount they +slept in that immense feather bed with their feet locked together.... +William couldn’t help a grim smile as he thought of Isabel’s horror if +she knew the full extent of his sentimentality. + + +“Hillo, William!” She was at the station after all, standing just as he +had imagined, apart from the others, and—William’s heart leapt—she was +alone. + +“Hallo, Isabel!” William stared. He thought she looked so beautiful +that he had to say something, “You look very cool.” + +“Do I?” said Isabel. “I don’t feel very cool. Come along, your horrid +old train is late. The taxi’s outside.” She put her hand lightly on his +arm as they passed the ticket collector. “We’ve all come to meet you,” +she said. “But we’ve left Bobby Kane at the sweet shop, to be called +for.” + +“Oh!” said William. It was all he could say for the moment. + +There in the glare waited the taxi, with Bill Hunt and Dennis Green +sprawling on one side, their hats tilted over their faces, while on the +other, Moira Morrison, in a bonnet like a huge strawberry, jumped up +and down. + +“No ice! No ice! No ice!” she shouted gaily. + +And Dennis chimed in from under his hat. “_Only_ to be had from the +fishmonger’s.” + +And Bill Hunt, emerging, added, “With _whole_ fish in it.” + +“Oh, what a bore!” wailed Isabel. And she explained to William how they +had been chasing round the town for ice while she waited for him. +“Simply everything is running down the steep cliffs into the sea, +beginning with the butter.” + +“We shall have to anoint ourselves with butter,” said Dennis. “May thy +head, William, lack not ointment.” + +“Look here,” said William, “how are we going to sit? I’d better get up +by the driver.” + +“No, Bobby Kane’s by the driver,” said Isabel. “You’re to sit between +Moira and me.” The taxi started. “What have you got in those mysterious +parcels?” + +“De-cap-it-ated heads!” said Bill Hunt, shuddering beneath his hat. + +“Oh, fruit!” Isabel sounded very pleased. “Wise William! A melon and a +pineapple. How too nice!” + +“No, wait a bit,” said William, smiling. But he really was anxious. “I +brought them down for the kiddies.” + +“Oh, my dear!” Isabel laughed, and slipped her hand through his arm. +“They’d be rolling in agonies if they were to eat them. No”—she patted +his hand—“you must bring them something next time. I refuse to part +with my pineapple.” + +“Cruel Isabel! Do let me smell it!” said Moira. She flung her arms +across William appealingly. “Oh!” The strawberry bonnet fell forward: +she sounded quite faint. + +“A Lady in Love with a Pineapple,” said Dennis, as the taxi drew up +before a little shop with a striped blind. Out came Bobby Kane, his +arms full of little packets. + +“I do hope they’ll be good. I’ve chosen them because of the colours. +There are some round things which really look too divine. And just look +at this nougat,” he cried ecstatically, “just look at it! It’s a +perfect little ballet!” + +But at that moment the shopman appeared. “Oh, I forgot. They’re none of +them paid for,” said Bobby, looking frightened. Isabel gave the shopman +a note, and Bobby was radiant again. “Hallo, William! I’m sitting by +the driver.” And bareheaded, all in white, with his sleeves rolled up +to the shoulders, he leapt into his place. “Avanti!” he cried.... + +After tea the others went off to bathe, while William stayed and made +his peace with the kiddies. But Johnny and Paddy were asleep, the +rose-red glow had paled, bats were flying, and still the bathers had +not returned. As William wandered downstairs, the maid crossed the hall +carrying a lamp. He followed her into the sitting-room. It was a long +room, coloured yellow. On the wall opposite William some one had +painted a young man, over life-size, with very wobbly legs, offering a +wide-eyed daisy to a young woman who had one very short arm and one +very long, thin one. Over the chairs and sofa there hung strips of +black material, covered with big splashes like broken eggs, and +everywhere one looked there seemed to be an ash-tray full of cigarette +ends. William sat down in one of the arm-chairs. Nowadays, when one +felt with one hand down the sides, it wasn’t to come upon a sheep with +three legs or a cow that had lost one horn, or a very fat dove out of +the Noah’s Ark. One fished up yet another little paper-covered book of +smudged-looking poems.... He thought of the wad of papers in his +pocket, but he was too hungry and tired to read. The door was open; +sounds came from the kitchen. The servants were talking as if they were +alone in the house. Suddenly there came a loud screech of laughter and +an equally loud “Sh!” They had remembered him. William got up and went +through the French windows into the garden, and as he stood there in +the shadow he heard the bathers coming up the sandy road; their voices +rang through the quiet. + +“I think its up to Moira to use her little arts and wiles.” + +A tragic moan from Moira. + +“We ought to have a gramophone for the week-ends that played ‘The Maid +of the Mountains.’” + +“Oh no! Oh no!” cried Isabel’s voice. “That’s not fair to William. Be +nice to him, my children! He’s only staying until to-morrow evening.” + +“Leave him to me,” cried Bobby Kane. “I’m awfully good at looking after +people.” + +The gate swung open and shut. William moved on the terrace; they had +seen him. “Hallo, William!” And Bobby Kane, flapping his towel, began +to leap and pirouette on the parched lawn. “Pity you didn’t come, +William. The water was divine. And we all went to a little pub +afterwards and had sloe gin.” + +The others had reached the house. “I say, Isabel,” called Bobby, “would +you like me to wear my Nijinsky dress to-night?” + +“No,” said Isabel, “nobody’s going to dress. We’re all starving. +William’s starving, too. Come along, _mes amis_, let’s begin with +sardines.” + +“I’ve found the sardines,” said Moira, and she ran into the hall, +holding a box high in the air. + +“A Lady with a Box of Sardines,” said Dennis gravely. + +“Well, William, and how’s London?” asked Bill Hunt, drawing the cork +out of a bottle of whisky. + +“Oh, London’s not much changed,” answered William. + +“Good old London,” said Bobby, very hearty, spearing a sardine. + +But a moment later William was forgotten. Moira Morrison began +wondering what colour one’s legs really were under water. + +“Mine are the palest, palest mushroom colour.” + +Bill and Dennis ate enormously. And Isabel filled glasses, and changed +plates, and found matches, smiling blissfully. At one moment, she said, +“I do wish, Bill, you’d paint it.” + +“Paint what?” said Bill loudly, stuffing his mouth with bread. + +“Us,” said Isabel, “round the table. It would be so fascinating in +twenty years’ time.” + +Bill screwed up his eyes and chewed. “Light’s wrong,” he said rudely, +“far too much yellow”; and went on eating. And that seemed to charm +Isabel, too. + +But after supper they were all so tired they could do nothing but yawn +until it was late enough to go to bed.... + +It was not until William was waiting for his taxi the next afternoon +that he found himself alone with Isabel. When he brought his suit-case +down into the hall, Isabel left the others and went over to him. She +stooped down and picked up the suit-case. “What a weight!” she said, +and she gave a little awkward laugh. “Let me carry it! To the gate.” + +“No, why should you?” said William. “Of course, not. Give it to me.” + +“Oh, please, do let me,” said Isabel. “I want to, really.” They walked +together silently. William felt there was nothing to say now. + +“There,” said Isabel triumphantly, setting the suit-case down, and she +looked anxiously along the sandy road. “I hardly seem to have seen you +this time,” she said breathlessly. “It’s so short, isn’t it? I feel +you’ve only just come. Next time—” The taxi came into sight. “I hope +they look after you properly in London. I’m so sorry the babies have +been out all day, but Miss Neil had arranged it. They’ll hate missing +you. Poor William, going back to London.” The taxi turned. “Good-bye!” +She gave him a little hurried kiss; she was gone. + +Fields, trees, hedges streamed by. They shook through the empty, +blind-looking little town, ground up the steep pull to the station. + +The train was in. William made straight for a first-class smoker, flung +back into the corner, but this time he let the papers alone. He folded +his arms against the dull, persistent gnawing, and began in his mind to +write a letter to Isabel. + + +The post was late as usual. They sat outside the house in long chairs +under coloured parasols. Only Bobby Kane lay on the turf at Isabel’s +feet. It was dull, stifling; the day drooped like a flag. + +“Do you think there will be Mondays in Heaven?” asked Bobby childishly. + +And Dennis murmured, “Heaven will be one long Monday.” + +But Isabel couldn’t help wondering what had happened to the salmon they +had for supper last night. She had meant to have fish mayonnaise for +lunch and now.... + +Moira was asleep. Sleeping was her latest discovery. “It’s _so_ +wonderful. One simply shuts one’s eyes, that’s all. It’s _so_ +delicious.” + +When the old ruddy postman came beating along the sandy road on his +tricycle one felt the handle-bars ought to have been oars. + +Bill Hunt put down his book. “Letters,” he said complacently, and they +all waited. But, heartless postman—O malignant world! There was only +one, a fat one for Isabel. Not even a paper. + +“And mine’s only from William,” said Isabel mournfully. + +“From William—already?” + +“He’s sending you back your marriage lines as a gentle reminder.” + +“Does everybody have marriage lines? I thought they were only for +servants.” + +“Pages and pages! Look at her! A Lady reading a Letter,” said Dennis. + +“_My darling, precious Isabel_.” Pages and pages there were. As Isabel +read on her feeling of astonishment changed to a stifled feeling. What +on earth had induced William...? How extraordinary it was.... What +could have made him...? She felt confused, more and more excited, even +frightened. It was just like William. Was it? It was absurd, of course, +it must be absurd, ridiculous. “Ha, ha, ha! Oh dear!” What was she to +do? Isabel flung back in her chair and laughed till she couldn’t stop +laughing. + +“Do, do tell us,” said the others. “You must tell us.” + +“I’m longing to,” gurgled Isabel. She sat up, gathered the letter, and +waved it at them. “Gather round,” she said. “Listen, it’s too +marvellous. A love-letter!” + +“A love-letter! But how divine!” _Darling, precious Isabel._ But she +had hardly begun before their laughter interrupted her. + +“Go on, Isabel, it’s perfect.” + +“It’s the most marvellous find.” + +“Oh, do go on, Isabel!” + +_God forbid, my darling, that I should be a drag on your happiness._ + +“Oh! oh! oh!” + +“Sh! sh! sh!” + +And Isabel went on. When she reached the end they were hysterical: +Bobby rolled on the turf and almost sobbed. + +“You must let me have it just as it is, entire, for my new book,” said +Dennis firmly. “I shall give it a whole chapter.” + +“Oh, Isabel,” moaned Moira, “that wonderful bit about holding you in +his arms!” + +“I always thought those letters in divorce cases were made up. But they +pale before this.” + +“Let me hold it. Let me read it, mine own self,” said Bobby Kane. + +But, to their surprise, Isabel crushed the letter in her hand. She was +laughing no longer. She glanced quickly at them all; she looked +exhausted. “No, not just now. Not just now,” she stammered. + +And before they could recover she had run into the house, through the +hall, up the stairs into her bedroom. Down she sat on the side of the +bed. “How vile, odious, abominable, vulgar,” muttered Isabel. She +pressed her eyes with her knuckles and rocked to and fro. And again she +saw them, but not four, more like forty, laughing, sneering, jeering, +stretching out their hands while she read them William’s letter. Oh, +what a loathsome thing to have done. How could she have done it! _God +forbid, my darling, that I should be a drag on your happiness._ +William! Isabel pressed her face into the pillow. But she felt that +even the grave bedroom knew her for what she was, shallow, tinkling, +vain.... + +Presently from the garden below there came voices. + +“Isabel, we’re all going for a bathe. Do come!” + +“Come, thou wife of William!” + +“Call her once before you go, call once yet!” + +Isabel sat up. Now was the moment, now she must decide. Would she go +with them, or stay here and write to William. Which, which should it +be? “I must make up my mind.” Oh, but how could there be any question? +Of course she would stay here and write. + +“Titania!” piped Moira. + +“Isa-bel?” + +No, it was too difficult. “I’ll—I’ll go with them, and write to William +later. Some other time. Later. Not now. But I shall _certainly_ write,” +thought Isabel hurriedly. + +And, laughing, in the new way, she ran down the stairs. + + + + +The Voyage + + +The Picton boat was due to leave at half-past eleven. It was a +beautiful night, mild, starry, only when they got out of the cab and +started to walk down the Old Wharf that jutted out into the harbour, a +faint wind blowing off the water ruffled under Fenella’s hat, and she +put up her hand to keep it on. It was dark on the Old Wharf, very dark; +the wool sheds, the cattle trucks, the cranes standing up so high, the +little squat railway engine, all seemed carved out of solid darkness. +Here and there on a rounded wood-pile, that was like the stalk of a +huge black mushroom, there hung a lantern, but it seemed afraid to +unfurl its timid, quivering light in all that blackness; it burned +softly, as if for itself. + +Fenella’s father pushed on with quick, nervous strides. Beside him her +grandma bustled along in her crackling black ulster; they went so fast +that she had now and again to give an undignified little skip to keep +up with them. As well as her luggage strapped into a neat sausage, +Fenella carried clasped to her her grandma’s umbrella, and the handle, +which was a swan’s head, kept giving her shoulder a sharp little peck +as if it too wanted her to hurry.... Men, their caps pulled down, their +collars turned up, swung by; a few women all muffled scurried along; +and one tiny boy, only his little black arms and legs showing out of a +white woolly shawl, was jerked along angrily between his father and +mother; he looked like a baby fly that had fallen into the cream. + +Then suddenly, so suddenly that Fenella and her grandma both leapt, +there sounded from behind the largest wool shed, that had a trail of +smoke hanging over it, “_Mia-oo-oo-O-O!_” + +“First whistle,” said her father briefly, and at that moment they came +in sight of the Picton boat. Lying beside the dark wharf, all strung, +all beaded with round golden lights, the Picton boat looked as if she +was more ready to sail among stars than out into the cold sea. People +pressed along the gangway. First went her grandma, then her father, +then Fenella. There was a high step down on to the deck, and an old +sailor in a jersey standing by gave her his dry, hard hand. They were +there; they stepped out of the way of the hurrying people, and standing +under a little iron stairway that led to the upper deck they began to +say good-bye. + +“There, mother, there’s your luggage!” said Fenella’s father, giving +grandma another strapped-up sausage. + +“Thank you, Frank.” + +“And you’ve got your cabin tickets safe?” + +“Yes, dear.” + +“And your other tickets?” + +Grandma felt for them inside her glove and showed him the tips. + +“That’s right.” + +He sounded stern, but Fenella, eagerly watching him, saw that he looked +tired and sad. “_Mia-oo-oo-O-O!_” The second whistle blared just above +their heads, and a voice like a cry shouted, “Any more for the +gangway?” + +“You’ll give my love to father,” Fenella saw her father’s lips say. And +her grandma, very agitated, answered, “Of course I will, dear. Go now. +You’ll be left. Go now, Frank. Go now.” + +“It’s all right, mother. I’ve got another three minutes.” To her +surprise Fenella saw her father take off his hat. He clasped grandma in +his arms and pressed her to him. “God bless you, mother!” she heard him +say. + +And grandma put her hand, with the black thread glove that was worn +through on her ring finger, against his cheek, and she sobbed, “God +bless you, my own brave son!” + +This was so awful that Fenella quickly turned her back on them, +swallowed once, twice, and frowned terribly at a little green star on a +mast head. But she had to turn round again; her father was going. + +“Good-bye, Fenella. Be a good girl.” His cold, wet moustache brushed +her cheek. But Fenella caught hold of the lapels of his coat. + +“How long am I going to stay?” she whispered anxiously. He wouldn’t +look at her. He shook her off gently, and gently said, “We’ll see about +that. Here! Where’s your hand?” He pressed something into her palm. +“Here’s a shilling in case you should need it.” + +A shilling! She must be going away for ever! “Father!” cried Fenella. +But he was gone. He was the last off the ship. The sailors put their +shoulders to the gangway. A huge coil of dark rope went flying through +the air and fell “thump” on the wharf. A bell rang; a whistle shrilled. +Silently the dark wharf began to slip, to slide, to edge away from +them. Now there was a rush of water between. Fenella strained to see +with all her might. “Was that father turning round?”—or waving?—or +standing alone?—or walking off by himself? The strip of water grew +broader, darker. Now the Picton boat began to swing round steady, +pointing out to sea. It was no good looking any longer. There was +nothing to be seen but a few lights, the face of the town clock hanging +in the air, and more lights, little patches of them, on the dark hills. + +The freshening wind tugged at Fenella’s skirts; she went back to her +grandma. To her relief grandma seemed no longer sad. She had put the +two sausages of luggage one on top of the other, and she was sitting on +them, her hands folded, her head a little on one side. There was an +intent, bright look on her face. Then Fenella saw that her lips were +moving and guessed that she was praying. But the old woman gave her a +bright nod as if to say the prayer was nearly over. She unclasped her +hands, sighed, clasped them again, bent forward, and at last gave +herself a soft shake. + +“And now, child,” she said, fingering the bow of her bonnet-strings, “I +think we ought to see about our cabins. Keep close to me, and mind you +don’t slip.” + +“Yes, grandma!” + +“And be careful the umbrellas aren’t caught in the stair rail. I saw a +beautiful umbrella broken in half like that on my way over.” + +“Yes, grandma.” + +Dark figures of men lounged against the rails. In the glow of their +pipes a nose shone out, or the peak of a cap, or a pair of +surprised-looking eyebrows. Fenella glanced up. High in the air, a +little figure, his hands thrust in his short jacket pockets, stood +staring out to sea. The ship rocked ever so little, and she thought the +stars rocked too. And now a pale steward in a linen coat, holding a +tray high in the palm of his hand, stepped out of a lighted doorway and +skimmed past them. They went through that doorway. Carefully over the +high brass-bound step on to the rubber mat and then down such a +terribly steep flight of stairs that grandma had to put both feet on +each step, and Fenella clutched the clammy brass rail and forgot all +about the swan-necked umbrella. + +At the bottom grandma stopped; Fenella was rather afraid she was going +to pray again. But no, it was only to get out the cabin tickets. They +were in the saloon. It was glaring bright and stifling; the air smelled +of paint and burnt chop-bones and 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 watering-can on the other. + +“Tut! tut! Your grandpa,” said grandma. She turned the handle. Not a +sound. She called, “Walter!” And immediately a deep voice that sounded +half stifled called back, “Is that you, Mary?” + +“Wait, dear,” said grandma. “Go in there.” She pushed Fenella gently +into a small dusky sitting-room. + +On the table a white cat, that had been folded up like a camel, rose, +stretched itself, yawned, and then sprang on to the tips of its toes. +Fenella buried one cold little hand in the white, warm fur, and smiled +timidly while she stroked and listened to grandma’s gentle voice and +the rolling tones of grandpa. + +A door creaked. “Come in, dear.” The old woman beckoned, Fenella +followed. There, lying to one side on an immense bed, lay grandpa. Just +his head with a white tuft and his rosy face and long silver beard +showed over the quilt. He was like a very old wide-awake bird. + +“Well, my girl!” said grandpa. “Give us a kiss!” Fenella kissed him. +“Ugh!” said grandpa. “Her little nose is as cold as a button. What’s +that she’s holding? Her grandma’s umbrella?” + +Fenella smiled again, and crooked the swan neck over the bed-rail. +Above the bed there was a big text in a deep black frame:— + + Lost! One Golden Hour + Set with Sixty Diamond Minutes. + No Reward Is Offered + For It Is Gone For Ever! + +“Yer grandma painted that,” said grandpa. And he ruffled his white tuft +and looked at Fenella so merrily she almost thought he winked at her. + + + + +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-fur 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 chère—” + +“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. + + + + +Her First Ball + + +Exactly when the ball began Leila would have found it hard to say. +Perhaps her first real partner was the cab. It did not matter that she +shared the cab with the Sheridan girls and their brother. She sat back +in her own little corner of it, and the bolster on which her hand +rested felt like the sleeve of an unknown young man’s dress suit; and +away they bowled, past waltzing lamp-posts and houses and fences and +trees. + +“Have you really never been to a ball before, Leila? But, my child, how +too weird—” cried the Sheridan girls. + +“Our nearest neighbour was fifteen miles,” said Leila softly, gently +opening and shutting her fan. + +Oh dear, how hard it was to be indifferent like the others! She tried +not to smile too much; she tried not to care. But every single thing +was so new and exciting... Meg’s tuberoses, Jose’s long loop of amber, +Laura’s little dark head, pushing above her white fur like a flower +through snow. She would remember for ever. It even gave her a pang to +see her cousin Laurie throw away the wisps of tissue paper he pulled +from the fastenings of his new gloves. She would like to have kept +those wisps as a keepsake, as a remembrance. Laurie leaned forward and +put his hand on Laura’s knee. + +“Look here, darling,” he said. “The third and the ninth as usual. +Twig?” + +Oh, how marvellous to have a brother! In her excitement Leila felt that +if there had been time, if it hadn’t been impossible, she couldn’t have +helped crying because she was an only child, and no brother had ever +said “Twig?” to her; no sister would ever say, as Meg said to Jose that +moment, “I’ve never known your hair go up more successfully than it has +to-night!” + +But, of course, there was no time. They were at the drill hall already; +there were cabs in front of them and cabs behind. The road was bright +on either side with moving fan-like lights, and on the pavement gay +couples seemed to float through the air; little satin shoes chased each +other like birds. + +“Hold on to me, Leila; you’ll get lost,” said Laura. + +“Come on, girls, let’s make a dash for it,” said Laurie. + +Leila put two fingers on Laura’s pink velvet cloak, and they were +somehow lifted past the big golden lantern, carried along the passage, +and pushed into the little room marked “Ladies.” Here the crowd was so +great there was hardly space to take off their things; the noise was +deafening. Two benches on either side were stacked high with wraps. Two +old women in white aprons ran up and down tossing fresh armfuls. And +everybody was pressing forward trying to get at the little +dressing-table and mirror at the far end. + +A great quivering jet of gas lighted the ladies’ room. It couldn’t +wait; it was dancing already. When the door opened again and there came +a burst of tuning from the drill hall, it leaped almost to the ceiling. + +Dark girls, fair girls were patting their hair, tying ribbons again, +tucking handkerchiefs down the fronts of their bodices, smoothing +marble-white gloves. And because they were all laughing it seemed to +Leila that they were all lovely. + +“Aren’t there any invisible hair-pins?” cried a voice. “How most +extraordinary! I can’t see a single invisible hair-pin.” + +“Powder my back, there’s a darling,” cried some one else. + +“But I must have a needle and cotton. I’ve torn simply miles and miles +of the frill,” wailed a third. + +Then, “Pass them along, pass them along!” The straw basket of +programmes was tossed from arm to arm. Darling little pink-and-silver +programmes, with pink pencils and fluffy tassels. Leila’s fingers shook +as she took one out of the basket. She wanted to ask some one, “Am I +meant to have one too?” but she had just time to read: “Waltz 3. _Two, +Two in a Canoe._ Polka 4. _Making the Feathers Fly_,” when Meg cried, +“Ready, Leila?” and they pressed their way through the crush in the +passage towards the big double doors of the drill hall. + +Dancing had not begun yet, but the band had stopped tuning, and the +noise was so great it seemed that when it did begin to play it would +never be heard. Leila, pressing close to Meg, looking over Meg’s +shoulder, felt that even the little quivering coloured flags strung +across the ceiling were talking. She quite forgot to be shy; she forgot +how in the middle of dressing she had sat down on the bed with one shoe +off and one shoe on and begged her mother to ring up her cousins and +say she couldn’t go after all. And the rush of longing she had had to +be sitting on the veranda of their forsaken up-country home, listening +to the baby owls crying “More pork” in the moonlight, was changed to a +rush of joy so sweet that it was hard to bear alone. She clutched her +fan, and, gazing at the gleaming, golden floor, the azaleas, the +lanterns, the stage at one end with its red carpet and gilt chairs and +the band in a corner, she thought breathlessly, “How heavenly; how +simply heavenly!” + +All the girls stood grouped together at one side of the doors, the men +at the other, and the chaperones in dark dresses, smiling rather +foolishly, walked with little careful steps over the polished floor +towards the stage. + +“This is my little country cousin Leila. Be nice to her. Find her +partners; she’s under my wing,” said Meg, going up to one girl after +another. + +Strange faces smiled at Leila—sweetly, vaguely. Strange voices +answered, “Of course, my dear.” But Leila felt the girls didn’t really +see her. They were looking towards the men. Why didn’t the men begin? +What were they waiting for? There they stood, smoothing their gloves, +patting their glossy hair and smiling among themselves. Then, quite +suddenly, as if they had only just made up their minds that that was +what they had to do, the men came gliding over the parquet. There was a +joyful flutter among the girls. A tall, fair man flew up to Meg, seized +her programme, scribbled something; Meg passed him on to Leila. “May I +have the pleasure?” He ducked and smiled. There came a dark man wearing +an eyeglass, then cousin Laurie with a friend, and Laura with a little +freckled fellow whose tie was crooked. Then quite an old man—fat, with +a big bald patch on his head—took her programme and murmured, “Let me +see, let me see!” And he was a long time comparing his programme, which +looked black with names, with hers. It seemed to give him so much +trouble that Leila was ashamed. “Oh, please don’t bother,” she said +eagerly. But instead of replying the fat man wrote something, glanced +at her again. “Do I remember this bright little face?” he said softly. +“Is it known to me of yore?” At that moment the band began playing; the +fat man disappeared. He was tossed away on a great wave of music that +came flying over the gleaming floor, breaking the groups up into +couples, scattering them, sending them spinning.... + +Leila had learned to dance at boarding school. Every Saturday afternoon +the boarders were hurried off to a little corrugated iron mission hall +where Miss Eccles (of London) held her “select” classes. But the +difference between that dusty-smelling hall—with calico texts on the +walls, the poor terrified little woman in a brown velvet toque with +rabbit’s ears thumping the cold piano, Miss Eccles poking the girls’ +feet with her long white wand—and this was so tremendous that Leila was +sure if her partner didn’t come and she had to listen to that +marvellous music and to watch the others sliding, gliding over the +golden floor, she would die at least, or faint, or lift her arms and +fly out of one of those dark windows that showed the stars. + +“Ours, I think—” Some one bowed, smiled, and offered her his arm; she +hadn’t to die after all. Some one’s hand pressed her waist, and she +floated away like a flower that is tossed into a pool. + +“Quite a good floor, isn’t it?” drawled a faint voice close to her ear. + +“I think it’s most beautifully slippery,” said Leila. + +“Pardon!” The faint voice sounded surprised. Leila said it again. And +there was a tiny pause before the voice echoed, “Oh, quite!” and she +was swung round again. + +He steered so beautifully. That was the great difference between +dancing with girls and men, Leila decided. Girls banged into each +other, and stamped on each other’s feet; the girl who was gentleman +always clutched you so. + +The azaleas were separate flowers no longer; they were pink and white +flags streaming by. + +“Were you at the Bells’ last week?” the voice came again. It sounded +tired. Leila wondered whether she ought to ask him if he would like to +stop. + +“No, this is my first dance,” said she. + +Her partner gave a little gasping laugh. “Oh, I say,” he protested. + +“Yes, it is really the first dance I’ve ever been to.” Leila was most +fervent. It was such a relief to be able to tell somebody. “You see, +I’ve lived in the country all my life up till now....” + +At that moment the music stopped, and they went to sit on two chairs +against the wall. Leila tucked her pink satin feet under and fanned +herself, while she blissfully watched the other couples passing and +disappearing through the swing doors. + +“Enjoying yourself, Leila?” asked Jose, nodding her golden head. + +Laura passed and gave her the faintest little wink; it made Leila +wonder for a moment whether she was quite grown up after all. Certainly +her partner did not say very much. He coughed, tucked his handkerchief +away, pulled down his waistcoat, took a minute thread off his sleeve. +But it didn’t matter. Almost immediately the band started and her +second partner seemed to spring from the ceiling. + +“Floor’s not bad,” said the new voice. Did one always begin with the +floor? And then, “Were you at the Neaves’ on Tuesday?” And again Leila +explained. Perhaps it was a little strange that her partners were not +more interested. For it was thrilling. Her first ball! She was only at +the beginning of everything. It seemed to her that she had never known +what the night was like before. Up till now it had been dark, silent, +beautiful very often—oh yes—but mournful somehow. Solemn. And now it +would never be like that again—it had opened dazzling bright. + +“Care for an ice?” said her partner. And they went through the swing +doors, down the passage, to the supper room. Her cheeks burned, she was +fearfully thirsty. How sweet the ices looked on little glass plates and +how cold the frosted spoon was, iced too! And when they came back to +the hall there was the fat man waiting for her by the door. It gave her +quite a shock again to see how old he was; he ought to have been on the +stage with the fathers and mothers. And when Leila compared him with +her other partners he looked shabby. His waistcoat was creased, there +was a button off his glove, his coat looked as if it was dusty with +French chalk. + +“Come along, little lady,” said the fat man. He scarcely troubled to +clasp her, and they moved away so gently, it was more like walking than +dancing. But he said not a word about the floor. “Your first dance, +isn’t it?” he murmured. + +“How _did_ you know?” + +“Ah,” said the fat man, “that’s what it is to be old!” He wheezed +faintly as he steered her past an awkward couple. “You see, I’ve been +doing this kind of thing for the last thirty years.” + +“Thirty years?” cried Leila. Twelve years before she was born! + +“It hardly bears thinking about, does it?” said the fat man gloomily. +Leila looked at his bald head, and she felt quite sorry for him. + +“I think it’s marvellous to be still going on,” she said kindly. + +“Kind little lady,” said the fat man, and he pressed her a little +closer, and hummed a bar of the waltz. “Of course,” he said, “you can’t +hope to last anything like as long as that. No-o,” said the fat man, +“long before that you’ll be sitting up there on the stage, looking on, +in your nice black velvet. And these pretty arms will have turned into +little short fat ones, and you’ll beat time with such a different kind +of fan—a black bony one.” The fat man seemed to shudder. “And you’ll +smile away like the poor old dears up there, and point to your +daughter, and tell the elderly lady next to you how some dreadful man +tried to kiss her at the club ball. And your heart will ache, ache”—the +fat man squeezed her closer still, as if he really was sorry for that +poor heart—“because no one wants to kiss you now. And you’ll say how +unpleasant these polished floors are to walk on, how dangerous they +are. Eh, Mademoiselle Twinkletoes?” said the fat man softly. + +Leila gave a light little laugh, but she did not feel like laughing. +Was it—could it all be true? It sounded terribly true. Was this first +ball only the beginning of her last ball, after all? At that the music +seemed to change; it sounded sad, sad; it rose upon a great sigh. Oh, +how quickly things changed! Why didn’t happiness last for ever? For +ever wasn’t a bit too long. + +“I want to stop,” she said in a breathless voice. The fat man led her +to the door. + +“No,” she said, “I won’t go outside. I won’t sit down. I’ll just stand +here, thank you.” She leaned against the wall, tapping with her foot, +pulling up her gloves and trying to smile. But deep inside her a little +girl threw her pinafore over her head and sobbed. Why had he spoiled it +all? + +“I say, you know,” said the fat man, “you mustn’t take me seriously, +little lady.” + +“As if I should!” said Leila, tossing her small dark head and sucking +her underlip.... + +Again the couples paraded. The swing doors opened and shut. Now new +music was given out by the bandmaster. But Leila didn’t want to dance +any more. She wanted to be home, or sitting on the veranda listening to +those baby owls. When she looked through the dark windows at the stars, +they had long beams like wings.... + +But presently a soft, melting, ravishing tune began, and a young man +with curly hair bowed before her. She would have to dance, out of +politeness, until she could find Meg. Very stiffly she walked into the +middle; very haughtily she put her hand on his sleeve. But in one +minute, in one turn, her feet glided, glided. The lights, the azaleas, +the dresses, the pink faces, the velvet chairs, all became one +beautiful flying wheel. And when her next partner bumped her into the +fat man and he said, “Par_don_,” she smiled at him more radiantly than +ever. She didn’t even recognize him again. + + + + +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 would +not have been surprised to see a bee caught in the tangles of that +yellow hair. + +“It is rather sharp,” said Miss Meadows, grimly. + +The other smiled her sugary smile. + +“You look fro-zen,” said she. Her blue eyes opened wide; there came a +mocking light in them. (Had she noticed anything?) + +“Oh, not quite as bad as that,” said Miss Meadows, and she gave the +Science Mistress, in exchange for her smile, a quick grimace and passed +on.... + +Forms Four, Five, and Six were assembled in the music hall. The noise +was deafening. On the platform, by the piano, stood Mary Beazley, Miss +Meadows’ favourite, who played accompaniments. She was turning the +music stool. When she saw Miss Meadows she gave a loud, warning “Sh-sh! +girls!” and Miss Meadows, her hands thrust in her sleeves, the baton +under her arm, strode down the centre aisle, mounted the steps, turned +sharply, seized the brass music stand, planted it in front of her, and +gave two sharp taps with her baton for silence. + +“Silence, please! Immediately!” and, looking at nobody, her glance +swept over that sea of coloured flannel blouses, with bobbing pink +faces and hands, quivering butterfly hair-bows, and music-books +outspread. She knew perfectly well what they were thinking. “Meady is +in a wax.” Well, let them think it! Her eyelids quivered; she tossed +her head, defying them. What could the thoughts of those creatures +matter to some one who stood there bleeding to death, pierced to the +heart, to the heart, by such a letter— + +... “I feel more and more strongly that our marriage would be a +mistake. Not that I do not love you. I love you as much as it is +possible for me to love any woman, but, truth to tell, I have come to +the conclusion that I am not a marrying man, and the idea of settling +down fills me with nothing but—” and the word “disgust” was scratched +out lightly and “regret” written over the top. + +Basil! Miss Meadows stalked over to the piano. And Mary Beazley, who +was waiting for this moment, bent forward; her curls fell over her +cheeks while she breathed, “Good morning, Miss Meadows,” and she +motioned towards rather than handed to her mistress a beautiful yellow +chrysanthemum. This little ritual of the flower had been gone through +for ages and ages, quite a term and a half. It was as much part of the +lesson as opening the piano. But this morning, instead of taking it up, +instead of tucking it into her belt while she leant over Mary and said, +“Thank you, Mary. How very nice! Turn to page thirty-two,” what was +Mary’s horror when Miss Meadows totally ignored the chrysanthemum, made +no reply to her greeting, but said in a voice of ice, “Page fourteen, +please, and mark the accents well.” + +Staggering moment! Mary blushed until the tears stood in her eyes, but +Miss Meadows was gone back to the music stand; her voice rang through +the music hall. + +“Page fourteen. We will begin with page fourteen. ‘A Lament.’ Now, +girls, you ought to know it by this time. We shall take it all +together; not in parts, all together. And without expression. Sing it, +though, quite simply, beating time with the left hand.” + +She raised the baton; she tapped the music stand twice. Down came Mary +on the opening chord; down came all those left hands, beating the air, +and in chimed those young, mournful voices:— + + Fast! Ah, too Fast Fade the Ro-o-ses of Pleasure; + Soon Autumn yields unto Wi-i-nter Drear. + Fleetly! Ah, Fleetly Mu-u-sic’s Gay Measure + Passes away from the Listening Ear. + +Good Heavens, what could be more tragic than that lament! Every note +was a sigh, a sob, a groan of awful mournfulness. Miss Meadows lifted +her arms in the wide gown and began conducting with both hands. “... I +feel more and more strongly that our marriage would be a mistake....” +she beat. And the voices cried: _Fleetly! Ah, Fleetly._ What could have +possessed him to write such a letter! What could have led up to it! It +came out of nothing. His last letter had been all about a fumed-oak +bookcase he had bought for “our” books, and a “natty little hall-stand” +he had seen, “a very neat affair with a carved owl on a bracket, +holding three hat-brushes in its claws.” How she had smiled at that! So +like a man to think one needed three hat-brushes! _From the Listening +Ear_, sang the voices. + +“Once again,” said Miss Meadows. “But this time in parts. Still without +expression.” _Fast! Ah, too Fast._ With the gloom of the contraltos +added, one could scarcely help shuddering. _Fade the Roses of +Pleasure._ Last time he had come to see her, Basil had worn a rose in +his buttonhole. How handsome he had looked in that bright blue suit, +with that dark red rose! And he knew it, too. He couldn’t help knowing +it. First he stroked his hair, then his moustache; his teeth gleamed +when he smiled. + +“The headmaster’s wife keeps on asking me to dinner. It’s a perfect +nuisance. I never get an evening to myself in that place.” + +“But can’t you refuse?” + +“Oh, well, it doesn’t do for a man in my position to be unpopular.” + +_Music’s Gay Measure_, wailed the voices. The willow trees, outside the +high, narrow windows, waved in the wind. They had lost half their +leaves. The tiny ones that clung wriggled like fishes caught on a line. +“... I am not a marrying man....” The voices were silent; the piano +waited. + +“Quite good,” said Miss Meadows, but still in such a strange, stony +tone that the younger girls began to feel positively frightened. “But +now that we know it, we shall take it with expression. As much +expression as you can put into it. Think of the words, girls. Use your +imaginations. _Fast! Ah, too Fast_,” cried Miss Meadows. “That ought to +break out—a loud, strong _forte_—a lament. And then in the second line, +_Winter Drear_, make that _Drear_ sound as if a cold wind were blowing +through it. _Dre-ear!_” said she so awfully that Mary Beazley, on the +music stool, wriggled her spine. “The third line should be one +crescendo. _Fleetly! Ah, Fleetly Music’s Gay Measure._ Breaking on the +first word of the last line, _Passes._ And then on the word, _Away_, +you must begin to die... to fade... until _The Listening Ear_ is +nothing more than a faint whisper.... You can slow down as much as you +like almost on the last line. Now, please.” + +Again the two light taps; she lifted her arms again. _Fast! Ah, too +Fast._ “... and the idea of settling down fills me with nothing but +disgust—” Disgust was what he had written. That was as good as to say +their engagement was definitely broken off. Broken off! Their +engagement! People had been surprised enough that she had got engaged. +The Science Mistress would not believe it at first. But nobody had been +as surprised as she. She was thirty. Basil was twenty-five. It had been +a miracle, simply a miracle, to hear him say, as they walked home from +church that very dark night, “You know, somehow or other, I’ve got fond +of you.” And he had taken hold of the end of her ostrich feather boa. +_Passes away from the Listening Ear._ + +“Repeat! Repeat!” said Miss Meadows. “More expression, girls! Once +more!” + +_Fast! Ah, too Fast._ The older girls were crimson; some of the younger +ones began to cry. Big spots of rain blew against the windows, and one +could hear the willows whispering, “... not that I do not love you....” + +“But, my darling, if you love me,” thought Miss Meadows, “I don’t mind +how much it is. Love me as little as you like.” But she knew he didn’t +love her. Not to have cared enough to scratch out that word “disgust,” +so that she couldn’t read it! _Soon Autumn yields unto Winter Drear._ +She would have to leave the school, too. She could never face the +Science Mistress or the girls after it got known. She would have to +disappear somewhere. _Passes away._ The voices began to die, to fade, +to whisper... to vanish.... + +Suddenly the door opened. A little girl in blue walked fussily up the +aisle, hanging her head, biting her lips, and twisting the silver +bangle on her red little wrist. She came up the steps and stood before +Miss Meadows. + +“Well, Monica, what is it?” + +“Oh, if you please, Miss Meadows,” said the little girl, gasping, “Miss +Wyatt wants to see you in the mistress’s room.” + +“Very well,” said Miss Meadows. And she called to the girls, “I shall +put you on your honour to talk quietly while I am away.” But they were +too subdued to do anything else. Most of them were blowing their noses. + +The corridors were silent and cold; they echoed to Miss Meadows’ steps. +The head mistress sat at her desk. For a moment she did not look up. +She was as usual disentangling her eyeglasses, which had got caught in +her lace tie. “Sit down, Miss Meadows,” she said very kindly. And then +she picked up a pink envelope from the blotting-pad. “I sent for you +just now because this telegram has come for you.” + +“A telegram for me, Miss Wyatt?” + +Basil! He had committed suicide, decided Miss Meadows. Her hand flew +out, but Miss Wyatt held the telegram back a moment. “I hope it’s not +bad news,” she said, so more than kindly. And Miss Meadows tore it +open. + +“Pay no attention to letter, must have been mad, bought hat-stand +to-day—Basil,” she read. She couldn’t take her eyes off the telegram. + +“I do hope it’s nothing very serious,” said Miss Wyatt, leaning +forward. + +“Oh, no, thank you, Miss Wyatt,” blushed Miss Meadows. “It’s nothing +bad at all. It’s”—and she gave an apologetic little laugh—“it’s from my +_fiancé_ 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. + + + + +The Stranger + + +It seemed to the little crowd on the wharf that she was never going to +move again. There she lay, immense, motionless on the grey crinkled +water, a loop of smoke above her, an immense flock of gulls screaming +and diving after the galley droppings at the stern. You could just see +little couples parading—little flies walking up and down the dish on +the grey crinkled tablecloth. Other flies clustered and swarmed at the +edge. Now there was a gleam of white on the lower deck—the cook’s apron +or the stewardess perhaps. Now a tiny black spider raced up the ladder +on to the bridge. + +In the front of the crowd a strong-looking, middle-aged man, dressed +very well, very snugly in a grey overcoat, grey silk scarf, thick +gloves and dark felt hat, marched up and down, twirling his folded +umbrella. He seemed to be the leader of the little crowd on the wharf +and at the same time to keep them together. He was something between +the sheep-dog and the shepherd. + +But what a fool—what a fool he had been not to bring any glasses! There +wasn’t a pair of glasses between the whole lot of them. + +“Curious thing, Mr. Scott, that none of us thought of glasses. We might +have been able to stir ’em up a bit. We might have managed a little +signalling. _Don’t hesitate to land. Natives harmless._ Or: _A welcome +awaits you. All is forgiven._ What? Eh?” + +Mr. Hammond’s quick, eager glance, so nervous and yet so friendly and +confiding, took in everybody on the wharf, roped in even those old +chaps lounging against the gangways. They knew, every man-jack of them, +that Mrs. Hammond was on that boat, and that he was so tremendously +excited it never entered his head not to believe that this marvellous +fact meant something to them too. It warmed his heart towards them. +They were, he decided, as decent a crowd of people—— Those old chaps +over by the gangways, too—fine, solid old chaps. What chests—by Jove! +And he squared his own, plunged his thick-gloved hands into his +pockets, rocked from heel to toe. + +“Yes, my wife’s been in Europe for the last ten months. On a visit to +our eldest girl, who was married last year. I brought her up here, as +far as Salisbury, myself. So I thought I’d better come and fetch her +back. Yes, yes, yes.” The shrewd grey eyes narrowed again and searched +anxiously, quickly, the motionless liner. Again his overcoat was +unbuttoned. Out came the thin, butter-yellow watch again, and for the +twentieth—fiftieth—hundredth time he made the calculation. + +“Let me see now. It was two fifteen when the doctor’s launch went off. +Two fifteen. It is now exactly twenty-eight minutes past four. That is +to say, the doctor’s been gone two hours and thirteen minutes. Two +hours and thirteen minutes! Whee-ooh!” He gave a queer little +half-whistle and snapped his watch to again. “But I think we should +have been told if there was anything up—don’t you, Mr. Gaven?” + +“Oh, yes, Mr. Hammond! I don’t think there’s anything to—anything to +worry about,” said Mr. Gaven, knocking out his pipe against the heel of +his shoe. “At the same time—” + +“Quite so! Quite so!” cried Mr. Hammond. “Dashed annoying!” He paced +quickly up and down and came back again to his stand between Mr. and +Mrs. Scott and Mr. Gaven. “It’s getting quite dark, too,” and he waved +his folded umbrella as though the dusk at least might have had the +decency to keep off for a bit. But the dusk came slowly, spreading like +a slow stain over the water. Little Jean Scott dragged at her mother’s +hand. + +“I wan’ my tea, mammy!” she wailed. + +“I expect you do,” said Mr. Hammond. “I expect all these ladies want +their tea.” And his kind, flushed, almost pitiful glance roped them all +in again. He wondered whether Janey was having a final cup of tea in +the saloon out there. He hoped so; he thought not. It would be just +like her not to leave the deck. In that case perhaps the deck steward +would bring her up a cup. If he’d been there he’d have got it for +her—somehow. And for a moment he was on deck, standing over her, +watching her little hand fold round the cup in the way she had, while +she drank the only cup of tea to be got on board.... But now he was +back here, and the Lord only knew when that cursed Captain would stop +hanging about in the stream. He took another turn, up and down, up and +down. He walked as far as the cab-stand to make sure his driver hadn’t +disappeared; back he swerved again to the little flock huddled in the +shelter of the banana crates. Little Jean Scott was still wanting her +tea. Poor little beggar! He wished he had a bit of chocolate on him. + +“Here, Jean!” he said. “Like a lift up?” And easily, gently, he swung +the little girl on to a higher barrel. The movement of holding her, +steadying her, relieved him wonderfully, lightened his heart. + +“Hold on,” he said, keeping an arm round her. + +“Oh, don’t worry about _Jean_, Mr. Hammond!” said Mrs. Scott. + +“That’s all right, Mrs. Scott. No trouble. It’s a pleasure. Jean’s a +little pal of mine, aren’t you, Jean?” + +“Yes, Mr. Hammond,” said Jean, and she ran her finger down the dent of +his felt hat. + +But suddenly she caught him by the ear and gave a loud scream. “Lo-ok, +Mr. Hammond! She’s moving! Look, she’s coming in!” + +By Jove! So she was. At last! She was slowly, slowly turning round. A +bell sounded far over the water and a great spout of steam gushed into +the air. The gulls rose; they fluttered away like bits of white paper. +And whether that deep throbbing was her engines or his heart Mr. +Hammond couldn’t say. He had to nerve himself to bear it, whatever it +was. At that moment old Captain Johnson, the harbour-master, came +striding down the wharf, a leather portfolio under his arm. + +“Jean’ll be all right,” said Mr. Scott. “I’ll hold her.” He was just in +time. Mr. Hammond had forgotten about Jean. He sprang away to greet old +Captain Johnson. + +“Well, Captain,” the eager, nervous voice rang out again, “you’ve taken +pity on us at last.” + +“It’s no good blaming me, Mr. Hammond,” wheezed old Captain Johnson, +staring at the liner. “You got Mrs. Hammond on board, ain’t yer?” + +“Yes, yes!” said Hammond, and he kept by the harbour-master’s side. +“Mrs. Hammond’s there. Hul-lo! We shan’t be long now!” + +With her telephone ring-ringing, the thrum of her screw filling the +air, the big liner bore down on them, cutting sharp through the dark +water so that big white shavings curled to either side. Hammond and the +harbour-master kept in front of the rest. Hammond took off his hat; he +raked the decks—they were crammed with passengers; he waved his hat and +bawled a loud, strange “Hul-lo!” across the water; and then turned +round and burst out laughing and said something—nothing—to old Captain +Johnson. + +“Seen her?” asked the harbour-master. + +“No, not yet. Steady—wait a bit!” And suddenly, between two great +clumsy idiots—“Get out of the way there!” he signed with his +umbrella—he saw a hand raised—a white glove shaking a handkerchief. +Another moment, and—thank God, thank God!—there she was. There was +Janey. There was Mrs. Hammond, yes, yes, yes—standing by the rail and +smiling and nodding and waving her handkerchief. + +“Well that’s first class—first class! Well, well, well!” He positively +stamped. Like lightning he drew out his cigar-case and offered it to +old Captain Johnson. “Have a cigar, Captain! They’re pretty good. Have +a couple! Here”—and he pressed all the cigars in the case on the +harbour-master—“I’ve a couple of boxes up at the hotel.” + +“Thenks, Mr. Hammond!” wheezed old Captain Johnson. + +Hammond stuffed the cigar-case back. His hands were shaking, but he’d +got hold of himself again. He was able to face Janey. There she was, +leaning on the rail, talking to some woman and at the same time +watching him, ready for him. It struck him, as the gulf of water +closed, how small she looked on that huge ship. His heart was wrung +with such a spasm that he could have cried out. How little she looked +to have come all that long way and back by herself! Just like her, +though. Just like Janey. She had the courage of a—— And now the crew +had come forward and parted the passengers; they had lowered the rails +for the gangways. + +The voices on shore and the voices on board flew to greet each other. + +“All well?” + +“All well.” + +“How’s mother?” + +“Much better.” + +“Hullo, Jean!” + +“Hillo, Aun’ Emily!” + +“Had a good voyage?” + +“Splendid!” + +“Shan’t be long now!” + +“Not long now.” + +The engines stopped. Slowly she edged to the wharf-side. + +“Make way there—make way—make way!” And the wharf hands brought the +heavy gangways along at a sweeping run. Hammond signed to Janey to stay +where she was. The old harbour-master stepped forward; he followed. As +to “ladies first,” or any rot like that, it never entered his head. + +“After you, Captain!” he cried genially. And, treading on the old man’s +heels, he strode up the gangway on to the deck in a bee-line to Janey, +and Janey was clasped in his arms. + +“Well, well, well! Yes, yes! Here we are at last!” he stammered. It was +all he could say. And Janey emerged, and her cool little voice—the only +voice in the world for him—said, + +“Well, darling! Have you been waiting long?” + +No; not long. Or, at any rate, it didn’t matter. It was over now. But +the point was, he had a cab waiting at the end of the wharf. Was she +ready to go off. Was her luggage ready? In that case they could cut off +sharp with her cabin luggage and let the rest go hang until to-morrow. +He bent over her and she looked up with her familiar half-smile. She +was just the same. Not a day changed. Just as he’d always known her. +She laid her small hand on his sleeve. + +“How are the children, John?” she asked. + +(Hang the children!) “Perfectly well. Never better in their lives.” + +“Haven’t they sent me letters?” + +“Yes, yes—of course! I’ve left them at the hotel for you to digest +later on.” + +“We can’t go quite so fast,” said she. “I’ve got people to say good-bye +to—and then there’s the Captain.” As his face fell she gave his arm a +small understanding squeeze. “If the Captain comes off the bridge I +want you to thank him for having looked after your wife so +beautifully.” Well, he’d got her. If she wanted another ten minutes—As +he gave way she was surrounded. The whole first-class seemed to want to +say good-bye to Janey. + +“Good-bye, _dear_ Mrs. Hammond! And next time you’re in Sydney I’ll +_expect_ you.” + +“Darling Mrs. Hammond! You won’t forget to write to me, will you?” + +“Well, Mrs. Hammond, what this boat would have been without you!” + +It was as plain as a pikestaff that she was by far the most popular +woman on board. And she took it all—just as usual. Absolutely composed. +Just her little self—just Janey all over; standing there with her veil +thrown back. Hammond never noticed what his wife had on. It was all the +same to him whatever she wore. But to-day he did notice that she wore a +black “costume”—didn’t they call it?—with white frills, trimmings he +supposed they were, at the neck and sleeves. All this while Janey +handed him round. + +“John, dear!” And then: “I want to introduce you to—” + +Finally they did escape, and she led the way to her state-room. To +follow Janey down the passage that she knew so well—that was so strange +to him; to part the green curtains after her and to step into the cabin +that had been hers gave him exquisite happiness. But—confound it!—the +stewardess was there on the floor, strapping up the rugs. + +“That’s the last, Mrs. Hammond,” said the stewardess, rising and +pulling down her cuffs. + +He was introduced again, and then Janey and the stewardess disappeared +into the passage. He heard whisperings. She was getting the tipping +business over, he supposed. He sat down on the striped sofa and took +his hat off. There were the rugs she had taken with her; they looked +good as new. All her luggage looked fresh, perfect. The labels were +written in her beautiful little clear hand—“Mrs. John Hammond.” + +“Mrs. John Hammond!” He gave a long sigh of content and leaned back, +crossing his arms. The strain was over. He felt he could have sat there +for ever sighing his relief—the relief at being rid of that horrible +tug, pull, grip on his heart. The danger was over. That was the +feeling. They were on dry land again. + +But at that moment Janey’s head came round the corner. + +“Darling—do you mind? I just want to go and say good-bye to the +doctor.” + +Hammond started up. “I’ll come with you.” + +“No, no!” she said. “Don’t bother. I’d rather not. I’ll not be a +minute.” + +And before he could answer she was gone. He had half a mind to run +after her; but instead he sat down again. + +Would she really not be long? What was the time now? Out came the +watch; he stared at nothing. That was rather queer of Janey, wasn’t it? +Why couldn’t she have told the stewardess to say good-bye for her? Why +did she have to go chasing after the ship’s doctor? She could have sent +a note from the hotel even if the affair had been urgent. Urgent? Did +it—could it mean that she had been ill on the voyage—she was keeping +something from him? That was it! He seized his hat. He was going off to +find that fellow and to wring the truth out of him at all costs. He +thought he’d noticed just something. She was just a touch too calm—too +steady. From the very first moment— + +The curtains rang. Janey was back. He jumped to his feet. + +“Janey, have you been ill on this voyage? You have!” + +“Ill?” Her airy little voice mocked him. She stepped over the rugs, and +came up close, touched his breast, and looked up at him. + +“Darling,” she said, “don’t frighten me. Of course I haven’t! Whatever +makes you think I have? Do I look ill?” + +But Hammond didn’t see her. He only felt that she was looking at him +and that there was no need to worry about anything. She was here to +look after things. It was all right. Everything was. + +The gentle pressure of her hand was so calming that he put his over +hers to hold it there. And she said: + +“Stand still. I want to look at you. I haven’t seen you yet. You’ve had +your beard beautifully trimmed, and you look—younger, I think, and +decidedly thinner! Bachelor life agrees with you.” + +“Agrees with me!” He groaned for love and caught her close again. And +again, as always, he had the feeling that he was holding something that +never was quite his—his. Something too delicate, too precious, that +would fly away once he let go. + +“For God’s sake let’s get off to the hotel so that we can be by +ourselves!” And he rang the bell hard for some one to look sharp with +the luggage. + + +Walking down the wharf together she took his arm. He had her on his arm +again. And the difference it made to get into the cab after Janey—to +throw the red-and-yellow striped blanket round them both—to tell the +driver to hurry because neither of them had had any tea. No more going +without his tea or pouring out his own. She was back. He turned to her, +squeezed her hand, and said gently, teasingly, in the “special” voice +he had for her: “Glad to be home again, dearie?” She smiled; she didn’t +even bother to answer, but gently she drew his hand away as they came +to the brighter streets. + +“We’ve got the best room in the hotel,” he said. “I wouldn’t be put off +with another. And I asked the chambermaid to put in a bit of a fire in +case you felt chilly. She’s a nice, attentive girl. And I thought now +we were here we wouldn’t bother to go home to-morrow, but spend the day +looking round and leave the morning after. Does that suit you? There’s +no hurry, is there? The children will have you soon enough.... I +thought a day’s sight-seeing might make a nice break in your +journey—eh, Janey?” + +“Have you taken the tickets for the day after?” she asked. + +“I should think I have!” He unbuttoned his overcoat and took out his +bulging pocket-book. “Here we are! I reserved a first-class carriage to +Cooktown. There it is—‘Mr. _and_ Mrs. John Hammond.’ I thought we might +as well do ourselves comfortably, and we don’t want other people +butting in, do we? But if you’d like to stop here a bit longer—?” + +“Oh, no!” said Janey quickly. “Not for the world! The day after +to-morrow, then. And the children—” + +But they had reached the hotel. The manager was standing in the broad, +brilliantly-lighted porch. He came down to greet them. A porter ran +from the hall for their boxes. + +“Well, Mr. Arnold, here’s Mrs. Hammond at last!” + +The manager led them through the hall himself and pressed the +elevator-bell. Hammond knew there were business pals of his sitting at +the little hall tables having a drink before dinner. But he wasn’t +going to risk interruption; he looked neither to the right nor the +left. They could think what they pleased. If they didn’t understand, +the more fools they—and he stepped out of the lift, unlocked the door +of their room, and shepherded Janey in. The door shut. Now, at last, +they were alone together. He turned up the light. The curtains were +drawn; the fire blazed. He flung his hat on to the huge bed and went +towards her. + +But—would you believe it!—again they were interrupted. This time it was +the porter with the luggage. He made two journeys of it, leaving the +door open in between, taking his time, whistling through his teeth in +the corridor. Hammond paced up and down the room, tearing off his +gloves, tearing off his scarf. Finally he flung his overcoat on to the +bedside. + +At last the fool was gone. The door clicked. Now they _were_ alone. +Said Hammond: “I feel I’ll never have you to myself again. These cursed +people! Janey”—and he bent his flushed, eager gaze upon her—“let’s have +dinner up here. If we go down to the restaurant we’ll be interrupted, +and then there’s the confounded music” (the music he’d praised so +highly, applauded so loudly last night!). “We shan’t be able to hear +each other speak. Let’s have something up here in front of the fire. +It’s too late for tea. I’ll order a little supper, shall I? How does +that idea strike you?” + +“Do, darling!” said Janey. “And while you’re away—the children’s +letters—” + +“Oh, later on will do!” said Hammond. + +“But then we’d get it over,” said Janey. “And I’d first have time to—” + +“Oh, I needn’t go down!” explained Hammond. “I’ll just ring and give +the order... you don’t want to send me away, do you?” + +Janey shook her head and smiled. + +“But you’re thinking of something else. You’re worrying about +something,” said Hammond. “What is it? Come and sit here—come and sit +on my knee before the fire.” + +“I’ll just unpin my hat,” said Janey, and she went over to the +dressing-table. “A-ah!” She gave a little cry. + +“What is it?” + +“Nothing, darling. I’ve just found the children’s letters. That’s all +right! They will keep. No hurry now!” She turned to him, clasping them. +She tucked them into her frilled blouse. She cried quickly, gaily: “Oh, +how typical this dressing-table is of you!” + +“Why? What’s the matter with it?” said Hammond. + +“If it were floating in eternity I should say ‘John!’” laughed Janey, +staring at the big bottle of hair tonic, the wicker bottle of +eau-de-Cologne, the two hair-brushes, and a dozen new collars tied with +pink tape. “Is this all your luggage?” + +“Hang my luggage!” said Hammond; but all the same he liked being +laughed at by Janey. “Let’s talk. Let’s get down to things. Tell +me”—and as Janey perched on his knees he leaned back and drew her into +the deep, ugly chair—“tell me you’re really glad to be back, Janey.” + +“Yes, darling, I am glad,” she said. + +But just as when he embraced her he felt she would fly away, so Hammond +never knew—never knew for dead certain that she was as glad as he was. +How could he know? Would he ever know? Would he always have this +craving—this pang like hunger, somehow, to make Janey so much part of +him that there wasn’t any of her to escape? He wanted to blot out +everybody, everything. He wished now he’d turned off the light. That +might have brought her nearer. And now those letters from the children +rustled in her blouse. He could have chucked them into the fire. + +“Janey,” he whispered. + +“Yes, dear?” She lay on his breast, but so lightly, so remotely. Their +breathing rose and fell together. + +“Janey!” + +“What is it?” + +“Turn to me,” he whispered. A slow, deep flush flowed into his +forehead. “Kiss me, Janey! You kiss me!” + +It seemed to him there was a tiny pause—but long enough for him to +suffer torture—before her lips touched his, firmly, lightly—kissing +them as she always kissed him, as though the kiss—how could he describe +it?—confirmed what they were saying, signed the contract. But that +wasn’t what he wanted; that wasn’t at all what he thirsted for. He felt +suddenly, horrible tired. + +“If you knew,” he said, opening his eyes, “what it’s been like—waiting +to-day. I thought the boat never would come in. There we were, hanging +about. What kept you so long?” + +She made no answer. She was looking away from him at the fire. The +flames hurried—hurried over the coals, flickered, fell. + +“Not asleep, are you?” said Hammond, and he jumped her up and down. + +“No,” she said. And then: “Don’t do that, dear. No, I was thinking. As +a matter of fact,” she said, “one of the passengers died last night—a +man. That’s what held us up. We brought him in—I mean, he wasn’t buried +at sea. So, of course, the ship’s doctor and the shore doctor—” + +“What was it?” asked Hammond uneasily. He hated to hear of death. He +hated this to have happened. It was, in some queer way, as though he +and Janey had met a funeral on their way to the hotel. + +“Oh, it wasn’t anything in the least infectious!” said Janey. She was +speaking scarcely above her breath. “It was _heart_.” A pause. “Poor +fellow!” she said. “Quite young.” And she watched the fire flicker and +fall. “He died in my arms,” said Janey. + +The blow was so sudden that Hammond thought he would faint. He couldn’t +move; he couldn’t breathe. He felt all his strength flowing—flowing +into the big dark chair, and the big dark chair held him fast, gripped +him, forced him to bear it. + +“What?” he said dully. “What’s that you say?” + +“The end was quite peaceful,” said the small voice. “He just”—and +Hammond saw her lift her gentle hand—“breathed his life away at the +end.” And her hand fell. + +“Who—else was there?” Hammond managed to ask. + +“Nobody. I was alone with him.” + +Ah, my God, what was she saying! What was she doing to him! This would +kill him! And all the while she spoke: + +“I saw the change coming and I sent the steward for the doctor, but the +doctor was too late. He couldn’t have done anything, anyway.” + +“But—why _you_, why _you_?” moaned Hammond. + +At that Janey turned quickly, quickly searched his face. + +“You don’t _mind_, John, do you?” she asked. “You don’t—It’s nothing to +do with you and me.” + +Somehow or other he managed to shake some sort of smile at her. Somehow +or other he stammered: “No—go—on, go on! I want you to tell me.” + +“But, John darling—” + +“Tell me, Janey!” + +“There’s nothing to tell,” she said, wondering. “He was one of the +first-class passengers. I saw he was very ill when he came on board.... +But he seemed to be so much better until yesterday. He had a severe +attack in the afternoon—excitement—nervousness, I think, about +arriving. And after that he never recovered.” + +“But why didn’t the stewardess—” + +“Oh, my dear—the stewardess!” said Janey. “What would he have felt? And +besides... he might have wanted to leave a message... to—” + +“Didn’t he?” muttered Hammond. “Didn’t he say anything?” + +“No, darling, not a word!” She shook her head softly. “All the time I +was with him he was too weak... he was too weak even to move a +finger....” + +Janey was silent. But her words, so light, so soft, so chill, seemed to +hover in the air, to rain into his breast like snow. + +The fire had gone red. Now it fell in with a sharp sound and the room +was colder. Cold crept up his arms. The room was huge, immense, +glittering. It filled his whole world. There was the great blind bed, +with his coat flung across it like some headless man saying his +prayers. There was the luggage, ready to be carried away again, +anywhere, tossed into trains, carted on to boats. + +... “He was too weak. He was too weak to move a finger.” And yet he +died in Janey’s arms. She—who’d never—never once in all these +years—never on one single solitary occasion— + +No; he mustn’t think of it. Madness lay in thinking of it. No, he +wouldn’t face it. He couldn’t stand it. It was too much to bear! + +And now Janey touched his tie with her fingers. She pinched the edges +of the tie together. + +“You’re not—sorry I told you, John darling? It hasn’t made you sad? It +hasn’t spoilt our evening—our being alone together?” + +But at that he had to hide his face. He put his face into her bosom and +his arms enfolded her. + +Spoilt their evening! Spoilt their being alone together! They would +never be alone together again. + + + + +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? + + + + +An Ideal Family + + +That evening for the first time in his life, as he pressed through the +swing door and descended the three broad steps to the pavement, old Mr. +Neave felt he was too old for the spring. Spring—warm, eager, +restless—was there, waiting for him in the golden light, ready in front +of everybody to run up, to blow in his white beard, to drag sweetly on +his arm. And he couldn’t meet her, no; he couldn’t square up once more +and stride off, jaunty as a young man. He was tired and, although the +late sun was still shining, curiously cold, with a numbed feeling all +over. Quite suddenly he hadn’t the energy, he hadn’t the heart to stand +this gaiety and bright movement any longer; it confused him. He wanted +to stand still, to wave it away with his stick, to say, “Be off with +you!” Suddenly it was a terrible effort to greet as usual—tipping his +wide-awake with his stick—all the people whom he knew, the friends, +acquaintances, shopkeepers, postmen, drivers. But the gay glance that +went with the gesture, the kindly twinkle that seemed to say, “I’m a +match and more for any of you”—that old Mr. Neave could not manage at +all. He stumped along, lifting his knees high as if he were walking +through air that had somehow grown heavy and solid like water. And the +homeward-looking crowd hurried by, the trams clanked, the light carts +clattered, the big swinging cabs bowled along with that reckless, +defiant indifference that one knows only in dreams.... + +It had been a day like other days at the office. Nothing special had +happened. Harold hadn’t come back from lunch until close on four. Where +had he been? What had he been up to? He wasn’t going to let his father +know. Old Mr. Neave had happened to be in the vestibule, saying +good-bye to a caller, when Harold sauntered in, perfectly turned out as +usual, cool, suave, smiling that peculiar little half-smile that women +found so fascinating. + +Ah, Harold was too handsome, too handsome by far; that had been the +trouble all along. No man had a right to such eyes, such lashes, and +such lips; it was uncanny. As for his mother, his sisters, and the +servants, it was not too much to say they made a young god of him; they +worshipped Harold, they forgave him everything; and he had needed some +forgiving ever since the time when he was thirteen and he had stolen +his mother’s purse, taken the money, and hidden the purse in the cook’s +bedroom. Old Mr. Neave struck sharply with his stick upon the pavement +edge. But it wasn’t only his family who spoiled Harold, he reflected, +it was everybody; he had only to look and to smile, and down they went +before him. So perhaps it wasn’t to be wondered at that he expected the +office to carry on the tradition. H’m, h’m! But it couldn’t be done. No +business—not even a successful, established, big paying concern—could +be played with. A man had either to put his whole heart and soul into +it, or it went all to pieces before his eyes.... + +And then Charlotte and the girls were always at him to make the whole +thing over to Harold, to retire, and to spend his time enjoying +himself. Enjoying himself! Old Mr. Neave stopped dead under a group of +ancient cabbage palms outside the Government buildings! Enjoying +himself! The wind of evening shook the dark leaves to a thin airy +cackle. Sitting at home, twiddling his thumbs, conscious all the while +that his life’s work was slipping away, dissolving, disappearing +through Harold’s fine fingers, while Harold smiled.... + +“Why will you be so unreasonable, father? There’s absolutely no need +for you to go to the office. It only makes it very awkward for us when +people persist in saying how tired you’re looking. Here’s this huge +house and garden. Surely you could be happy in—in—appreciating it for a +change. Or you could take up some hobby.” + +And Lola the baby had chimed in loftily, “All men ought to have +hobbies. It makes life impossible if they haven’t.” + +Well, well! He couldn’t help a grim smile as painfully he began to +climb the hill that led into Harcourt Avenue. Where would Lola and her +sisters and Charlotte be if he’d gone in for hobbies, he’d like to +know? Hobbies couldn’t pay for the town house and the seaside bungalow, +and their horses, and their golf, and the sixty-guinea gramophone in +the music-room for them to dance to. Not that he grudged them these +things. No, they were smart, good-looking girls, and Charlotte was a +remarkable woman; it was natural for them to be in the swim. As a +matter of fact, no other house in the town was as popular as theirs; no +other family entertained so much. And how many times old Mr. Neave, +pushing the cigar box across the smoking-room table, had listened to +praises of his wife, his girls, of himself even. + +“You’re an ideal family, sir, an ideal family. It’s like something one +reads about or sees on the stage.” + +“That’s all right, my boy,” old Mr. Neave would reply. “Try one of +those; I think you’ll like them. And if you care to smoke in the +garden, you’ll find the girls on the lawn, I dare say.” + +That was why the girls had never married, so people said. They could +have married anybody. But they had too good a time at home. They were +too happy together, the girls and Charlotte. H’m, h’m! Well, well. +Perhaps so.... + +By this time he had walked the length of fashionable Harcourt Avenue; +he had reached the corner house, their house. The carriage gates were +pushed back; there were fresh marks of wheels on the drive. And then he +faced the big white-painted house, with its wide-open windows, its +tulle curtains floating outwards, its blue jars of hyacinths on the +broad sills. On either side of the carriage porch their +hydrangeas—famous in the town—were coming into flower; the pinkish, +bluish masses of flower lay like light among the spreading leaves. And +somehow, it seemed to old Mr. Neave that the house and the flowers, and +even the fresh marks on the drive, were saying, “There is young life +here. There are girls—” + +The hall, as always, was dusky with wraps, parasols, gloves, piled on +the oak chests. From the music-room sounded the piano, quick, loud and +impatient. Through the drawing-room door that was ajar voices floated. + +“And were there ices?” came from Charlotte. Then the creak, creak of +her rocker. + +“Ices!” cried Ethel. “My dear mother, you never saw such ices. Only two +kinds. And one a common little strawberry shop ice, in a sopping wet +frill.” + +“The food altogether was too appalling,” came from Marion. + +“Still, it’s rather early for ices,” said Charlotte easily. + +“But why, if one has them at all....” began Ethel. + +“Oh, quite so, darling,” crooned Charlotte. + +Suddenly the music-room door opened and Lola dashed out. She started, +she nearly screamed, at the sight of old Mr. Neave. + +“Gracious, father! What a fright you gave me! Have you just come home? +Why isn’t Charles here to help you off with your coat?” + +Her cheeks were crimson from playing, her eyes glittered, the hair fell +over her forehead. And she breathed as though she had come running +through the dark and was frightened. Old Mr. Neave stared at his +youngest daughter; he felt he had never seen her before. So that was +Lola, was it? But she seemed to have forgotten her father; it was not +for him that she was waiting there. Now she put the tip of her crumpled +handkerchief between her teeth and tugged at it angrily. The telephone +rang. A-ah! Lola gave a cry like a sob and dashed past him. The door of +the telephone-room slammed, and at the same moment Charlotte called, +“Is that you, father?” + +“You’re tired again,” said Charlotte reproachfully, and she stopped the +rocker and offered her warm plum-like cheek. Bright-haired Ethel pecked +his beard, Marion’s lips brushed his ear. + +“Did you walk back, father?” asked Charlotte. + +“Yes, I walked home,” said old Mr. Neave, and he sank into one of the +immense drawing-room chairs. + +“But why didn’t you take a cab?” said Ethel. “There are hundreds 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. + + + + +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 anyone—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!...” + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1429 *** diff --git a/1429-h/1429-h.htm b/1429-h/1429-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b9de42a --- /dev/null +++ b/1429-h/1429-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,10072 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Garden Party, by Katherine Mansfield</title> +<link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> +<style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify } + +h1, h2, h3, h4 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; +font-weight: normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: +.5em;} + +h1 {font-size: 300%; + margin-top: 0.6em; + margin-bottom: 0.6em; + letter-spacing: 0.12em; + word-spacing: 0.2em; + text-indent: 0em;} +h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +h3 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em;} +h4 {font-size: 120%;} +h5 {font-size: 110%;} + +.no-break {page-break-before: avoid;} /* for epubs */ + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +.p2 {margin-top: 2em;} + +p.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: 90%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +p.center {text-align: center; + text-indent: 0em; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +div.fig { display:block; + margin:0 auto; + text-align:center; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 0em; } + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + +</style> + +</head> + +<body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1429 ***</div> + +<div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> +<img src="images/cover.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="cover " /> +</div> + +<h1>The Garden Party</h1> + +<h3>AND OTHER STORIES</h3> + +<h2 class="no-break">by Katherine Mansfield</h2> + +<hr /> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Montaigne dit que les hommes vont béant<br/> +aux choses futures; j’ai la manie de béer<br/> +aux choses passées</i> +</p> + +<h4> +To John Middleton Murry +</h4> + +<hr /> + +<h2> +Contents +</h2> + +<table summary="" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto"> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap01">At the Bay</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap02">The Garden-Party</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap03">The Daughters of the Late Colonel</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap04">Mr. and Mrs. Dove</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap05">The Young Girl</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap06">Life of Ma Parker</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap07">Marriage à la Mode</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap08">The Voyage</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap09">Miss Brill</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap10">Her First Ball</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap11">The Singing Lesson</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap12">The Stranger</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap13">Bank Holiday</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap14">An Ideal Family</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap15">The Lady’s Maid</a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap01"></a>At the Bay</h2> + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Round the corner of Crescent Bay, between the piled-up masses of broken rock, a +flock of sheep came pattering. They were huddled together, a small, tossing, +woolly mass, and their thin, stick-like legs trotted along quickly as if the +cold and the quiet had frightened them. Behind them an old sheep-dog, his +soaking paws covered with sand, ran along with his nose to the ground, but +carelessly, as if thinking of something else. And then in the rocky gateway the +shepherd himself appeared. He was a lean, upright old man, in a frieze coat +that was covered with a web of tiny drops, velvet trousers tied under the knee, +and a wide-awake with a folded blue handkerchief round the brim. One hand was +crammed into his belt, the other grasped a beautifully smooth yellow stick. And +as he walked, taking his time, he kept up a very soft light whistling, an airy, +far-away fluting that sounded mournful and tender. The old dog cut an ancient +caper or two and then drew up sharp, ashamed of his levity, and walked a few +dignified paces by his master’s side. The sheep ran forward in little +pattering rushes; they began to bleat, and ghostly flocks and herds answered +them from under the sea. “Baa! Baaa!” For a time they seemed to be +always on the same piece of ground. There ahead was stretched the sandy road +with shallow puddles; the same soaking bushes showed on either side and the +same shadowy palings. Then something immense came into view; an enormous +shock-haired giant with his arms stretched out. It was the big gum-tree outside +Mrs. Stubbs’ shop, and as they passed by there was a strong whiff of +eucalyptus. And now big spots of light gleamed in the mist. The shepherd +stopped whistling; he rubbed his red nose and wet beard on his wet sleeve and, +screwing up his eyes, glanced in the direction of the sea. The sun was rising. +It was marvellous how quickly the mist thinned, sped away, dissolved from the +shallow plain, rolled up from the bush and was gone as if in a hurry to escape; +big twists and curls jostled and shouldered each other as the silvery beams +broadened. The far-away sky—a bright, pure blue—was reflected in +the puddles, and the drops, swimming along the telegraph poles, flashed into +points of light. Now the leaping, glittering sea was so bright it made +one’s eyes ache to look at it. The shepherd drew a pipe, the bowl as +small as an acorn, out of his breast pocket, fumbled for a chunk of speckled +tobacco, pared off a few shavings and stuffed the bowl. He was a grave, +fine-looking old man. As he lit up and the blue smoke wreathed his head, the +dog, watching, looked proud of him. +</p> + +<p> +“Baa! Baaa!” The sheep spread out into a fan. They were just clear +of the summer colony before the first sleeper turned over and lifted a drowsy +head; their cry sounded in the dreams of little children... who lifted their +arms to drag down, to cuddle the darling little woolly lambs of sleep. Then the +first inhabitant appeared; it was the Burnells’ cat Florrie, sitting on +the gatepost, far too early as usual, looking for their milk-girl. When she saw +the old sheep-dog she sprang up quickly, arched her back, drew in her tabby +head, and seemed to give a little fastidious shiver. “Ugh! What a coarse, +revolting creature!” said Florrie. But the old sheep-dog, not looking up, +waggled past, flinging out his legs from side to side. Only one of his ears +twitched to prove that he saw, and thought her a silly young female. +</p> + +<p> +The breeze of morning lifted in the bush and the smell of leaves and wet black +earth mingled with the sharp smell of the sea. Myriads of birds were singing. A +goldfinch flew over the shepherd’s head and, perching on the tiptop of a +spray, it turned to the sun, ruffling its small breast feathers. And now they +had passed the fisherman’s hut, passed the charred-looking little +<i>whare</i> 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. +</p> + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Hail, brother! All hail, Thou Mighty One!” A velvety bass voice +came booming over the water. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I had an extraordinary dream last night!” he shouted. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re WHAT?” Jonathan was so surprised—or pretended +to be—that he sank under the water, then reappeared again blowing. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>III</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve just got twenty-five minutes,” he said. “You +might go and see if the porridge is ready, Beryl?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mother’s just gone for it,” said Beryl. She sat down at the +table and poured out his tea. +</p> + +<p> +“Thanks!” Stanley took a sip. “Hallo!” he said in an +astonished voice, “you’ve forgotten the sugar.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, sorry!” But even then Beryl didn’t help him; she pushed +the basin across. What did this mean? As Stanley helped himself his blue eyes +widened; they seemed to quiver. He shot a quick glance at his sister-in-law and +leaned back. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing wrong, is there?” he asked carelessly, fingering his +collar. +</p> + +<p> +Beryl’s head was bent; she turned her plate in her fingers. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing,” said her light voice. Then she too looked up, and smiled +at Stanley. “Why should there be?” +</p> + +<p> +“O-oh! No reason at all as far as I know. I thought you seemed +rather—” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, grandma.” They settled themselves on the bench opposite +Stanley and Beryl. +</p> + +<p> +“Good morning, Stanley!” Old Mrs. Fairfield gave him his plate. +</p> + +<p> +“Morning, mother! How’s the boy?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“You might <i>cut</i> 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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, they’re ready for you.” Mrs. Fairfield was quite +unruffled. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Kezia! Why are you such a messy child!” cried Beryl +despairingly. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Why can’t you eat your food properly like Isabel and +Lottie?” How unfair grown-ups are! +</p> + +<p> +“But Lottie always makes a floating island, don’t you, +Lottie?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Stanley pushed back his chair and got up. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, father!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Stick, dear? What stick?” Linda’s vagueness on these +occasions could not be real, Stanley decided. Would nobody sympathize with him? +</p> + +<p> +“Coach! Coach, Stanley!” Beryl’s voice cried from the gate. +</p> + +<p> +Stanley waved his arm to Linda. “No time to say good-bye!” he +cried. And he meant that as a punishment to her. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Gone?” +</p> + +<p> +“Gone!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<h3>IV</h3> + +<p> +“Wait for me, Isa-bel! Kezia, wait for me!” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Here, put your other foot over,” said Kezia. +</p> + +<p> +“Where?” +</p> + +<p> +Lottie looked down at Kezia as if from a mountain height. +</p> + +<p> +“Here where my hand is.” Kezia patted the place. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, <i>there</i> do you mean!” Lottie gave a deep sigh and put the +second foot over. +</p> + +<p> +“Now—sort of turn round and sit down and slide,” said Kezia. +</p> + +<p> +“But there’s nothing to sit down <i>on</i>, Kezia,” said +Lottie. +</p> + +<p> +She managed it at last, and once it was over she shook herself and began to +beam. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m getting better at climbing over stiles, aren’t I, +Kezia?” +</p> + +<p> +Lottie’s was a very hopeful nature. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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 “Limmonadear.” 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Look!” said Pip. “Look what I’ve discovered.” +And he showed them an old wet, squashed-looking boot. The three little girls +stared. +</p> + +<p> +“Whatever are you going to do with it?” asked Kezia. +</p> + +<p> +“Keep it, of course!” Pip was very scornful. “It’s a +find—see?” +</p> + +<p> +Yes, Kezia saw that. All the same.... +</p> + +<p> +“There’s lots of things buried in the sand,” explained Pip. +“They get chucked up from wrecks. Treasure. Why—you might +find—” +</p> + +<p> +“But why does Rags have to keep on pouring water in?” asked Lottie. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, that’s to moisten it,” said Pip, “to make the work +a bit easier. Keep it up, Rags.” +</p> + +<p> +And good little Rags ran up and down, pouring in the water that turned brown +like cocoa. +</p> + +<p> +“Here, shall I show you what I found yesterday?” said Pip +mysteriously, and he stuck his spade into the sand. “Promise not to +tell.” +</p> + +<p> +They promised. +</p> + +<p> +“Say, cross my heart straight dinkum.” +</p> + +<p> +The little girls said it. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Now turn round!” he ordered. +</p> + +<p> +They turned round. +</p> + +<p> +“All look the same way! Keep still! Now!” +</p> + +<p> +And his hand opened; he held up to the light something that flashed, that +winked, that was a most lovely green. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a nemeral,” said Pip solemnly. +</p> + +<p> +“Is it really, Pip?” Even Isabel was impressed. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>V</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Here, mother, keep those for me, will you?” +</p> + +<p> +Two rings and a thin gold chain were dropped into Mrs Fairfield’s lap. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, dear. But aren’t you going to bathe here?” +</p> + +<p> +“No-o,” Beryl drawled. She sounded vague. “I’m +undressing farther along. I’m going to bathe with Mrs. Harry +Kember.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well.” But Mrs. Fairfield’s lips set. She disapproved +of Mrs Harry Kember. Beryl knew it. +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +“You look very pleased,” said Mrs. Harry Kember. She sat hunched up +on the stones, her arms round her knees, smoking. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s such a lovely day,” said Beryl, smiling down at her. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh my <i>dear</i>!” 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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Mercy on us,” said Mrs. Harry Kember, “what a little beauty +you are!” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t!” said Beryl softly; but, drawing off one stocking and +then the other, she felt a little beauty. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Lucky little creature,” sighed Mrs. Kember, unfastening her own. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<h3>VI</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +... 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.... +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, papa.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Linny’s beau,” he whispered. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, papa, fancy being married to Stanley Burnell!” +</p> + +<p> +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 +anyone—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. +</p> + +<p> +But the trouble was—here Linda felt almost inclined to laugh, though +Heaven knows it was no laughing matter—she saw <i>her</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m here!” that happy smile seemed to say. “Why +don’t you like me?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t like babies?” The boy couldn’t believe her. +“Don’t like <i>me</i>?” He waved his arms foolishly at his +mother. +</p> + +<p> +Linda dropped off her chair on to the grass. +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you keep on smiling?” she said severely. “If you knew +what I was thinking about, you wouldn’t.” +</p> + +<p> +But he only squeezed up his eyes, slyly, and rolled his head on the pillow. He +didn’t believe a word she said. +</p> + +<p> +“We know all about that!” smiled the boy. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>VII</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What are you looking at, my grandma? Why do you keep stopping and sort +of staring at the wall?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me, grandma,” said Kezia. +</p> + +<p> +The old woman sighed, whipped the wool twice round her thumb, and drew the bone +needle through. She was casting on. +</p> + +<p> +“I was thinking of your Uncle William, darling,” she said quietly. +</p> + +<p> +“My Australian Uncle William?” said Kezia. She had another. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, of course.” +</p> + +<p> +“The one I never saw?” +</p> + +<p> +“That was the one.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, what happened to him?” Kezia knew perfectly well, but she +wanted to be told again. +</p> + +<p> +“He went to the mines, and he got a sunstroke there and died,” said +old Mrs. Fairfield. +</p> + +<p> +Kezia blinked and considered the picture again.... A little man fallen over +like a tin soldier by the side of a big black hole. +</p> + +<p> +“Does it make you sad to think about him, grandma?” She hated her +grandma to be sad. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>them</i> as a woman does, long after <i>they</i> were out of sight. Did it +make her sad? No, life was like that. +</p> + +<p> +“No, Kezia.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Fairfield began counting the stitches in threes. “It just +happened,” she said in an absorbed voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Does everybody have to die?” asked Kezia. +</p> + +<p> +“Everybody!” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Me?</i>” Kezia sounded fearfully incredulous. +</p> + +<p> +“Some day, my darling.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, grandma.” Kezia waved her left leg and waggled the toes. They +felt sandy. “What if I just won’t?” +</p> + +<p> +The old woman sighed again and drew a long thread from the ball. +</p> + +<p> +“We’re not asked, Kezia,” she said sadly. “It happens +to all of us sooner or later.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Grandma,” she said in a startled voice. +</p> + +<p> +“What, my pet!” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>You’re</i> not to die.” Kezia was very decided. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, Kezia”—her grandma looked up and smiled and shook her +head—“don’t let’s talk about it.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +The old woman went on knitting. +</p> + +<p> +“Promise me! Say never!” +</p> + +<p> +But still her grandma was silent. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Say never... say never... say never—” She gasped between the +kisses. And then she began, very softly and lightly, to tickle her grandma. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Both of them had forgotten what the “never” was about. +</p> + +<h3>VIII</h3> + +<p> +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 “<i>perishall</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear heart!” Mrs. Stubbs had clapped her hand to her side. +“I never seen anyone so eaten. You might have been attacked by +canningbals.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="center"> +LOST! HANSOME GOLE BROOCH<br /> +SOLID GOLD<br /> +ON OR NEAR BEACH<br /> +REWARD OFFERED +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Tea was laid on the parlour table—ham, sardines, a whole pound of butter, +and such a large johnny cake that it looked like an advertisement for +somebody’s baking-powder. But the Primus stove roared so loudly that it +was useless to try to talk above it. Alice sat down on the edge of a +basket-chair while Mrs. Stubbs pumped the stove still higher. Suddenly Mrs. +Stubbs whipped the cushion off a chair and disclosed a large brown-paper +parcel. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve just had some new photers taken, my dear,” she shouted +cheerfully to Alice. “Tell me what you think of them.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Alice quite saw what she meant. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Alice burned to know exactly what it was that was drawn from him. She ventured, +“I suppose it was water.” +</p> + +<p> +But Mrs. Stubbs fixed Alice with her eyes and replied meaningly, “It was +<i>liquid</i>, my dear.” +</p> + +<p> +Liquid! Alice jumped away from the word like a cat and came back to it, nosing +and wary. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s ’im!” said Mrs. Stubbs, and she pointed +dramatically to the life-size head and shoulders of a burly man with a dead +white rose in the buttonhole of his coat that made you think of a curl of cold +mutting fat. Just below, in silver letters on a red cardboard ground, were the +words, “Be not afraid, it is I.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s ever such a fine face,” said Alice faintly. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>IX</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You can’t be a bee, Kezia. A bee’s not an animal. It’s +a ninseck.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“A ninseck must be an animal,” she said stoutly. “It makes a +noise. It’s not like a fish.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll be a sheep,” said little Rags. “A whole lot of +sheep went past this morning.” +</p> + +<p> +“How do you know?” +</p> + +<p> +“Dad heard them. Baa!” He sounded like the little lamb that trots +behind and seems to wait to be carried. +</p> + +<p> +“Cock-a-doodle-do!” shrilled Isabel. With her red cheeks and bright +eyes she looked like a rooster. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Be a donkey, Lottie.” It was Kezia’s suggestion. +“Hee-haw! You can’t forget that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hee-haw!” said Lottie solemnly. “When do I have to say +it?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mine?” Lottie was round-eyed. “To keep?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, silly. Just for the game, see? Just while we’re +playing.” The bull was very cross with her. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Lottie, you <i>are</i> a little silly,” said the proud +rooster. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, you <i>do</i>, Lottie. It’s quite easy,” said Kezia. +</p> + +<p> +And Isabel, repentant, said exactly like a grown-up, “Watch <i>me</i>, +Lottie, and you’ll soon learn.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +Lottie revived at that. But now she was in another difficulty. “I +haven’t got a hanky,” she said; “I want one badly, +too.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.’” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Lottie, you begin.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“No, Lottie, you can’t do that. You mustn’t look first. You +must turn it the other way over.” +</p> + +<p> +“But then everybody will see it the same time as me,” said Lottie. +</p> + +<p> +The game proceeded. Mooe-ooo-er! The bull was terrible. He charged over the +table and seemed to eat the cards up. +</p> + +<p> +Bss-ss! said the bee. +</p> + +<p> +Cock-a-doodle-do! Isabel stood up in her excitement and moved her elbows like +wings. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Why don’t you call out, Lottie?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve forgotten what I am,” said the donkey woefully. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, change! Be a dog instead! Bow-wow!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh yes. That’s <i>much</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“What noise? What do you mean?” asked the rooster. +</p> + +<p> +“Ss! Shut up! Listen!” They were mouse-still. “I thought I +heard a—a sort of knocking,” said the bull. +</p> + +<p> +“What was it like?” asked the sheep faintly. +</p> + +<p> +No answer. +</p> + +<p> +The bee gave a shudder. “Whatever did we shut the door for?” she +said softly. Oh, why, why had they shut the door? +</p> + +<p> +While they were playing, the day had faded; the gorgeous sunset had blazed and +died. And now the quick dark came racing over the sea, over the sand-hills, up +the paddock. You were frightened to look in the corners of the washhouse, and +yet you had to look with all your might. And somewhere, far away, grandma was +lighting a lamp. The blinds were being pulled down; the kitchen fire leapt in +the tins on the mantelpiece. +</p> + +<p> +“It would be awful now,” said the bull, “if a spider was to +fall from the ceiling on to the table, wouldn’t it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Spiders don’t fall from ceilings.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Quickly all the little heads were jerked up; all the little bodies drew +together, pressed together. +</p> + +<p> +“Why doesn’t somebody come and call us?” cried the rooster. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +It was true, it was real. Pressed against the window was a pale face, black +eyes, a black beard. +</p> + +<p> +“Grandma! Mother! Somebody!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>X</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Greeting, my Fair One! Greeting, my Celestial Peach Blossom!” +boomed the bass voice gently. “Where are the other noble dames?” +</p> + +<p> +“Beryl’s out playing bridge and mother’s giving the boy his +bath.... Have you come to borrow something?” +</p> + +<p> +The Trouts were for ever running out of things and sending across to the +Burnells’ at the last moment. +</p> + +<p> +But Jonathan only answered, “A little love, a little kindness;” and +he walked by his sister-in-law’s side. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“And so you go back to the office on Monday, do you, Jonathan?” +asked Linda. +</p> + +<p> +“On Monday the cage door opens and clangs to upon the victim for another +eleven months and a week,” answered Jonathan. +</p> + +<p> +Linda swung a little. “It must be awful,” she said slowly. +</p> + +<p> +“Would ye have me laugh, my fair sister? Would ye have me weep?” +</p> + +<p> +Linda was so accustomed to Jonathan’s way of talking that she paid no +attention to it. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose,” she said vaguely, “one gets used to it. One gets +used to anything.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, if you feel like that, why—” began Linda quickly. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Ah!</i>” 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Would ye hear the story<br /> +How it unfolds itself. . . +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +and they were silent. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Linda knew that he would never change, but she said, “Is it too late, +even now?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +Jonathan stooped again and kissed her fingers. +</p> + +<p> +“Heaven reward thy sweet patience, lady mine,” he murmured. +“I must go seek those heirs to my fame and fortune....” He was +gone. +</p> + +<h3>XI</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank goodness, it’s getting late,” said Florrie. +“Thank goodness, the long day is over.” Her greengage eyes opened. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Stanley was half-way up the path before he saw Linda. “Is that you, +darling?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Stanley.” +</p> + +<p> +He leapt across the flower-bed and seized her in his arms. She was enfolded in +that familiar, eager, strong embrace. +</p> + +<p> +“Forgive me, darling, forgive me,” stammered Stanley, and he put +his hand under her chin and lifted her face to him. +</p> + +<p> +“Forgive you?” smiled Linda. “But whatever for?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, Stanley,” said Linda, “what must I forgive you +for?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“What’s that you’ve got in your hand?” asked Linda. +“New gloves? Let me see.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“On the <i>con</i>-trary, darling,” said Linda, “I think it +was most sensible.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>XII</h3> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +“My very own for ever?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” Their lips met. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +But when Beryl looked at the bush, it seemed to her the bush was sad. +</p> + +<p> +“We are dumb trees, reaching up in the night, imploring we know not +what,” said the sorrowful bush. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I’m here. I’m Beryl. Who wants me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Beryl!” +</p> + +<p> +“Let me come.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +And the thought was almost, “Save me, my love. Save me!” +</p> + +<p> +... “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. +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +Oh why, oh why doesn’t “he” come soon? +</p> + +<p> +If I go on living here, thought Beryl, anything may happen to me. +</p> + +<p> +“But how do you know he is coming at all?” mocked a small voice +within her. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you remember Beryl Fairfield?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“She’s as lovely as ever, more so if anything.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Good evening, Miss Beryl,” said the voice softly. +</p> + +<p> +“Good evening.” +</p> + +<p> +“Won’t you come for a little walk?” it drawled. +</p> + +<p> +Come for a walk—at that time of night! “I couldn’t. +Everybody’s in bed. Everybody’s asleep.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Beryl shook her head. But already something stirred in her, something reared +its head. +</p> + +<p> +The voice said, “Frightened?” It mocked, “Poor little +girl!” +</p> + +<p> +“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! +</p> + +<p> +And just as if this was quite understood by the other, the voice said, gently +and softly, but finally, “Come along!” +</p> + +<p> +Beryl stepped over her low window, crossed the veranda, ran down the grass to +the gate. He was there before her. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s right,” breathed the voice, and it teased, +“You’re not frightened, are you? You’re not +frightened?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Not in the least,” she said lightly. “Why should I +be?” +</p> + +<p> +Her hand was pulled gently, tugged. She held back. +</p> + +<p> +“No, I’m not coming any farther,” said Beryl. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, rot!” Harry Kember didn’t believe her. “Come +along! We’ll just go as far as that fuchsia bush. Come along!” +</p> + +<p> +The fuchsia bush was tall. It fell over the fence in a shower. There was a +little pit of darkness beneath. +</p> + +<p> +“No, really, I don’t want to,” said Beryl. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Cold little devil! Cold little devil!” said the hateful voice. +</p> + +<p> +But Beryl was strong. She slipped, ducked, wrenched free. +</p> + +<p> +“You are vile, vile,” said she. +</p> + +<p> +“Then why in God’s name did you come?” stammered Harry +Kember. +</p> + +<p> +Nobody answered him. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap02"></a>The Garden-Party</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Breakfast was not yet over before the men came to put up the marquee. +</p> + +<p> +“Where do you want the marquee put, mother?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll have to go, Laura; you’re the artistic one.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Four men in their shirt-sleeves stood grouped together on the garden path. They +carried staves covered with rolls of canvas, and they had big tool-bags slung +on their backs. They looked impressive. Laura wished now that she had not got +the bread-and-butter, but there was nowhere to put it, and she couldn’t +possibly throw it away. She blushed and tried to look severe and even a little +bit short-sighted as she came up to them. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, what about the lily-lawn? Would that do?” +</p> + +<p> +And she pointed to the lily-lawn with the hand that didn’t hold the +bread-and-butter. They turned, they stared in the direction. A little fat chap +thrust out his under-lip, and the tall fellow frowned. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“A corner of the tennis-court,” she suggested. “But the +band’s going to be in one corner.” +</p> + +<p> +“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? +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Look here, miss, that’s the place. Against those trees. Over +there. That’ll do fine.” +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +It’s all the fault, she decided, as the tall fellow drew something on the +back of an envelope, something that was to be looped up or left to hang, of +these absurd class distinctions. Well, for her part, she didn’t feel +them. Not a bit, not an atom.... And now there came the chock-chock of wooden +hammers. Some one whistled, some one sang out, “Are you right there, +matey?” “Matey!” The friendliness of it, +the—the—Just to prove how happy she was, just to show the tall +fellow how at home she felt, and how she despised stupid conventions, Laura +took a big bite of her bread-and-butter as she stared at the little drawing. +She felt just like a work-girl. +</p> + +<p> +“Laura, Laura, where are you? Telephone, Laura!” a voice cried from +the house. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I say, Laura,” said Laurie very fast, “you might just give a +squiz at my coat before this afternoon. See if it wants pressing.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Sheridan’s voice floated down the stairs. “Tell her to wear +that sweet hat she had on last Sunday.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mother says you’re to wear that <i>sweet</i> hat you had on last +Sunday. Good. One o’clock. Bye-bye.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is it, Sadie?” Laura came into the hall. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s the florist, Miss Laura.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s some mistake,” she said faintly. “Nobody ever +ordered so many. Sadie, go and find mother.” +</p> + +<p> +But at that moment Mrs. Sheridan joined them. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“My darling child, you wouldn’t like a logical mother, would you? +Don’t do that. Here’s the man.” +</p> + +<p> +He carried more lilies still, another whole tray. +</p> + +<p> +“Bank them up, just inside the door, on both sides of the porch, +please,” said Mrs. Sheridan. “Don’t you agree, Laura?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I <i>do</i>, mother.” +</p> + +<p> +In the drawing-room Meg, Jose and good little Hans had at last succeeded in +moving the piano. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, if we put this chesterfield against the wall and move everything +out of the room except the chairs, don’t you think?” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good, Miss Jose.” +</p> + +<p> +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.’” +</p> + +<p> +<i>Pom!</i> Ta-ta-ta <i>Tee</i>-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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +This Life is <i>Wee</i>-ary,<br /> +A Tear—a Sigh.<br /> +A Love that <i>Chan</i>-ges,<br /> +This Life is <i>Wee</i>-ary,<br /> +A Tear—a Sigh.<br /> +A Love that <i>Chan</i>-ges,<br /> +And then. . . Good-bye! +</p> + +<p> +But at the word “Good-bye,” and although the piano sounded more +desperate than ever, her face broke into a brilliant, dreadfully unsympathetic +smile. +</p> + +<p> +“Aren’t I in good voice, mummy?” she beamed. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +This Life is <i>Wee</i>-ary,<br /> +Hope comes to Die.<br /> +A Dream—a <i>Wa</i>-kening. +</p> + +<p> +But now Sadie interrupted them. “What is it, Sadie?” +</p> + +<p> +“If you please, m’m, cook says have you got the flags for the +sandwiches?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Sadie went. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The envelope was found at last behind the dining-room clock, though how it had +got there Mrs. Sheridan could not imagine. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Egg and—” Mrs. Sheridan held the envelope away from her. +“It looks like mice. It can’t be mice, can it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Olive, pet,” said Laura, looking over her shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, of course, olive. What a horrible combination it sounds. Egg and +olive.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I have never seen such exquisite sandwiches,” said Jose’s +rapturous voice. “How many kinds did you say there were, cook? +Fifteen?” +</p> + +<p> +“Fifteen, Miss Jose.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, cook, I congratulate you.” +</p> + +<p> +Cook swept up crusts with the long sandwich knife, and smiled broadly. +</p> + +<p> +“Godber’s has come,” announced Sadie, issuing out of the +pantry. She had seen the man pass the window. +</p> + +<p> +That meant the cream puffs had come. Godber’s were famous for their cream +puffs. Nobody ever thought of making them at home. +</p> + +<p> +“Bring them in and put them on the table, my girl,” ordered cook. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t they carry one back to all one’s parties?” said +Laura. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose they do,” said practical Jose, who never liked to be +carried back. “They look beautifully light and feathery, I must +say.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have one each, my dears,” said cook in her comfortable voice. +“Yer ma won’t know.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +But the back door was blocked by cook, Sadie, Godber’s man and Hans. +</p> + +<p> +Something had happened. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s the matter? What’s happened?” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s been a horrible accident,” said Cook. “A man +killed.” +</p> + +<p> +“A man killed! Where? How? When?” +</p> + +<p> +But Godber’s man wasn’t going to have his story snatched from under +his very nose. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dead!” Laura stared at Godber’s man. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Stop everything, Laura!” cried Jose in astonishment. “What +do you mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“Stop the garden-party, of course.” Why did Jose pretend? +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But we can’t possibly have a garden-party with a man dead just +outside the front gate.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“And just think of what the band would sound like to that poor +woman,” said Laura. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do, dear,” cooed Jose. +</p> + +<p> +“Mother, can I come into your room?” Laura turned the big glass +door-knob. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Mother, a man’s been killed,” began Laura. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Not</i> in the garden?” interrupted her mother. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, what a fright you gave me!” Mrs. Sheridan sighed with relief, +and took off the big hat and held it on her knees. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Mother, isn’t it terribly heartless of us?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“But, mother,” Laura began again. She couldn’t look at +herself; she turned aside. +</p> + +<p> +This time Mrs. Sheridan lost patience just as Jose had done. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.... +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Laurie!” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +Laura said faintly “Is it?” and smiled up at Laurie, and +didn’t tell him after all. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Darling Laura, how well you look!” +</p> + +<p> +“What a becoming hat, child!” +</p> + +<p> +“Laura, you look quite Spanish. I’ve never seen you look so +striking.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +And the perfect afternoon slowly ripened, slowly faded, slowly its petals +closed. +</p> + +<p> +“Never a more delightful garden-party....” “The greatest +success....” “Quite the most....” +</p> + +<p> +Laura helped her mother with the good-byes. They stood side by side in the +porch till it was all over. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Have a sandwich, daddy dear. I wrote the flag.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear,” said Mrs. Sheridan, holding up her hand, “we did. +It nearly ruined the party. Laura insisted we should put it off.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, mother!” Laura didn’t want to be teased about it. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +An awkward little silence fell. Mrs. Sheridan fidgeted with her cup. Really, it +was very tactless of father.... +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, mother, do you really think it’s a good idea?” said +Laura. +</p> + +<p> +Again, how curious, she seemed to be different from them all. To take scraps +from their party. Would the poor woman really like that? +</p> + +<p> +“Of course! What’s the matter with you to-day? An hour or two ago +you were insisting on us being sympathetic, and now—” +</p> + +<p> +Oh well! Laura ran for the basket. It was filled, it was heaped by her mother. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“The stems will ruin her lace frock,” said practical Jose. +</p> + +<p> +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—” +</p> + +<p> +“What mother?” +</p> + +<p> +No, better not put such ideas into the child’s head! “Nothing! Run +along.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Then the door opened. A little woman in black showed in the gloom. +</p> + +<p> +Laura said, “Are you Mrs. Scott?” But to her horror the woman +answered, “Walk in please, miss,” and she was shut in the passage. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Laura, “I don’t want to come in. I only want +to leave this basket. Mother sent—” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +She found herself in a wretched little low kitchen, lighted by a smoky lamp. +There was a woman sitting before the fire. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, but of course!” said Laura. “Please, please don’t +disturb her. I—I only want to leave—” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“All right, my dear,” said the other. “I’ll thenk the +young lady.” +</p> + +<p> +And again she began, “You’ll excuse her, miss, I’m +sure,” and her face, swollen too, tried an oily smile. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Laura came. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Forgive my hat,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +He stepped out of the shadow. “Is that you, Laura?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mother was getting anxious. Was it all right?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, quite. Oh, Laurie!” She took his arm, she pressed up against +him. +</p> + +<p> +“I say, you’re not crying, are you?” asked her brother. +</p> + +<p> +Laura shook her head. She was. +</p> + +<p> +Laurie put his arm round her shoulder. “Don’t cry,” he said +in his warm, loving voice. “Was it awful?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Isn’t</i> it, darling?” said Laurie. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap03"></a>The Daughters of the Late Colonel</h2> + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think father would mind if we gave his top-hat to the +porter?” +</p> + +<p> +“The porter?” snapped Josephine. “Why ever the porter? What a +very extraordinary idea!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“We can decide to-morrow,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +Constantia had noticed nothing; she sighed. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think we ought to have our dressing-gowns dyed as well?” +</p> + +<p> +“Black?” almost shrieked Josephine. +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Kate does,” said Constantia. “And the postman very well +might.” +</p> + +<p> +Josephine thought of her dark-red slippers, which matched her dressing-gown, +and of Constantia’s favourite indefinite green ones which went with hers. +Black! Two black dressing-gowns and two pairs of black woolly slippers, +creeping off to the bathroom like black cats. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think it’s absolutely necessary,” said she. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Twenty-three.” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>so</i> much,” she could +have cried if she’d wanted to. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you got enough stamps?” came from Constantia. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, how can I tell?” said Josephine crossly. “What’s +the good of asking me that now?” +</p> + +<p> +“I was just wondering,” said Constantia mildly. +</p> + +<p> +Silence again. There came a little rustle, a scurry, a hop. +</p> + +<p> +“A mouse,” said Constantia. +</p> + +<p> +“It can’t be a mouse because there aren’t any crumbs,” +said Josephine. +</p> + +<p> +“But it doesn’t know there aren’t,” said Constantia. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t think how they manage to live at all,” she said +slowly. +</p> + +<p> +“Who?” demanded Josephine. +</p> + +<p> +And Constantia said more loudly than she meant to, “Mice.” +</p> + +<p> +Josephine was furious. “Oh, what nonsense, Con!” she said. +“What have mice got to do with it? You’re asleep.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think I am,” said Constantia. She shut her eyes to +make sure. She was. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Very nice,” said Constantia. +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, but she could hardly expect to be paid!” cried Constantia. +</p> + +<p> +“One never knows,” said Josephine sagely. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Josephine could hardly bear that. But “I think those things are very +extravagant” was all she said. +</p> + +<p> +“But whey?” asked Nurse Andrews, beaming through her eyeglasses. +“No one, surely, would take more buttah than one wanted—would +one?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ring, Con,” cried Josephine. She couldn’t trust herself to +reply. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Jam, please, Kate,” said Josephine kindly. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m afraid,” said Nurse Andrews a moment later, “there +isn’t any.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, what a bother!” said Josephine. She bit her lip. “What +had we better do?” +</p> + +<p> +Constantia looked dubious. “We can’t disturb Kate again,” she +said softly. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I know,” she said. “Marmalade. There’s some marmalade +in the sideboard. Get it, Con.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<h3>III</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>IV</h3> + +<p> +It had made it very awkward for them when Mr. Farolles, of St. John’s, +called the same afternoon. +</p> + +<p> +“The end was quite peaceful, I trust?” were the first words he said +as he glided towards them through the dark drawing-room. +</p> + +<p> +“Quite,” said Josephine faintly. They both hung their heads. Both +of them felt certain that eye wasn’t at all a peaceful eye. +</p> + +<p> +“Won’t you sit down?” said Josephine. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +He coughed. Josephine clasped her hands; Constantia looked vague. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you very much, Mr. Farolles,” said Josephine and Constantia. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>and</i> now, you have only +to tell me. A little Communion is often very help—a great comfort,” +he added tenderly. +</p> + +<p> +But the idea of a little Communion terrified them. What! In the drawing-room by +themselves—with no—no altar or anything! The piano would be much +too high, thought Constantia, and Mr. Farolles could not possibly lean over it +with the chalice. And Kate would be sure to come bursting in and interrupt +them, thought Josephine. And supposing the bell rang in the middle? It might be +somebody important—about their mourning. Would they get up reverently and +go out, or would they have to wait... in torture? +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps you will send round a note by your good Kate if you would care +for it later,” said Mr. Farolles. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh yes, thank you very much!” they both said. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Farolles got up and took his black straw hat from the round table. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Josephine and Constantia got up too. +</p> + +<p> +“I should like it to be quite simple,” said Josephine firmly, +“and not too expensive. At the same time, I should like—” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<h3>V</h3> + +<p> +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 <i>buried</i>!” +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? +</p> + +<p> +She heard him absolutely roaring. “And do you expect me to pay for this +gimcrack excursion of yours?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” groaned poor Josephine aloud, “we shouldn’t have +done it, Con!” +</p> + +<p> +And Constantia, pale as a lemon in all that blackness, said in a frightened +whisper, “Done what, Jug?” +</p> + +<p> +“Let them bu-bury father like that,” said Josephine, breaking down +and crying into her new, queer-smelling mourning handkerchief. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Josephine blew her nose; the cab was dreadfully stuffy. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<h3>VI</h3> + +<p> +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. “<i>Go through father’s things and settle about +them.</i>” But that was a very different matter from saying after +breakfast: +</p> + +<p> +“Well, are you ready, Con?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Jug—when you are.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I think we’d better get it over.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You—you go first,” she gasped, pushing Constantia. +</p> + +<p> +But Constantia said, as she always had said on those occasions, “No, Jug, +that’s not fair. You’re the eldest.” +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +“Very stiff,” said Josephine, grasping the doorhandle and doing her +best to turn it. As if anything ever deceived Kate! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I had better pull up a blind,” said Josephine bravely. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, it might be a good idea,” whispered Constantia. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you think—don’t you think we might put it off +for another day?” she whispered. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I didn’t know I was whispering,” whispered Constantia. +</p> + +<p> +“And why do you keep staring at the bed?” said Josephine, raising +her voice almost defiantly. “There’s nothing <i>on</i> the +bed.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Jug, don’t say so!” said poor Connie. “At any +rate, not so loudly.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Connie!” she gasped, and she wheeled round and leaned with her +back against the chest of drawers. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Jug—what?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +She pulled a funny old-fashioned face at Constantia, just as she used to in the +old days when she was going to cry. +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t open,” she nearly wailed. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But—but it seems so weak,” said Josephine, breaking down. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<h3>VII</h3> + +<p> +But the strain told on them when they were back in the dining-room. They sat +down, very shaky, and looked at each other. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, do,” said Josephine, sinking down into a chair. “Tell +her, just two cups, Con, nothing else—on a tray.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh no, certainly not! The jug’s not at all necessary. She can pour +it direct out of the kettle,” cried Josephine, feeling that would be a +labour-saving indeed. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Speaking of Benny,” said Josephine. +</p> + +<p> +And though Benny hadn’t been mentioned Constantia immediately looked as +though he had. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You mean things get unstuck so on the voyage,” murmured +Constantia. +</p> + +<p> +“No, lost,” said Josephine sharply. “You know there’s +no post. Only runners.” +</p> + +<p> +Both paused to watch a black man in white linen drawers running through the +pale fields for dear life, with a large brown-paper parcel in his hands. +Josephine’s black man was tiny; he scurried along glistening like an ant. +But there was something blind and tireless about Constantia’s tall, thin +fellow, which made him, she decided, a very unpleasant person indeed.... On the +veranda, dressed all in white and wearing a cork helmet, stood Benny. His right +hand shook up and down, as father’s did when he was impatient. And behind +him, not in the least interested, sat Hilda, the unknown sister-in-law. She +swung in a cane rocker and flicked over the leaves of the <i>Tatler</i>. +</p> + +<p> +“I think his watch would be the most suitable present,” said +Josephine. +</p> + +<p> +Constantia looked up; she seemed surprised. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, would you trust a gold watch to a native?” +</p> + +<p> +“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: <i>Medium +Women’s</i> 28. <i>Extra Firm Busks.</i> It would be almost too much of a +surprise for Benny to open that and find father’s watch inside. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<h3>VIII</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Dear boy! What a blow his sweet, sympathetic little note had been! Of course +they quite understood; but it was most unfortunate. +</p> + +<p> +“It would have been such a point, having him,” said Josephine. +</p> + +<p> +“And he would have enjoyed it so,” said Constantia, not thinking +what she was saying. +</p> + +<p> +However, as soon as he got back he was coming to tea with his aunties. Cyril to +tea was one of their rare treats. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I say, Aunt Josephine, I simply can’t. I’ve only just had +lunch, you know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Cyril, that can’t be true! It’s after four,” cried +Josephine. Constantia sat with her knife poised over the chocolate-roll. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +It was disappointing—to-day of all days. But still he couldn’t be +expected to know. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I <i>am</i>, Aunt Josephine,” cried Cyril ardently. “Do you +mind if I take half to begin with?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all, dear boy; but we mustn’t let you off with that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is your dear father still so fond of meringues?” asked Auntie Con +gently. She winced faintly as she broke through the shell of hers. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I don’t quite know, Auntie Con,” said Cyril breezily. +</p> + +<p> +At that they both looked up. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t know?” almost snapped Josephine. “Don’t +know a thing like that about your own father, Cyril?” +</p> + +<p> +“Surely,” said Auntie Con softly. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Even <i>so</i>,” said Josephine. +</p> + +<p> +And Auntie Con looked. +</p> + +<p> +Cyril put down his teacup. “Wait a bit,” he cried. “Wait a +bit, Aunt Josephine. What am I thinking of?” +</p> + +<p> +He looked up. They were beginning to brighten. Cyril slapped his knee. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +They didn’t only beam. Aunt Josephine went scarlet with pleasure; Auntie +Con gave a deep, deep sigh. +</p> + +<p> +“And now, Cyril, you must come and see father,” said Josephine. +“He knows you were coming to-day.” +</p> + +<p> +“Right,” said Cyril, very firmly and heartily. He got up from his +chair; suddenly he glanced at the clock. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, he won’t expect you to stay <i>very</i> long!” said Aunt +Josephine. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Cyril still lingered. “Aren’t you coming along, Auntie Con?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course,” said Josephine, “we shall all go. Come on, +Con.” +</p> + +<h3>IX</h3> + +<p> +They knocked at the door, and Cyril followed his aunts into grandfather’s +hot, sweetish room. +</p> + +<p> +“Come on,” said Grandfather Pinner. “Don’t hang about. +What is it? What’ve you been up to?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s Cyril, father,” said Josephine shyly. And she took +Cyril’s hand and led him forward. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Grandfather Pinner, beginning to thump, “what +have you got to tell me?” +</p> + +<p> +What had he, what had he got to tell him? Cyril felt himself smiling like a +perfect imbecile. The room was stifling, too. +</p> + +<p> +But Aunt Josephine came to his rescue. She cried brightly, “Cyril says +his father is still very fond of meringues, father dear.” +</p> + +<p> +“Eh?” said Grandfather Pinner, curving his hand like a purple +meringue-shell over one ear. +</p> + +<p> +Josephine repeated, “Cyril says his father is still very fond of +meringues.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +(My God!) “Must I?” said Cyril, blushing and staring at Aunt +Josephine. +</p> + +<p> +“Do, dear,” she smiled. “It will please him so much.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come on, out with it!” cried Colonel Pinner testily, beginning to +thump again. +</p> + +<p> +And Cyril leaned forward and yelled, “Father’s still very fond of +meringues.” +</p> + +<p> +At that Grandfather Pinner jumped as though he had been shot. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t shout!” he cried. “What’s the matter with +the boy? <i>Meringues!</i> What about ’em?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Aunt Josephine, must we go on?” groaned Cyril desperately. +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<i>his</i> father is still very fond of meringues.” +</p> + +<p> +Colonel Pinner heard that time, heard and brooded, looking Cyril up and down. +</p> + +<p> +“What an esstrordinary thing!” said old Grandfather Pinner. +“What an esstrordinary thing to come all this way here to tell me!” +</p> + +<p> +And Cyril felt it <i>was</i>. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +“Yes, I shall send Cyril the watch,” said Josephine. +</p> + +<p> +“That would be very nice,” said Constantia. “I seem to +remember last time he came there was some little trouble about the time.” +</p> + +<h3>X</h3> + +<p> +They were interrupted by Kate bursting through the door in her usual fashion, +as though she had discovered some secret panel in the wall. +</p> + +<p> +“Fried or boiled?” asked the bold voice. +</p> + +<p> +Fried or boiled? Josephine and Constantia were quite bewildered for the moment. +They could hardly take it in. +</p> + +<p> +“Fried or boiled what, Kate?” asked Josephine, trying to begin to +concentrate. +</p> + +<p> +Kate gave a loud sniff. “Fish.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall fry it,” said Kate, and she bounced back, leaving their +door open and slamming the door of her kitchen. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +For it was always to the drawing-room they retired when they wanted to talk +over Kate. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Now the question is,” said Josephine, bending forward, +“whether we shall keep her or not.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is the question,” agreed Constantia. +</p> + +<p> +“And this time,” said Josephine firmly, “we must come to a +definite decision.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is perfectly true,” agreed Constantia. “Father +certainly doesn’t want any cooking now, whatever else—” +</p> + +<p> +Josephine broke in sharply, “You’re not sleepy, are you, +Con?” +</p> + +<p> +“Sleepy, Jug?” Constantia was wide-eyed. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not?” cried Constantia. She couldn’t help smiling. The +idea was so exciting. She clasped her hands. “What should we live on, +Jug?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, eggs in various forms!” said Jug, lofty again. “And, +besides, there are all the cooked foods.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I’ve always heard,” said Constantia, “they are +considered so very expensive.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not if one buys them in moderation,” said Josephine. But she tore +herself away from this fascinating bypath and dragged Constantia after her. +</p> + +<p> +“What we’ve got to decide now, however, is whether we really do +trust Kate or not.” +</p> + +<p> +Constantia leaned back. Her flat little laugh flew from her lips. +</p> + +<p> +“Isn’t it curious, Jug,” said she, “that just on this +one subject I’ve never been able to quite make up my mind?” +</p> + +<h3>XI</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You see, Jug?” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite, Con.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now we shall be able to tell.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You come, Jug, and decide. I really can’t. It’s too +difficult.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +“Well, we can’t postpone it again,” said Josephine. “If +we postpone it this time—” +</p> + +<h3>XII</h3> + +<p> +But at that moment in the street below a barrel-organ struck up. Josephine and +Constantia sprang to their feet together. +</p> + +<p> +“Run, Con,” said Josephine. “Run quickly. There’s +sixpence on the—” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +It never will thump again,<br /> +It never will thump again, +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +played the barrel-organ. +</p> + +<p> +What was Constantia thinking? She had such a strange smile; she looked +different. She couldn’t be going to cry. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +A week since father died,<br /> +A week since father died, +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“The sun’s out,” said Josephine, as though it really +mattered. +</p> + +<p> +A perfect fountain of bubbling notes shook from the barrel-organ, round, bright +notes, carelessly scattered. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Some little sparrows, young sparrows they sounded, chirped on the window-ledge. +<i>Yeep—eyeep—yeep.</i> But Josephine felt they were not sparrows, +not on the window-ledge. It was inside her, that queer little crying noise. +<i>Yeep—eyeep—yeep.</i> Ah, what was it crying, so weak and forlorn? +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you think perhaps—” she began. +</p> + +<p> +But Josephine interrupted her. “I was wondering if now—” she +murmured. They stopped; they waited for each other. +</p> + +<p> +“Go on, Con,” said Josephine. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, Jug; after you,” said Constantia. +</p> + +<p> +“No, say what you were going to say. You began,” said Josephine. +</p> + +<p> +“I... I’d rather hear what you were going to say first,” said +Constantia. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t be absurd, Con.” +</p> + +<p> +“Really, Jug.” +</p> + +<p> +“Connie!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, <i>Jug</i>!” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap04"></a>Mr. and Mrs. Dove</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +The mater, with her scissors outspread to snap the head of a dead something or +other, stopped at the sight of Reggie. +</p> + +<p> +“You are not going out, Reginald?” she asked, seeing that he was. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll be back for tea, mater,” said Reggie weakly, plunging +his hands into his jacket pockets. +</p> + +<p> +Snip. Off came a head. Reggie almost jumped. +</p> + +<p> +“I should have thought you could have spared your mother your last +afternoon,” said she. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +“And where are you going, if your mother may ask?” asked the mater. +</p> + +<p> +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 ducklings, 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 <i>much</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” cried Anne softly—she stepped back from him and her +grey eyes danced—“what a <i>very</i> short visit!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Good heavens, Anne,” cried Reggie, “I love to hear you +laughing! I can’t imagine anything more—” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +Now she tucked the handkerchief away. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s—it’s frightfully hard to believe,” he +added. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +Reginald took a deep breath of his cigarette. “It’s ghastly, this +idea of going back,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Coo-roo-coo-coo-coo</i>,” sounded from the quiet. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Roo-coo-coo-coo</i>,” came again. And Anne murmured, “You +mean it’s lonely.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Roo-coo-coo-coo! Roo-coo-coo-coo!</i>” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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....” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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—” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +Reggie bowed to his vision. “Yes, I see,” he said huskily. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +He tried to smile, to say “I’m glad.” She went on. +“I’ve never known anyone I like as much as I like you. I’ve +never felt so happy with anyone. 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, quite, quite,” said Reggie, looking at her with haggard eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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—” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +But it did not seem at all simple to Reginald. It seemed impossibly difficult. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Roo-coo-coo-coo! Roo-coo-coo-coo!</i>” sounded from the +veranda. “Reggie, Reggie,” from the garden. +</p> + +<p> +He stopped, he turned. But when she saw his timid, puzzled look, she gave a +little laugh. +</p> + +<p> +“Come back, Mr. Dove,” said Anne. And Reginald came slowly across +the lawn. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap05"></a>The Young Girl</h2> + +<p> +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 +<i>croupiers</i> and crowns to play with. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m sorry, darling,” said Mrs. Raddick. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, <i>do</i> come in! I want to make money,” said the impatient +voice. “It’s all jolly well for you—but I’m +broke!” +</p> + +<p> +“Here—take fifty francs, darling, take a hundred!” I saw Mrs. +Raddick pressing notes into her hand as they passed through the swing doors. +</p> + +<p> +Hennie and I stood on the steps a minute, watching the people. He had a very +broad, delighted smile. +</p> + +<p> +“I say,” he cried, “there’s an English bulldog. Are +they allowed to take dogs in there?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, they’re not.” +</p> + +<p> +“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, <i>do</i> look at that old woman. Who is she? Why does she look +like that? Is she a gambler?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +But just at that moment there was Mrs. Raddick again +with—<i>her</i>—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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>Salle +Privée</i>—and she wants me to go back with her while the luck lasts. Of +course I can’t leave—her. But if you’d—” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Raddick was desperate, just desperate. She was “wild” to go +back with Mrs. MacEwen, but at the same time.... +</p> + +<p> +I seized my courage. “Would you—do you care to come to tea +with—us?” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. R. dashed up the steps. I saw her bag was open again. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I am so awfully sorry,” I murmured as the car started. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I don’t <i>mind</i>,” said she. “I don’t +<i>want</i> 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!” +</p> + +<p> +Hennie gave her a quick look and then peered out of the window. +</p> + +<p> +We drew up before an immense palace of pink-and-white marble with orange-trees +outside the doors in gold-and-black tubs. +</p> + +<p> +“Would you care to go in?” I suggested. +</p> + +<p> +She hesitated, glanced, bit her lip, and resigned herself. “Oh well, +there seems nowhere else,” said she. “Get out, Hennie.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +There was one table. It had pink carnations and pink plates with little blue +tea-napkins for sails. +</p> + +<p> +“Shall we sit here?” +</p> + +<p> +She put her hand wearily on the back of a white wicker chair. +</p> + +<p> +“We may as well. Why not?” said she. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The waitress appeared. I hardly dared to ask her. “Tea—coffee? +China tea—or iced tea with lemon?” +</p> + +<p> +Really she didn’t mind. It was all the same to her. She didn’t +really want anything. Hennie whispered, “Chocolate!” +</p> + +<p> +But just as the waitress turned away she cried out carelessly, “Oh, you +may as well bring me a chocolate, too.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Dreadfully sweet!” said she. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +He offered them to Hennie. Hennie gave me a swift look—it must have been +satisfactory—for he took a chocolate cream, a coffee éclair, 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh well, give me <i>one</i>,” said she. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You <i>utter</i> little beast!” said she. +</p> + +<p> +Good heavens! I had to fly to the rescue. I cried hastily, “Will you be +abroad long?” +</p> + +<p> +But she had already forgotten Hennie. I was forgotten, too. She was trying to +remember something.... She was miles away. +</p> + +<p> +“I—don’t—know,” she said slowly, from that far +place. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose you prefer it to London. It’s +more—more—” +</p> + +<p> +When I didn’t go on she came back and looked at me, very puzzled. +“More—?” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Enfin</i>—gayer,” I cried, waving my cigarette. +</p> + +<p> +But that took a whole cake to consider. Even then, “Oh well, that +depends!” was all she could safely say. +</p> + +<p> +Hennie had finished. He was still very warm. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +Hennie strongly approved. The waitress had her eye on us. The order was taken +when she looked up from her crumbs. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +But it was a charming air. Now that I noticed it, it warmed me. +</p> + +<p> +“I think this is rather a nice place, don’t you, Hennie?” I +said. +</p> + +<p> +Hennie said: “Ripping!” He meant to say it very low, but it came +out very high in a kind of squeak. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Hennie bounded forward to open the door and she got in and sank back +with—oh—such a sigh! +</p> + +<p> +“Tell him,” she gasped, “to drive as fast as he can.” +</p> + +<p> +Hennie grinned at his friend the chauffeur. “<i>Allie veet!</i>” +said he. Then he composed himself and sat on the small seat facing us. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you stay in the car while I go and look?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“But I scarcely like to leave you,” I murmured. “I’d +very much rather not leave you here.” +</p> + +<p> +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....” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap06"></a>Life of Ma Parker</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Beg parding, sir?” said old Ma Parker huskily. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Overcome, I suppose,” he said aloud, helping himself to the +marmalade. +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +“Gran! Gran!” Her little grandson stood on her lap in his button +boots. He’d just come in from playing in the street. +</p> + +<p> +“Look what a state you’ve made your gran’s skirt +into—you wicked boy!” +</p> + +<p> +But he put his arms round her neck and rubbed his cheek against hers. +</p> + +<p> +“Gran, gi’ us a penny!” he coaxed. +</p> + +<p> +“Be off with you; Gran ain’t got no pennies.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, you ’ave.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I ain’t.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, you ’ave. Gi’ us one!” +</p> + +<p> +Already she was feeling for the old, squashed, black leather purse. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, what’ll you give your gran?” +</p> + +<p> +He gave a shy little laugh and pressed closer. She felt his eyelid quivering +against her cheek. “I ain’t got nothing,” he murmured.... +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You simply dirty everything you’ve got, get a hag in once a week +to clean up, and the thing’s done.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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!... +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Parker didn’t look so sure. +</p> + +<p> +“Such a clean trade,” said the gentleman. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Parker didn’t look convinced. +</p> + +<p> +“And didn’t you like handing the new loaves to the +customers?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“You might, <i>indeed</i>, Mrs. Parker!” said the gentleman, +shuddering, and taking up his pen again. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, if we were to cut him open <i>here</i>, 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.... +</p> + +<p> +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 +emigrated, 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.... +</p> + +<p> +The piles of dirty cups, dirty dishes, were washed and dried. The ink-black +knives were cleaned with a piece of potato and finished off with a piece of +cork. The table was scrubbed, and the dresser and the sink that had sardine +tails swimming in it.... +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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, <i>and is still +putting it on</i>.” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +But he was gran’s boy from the first.... +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +At that moment there was a sound of steps, and the literary gentleman appeared, +dressed for walking. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Mrs. Parker, I’m going out.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you’ll find your half-crown in the tray of the +inkstand.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Very</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +... 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +“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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap07"></a>Marriage à la Mode</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +And Paddy had said, “I had red ribbing on mine <i>bee</i>-fore!” +</p> + +<p> +And Johnny had said, “It’s always pink on mine. I hate pink.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +And she spoke as though a visit to the Royal Academy was certain immediate +death to anyone.... +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The new Isabel looked at him, her eyes narrowed, her lips apart. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Dear</i> William! I’m sure you did!” She laughed in the +new way. +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“What is what, William?” And she bent forward, and her fine light +hair fell over her cheeks. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Isabel!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Hallo, Isabel!” William stared. He thought she looked so beautiful +that he had to say something, “You look very cool.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” said William. It was all he could say for the moment. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“No ice! No ice! No ice!” she shouted gaily. +</p> + +<p> +And Dennis chimed in from under his hat. “<i>Only</i> to be had from the +fishmonger’s.” +</p> + +<p> +And Bill Hunt, emerging, added, “With <i>whole</i> fish in it.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“We shall have to anoint ourselves with butter,” said Dennis. +“May thy head, William, lack not ointment.” +</p> + +<p> +“Look here,” said William, “how are we going to sit? +I’d better get up by the driver.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“De-cap-it-ated heads!” said Bill Hunt, shuddering beneath his hat. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, fruit!” Isabel sounded very pleased. “Wise William! A +melon and a pineapple. How too nice!” +</p> + +<p> +“No, wait a bit,” said William, smiling. But he really was anxious. +“I brought them down for the kiddies.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +After tea the others went off to bathe, while William stayed and made his peace +with the kiddies. But Johnny and Paddy were asleep, the rose-red glow had +paled, bats were flying, and still the bathers had not returned. As William +wandered downstairs, the maid crossed the hall carrying a lamp. He followed her +into the sitting-room. It was a long room, coloured yellow. On the wall +opposite William some one had painted a young man, over life-size, with very +wobbly legs, offering a wide-eyed daisy to a young woman who had one very short +arm and one very long, thin one. Over the chairs and sofa there hung strips of +black material, covered with big splashes like broken eggs, and everywhere one +looked there seemed to be an ash-tray full of cigarette ends. William sat down +in one of the arm-chairs. Nowadays, when one felt with one hand down the sides, +it wasn’t to come upon a sheep with three legs or a cow that had lost one +horn, or a very fat dove out of the Noah’s Ark. One fished up yet another +little paper-covered book of smudged-looking poems.... He thought of the wad of +papers in his pocket, but he was too hungry and tired to read. The door was +open; sounds came from the kitchen. The servants were talking as if they were +alone in the house. Suddenly there came a loud screech of laughter and an +equally loud “Sh!” They had remembered him. William got up and went +through the French windows into the garden, and as he stood there in the shadow +he heard the bathers coming up the sandy road; their voices rang through the +quiet. +</p> + +<p> +“I think its up to Moira to use her little arts and wiles.” +</p> + +<p> +A tragic moan from Moira. +</p> + +<p> +“We ought to have a gramophone for the week-ends that played ‘The +Maid of the Mountains.’” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Leave him to me,” cried Bobby Kane. “I’m awfully good +at looking after people.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +The others had reached the house. “I say, Isabel,” called Bobby, +“would you like me to wear my Nijinsky dress to-night?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Isabel, “nobody’s going to dress. +We’re all starving. William’s starving, too. Come along, <i>mes +amis</i>, let’s begin with sardines.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve found the sardines,” said Moira, and she ran into the +hall, holding a box high in the air. +</p> + +<p> +“A Lady with a Box of Sardines,” said Dennis gravely. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, William, and how’s London?” asked Bill Hunt, drawing +the cork out of a bottle of whisky. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, London’s not much changed,” answered William. +</p> + +<p> +“Good old London,” said Bobby, very hearty, spearing a sardine. +</p> + +<p> +But a moment later William was forgotten. Moira Morrison began wondering what +colour one’s legs really were under water. +</p> + +<p> +“Mine are the palest, palest mushroom colour.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Paint what?” said Bill loudly, stuffing his mouth with bread. +</p> + +<p> +“Us,” said Isabel, “round the table. It would be so +fascinating in twenty years’ time.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +But after supper they were all so tired they could do nothing but yawn until it +was late enough to go to bed.... +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, why should you?” said William. “Of course, not. Give it +to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, please, do let me,” said Isabel. “I want to, +really.” They walked together silently. William felt there was nothing to +say now. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +Fields, trees, hedges streamed by. They shook through the empty, blind-looking +little town, ground up the steep pull to the station. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think there will be Mondays in Heaven?” asked Bobby +childishly. +</p> + +<p> +And Dennis murmured, “Heaven will be one long Monday.” +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +Moira was asleep. Sleeping was her latest discovery. “It’s +<i>so</i> wonderful. One simply shuts one’s eyes, that’s all. +It’s <i>so</i> delicious.” +</p> + +<p> +When the old ruddy postman came beating along the sandy road on his tricycle +one felt the handle-bars ought to have been oars. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“And mine’s only from William,” said Isabel mournfully. +</p> + +<p> +“From William—already?” +</p> + +<p> +“He’s sending you back your marriage lines as a gentle +reminder.” +</p> + +<p> +“Does everybody have marriage lines? I thought they were only for +servants.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pages and pages! Look at her! A Lady reading a Letter,” said +Dennis. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>My darling, precious Isabel</i>.” 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Do, do tell us,” said the others. “You must tell us.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“A love-letter! But how divine!” <i>Darling, precious Isabel.</i> +But she had hardly begun before their laughter interrupted her. +</p> + +<p> +“Go on, Isabel, it’s perfect.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s the most marvellous find.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, do go on, Isabel!” +</p> + +<p> +<i>God forbid, my darling, that I should be a drag on your happiness.</i> +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! oh! oh!” +</p> + +<p> +“Sh! sh! sh!” +</p> + +<p> +And Isabel went on. When she reached the end they were hysterical: Bobby rolled +on the turf and almost sobbed. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Isabel,” moaned Moira, “that wonderful bit about holding +you in his arms!” +</p> + +<p> +“I always thought those letters in divorce cases were made up. But they +pale before this.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let me hold it. Let me read it, mine own self,” said Bobby Kane. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! <i>God forbid, my darling, that I should be a drag +on your happiness.</i> 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.... +</p> + +<p> +Presently from the garden below there came voices. +</p> + +<p> +“Isabel, we’re all going for a bathe. Do come!” +</p> + +<p> +“Come, thou wife of William!” +</p> + +<p> +“Call her once before you go, call once yet!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Titania!” piped Moira. +</p> + +<p> +“Isa-bel?” +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>certainly</i> write,” thought Isabel hurriedly. +</p> + +<p> +And, laughing, in the new way, she ran down the stairs. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap08"></a>The Voyage</h2> + +<p> +The Picton boat was due to leave at half-past eleven. It was a beautiful night, +mild, starry, only when they got out of the cab and started to walk down the +Old Wharf that jutted out into the harbour, a faint wind blowing off the water +ruffled under Fenella’s hat, and she put up her hand to keep it on. It +was dark on the Old Wharf, very dark; the wool sheds, the cattle trucks, the +cranes standing up so high, the little squat railway engine, all seemed carved +out of solid darkness. Here and there on a rounded wood-pile, that was like the +stalk of a huge black mushroom, there hung a lantern, but it seemed afraid to +unfurl its timid, quivering light in all that blackness; it burned softly, as +if for itself. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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, “<i>Mia-oo-oo-O-O!</i>” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“There, mother, there’s your luggage!” said Fenella’s +father, giving grandma another strapped-up sausage. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, Frank.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you’ve got your cabin tickets safe?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, dear.” +</p> + +<p> +“And your other tickets?” +</p> + +<p> +Grandma felt for them inside her glove and showed him the tips. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s right.” +</p> + +<p> +He sounded stern, but Fenella, eagerly watching him, saw that he looked tired +and sad. “<i>Mia-oo-oo-O-O!</i>” The second whistle blared just +above their heads, and a voice like a cry shouted, “Any more for the +gangway?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-bye, Fenella. Be a good girl.” His cold, wet moustache +brushed her cheek. But Fenella caught hold of the lapels of his coat. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, grandma!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, grandma.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“How much are the sandwiches?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Tuppence!” bawled a rude steward, slamming down a knife and fork. +</p> + +<p> +Grandma could hardly believe it. +</p> + +<p> +“Twopence <i>each</i>?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s right,” said the steward, and he winked at his +companion. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Mrs. Crane,” said she, unlocking their washstand. +“We’ve got you back again. It’s not often you give yourself a +cabin.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said grandma. “But this time my dear son’s +thoughtfulness—” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +Grandma nodded. “It was God’s will,” said she. +</p> + +<p> +The stewardess shut her lips and, taking a deep breath, she seemed to expand. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Grandma shook her head. “Nothing, thank you. We’ve got a few wine +biscuits, and Fenella has a very nice banana.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I’ll give you a look later on,” said the stewardess, +and she went out, shutting the door. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +By the time Fenella had taken off her coat and skirt and put on her flannel +dressing-gown grandma was quite ready. +</p> + +<p> +“Must I take off my boots, grandma? They’re lace.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, grandma, however will you get up there?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You didn’t think your grandma could do that, did you?” said +she. And as she sank back Fenella heard her light laugh again. +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +A long time passed. Then the stewardess came in; she trod softly and leaned her +hand on grandma’s bunk. +</p> + +<p> +“We’re just entering the Straits,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a fine night, but we’re rather empty. We may pitch a +little.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I wonder if you’d mind, stewardess, laying down my +umbrella,” she whispered. +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all, Mrs. Crane.” And the stewardess, coming back to +grandma, breathed, “Your little granddaughter’s in such a beautiful +sleep.” +</p> + +<p> +“God be praised for that!” said grandma. +</p> + +<p> +“Poor little motherless mite!” said the stewardess. And grandma was +still telling the stewardess all about what happened when Fenella fell asleep. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m awake, grandma,” said Fenella. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, dear, am I near the ladder?” asked grandma. “I thought +it was this end.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, grandma, it’s the other. I’ll put your foot on it. Are +we there?” asked Fenella. +</p> + +<p> +“In the harbour,” said grandma. “We must get up, child. +You’d better have a biscuit to steady yourself before you move.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve got my—” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, grandma.” Fenella showed it to her. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I seen Mr. Crane yestiddy,” said Mr. Penreddy. “He looked +himself then. Missus knocked him up a batch of scones last week.” +</p> + +<p> +And now the little horse pulled up before one of the shell-like houses. They +got down. Fenella put her hand on the gate, and the big, trembling dew-drops +soaked through her glove-tips. Up a little path of round white pebbles they +went, with drenched sleeping flowers on either side. Grandma’s delicate +white picotees were so heavy with dew that they were fallen, but their sweet +smell was part of the cold morning. The blinds were down in the little house; +they mounted the steps on to the veranda. A pair of old bluchers was on one +side of the door, and a large red watering-can on the other. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Wait, dear,” said grandma. “Go in there.” She pushed +Fenella gently into a small dusky sitting-room. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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:— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Lost! One Golden Hour<br /> +Set with Sixty Diamond Minutes.<br /> +No Reward Is Offered<br /> +For It Is Gone For Ever! +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap09"></a>Miss Brill</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Tum-tum-tum tiddle-um! tiddle-um! tum tiddley-um tum ta! blew the band. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“No, not now,” said the girl. “Not here, I +can’t.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s her fu-fur which is so funny,” giggled the girl. +“It’s exactly like a fried whiting.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, be off with you!” said the boy in an angry whisper. Then: +“Tell me, ma petite chère—” +</p> + +<p> +“No, not here,” said the girl. “Not <i>yet</i>.” +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap10"></a>Her First Ball</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you really never been to a ball before, Leila? But, my child, how +too weird—” cried the Sheridan girls. +</p> + +<p> +“Our nearest neighbour was fifteen miles,” said Leila softly, +gently opening and shutting her fan. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Look here, darling,” he said. “The third and the ninth as +usual. Twig?” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Hold on to me, Leila; you’ll get lost,” said Laura. +</p> + +<p> +“Come on, girls, let’s make a dash for it,” said Laurie. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Dark girls, fair girls were patting their hair, tying ribbons again, tucking +handkerchiefs down the fronts of their bodices, smoothing marble-white gloves. +And because they were all laughing it seemed to Leila that they were all +lovely. +</p> + +<p> +“Aren’t there any invisible hair-pins?” cried a voice. +“How most extraordinary! I can’t see a single invisible +hair-pin.” +</p> + +<p> +“Powder my back, there’s a darling,” cried some one else. +</p> + +<p> +“But I must have a needle and cotton. I’ve torn simply miles and +miles of the frill,” wailed a third. +</p> + +<p> +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. +<i>Two, Two in a Canoe.</i> Polka 4. <i>Making the Feathers Fly</i>,” +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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Quite a good floor, isn’t it?” drawled a faint voice close +to her ear. +</p> + +<p> +“I think it’s most beautifully slippery,” said Leila. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The azaleas were separate flowers no longer; they were pink and white flags +streaming by. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“No, this is my first dance,” said she. +</p> + +<p> +Her partner gave a little gasping laugh. “Oh, I say,” he protested. +</p> + +<p> +“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....” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Enjoying yourself, Leila?” asked Jose, nodding her golden head. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“How <i>did</i> you know?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thirty years?” cried Leila. Twelve years before she was born! +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I think it’s marvellous to be still going on,” she said +kindly. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I want to stop,” she said in a breathless voice. The fat man led +her to the door. +</p> + +<p> +“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? +</p> + +<p> +“I say, you know,” said the fat man, “you mustn’t take +me seriously, little lady.” +</p> + +<p> +“As if I should!” said Leila, tossing her small dark head and +sucking her underlip.... +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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, “Par<i>don</i>,” she smiled at +him more radiantly than ever. She didn’t even recognize him again. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap11"></a>The Singing Lesson</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The Science Mistress stopped Miss Meadows. +</p> + +<p> +“Good mor-ning,” she cried, in her sweet, affected drawl. +“Isn’t it cold? It might be win-ter.” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Meadows, hugging the knife, stared in hatred at the Science Mistress. +Everything about her was sweet, pale, like honey. You would not have been +surprised to see a bee caught in the tangles of that yellow hair. +</p> + +<p> +“It is rather sharp,” said Miss Meadows, grimly. +</p> + +<p> +The other smiled her sugary smile. +</p> + +<p> +“You look fro-zen,” said she. Her blue eyes opened wide; there came +a mocking light in them. (Had she noticed anything?) +</p> + +<p> +“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.... +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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— +</p> + +<p> +... “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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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:— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Fast! Ah, too Fast Fade the Ro-o-ses of Pleasure;<br /> +Soon Autumn yields unto Wi-i-nter Drear.<br /> +Fleetly! Ah, Fleetly Mu-u-sic’s Gay Measure<br /> +Passes away from the Listening Ear. +</p> + +<p> +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: <i>Fleetly! Ah, Fleetly.</i> 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! <i>From the Listening Ear</i>, sang the +voices. +</p> + +<p> +“Once again,” said Miss Meadows. “But this time in parts. +Still without expression.” <i>Fast! Ah, too Fast.</i> With the gloom of +the contraltos added, one could scarcely help shuddering. <i>Fade the Roses of +Pleasure.</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But can’t you refuse?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, well, it doesn’t do for a man in my position to be +unpopular.” +</p> + +<p> +<i>Music’s Gay Measure</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. <i>Fast! Ah, +too Fast</i>,” cried Miss Meadows. “That ought to break out—a +loud, strong <i>forte</i>—a lament. And then in the second line, +<i>Winter Drear</i>, make that <i>Drear</i> sound as if a cold wind were +blowing through it. <i>Dre-ear!</i>” said she so awfully that Mary +Beazley, on the music stool, wriggled her spine. “The third line should +be one crescendo. <i>Fleetly! Ah, Fleetly Music’s Gay Measure.</i> +Breaking on the first word of the last line, <i>Passes.</i> And then on the +word, <i>Away</i>, you must begin to die... to fade... until <i>The Listening +Ear</i> is nothing more than a faint whisper.... You can slow down as much as +you like almost on the last line. Now, please.” +</p> + +<p> +Again the two light taps; she lifted her arms again. <i>Fast! Ah, too +Fast.</i> “... 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. <i>Passes away from the Listening +Ear.</i> +</p> + +<p> +“Repeat! Repeat!” said Miss Meadows. “More expression, girls! +Once more!” +</p> + +<p> +<i>Fast! Ah, too Fast.</i> 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....” +</p> + +<p> +“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! <i>Soon Autumn +yields unto Winter Drear.</i> 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. <i>Passes away.</i> The voices began to die, +to fade, to whisper... to vanish.... +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Monica, what is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, if you please, Miss Meadows,” said the little girl, gasping, +“Miss Wyatt wants to see you in the mistress’s room.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“A telegram for me, Miss Wyatt?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I do hope it’s nothing very serious,” said Miss Wyatt, +leaning forward. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>fiancé</i> saying +that... saying that—” There was a pause. “I +<i>see</i>,” said Miss Wyatt. And another pause. +Then—“You’ve fifteen minutes more of your class, Miss +Meadows, haven’t you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Miss Wyatt.” She got up. She half ran towards the door. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +We come here To-day with Flowers o’erladen,<br /> +With Baskets of Fruit and Ribbons to boot,<br /> +To-oo Congratulate . . . +</p> + +<p> +“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. <i>With Flowers o’erladen. Baskets of Fruit and Ribbons to +boot.</i> And <i>Congratulate.</i>” Miss Meadows broke off. +“Don’t look so doleful, girls. It ought to sound warm, joyful, +eager. <i>Congratulate.</i> Once more. Quickly. All together. Now then!” +</p> + +<p> +And this time Miss Meadows’ voice sounded over all the other +voices—full, deep, glowing with expression. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap12"></a>The Stranger</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. <i>Don’t hesitate to land. Natives harmless.</i> Or: <i>A +welcome awaits you. All is forgiven.</i> What? Eh?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I wan’ my tea, mammy!” she wailed. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Hold on,” he said, keeping an arm round her. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, don’t worry about <i>Jean</i>, Mr. Hammond!” said Mrs. +Scott. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s all right, Mrs. Scott. No trouble. It’s a pleasure. +Jean’s a little pal of mine, aren’t you, Jean?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Mr. Hammond,” said Jean, and she ran her finger down the dent +of his felt hat. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Captain,” the eager, nervous voice rang out again, +“you’ve taken pity on us at last.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +With her telephone ring-ringing, the thrum of her screw filling the air, the +big liner bore down on them, cutting sharp through the dark water so that big +white shavings curled to either side. Hammond and the harbour-master kept in +front of the rest. Hammond took off his hat; he raked the decks—they were +crammed with passengers; he waved his hat and bawled a loud, strange +“Hul-lo!” across the water; and then turned round and burst out +laughing and said something—nothing—to old Captain Johnson. +</p> + +<p> +“Seen her?” asked the harbour-master. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Well that’s first class—first class! Well, well, +well!” He positively stamped. Like lightning he drew out his cigar-case +and offered it to old Captain Johnson. “Have a cigar, Captain! +They’re pretty good. Have a couple! Here”—and he pressed all +the cigars in the case on the harbour-master—“I’ve a couple +of boxes up at the hotel.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thenks, Mr. Hammond!” wheezed old Captain Johnson. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The voices on shore and the voices on board flew to greet each other. +</p> + +<p> +“All well?” +</p> + +<p> +“All well.” +</p> + +<p> +“How’s mother?” +</p> + +<p> +“Much better.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hullo, Jean!” +</p> + +<p> +“Hillo, Aun’ Emily!” +</p> + +<p> +“Had a good voyage?” +</p> + +<p> +“Splendid!” +</p> + +<p> +“Shan’t be long now!” +</p> + +<p> +“Not long now.” +</p> + +<p> +The engines stopped. Slowly she edged to the wharf-side. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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, +</p> + +<p> +“Well, darling! Have you been waiting long?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“How are the children, John?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +(Hang the children!) “Perfectly well. Never better in their lives.” +</p> + +<p> +“Haven’t they sent me letters?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes—of course! I’ve left them at the hotel for you to +digest later on.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-bye, <i>dear</i> Mrs. Hammond! And next time you’re in Sydney +I’ll <i>expect</i> you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Darling Mrs. Hammond! You won’t forget to write to me, will +you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Mrs. Hammond, what this boat would have been without you!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“John, dear!” And then: “I want to introduce you +to—” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s the last, Mrs. Hammond,” said the stewardess, rising +and pulling down her cuffs. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +But at that moment Janey’s head came round the corner. +</p> + +<p> +“Darling—do you mind? I just want to go and say good-bye to the +doctor.” +</p> + +<p> +Hammond started up. “I’ll come with you.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no!” she said. “Don’t bother. I’d rather +not. I’ll not be a minute.” +</p> + +<p> +And before he could answer she was gone. He had half a mind to run after her; +but instead he sat down again. +</p> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<p> +The curtains rang. Janey was back. He jumped to his feet. +</p> + +<p> +“Janey, have you been ill on this voyage? You have!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ill?” Her airy little voice mocked him. She stepped over the rugs, +and came up close, touched his breast, and looked up at him. +</p> + +<p> +“Darling,” she said, “don’t frighten me. Of course I +haven’t! Whatever makes you think I have? Do I look ill?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The gentle pressure of her hand was so calming that he put his over hers to +hold it there. And she said: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you taken the tickets for the day after?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“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. <i>and</i> 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—?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no!” said Janey quickly. “Not for the world! The day +after to-morrow, then. And the children—” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Mr. Arnold, here’s Mrs. Hammond at last!” +</p> + +<p> +The manager led them through the hall himself and pressed the elevator-bell. +Hammond knew there were business pals of his sitting at the little hall tables +having a drink before dinner. But he wasn’t going to risk interruption; +he looked neither to the right nor the left. They could think what they +pleased. If they didn’t understand, the more fools they—and he +stepped out of the lift, unlocked the door of their room, and shepherded Janey +in. The door shut. Now, at last, they were alone together. He turned up the +light. The curtains were drawn; the fire blazed. He flung his hat on to the +huge bed and went towards her. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +At last the fool was gone. The door clicked. Now they <i>were</i> 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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Do, darling!” said Janey. “And while you’re +away—the children’s letters—” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, later on will do!” said Hammond. +</p> + +<p> +“But then we’d get it over,” said Janey. “And I’d +first have time to—” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Janey shook her head and smiled. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll just unpin my hat,” said Janey, and she went over to +the dressing-table. “A-ah!” She gave a little cry. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Why? What’s the matter with it?” said Hammond. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, darling, I am glad,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Janey,” he whispered. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, dear?” She lay on his breast, but so lightly, so remotely. +Their breathing rose and fell together. +</p> + +<p> +“Janey!” +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Turn to me,” he whispered. A slow, deep flush flowed into his +forehead. “Kiss me, Janey! You kiss me!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“If you knew,” he said, opening his eyes, “what it’s +been like—waiting to-day. I thought the boat never would come in. There +we were, hanging about. What kept you so long?” +</p> + +<p> +She made no answer. She was looking away from him at the fire. The flames +hurried—hurried over the coals, flickered, fell. +</p> + +<p> +“Not asleep, are you?” said Hammond, and he jumped her up and down. +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, it wasn’t anything in the least infectious!” said Janey. +She was speaking scarcely above her breath. “It was <i>heart</i>.” +A pause. “Poor fellow!” she said. “Quite young.” And +she watched the fire flicker and fall. “He died in my arms,” said +Janey. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What?” he said dully. “What’s that you say?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Who—else was there?” Hammond managed to ask. +</p> + +<p> +“Nobody. I was alone with him.” +</p> + +<p> +Ah, my God, what was she saying! What was she doing to him! This would kill +him! And all the while she spoke: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But—why <i>you</i>, why <i>you</i>?” moaned Hammond. +</p> + +<p> +At that Janey turned quickly, quickly searched his face. +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t <i>mind</i>, John, do you?” she asked. “You +don’t—It’s nothing to do with you and me.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, John darling—” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me, Janey!” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s nothing to tell,” she said, wondering. “He was +one of the first-class passengers. I saw he was very ill when he came on +board.... But he seemed to be so much better until yesterday. He had a severe +attack in the afternoon—excitement—nervousness, I think, about +arriving. And after that he never recovered.” +</p> + +<p> +“But why didn’t the stewardess—” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, my dear—the stewardess!” said Janey. “What would +he have felt? And besides... he might have wanted to leave a message... +to—” +</p> + +<p> +“Didn’t he?” muttered Hammond. “Didn’t he say +anything?” +</p> + +<p> +“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....” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +... “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— +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +And now Janey touched his tie with her fingers. She pinched the edges of the +tie together. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +But at that he had to hide his face. He put his face into her bosom and his +arms enfolded her. +</p> + +<p> +Spoilt their evening! Spoilt their being alone together! They would never be +alone together again. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap13"></a>Bank Holiday</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>dear</i>!” 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 +<i>price</i>!” 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“An’ by the time they was cooked there wasn’t so much as you +could put in the palm of me ’and!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Ain’t it lovely?” whispers a small girl behind her hand. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +At the corner of the road the stalls begin. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Buy a golliwog! Tuppence a golliwog!” +</p> + +<p> +“Buy a jumping donkey! All alive-oh!” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Su</i>-perior chewing gum. Buy something to do, boys.” +</p> + +<p> +“Buy a rose. Give ’er a rose, boy. Roses, lady?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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! +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap14"></a>An Ideal Family</h2> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +And Lola the baby had chimed in loftily, “All men ought to have hobbies. +It makes life impossible if they haven’t.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re an ideal family, sir, an ideal family. It’s like +something one reads about or sees on the stage.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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—” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“And were there ices?” came from Charlotte. Then the creak, creak +of her rocker. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“The food altogether was too appalling,” came from Marion. +</p> + +<p> +“Still, it’s rather early for ices,” said Charlotte easily. +</p> + +<p> +“But why, if one has them at all....” began Ethel. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, quite so, darling,” crooned Charlotte. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly the music-room door opened and Lola dashed out. She started, she +nearly screamed, at the sight of old Mr. Neave. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Her cheeks were crimson from playing, her eyes glittered, the hair fell over +her forehead. And she breathed as though she had come running through the dark +and was frightened. Old Mr. Neave stared at his youngest daughter; he felt he +had never seen her before. So that was Lola, was it? But she seemed to have +forgotten her father; it was not for him that she was waiting there. Now she +put the tip of her crumpled handkerchief between her teeth and tugged at it +angrily. The telephone rang. A-ah! Lola gave a cry like a sob and dashed past +him. The door of the telephone-room slammed, and at the same moment Charlotte +called, “Is that you, father?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you walk back, father?” asked Charlotte. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I walked home,” said old Mr. Neave, and he sank into one of +the immense drawing-room chairs. +</p> + +<p> +“But why didn’t you take a cab?” said Ethel. “There are +hundreds of cabs about at that time.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Children, children?” coaxed Charlotte. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Did Harold leave the office before you, dear?” asked Charlotte, +beginning to rock again. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m not sure,” said Old Mr. Neave. “I’m not +sure. I didn’t see him after four o’clock.” +</p> + +<p> +“He said—” began Charlotte. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“There, you see,” she cried. “That’s what I mean, +mummy. Yellow, with touches of silver. Don’t you agree?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not the train!” wailed Ethel tragically. “But the +train’s the whole point.” +</p> + +<p> +“Here, mother, let me decide.” Marion snatched the paper playfully +from Charlotte. “I agree with mother,” she cried triumphantly. +“The train overweights it.” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>rich</i> 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? +</p> + +<p> +“I shan’t dress to-night,” he muttered. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you say, father?” +</p> + +<p> +“Eh, what, what?” Old Mr. Neave woke with a start and stared across +at them. “I shan’t dress to-night,” he repeated. +</p> + +<p> +“But, father, we’ve got Lucile coming, and Henry Davenport, and +Mrs. Teddie Walker.” +</p> + +<p> +“It will look so <i>very</i> out of the picture.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you feel well, dear?” +</p> + +<p> +“You needn’t make any effort. What is Charles <i>for</i>?” +</p> + +<p> +“But if you’re really not up to it,” Charlotte wavered. +</p> + +<p> +“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.... +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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, <i>played</i>, partner.... +Oh, <i>very</i> 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—” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“That will do, my lad.” The door shut, he sank back, he was +alone.... +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re an ideal family, sir, an ideal family.” +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +... 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.” +</p> + +<p> +My treasure! “Good-bye, my treasure!” Which of them had spoken? Why +had they said good-bye? There had been some terrible mistake. <i>She</i> was +his wife, that little pale girl, and all the rest of his life had been a dream. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m coming, I’m coming,” said old Mr. Neave. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap15"></a>The Lady’s Maid</h2> + +<p> +<i>Eleven o’clock. A knock at the door.</i> +</p> + +<p> +... 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.... +</p> + +<p> +... 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 +<i>your</i> 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 <i>too</i> 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!” +</p> + +<p> +... 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.” +</p> + +<p> +... 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? +</p> + +<p> +... 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. +</p> + +<p> +... 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. +</p> + +<p> +... 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 <i>furious</i>! 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. +</p> + +<p> +... 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.... +</p> + +<p> +... 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.... +</p> + +<p> +... 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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! +</p> + +<p> +... 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>I do want to go +on a donkey. I do want a donkey-ride!</i>” 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.... +</p> + +<p> +... 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 <i>wide +world</i>!” 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, <i>madam</i>! +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>was</i> 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.... +</p> + +<p> +... 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. +</p> + +<p> +... Oh dear, I sometimes think... whatever should I do if anything were to.... +But, there, thinking’s no good to anyone—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!...” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1429 ***</div> +</body> + +</html> + + diff --git a/1429-h/images/._cover.jpg b/1429-h/images/._cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..5b64d35 --- /dev/null +++ b/1429-h/images/._cover.jpg diff --git a/1429-h/images/cover.jpg b/1429-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..8b184ea --- /dev/null +++ b/1429-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..bd53e9c --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #1429 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1429) diff --git a/old/1429-0.txt b/old/1429-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..532bfe8 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/1429-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7342 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Garden Party, by Katherine Mansfield + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: The Garden Party + +Author: Katherine Mansfield + +Release Date: July 10, 1998 [eBook #1429] +[Most recently updated: September 9, 2022] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: Sue Asscher and David Widger + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GARDEN PARTY *** + + + + +The Garden Party + +AND OTHER STORIES + +by Katherine Mansfield + +_Montaigne dit que les hommes vont béant +aux choses futures; j’ai la manie de béer +aux choses passées_ + +To John Middleton Murry + + +Contents + + At the Bay + The Garden-Party + The Daughters of the Late Colonel + Mr. and Mrs. Dove + The Young Girl + Life of Ma Parker + Marriage à la Mode + The Voyage + Miss Brill + Her First Ball + The Singing Lesson + The Stranger + Bank Holiday + An Ideal Family + The Lady’s Maid + + + + +At the Bay + +I + + +Very early morning. The sun was not yet risen, and the whole of +Crescent Bay was hidden under a white sea-mist. The big bush-covered +hills at the back were smothered. You could not see where they ended +and the paddocks and bungalows began. The sandy road was gone and the +paddocks and bungalows the other side of it; there were no white dunes +covered with reddish grass beyond them; there was nothing to mark which +was beach and where was the sea. A heavy dew had fallen. The grass was +blue. Big drops hung on the bushes and just did not fall; the silvery, +fluffy toi-toi was limp on its long stalks, and all the marigolds and +the pinks in the bungalow gardens were bowed to the earth with wetness. +Drenched were the cold fuchsias, round pearls of dew lay on the flat +nasturtium leaves. It looked as though the sea had beaten up softly in +the darkness, as though one immense wave had come rippling, +rippling—how far? Perhaps if you had waked up in the middle of the +night you might have seen a big fish flicking in at the window and gone +again.... + +Ah-Aah! sounded the sleepy sea. And from the bush there came the sound +of little streams flowing, quickly, lightly, slipping between the +smooth stones, gushing into ferny basins and out again; and there was +the splashing of big drops on large leaves, and something else—what was +it?—a faint stirring and shaking, the snapping of a twig and then such +silence that it seemed some one was listening. + +Round the corner of Crescent Bay, between the piled-up masses of broken +rock, a flock of sheep came pattering. They were huddled together, a +small, tossing, woolly mass, and their thin, stick-like legs trotted +along quickly as if the cold and the quiet had frightened them. Behind +them an old sheep-dog, his soaking paws covered with sand, ran along +with his nose to the ground, but carelessly, as if thinking of +something else. And then in the rocky gateway the shepherd himself +appeared. He was a lean, upright old man, in a frieze coat that was +covered with a web of tiny drops, velvet trousers tied under the knee, +and a wide-awake with a folded blue handkerchief round the brim. One +hand was crammed into his belt, the other grasped a beautifully smooth +yellow stick. And as he walked, taking his time, he kept up a very soft +light whistling, an airy, far-away fluting that sounded mournful and +tender. The old dog cut an ancient caper or two and then drew up sharp, +ashamed of his levity, and walked a few dignified paces by his master’s +side. The sheep ran forward in little pattering rushes; they began to +bleat, and ghostly flocks and herds answered them from under the sea. +“Baa! Baaa!” For a time they seemed to be always on the same piece of +ground. There ahead was stretched the sandy road with shallow puddles; +the same soaking bushes showed on either side and the same shadowy +palings. Then something immense came into view; an enormous +shock-haired giant with his arms stretched out. It was the big gum-tree +outside Mrs. Stubbs’ shop, and as they passed by there was a strong +whiff of eucalyptus. And now big spots of light gleamed in the mist. +The shepherd stopped whistling; he rubbed his red nose and wet beard on +his wet sleeve and, screwing up his eyes, glanced in the direction of +the sea. The sun was rising. It was marvellous how quickly the mist +thinned, sped away, dissolved from the shallow plain, rolled up from +the bush and was gone as if in a hurry to escape; big twists and curls +jostled and shouldered each other as the silvery beams broadened. The +far-away sky—a bright, pure blue—was reflected in the puddles, and the +drops, swimming along the telegraph poles, flashed into points of +light. Now the leaping, glittering sea was so bright it made one’s eyes +ache to look at it. The shepherd drew a pipe, the bowl as small as an +acorn, out of his breast pocket, fumbled for a chunk of speckled +tobacco, pared off a few shavings and stuffed the bowl. He was a grave, +fine-looking old man. As he lit up and the blue smoke wreathed his +head, the dog, watching, looked proud of him. + +“Baa! Baaa!” The sheep spread out into a fan. They were just clear of +the summer colony before the first sleeper turned over and lifted a +drowsy head; their cry sounded in the dreams of little children... who +lifted their arms to drag down, to cuddle the darling little woolly +lambs of sleep. Then the first inhabitant appeared; it was the +Burnells’ cat Florrie, sitting on the gatepost, far too early as usual, +looking for their milk-girl. When she saw the old sheep-dog she sprang +up quickly, arched her back, drew in her tabby head, and seemed to give +a little fastidious shiver. “Ugh! What a coarse, revolting creature!” +said Florrie. But the old sheep-dog, not looking up, waggled past, +flinging out his legs from side to side. Only one of his ears twitched +to prove that he saw, and thought her a silly young female. + +The breeze of morning lifted in the bush and the smell of leaves and +wet black earth mingled with the sharp smell of the sea. Myriads of +birds were singing. A goldfinch flew over the shepherd’s head and, +perching on the tiptop of a spray, it turned to the sun, ruffling its +small breast feathers. And now they had passed the fisherman’s hut, +passed the charred-looking little _whare_ where Leila the milk-girl +lived with her old Gran. The sheep strayed over a yellow swamp and Wag, +the sheep-dog, padded after, rounded them up and headed them for the +steeper, narrower rocky pass that led out of Crescent Bay and towards +Daylight Cove. “Baa! Baa!” Faint the cry came as they rocked along the +fast-drying road. The shepherd put away his pipe, dropping it into his +breast-pocket so that the little bowl hung over. And straightway the +soft airy whistling began again. Wag ran out along a ledge of rock +after something that smelled, and ran back again disgusted. Then +pushing, nudging, hurrying, the sheep rounded the bend and the shepherd +followed after out of sight. + + +II + +A few moments later the back door of one of the bungalows opened, and a +figure in a broad-striped bathing suit flung down the paddock, cleared +the stile, rushed through the tussock grass into the hollow, staggered +up the sandy hillock, and raced for dear life over the big porous +stones, over the cold, wet pebbles, on to the hard sand that gleamed +like oil. Splish-Splosh! Splish-Splosh! The water bubbled round his +legs as Stanley Burnell waded out exulting. First man in as usual! He’d +beaten them all again. And he swooped down to souse his head and neck. + +“Hail, brother! All hail, Thou Mighty One!” A velvety bass voice came +booming over the water. + +Great Scott! Damnation take it! Stanley lifted up to see a dark head +bobbing far out and an arm lifted. It was Jonathan Trout—there before +him! “Glorious morning!” sang the voice. + +“Yes, very fine!” said Stanley briefly. Why the dickens didn’t the +fellow stick to his part of the sea? Why should he come barging over to +this exact spot? Stanley gave a kick, a lunge and struck out, swimming +overarm. But Jonathan was a match for him. Up he came, his black hair +sleek on his forehead, his short beard sleek. + +“I had an extraordinary dream last night!” he shouted. + +What was the matter with the man? This mania for conversation irritated +Stanley beyond words. And it was always the same—always some piffle +about a dream he’d had, or some cranky idea he’d got hold of, or some +rot he’d been reading. Stanley turned over on his back and kicked with +his legs till he was a living waterspout. But even then.... “I dreamed +I was hanging over a terrifically high cliff, shouting to some one +below.” You would be! thought Stanley. He could stick no more of it. He +stopped splashing. “Look here, Trout,” he said, “I’m in rather a hurry +this morning.” + +“You’re WHAT?” Jonathan was so surprised—or pretended to be—that he +sank under the water, then reappeared again blowing. + +“All I mean is,” said Stanley, “I’ve no time to—to—to fool about. I +want to get this over. I’m in a hurry. I’ve work to do this +morning—see?” + +Jonathan was gone before Stanley had finished. “Pass, friend!” said the +bass voice gently, and he slid away through the water with scarcely a +ripple.... But curse the fellow! He’d ruined Stanley’s bathe. What an +unpractical idiot the man was! Stanley struck out to sea again, and +then as quickly swam in again, and away he rushed up the beach. He felt +cheated. + +Jonathan stayed a little longer in the water. He floated, gently moving +his hands like fins, and letting the sea rock his long, skinny body. It +was curious, but in spite of everything he was fond of Stanley Burnell. +True, he had a fiendish desire to tease him sometimes, to poke fun at +him, but at bottom he was sorry for the fellow. There was something +pathetic in his determination to make a job of everything. You couldn’t +help feeling he’d be caught out one day, and then what an almighty +cropper he’d come! At that moment an immense wave lifted Jonathan, rode +past him, and broke along the beach with a joyful sound. What a beauty! +And now there came another. That was the way to live—carelessly, +recklessly, spending oneself. He got on to his feet and began to wade +towards the shore, pressing his toes into the firm, wrinkled sand. To +take things easy, not to fight against the ebb and flow of life, but to +give way to it—that was what was needed. It was this tension that was +all wrong. To live—to live! And the perfect morning, so fresh and fair, +basking in the light, as though laughing at its own beauty, seemed to +whisper, “Why not?” + +But now he was out of the water Jonathan turned blue with cold. He +ached all over; it was as though some one was wringing the blood out of +him. And stalking up the beach, shivering, all his muscles tight, he +too felt his bathe was spoilt. He’d stayed in too long. + + +III + +Beryl was alone in the living-room when Stanley appeared, wearing a +blue serge suit, a stiff collar and a spotted tie. He looked almost +uncannily clean and brushed; he was going to town for the day. Dropping +into his chair, he pulled out his watch and put it beside his plate. + +“I’ve just got twenty-five minutes,” he said. “You might go and see if +the porridge is ready, Beryl?” + +“Mother’s just gone for it,” said Beryl. She sat down at the table and +poured out his tea. + +“Thanks!” Stanley took a sip. “Hallo!” he said in an astonished voice, +“you’ve forgotten the sugar.” + +“Oh, sorry!” But even then Beryl didn’t help him; she pushed the basin +across. What did this mean? As Stanley helped himself his blue eyes +widened; they seemed to quiver. He shot a quick glance at his +sister-in-law and leaned back. + +“Nothing wrong, is there?” he asked carelessly, fingering his collar. + +Beryl’s head was bent; she turned her plate in her fingers. + +“Nothing,” said her light voice. Then she too looked up, and smiled at +Stanley. “Why should there be?” + +“O-oh! No reason at all as far as I know. I thought you seemed rather—” + +At that moment the door opened and the three little girls appeared, +each carrying a porridge plate. They were dressed alike in blue jerseys +and knickers; their brown legs were bare, and each had her hair plaited +and pinned up in what was called a horse’s tail. Behind them came Mrs. +Fairfield with the tray. + +“Carefully, children,” she warned. But they were taking the very +greatest care. They loved being allowed to carry things. “Have you said +good morning to your father?” + +“Yes, grandma.” They settled themselves on the bench opposite Stanley +and Beryl. + +“Good morning, Stanley!” Old Mrs. Fairfield gave him his plate. + +“Morning, mother! How’s the boy?” + +“Splendid! He only woke up once last night. What a perfect morning!” +The old woman paused, her hand on the loaf of bread, to gaze out of the +open door into the garden. The sea sounded. Through the wide-open +window streamed the sun on to the yellow varnished walls and bare +floor. Everything on the table flashed and glittered. In the middle +there was an old salad bowl filled with yellow and red nasturtiums. She +smiled, and a look of deep content shone in her eyes. + +“You might _cut_ me a slice of that bread, mother,” said Stanley. “I’ve +only twelve and a half minutes before the coach passes. Has anyone +given my shoes to the servant girl?” + +“Yes, they’re ready for you.” Mrs. Fairfield was quite unruffled. + +“Oh, Kezia! Why are you such a messy child!” cried Beryl despairingly. + +“Me, Aunt Beryl?” Kezia stared at her. What had she done now? She had +only dug a river down the middle of her porridge, filled it, and was +eating the banks away. But she did that every single morning, and no +one had said a word up till now. + +“Why can’t you eat your food properly like Isabel and Lottie?” How +unfair grown-ups are! + +“But Lottie always makes a floating island, don’t you, Lottie?” + +“I don’t,” said Isabel smartly. “I just sprinkle mine with sugar and +put on the milk and finish it. Only babies play with their food.” + +Stanley pushed back his chair and got up. + +“Would you get me those shoes, mother? And, Beryl, if you’ve finished, +I wish you’d cut down to the gate and stop the coach. Run in to your +mother, Isabel, and ask her where my bowler hat’s been put. Wait a +minute—have you children been playing with my stick?” + +“No, father!” + +“But I put it here.” Stanley began to bluster. “I remember distinctly +putting it in this corner. Now, who’s had it? There’s no time to lose. +Look sharp! The stick’s got to be found.” + +Even Alice, the servant-girl, was drawn into the chase. “You haven’t +been using it to poke the kitchen fire with by any chance?” + +Stanley dashed into the bedroom where Linda was lying. “Most +extraordinary thing. I can’t keep a single possession to myself. +They’ve made away with my stick, now!” + +“Stick, dear? What stick?” Linda’s vagueness on these occasions could +not be real, Stanley decided. Would nobody sympathize with him? + +“Coach! Coach, Stanley!” Beryl’s voice cried from the gate. + +Stanley waved his arm to Linda. “No time to say good-bye!” he cried. +And he meant that as a punishment to her. + +He snatched his bowler hat, dashed out of the house, and swung down the +garden path. Yes, the coach was there waiting, and Beryl, leaning over +the open gate, was laughing up at somebody or other just as if nothing +had happened. The heartlessness of women! The way they took it for +granted it was your job to slave away for them while they didn’t even +take the trouble to see that your walking-stick wasn’t lost. Kelly +trailed his whip across the horses. + +“Good-bye, Stanley,” called Beryl, sweetly and gaily. It was easy +enough to say good-bye! And there she stood, idle, shading her eyes +with her hand. The worst of it was Stanley had to shout good-bye too, +for the sake of appearances. Then he saw her turn, give a little skip +and run back to the house. She was glad to be rid of him! + +Yes, she was thankful. Into the living-room she ran and called “He’s +gone!” Linda cried from her room: “Beryl! Has Stanley gone?” Old Mrs. +Fairfield appeared, carrying the boy in his little flannel coatee. + +“Gone?” + +“Gone!” + +Oh, the relief, the difference it made to have the man out of the +house. Their very voices were changed as they called to one another; +they sounded warm and loving and as if they shared a secret. Beryl went +over to the table. “Have another cup of tea, mother. It’s still hot.” +She wanted, somehow, to celebrate the fact that they could do what they +liked now. There was no man to disturb them; the whole perfect day was +theirs. + +“No, thank you, child,” said old Mrs. Fairfield, but the way at that +moment she tossed the boy up and said “a-goos-a-goos-a-ga!” to him +meant that she felt the same. The little girls ran into the paddock +like chickens let out of a coop. + +Even Alice, the servant-girl, washing up the dishes in the kitchen, +caught the infection and used the precious tank water in a perfectly +reckless fashion. + +“Oh, these men!” said she, and she plunged the teapot into the bowl and +held it under the water even after it had stopped bubbling, as if it +too was a man and drowning was too good for them. + + +IV + +“Wait for me, Isa-bel! Kezia, wait for me!” + +There was poor little Lottie, left behind again, because she found it +so fearfully hard to get over the stile by herself. When she stood on +the first step her knees began to wobble; she grasped the post. Then +you had to put one leg over. But which leg? She never could decide. And +when she did finally put one leg over with a sort of stamp of +despair—then the feeling was awful. She was half in the paddock still +and half in the tussock grass. She clutched the post desperately and +lifted up her voice. “Wait for me!” + +“No, don’t you wait for her, Kezia!” said Isabel. “She’s such a little +silly. She’s always making a fuss. Come on!” And she tugged Kezia’s +jersey. “You can use my bucket if you come with me,” she said kindly. +“It’s bigger than yours.” But Kezia couldn’t leave Lottie all by +herself. She ran back to her. By this time Lottie was very red in the +face and breathing heavily. + +“Here, put your other foot over,” said Kezia. + +“Where?” + +Lottie looked down at Kezia as if from a mountain height. + +“Here where my hand is.” Kezia patted the place. + +“Oh, _there_ do you mean!” Lottie gave a deep sigh and put the second +foot over. + +“Now—sort of turn round and sit down and slide,” said Kezia. + +“But there’s nothing to sit down _on_, Kezia,” said Lottie. + +She managed it at last, and once it was over she shook herself and +began to beam. + +“I’m getting better at climbing over stiles, aren’t I, Kezia?” + +Lottie’s was a very hopeful nature. + +The pink and the blue sunbonnet followed Isabel’s bright red sunbonnet +up that sliding, slipping hill. At the top they paused to decide where +to go and to have a good stare at who was there already. Seen from +behind, standing against the skyline, gesticulating largely with their +spades, they looked like minute puzzled explorers. + +The whole family of Samuel Josephs was there already with their +lady-help, who sat on a camp-stool and kept order with a whistle that +she wore tied round her neck, and a small cane with which she directed +operations. The Samuel Josephs never played by themselves or managed +their own game. If they did, it ended in the boys pouring water down +the girls’ necks or the girls trying to put little black crabs into the +boys’ pockets. So Mrs. S. J. and the poor lady-help drew up what she +called a “brogramme” every morning to keep them “abused and out of +bischief.” It was all competitions or races or round games. Everything +began with a piercing blast of the lady-help’s whistle and ended with +another. There were even prizes—large, rather dirty paper parcels which +the lady-help with a sour little smile drew out of a bulging string +kit. The Samuel Josephs fought fearfully for the prizes and cheated and +pinched one another’s arms—they were all expert pinchers. The only time +the Burnell children ever played with them Kezia had got a prize, and +when she undid three bits of paper she found a very small rusty +button-hook. She couldn’t understand why they made such a fuss.... + +But they never played with the Samuel Josephs now or even went to their +parties. The Samuel Josephs were always giving children’s parties at +the Bay and there was always the same food. A big washhand basin of +very brown fruit-salad, buns cut into four and a washhand jug full of +something the lady-help called “Limmonadear.” And you went away in the +evening with half the frill torn off your frock or something spilled +all down the front of your open-work pinafore, leaving the Samuel +Josephs leaping like savages on their lawn. No! They were too awful. + +On the other side of the beach, close down to the water, two little +boys, their knickers rolled up, twinkled like spiders. One was digging, +the other pattered in and out of the water, filling a small bucket. +They were the Trout boys, Pip and Rags. But Pip was so busy digging and +Rags was so busy helping that they didn’t see their little cousins +until they were quite close. + +“Look!” said Pip. “Look what I’ve discovered.” And he showed them an +old wet, squashed-looking boot. The three little girls stared. + +“Whatever are you going to do with it?” asked Kezia. + +“Keep it, of course!” Pip was very scornful. “It’s a find—see?” + +Yes, Kezia saw that. All the same.... + +“There’s lots of things buried in the sand,” explained Pip. “They get +chucked up from wrecks. Treasure. Why—you might find—” + +“But why does Rags have to keep on pouring water in?” asked Lottie. + +“Oh, that’s to moisten it,” said Pip, “to make the work a bit easier. +Keep it up, Rags.” + +And good little Rags ran up and down, pouring in the water that turned +brown like cocoa. + +“Here, shall I show you what I found yesterday?” said Pip mysteriously, +and he stuck his spade into the sand. “Promise not to tell.” + +They promised. + +“Say, cross my heart straight dinkum.” + +The little girls said it. + +Pip took something out of his pocket, rubbed it a long time on the +front of his jersey, then breathed on it and rubbed it again. + +“Now turn round!” he ordered. + +They turned round. + +“All look the same way! Keep still! Now!” + +And his hand opened; he held up to the light something that flashed, +that winked, that was a most lovely green. + +“It’s a nemeral,” said Pip solemnly. + +“Is it really, Pip?” Even Isabel was impressed. + +The lovely green thing seemed to dance in Pip’s fingers. Aunt Beryl had +a nemeral in a ring, but it was a very small one. This one was as big +as a star and far more beautiful. + + +V + +As the morning lengthened whole parties appeared over the sand-hills +and came down on the beach to bathe. It was understood that at eleven +o’clock the women and children of the summer colony had the sea to +themselves. First the women undressed, pulled on their bathing dresses +and covered their heads in hideous caps like sponge bags; then the +children were unbuttoned. The beach was strewn with little heaps of +clothes and shoes; the big summer hats, with stones on them to keep +them from blowing away, looked like immense shells. It was strange that +even the sea seemed to sound differently when all those leaping, +laughing figures ran into the waves. Old Mrs. Fairfield, in a lilac +cotton dress and a black hat tied under the chin, gathered her little +brood and got them ready. The little Trout boys whipped their shirts +over their heads, and away the five sped, while their grandma sat with +one hand in her knitting-bag ready to draw out the ball of wool when +she was satisfied they were safely in. + +The firm compact little girls were not half so brave as the tender, +delicate-looking little boys. Pip and Rags, shivering, crouching down, +slapping the water, never hesitated. But Isabel, who could swim twelve +strokes, and Kezia, who could nearly swim eight, only followed on the +strict understanding they were not to be splashed. As for Lottie, she +didn’t follow at all. She liked to be left to go in her own way, +please. And that way was to sit down at the edge of the water, her legs +straight, her knees pressed together, and to make vague motions with +her arms as if she expected to be wafted out to sea. But when a bigger +wave than usual, an old whiskery one, came lolloping along in her +direction, she scrambled to her feet with a face of horror and flew up +the beach again. + +“Here, mother, keep those for me, will you?” + +Two rings and a thin gold chain were dropped into Mrs Fairfield’s lap. + +“Yes, dear. But aren’t you going to bathe here?” + +“No-o,” Beryl drawled. She sounded vague. “I’m undressing farther +along. I’m going to bathe with Mrs. Harry Kember.” + +“Very well.” But Mrs. Fairfield’s lips set. She disapproved of Mrs +Harry Kember. Beryl knew it. + +Poor old mother, she smiled, as she skimmed over the stones. Poor old +mother! Old! Oh, what joy, what bliss it was to be young.... + +“You look very pleased,” said Mrs. Harry Kember. She sat hunched up on +the stones, her arms round her knees, smoking. + +“It’s such a lovely day,” said Beryl, smiling down at her. + +“Oh my _dear_!” Mrs. Harry Kember’s voice sounded as though she knew +better than that. But then her voice always sounded as though she knew +something better about you than you did yourself. She was a long, +strange-looking woman with narrow hands and feet. Her face, too, was +long and narrow and exhausted-looking; even her fair curled fringe +looked burnt out and withered. She was the only woman at the Bay who +smoked, and she smoked incessantly, keeping the cigarette between her +lips while she talked, and only taking it out when the ash was so long +you could not understand why it did not fall. When she was not playing +bridge—she played bridge every day of her life—she spent her time lying +in the full glare of the sun. She could stand any amount of it; she +never had enough. All the same, it did not seem to warm her. Parched, +withered, cold, she lay stretched on the stones like a piece of +tossed-up driftwood. The women at the Bay thought she was very, very +fast. Her lack of vanity, her slang, the way she treated men as though +she was one of them, and the fact that she didn’t care twopence about +her house and called the servant Gladys “Glad-eyes,” was disgraceful. +Standing on the veranda steps Mrs. Kember would call in her +indifferent, tired voice, “I say, Glad-eyes, you might heave me a +handkerchief if I’ve got one, will you?” And Glad-eyes, a red bow in +her hair instead of a cap, and white shoes, came running with an +impudent smile. It was an absolute scandal! True, she had no children, +and her husband.... Here the voices were always raised; they became +fervent. How can he have married her? How can he, how can he? It must +have been money, of course, but even then! + +Mrs. Kember’s husband was at least ten years younger than she was, and +so incredibly handsome that he looked like a mask or a most perfect +illustration in an American novel rather than a man. Black hair, dark +blue eyes, red lips, a slow sleepy smile, a fine tennis player, a +perfect dancer, and with it all a mystery. Harry Kember was like a man +walking in his sleep. Men couldn’t stand him, they couldn’t get a word +out of the chap; he ignored his wife just as she ignored him. How did +he live? Of course there were stories, but such stories! They simply +couldn’t be told. The women he’d been seen with, the places he’d been +seen in... but nothing was ever certain, nothing definite. Some of the +women at the Bay privately thought he’d commit a murder one day. Yes, +even while they talked to Mrs. Kember and took in the awful concoction +she was wearing, they saw her, stretched as she lay on the beach; but +cold, bloody, and still with a cigarette stuck in the corner of her +mouth. + +Mrs. Kember rose, yawned, unsnapped her belt buckle, and tugged at the +tape of her blouse. And Beryl stepped out of her skirt and shed her +jersey, and stood up in her short white petticoat, and her camisole +with ribbon bows on the shoulders. + +“Mercy on us,” said Mrs. Harry Kember, “what a little beauty you are!” + +“Don’t!” said Beryl softly; but, drawing off one stocking and then the +other, she felt a little beauty. + +“My dear—why not?” said Mrs. Harry Kember, stamping on her own +petticoat. Really—her underclothes! A pair of blue cotton knickers and +a linen bodice that reminded one somehow of a pillow-case.... “And you +don’t wear stays, do you?” She touched Beryl’s waist, and Beryl sprang +away with a small affected cry. Then “Never!” she said firmly. + +“Lucky little creature,” sighed Mrs. Kember, unfastening her own. + +Beryl turned her back and began the complicated movements of some one +who is trying to take off her clothes and to pull on her bathing-dress +all at one and the same time. + +“Oh, my dear—don’t mind me,” said Mrs. Harry Kember. “Why be shy? I +shan’t eat you. I shan’t be shocked like those other ninnies.” And she +gave her strange neighing laugh and grimaced at the other women. + +But Beryl was shy. She never undressed in front of anybody. Was that +silly? Mrs. Harry Kember made her feel it was silly, even something to +be ashamed of. Why be shy indeed! She glanced quickly at her friend +standing so boldly in her torn chemise and lighting a fresh cigarette; +and a quick, bold, evil feeling started up in her breast. Laughing +recklessly, she drew on the limp, sandy-feeling bathing-dress that was +not quite dry and fastened the twisted buttons. + +“That’s better,” said Mrs. Harry Kember. They began to go down the +beach together. “Really, it’s a sin for you to wear clothes, my dear. +Somebody’s got to tell you some day.” + +The water was quite warm. It was that marvellous transparent blue, +flecked with silver, but the sand at the bottom looked gold; when you +kicked with your toes there rose a little puff of gold-dust. Now the +waves just reached her breast. Beryl stood, her arms outstretched, +gazing out, and as each wave came she gave the slightest little jump, +so that it seemed it was the wave which lifted her so gently. + +“I believe in pretty girls having a good time,” said Mrs. Harry Kember. +“Why not? Don’t you make a mistake, my dear. Enjoy yourself.” And +suddenly she turned turtle, disappeared, and swam away quickly, +quickly, like a rat. Then she flicked round and began swimming back. +She was going to say something else. Beryl felt that she was being +poisoned by this cold woman, but she longed to hear. But oh, how +strange, how horrible! As Mrs. Harry Kember came up close she looked, +in her black waterproof bathing-cap, with her sleepy face lifted above +the water, just her chin touching, like a horrible caricature of her +husband. + + +VI + +In a steamer chair, under a manuka tree that grew in the middle of the +front grass patch, Linda Burnell dreamed the morning away. She did +nothing. She looked up at the dark, close, dry leaves of the manuka, at +the chinks of blue between, and now and again a tiny yellowish flower +dropped on her. Pretty—yes, if you held one of those flowers on the +palm of your hand and looked at it closely, it was an exquisite small +thing. Each pale yellow petal shone as if each was the careful work of +a loving hand. The tiny tongue in the centre gave it the shape of a +bell. And when you turned it over the outside was a deep bronze colour. +But as soon as they flowered, they fell and were scattered. You brushed +them off your frock as you talked; the horrid little things got caught +in one’s hair. Why, then, flower at all? Who takes the trouble—or the +joy—to make all these things that are wasted, wasted.... It was +uncanny. + +On the grass beside her, lying between two pillows, was the boy. Sound +asleep he lay, his head turned away from his mother. His fine dark hair +looked more like a shadow than like real hair, but his ear was a +bright, deep coral. Linda clasped her hands above her head and crossed +her feet. It was very pleasant to know that all these bungalows were +empty, that everybody was down on the beach, out of sight, out of +hearing. She had the garden to herself; she was alone. + +Dazzling white the picotees shone; the golden-eyed marigold glittered; +the nasturtiums wreathed the veranda poles in green and gold flame. If +only one had time to look at these flowers long enough, time to get +over the sense of novelty and strangeness, time to know them! But as +soon as one paused to part the petals, to discover the under-side of +the leaf, along came Life and one was swept away. And, lying in her +cane chair, Linda felt so light; she felt like a leaf. Along came Life +like a wind and she was seized and shaken; she had to go. Oh dear, +would it always be so? Was there no escape? + +... Now she sat on the veranda of their Tasmanian home, leaning against +her father’s knee. And he promised, “As soon as you and I are old +enough, Linny, we’ll cut off somewhere, we’ll escape. Two boys +together. I have a fancy I’d like to sail up a river in China.” Linda +saw that river, very wide, covered with little rafts and boats. She saw +the yellow hats of the boatmen and she heard their high, thin voices as +they called.... + +“Yes, papa.” + +But just then a very broad young man with bright ginger hair walked +slowly past their house, and slowly, solemnly even, uncovered. Linda’s +father pulled her ear teasingly, in the way he had. + +“Linny’s beau,” he whispered. + +“Oh, papa, fancy being married to Stanley Burnell!” + +Well, she was married to him. And what was more she loved him. Not the +Stanley whom every one saw, not the everyday one; but a timid, +sensitive, innocent Stanley who knelt down every night to say his +prayers, and who longed to be good. Stanley was simple. If he believed +in people—as he believed in her, for instance—it was with his whole +heart. He could not be disloyal; he could not tell a lie. And how +terribly he suffered if he thought anyone—she—was not being dead +straight, dead sincere with him! “This is too subtle for me!” He flung +out the words, but his open, quivering, distraught look was like the +look of a trapped beast. + +But the trouble was—here Linda felt almost inclined to laugh, though +Heaven knows it was no laughing matter—she saw _her_ Stanley so seldom. +There were glimpses, moments, breathing spaces of calm, but all the +rest of the time it was like living in a house that couldn’t be cured +of the habit of catching on fire, on a ship that got wrecked every day. +And it was always Stanley who was in the thick of the danger. Her whole +time was spent in rescuing him, and restoring him, and calming him +down, and listening to his story. And what was left of her time was +spent in the dread of having children. + +Linda frowned; she sat up quickly in her steamer chair and clasped her +ankles. Yes, that was her real grudge against life; that was what she +could not understand. That was the question she asked and asked, and +listened in vain for the answer. It was all very well to say it was the +common lot of women to bear children. It wasn’t true. She, for one, +could prove that wrong. She was broken, made weak, her courage was +gone, through child-bearing. And what made it doubly hard to bear was, +she did not love her children. It was useless pretending. Even if she +had had the strength she never would have nursed and played with the +little girls. No, it was as though a cold breath had chilled her +through and through on each of those awful journeys; she had no warmth +left to give them. As to the boy—well, thank Heaven, mother had taken +him; he was mother’s, or Beryl’s, or anybody’s who wanted him. She had +hardly held him in her arms. She was so indifferent about him that as +he lay there... Linda glanced down. + +The boy had turned over. He lay facing her, and he was no longer +asleep. His dark-blue, baby eyes were open; he looked as though he was +peeping at his mother. And suddenly his face dimpled; it broke into a +wide, toothless smile, a perfect beam, no less. + +“I’m here!” that happy smile seemed to say. “Why don’t you like me?” + +There was something so quaint, so unexpected about that smile that +Linda smiled herself. But she checked herself and said to the boy +coldly, “I don’t like babies.” + +“Don’t like babies?” The boy couldn’t believe her. “Don’t like _me_?” +He waved his arms foolishly at his mother. + +Linda dropped off her chair on to the grass. + +“Why do you keep on smiling?” she said severely. “If you knew what I +was thinking about, you wouldn’t.” + +But he only squeezed up his eyes, slyly, and rolled his head on the +pillow. He didn’t believe a word she said. + +“We know all about that!” smiled the boy. + +Linda was so astonished at the confidence of this little creature.... +Ah no, be sincere. That was not what she felt; it was something far +different, it was something so new, so.... The tears danced in her +eyes; she breathed in a small whisper to the boy, “Hallo, my funny!” + +But by now the boy had forgotten his mother. He was serious again. +Something pink, something soft waved in front of him. He made a grab at +it and it immediately disappeared. But when he lay back, another, like +the first, appeared. This time he determined to catch it. He made a +tremendous effort and rolled right over. + + +VII + +The tide was out; the beach was deserted; lazily flopped the warm sea. +The sun beat down, beat down hot and fiery on the fine sand, baking the +grey and blue and black and white-veined pebbles. It sucked up the +little drop of water that lay in the hollow of the curved shells; it +bleached the pink convolvulus that threaded through and through the +sand-hills. Nothing seemed to move but the small sand-hoppers. +Pit-pit-pit! They were never still. + +Over there on the weed-hung rocks that looked at low tide like shaggy +beasts come down to the water to drink, the sunlight seemed to spin +like a silver coin dropped into each of the small rock pools. They +danced, they quivered, and minute ripples laved the porous shores. +Looking down, bending over, each pool was like a lake with pink and +blue houses clustered on the shores; and oh! the vast mountainous +country behind those houses—the ravines, the passes, the dangerous +creeks and fearful tracks that led to the water’s edge. Underneath +waved the sea-forest—pink thread-like trees, velvet anemones, and +orange berry-spotted weeds. Now a stone on the bottom moved, rocked, +and there was a glimpse of a black feeler; now a thread-like creature +wavered by and was lost. Something was happening to the pink, waving +trees; they were changing to a cold moonlight blue. And now there +sounded the faintest “plop.” Who made that sound? What was going on +down there? And how strong, how damp the seaweed smelt in the hot +sun.... + +The green blinds were drawn in the bungalows of the summer colony. Over +the verandas, prone on the paddock, flung over the fences, there were +exhausted-looking bathing-dresses and rough striped towels. Each back +window seemed to have a pair of sand-shoes on the sill and some lumps +of rock or a bucket or a collection of pawa shells. The bush quivered +in a haze of heat; the sandy road was empty except for the Trouts’ dog +Snooker, who lay stretched in the very middle of it. His blue eye was +turned up, his legs stuck out stiffly, and he gave an occasional +desperate-sounding puff, as much as to say he had decided to make an +end of it and was only waiting for some kind cart to come along. + +“What are you looking at, my grandma? Why do you keep stopping and sort +of staring at the wall?” + +Kezia and her grandmother were taking their siesta together. The little +girl, wearing only her short drawers and her under-bodice, her arms and +legs bare, lay on one of the puffed-up pillows of her grandma’s bed, +and the old woman, in a white ruffled dressing-gown, sat in a rocker at +the window, with a long piece of pink knitting in her lap. This room +that they shared, like the other rooms of the bungalow, was of light +varnished wood and the floor was bare. The furniture was of the +shabbiest, the simplest. The dressing-table, for instance, was a +packing-case in a sprigged muslin petticoat, and the mirror above was +very strange; it was as though a little piece of forked lightning was +imprisoned in it. On the table there stood a jar of sea-pinks, pressed +so tightly together they looked more like a velvet pincushion, and a +special shell which Kezia had given her grandma for a pin-tray, and +another even more special which she had thought would make a very nice +place for a watch to curl up in. + +“Tell me, grandma,” said Kezia. + +The old woman sighed, whipped the wool twice round her thumb, and drew +the bone needle through. She was casting on. + +“I was thinking of your Uncle William, darling,” she said quietly. + +“My Australian Uncle William?” said Kezia. She had another. + +“Yes, of course.” + +“The one I never saw?” + +“That was the one.” + +“Well, what happened to him?” Kezia knew perfectly well, but she wanted +to be told again. + +“He went to the mines, and he got a sunstroke there and died,” said old +Mrs. Fairfield. + +Kezia blinked and considered the picture again.... A little man fallen +over like a tin soldier by the side of a big black hole. + +“Does it make you sad to think about him, grandma?” She hated her +grandma to be sad. + +It was the old woman’s turn to consider. Did it make her sad? To look +back, back. To stare down the years, as Kezia had seen her doing. To +look after _them_ as a woman does, long after _they_ were out of sight. +Did it make her sad? No, life was like that. + +“No, Kezia.” + +“But why?” asked Kezia. She lifted one bare arm and began to draw +things in the air. “Why did Uncle William have to die? He wasn’t old.” + +Mrs. Fairfield began counting the stitches in threes. “It just +happened,” she said in an absorbed voice. + +“Does everybody have to die?” asked Kezia. + +“Everybody!” + +“_Me?_” Kezia sounded fearfully incredulous. + +“Some day, my darling.” + +“But, grandma.” Kezia waved her left leg and waggled the toes. They +felt sandy. “What if I just won’t?” + +The old woman sighed again and drew a long thread from the ball. + +“We’re not asked, Kezia,” she said sadly. “It happens to all of us +sooner or later.” + +Kezia lay still thinking this over. She didn’t want to die. It meant +she would have to leave here, leave everywhere, for ever, leave—leave +her grandma. She rolled over quickly. + +“Grandma,” she said in a startled voice. + +“What, my pet!” + +“_You’re_ not to die.” Kezia was very decided. + +“Ah, Kezia”—her grandma looked up and smiled and shook her head—“don’t +let’s talk about it.” + +“But you’re not to. You couldn’t leave me. You couldn’t not be there.” +This was awful. “Promise me you won’t ever do it, grandma,” pleaded +Kezia. + +The old woman went on knitting. + +“Promise me! Say never!” + +But still her grandma was silent. + +Kezia rolled off her bed; she couldn’t bear it any longer, and lightly +she leapt on to her grandma’s knees, clasped her hands round the old +woman’s throat and began kissing her, under the chin, behind the ear, +and blowing down her neck. + +“Say never... say never... say never—” She gasped between the kisses. +And then she began, very softly and lightly, to tickle her grandma. + +“Kezia!” The old woman dropped her knitting. She swung back in the +rocker. She began to tickle Kezia. “Say never, say never, say never,” +gurgled Kezia, while they lay there laughing in each other’s arms. +“Come, that’s enough, my squirrel! That’s enough, my wild pony!” said +old Mrs. Fairfield, setting her cap straight. “Pick up my knitting.” + +Both of them had forgotten what the “never” was about. + + +VIII + +The sun was still full on the garden when the back door of the +Burnells’ shut with a bang, and a very gay figure walked down the path +to the gate. It was Alice, the servant-girl, dressed for her afternoon +out. She wore a white cotton dress with such large red spots on it and +so many that they made you shudder, white shoes and a leghorn turned up +under the brim with poppies. Of course she wore gloves, white ones, +stained at the fastenings with iron-mould, and in one hand she carried +a very dashed-looking sunshade which she referred to as her +“_perishall_.” + +Beryl, sitting in the window, fanning her freshly-washed hair, thought +she had never seen such a guy. If Alice had only blacked her face with +a piece of cork before she started out, the picture would have been +complete. And where did a girl like that go to in a place like this? +The heart-shaped Fijian fan beat scornfully at that lovely bright mane. +She supposed Alice had picked up some horrible common larrikin and +they’d go off into the bush together. Pity to have made herself so +conspicuous; they’d have hard work to hide with Alice in that rig-out. + +But no, Beryl was unfair. Alice was going to tea with Mrs Stubbs, who’d +sent her an “invite” by the little boy who called for orders. She had +taken ever such a liking to Mrs. Stubbs ever since the first time she +went to the shop to get something for her mosquitoes. + +“Dear heart!” Mrs. Stubbs had clapped her hand to her side. “I never +seen anyone so eaten. You might have been attacked by canningbals.” + +Alice did wish there’d been a bit of life on the road though. Made her +feel so queer, having nobody behind her. Made her feel all weak in the +spine. She couldn’t believe that some one wasn’t watching her. And yet +it was silly to turn round; it gave you away. She pulled up her gloves, +hummed to herself and said to the distant gum-tree, “Shan’t be long +now.” But that was hardly company. + +Mrs. Stubbs’s shop was perched on a little hillock just off the road. +It had two big windows for eyes, a broad veranda for a hat, and the +sign on the roof, scrawled MRS. STUBBS’S, was like a little card stuck +rakishly in the hat crown. + +On the veranda there hung a long string of bathing-dresses, clinging +together as though they’d just been rescued from the sea rather than +waiting to go in, and beside them there hung a cluster of sandshoes so +extraordinarily mixed that to get at one pair you had to tear apart and +forcibly separate at least fifty. Even then it was the rarest thing to +find the left that belonged to the right. So many people had lost +patience and gone off with one shoe that fitted and one that was a +little too big.... Mrs. Stubbs prided herself on keeping something of +everything. The two windows, arranged in the form of precarious +pyramids, were crammed so tight, piled so high, that it seemed only a +conjurer could prevent them from toppling over. In the left-hand corner +of one window, glued to the pane by four gelatine lozenges, there +was—and there had been from time immemorial—a notice. + + LOST! HANSOME GOLE BROOCH + SOLID GOLD + ON OR NEAR BEACH + REWARD OFFERED + +Alice pressed open the door. The bell jangled, the red serge curtains +parted, and Mrs. Stubbs appeared. With her broad smile and the long +bacon knife in her hand, she looked like a friendly brigand. Alice was +welcomed so warmly that she found it quite difficult to keep up her +“manners.” They consisted of persistent little coughs and hems, pulls +at her gloves, tweaks at her skirt, and a curious difficulty in seeing +what was set before her or understanding what was said. + +Tea was laid on the parlour table—ham, sardines, a whole pound of +butter, and such a large johnny cake that it looked like an +advertisement for somebody’s baking-powder. But the Primus stove roared +so loudly that it was useless to try to talk above it. Alice sat down +on the edge of a basket-chair while Mrs. Stubbs pumped the stove still +higher. Suddenly Mrs. Stubbs whipped the cushion off a chair and +disclosed a large brown-paper parcel. + +“I’ve just had some new photers taken, my dear,” she shouted cheerfully +to Alice. “Tell me what you think of them.” + +In a very dainty, refined way Alice wet her finger and put the tissue +back from the first one. Life! How many there were! There were three +dozzing at least. And she held it up to the light. + +Mrs. Stubbs sat in an arm-chair, leaning very much to one side. There +was a look of mild astonishment on her large face, and well there might +be. For though the arm-chair stood on a carpet, to the left of it, +miraculously skirting the carpet-border, there was a dashing +water-fall. On her right stood a Grecian pillar with a giant fern-tree +on either side of it, and in the background towered a gaunt mountain, +pale with snow. + +“It is a nice style, isn’t it?” shouted Mrs. Stubbs; and Alice had just +screamed “Sweetly” when the roaring of the Primus stove died down, +fizzled out, ceased, and she said “Pretty” in a silence that was +frightening. + +“Draw up your chair, my dear,” said Mrs. Stubbs, beginning to pour out. +“Yes,” she said thoughtfully, as she handed the tea, “but I don’t care +about the size. I’m having an enlargemint. All very well for Christmas +cards, but I never was the one for small photers myself. You get no +comfort out of them. To say the truth, I find them dis’eartening.” + +Alice quite saw what she meant. + +“Size,” said Mrs. Stubbs. “Give me size. That was what my poor dear +husband was always saying. He couldn’t stand anything small. Gave him +the creeps. And, strange as it may seem, my dear”—here Mrs. Stubbs +creaked and seemed to expand herself at the memory—“it was dropsy that +carried him off at the larst. Many’s the time they drawn one and a half +pints from ’im at the ’ospital... It seemed like a judgmint.” + +Alice burned to know exactly what it was that was drawn from him. She +ventured, “I suppose it was water.” + +But Mrs. Stubbs fixed Alice with her eyes and replied meaningly, “It +was _liquid_, my dear.” + +Liquid! Alice jumped away from the word like a cat and came back to it, +nosing and wary. + +“That’s ’im!” said Mrs. Stubbs, and she pointed dramatically to the +life-size head and shoulders of a burly man with a dead white rose in +the buttonhole of his coat that made you think of a curl of cold +mutting fat. Just below, in silver letters on a red cardboard ground, +were the words, “Be not afraid, it is I.” + +“It’s ever such a fine face,” said Alice faintly. + +The pale-blue bow on the top of Mrs. Stubbs’s fair frizzy hair +quivered. She arched her plump neck. What a neck she had! It was bright +pink where it began and then it changed to warm apricot, and that faded +to the colour of a brown egg and then to a deep creamy. + +“All the same, my dear,” she said surprisingly, “freedom’s best!” Her +soft, fat chuckle sounded like a purr. “Freedom’s best,” said Mrs. +Stubbs again. + +Freedom! Alice gave a loud, silly little titter. She felt awkward. Her +mind flew back to her own kitching. Ever so queer! She wanted to be +back in it again. + + +IX + +A strange company assembled in the Burnells’ washhouse after tea. Round +the table there sat a bull, a rooster, a donkey that kept forgetting it +was a donkey, a sheep and a bee. The washhouse was the perfect place +for such a meeting because they could make as much noise as they liked, +and nobody ever interrupted. It was a small tin shed standing apart +from the bungalow. Against the wall there was a deep trough and in the +corner a copper with a basket of clothes-pegs on top of it. The little +window, spun over with cobwebs, had a piece of candle and a mouse-trap +on the dusty sill. There were clotheslines criss-crossed overhead and, +hanging from a peg on the wall, a very big, a huge, rusty horseshoe. +The table was in the middle with a form at either side. + +“You can’t be a bee, Kezia. A bee’s not an animal. It’s a ninseck.” + +“Oh, but I do want to be a bee frightfully,” wailed Kezia.... A tiny +bee, all yellow-furry, with striped legs. She drew her legs up under +her and leaned over the table. She felt she was a bee. + +“A ninseck must be an animal,” she said stoutly. “It makes a noise. +It’s not like a fish.” + +“I’m a bull, I’m a bull!” cried Pip. And he gave such a tremendous +bellow—how did he make that noise?—that Lottie looked quite alarmed. + +“I’ll be a sheep,” said little Rags. “A whole lot of sheep went past +this morning.” + +“How do you know?” + +“Dad heard them. Baa!” He sounded like the little lamb that trots +behind and seems to wait to be carried. + +“Cock-a-doodle-do!” shrilled Isabel. With her red cheeks and bright +eyes she looked like a rooster. + +“What’ll I be?” Lottie asked everybody, and she sat there smiling, +waiting for them to decide for her. It had to be an easy one. + +“Be a donkey, Lottie.” It was Kezia’s suggestion. “Hee-haw! You can’t +forget that.” + +“Hee-haw!” said Lottie solemnly. “When do I have to say it?” + +“I’ll explain, I’ll explain,” said the bull. It was he who had the +cards. He waved them round his head. “All be quiet! All listen!” And he +waited for them. “Look here, Lottie.” He turned up a card. “It’s got +two spots on it—see? Now, if you put that card in the middle and +somebody else has one with two spots as well, you say ‘Hee-haw,’ and +the card’s yours.” + +“Mine?” Lottie was round-eyed. “To keep?” + +“No, silly. Just for the game, see? Just while we’re playing.” The bull +was very cross with her. + +“Oh, Lottie, you _are_ a little silly,” said the proud rooster. + +Lottie looked at both of them. Then she hung her head; her lip +quivered. “I don’t want to play,” she whispered. The others glanced at +one another like conspirators. All of them knew what that meant. She +would go away and be discovered somewhere standing with her pinny +thrown over her head, in a corner, or against a wall, or even behind a +chair. + +“Yes, you _do_, Lottie. It’s quite easy,” said Kezia. + +And Isabel, repentant, said exactly like a grown-up, “Watch _me_, +Lottie, and you’ll soon learn.” + +“Cheer up, Lot,” said Pip. “There, I know what I’ll do. I’ll give you +the first one. It’s mine, really, but I’ll give it to you. Here you +are.” And he slammed the card down in front of Lottie. + +Lottie revived at that. But now she was in another difficulty. “I +haven’t got a hanky,” she said; “I want one badly, too.” + +“Here, Lottie, you can use mine.” Rags dipped into his sailor blouse +and brought up a very wet-looking one, knotted together. “Be very +careful,” he warned her. “Only use that corner. Don’t undo it. I’ve got +a little starfish inside I’m going to try and tame.” + +“Oh, come on, you girls,” said the bull. “And mind—you’re not to look +at your cards. You’ve got to keep your hands under the table till I say +‘Go.’” + +Smack went the cards round the table. They tried with all their might +to see, but Pip was too quick for them. It was very exciting, sitting +there in the washhouse; it was all they could do not to burst into a +little chorus of animals before Pip had finished dealing. + +“Now, Lottie, you begin.” + +Timidly Lottie stretched out a hand, took the top card off her pack, +had a good look at it—it was plain she was counting the spots—and put +it down. + +“No, Lottie, you can’t do that. You mustn’t look first. You must turn +it the other way over.” + +“But then everybody will see it the same time as me,” said Lottie. + +The game proceeded. Mooe-ooo-er! The bull was terrible. He charged over +the table and seemed to eat the cards up. + +Bss-ss! said the bee. + +Cock-a-doodle-do! Isabel stood up in her excitement and moved her +elbows like wings. + +Baa! Little Rags put down the King of Diamonds and Lottie put down the +one they called the King of Spain. She had hardly any cards left. + +“Why don’t you call out, Lottie?” + +“I’ve forgotten what I am,” said the donkey woefully. + +“Well, change! Be a dog instead! Bow-wow!” + +“Oh yes. That’s _much_ easier.” Lottie smiled again. But when she and +Kezia both had a one Kezia waited on purpose. The others made signs to +Lottie and pointed. Lottie turned very red; she looked bewildered, and +at last she said, “Hee-haw! Ke-zia.” + +“Ss! Wait a minute!” They were in the very thick of it when the bull +stopped them, holding up his hand. “What’s that? What’s that noise?” + +“What noise? What do you mean?” asked the rooster. + +“Ss! Shut up! Listen!” They were mouse-still. “I thought I heard a—a +sort of knocking,” said the bull. + +“What was it like?” asked the sheep faintly. + +No answer. + +The bee gave a shudder. “Whatever did we shut the door for?” she said +softly. Oh, why, why had they shut the door? + +While they were playing, the day had faded; the gorgeous sunset had +blazed and died. And now the quick dark came racing over the sea, over +the sand-hills, up the paddock. You were frightened to look in the +corners of the washhouse, and yet you had to look with all your might. +And somewhere, far away, grandma was lighting a lamp. The blinds were +being pulled down; the kitchen fire leapt in the tins on the +mantelpiece. + +“It would be awful now,” said the bull, “if a spider was to fall from +the ceiling on to the table, wouldn’t it?” + +“Spiders don’t fall from ceilings.” + +“Yes, they do. Our Min told us she’d seen a spider as big as a saucer, +with long hairs on it like a gooseberry.” + +Quickly all the little heads were jerked up; all the little bodies drew +together, pressed together. + +“Why doesn’t somebody come and call us?” cried the rooster. + +Oh, those grown-ups, laughing and snug, sitting in the lamp-light, +drinking out of cups! They’d forgotten about them. No, not really +forgotten. That was what their smile meant. They had decided to leave +them there all by themselves. + +Suddenly Lottie gave such a piercing scream that all of them jumped off +the forms, all of them screamed too. “A face—a face looking!” shrieked +Lottie. + +It was true, it was real. Pressed against the window was a pale face, +black eyes, a black beard. + +“Grandma! Mother! Somebody!” + +But they had not got to the door, tumbling over one another, before it +opened for Uncle Jonathan. He had come to take the little boys home. + + +X + +He had meant to be there before, but in the front garden he had come +upon Linda walking up and down the grass, stopping to pick off a dead +pink or give a top-heavy carnation something to lean against, or to +take a deep breath of something, and then walking on again, with her +little air of remoteness. Over her white frock she wore a yellow, +pink-fringed shawl from the Chinaman’s shop. + +“Hallo, Jonathan!” called Linda. And Jonathan whipped off his shabby +panama, pressed it against his breast, dropped on one knee, and kissed +Linda’s hand. + +“Greeting, my Fair One! Greeting, my Celestial Peach Blossom!” boomed +the bass voice gently. “Where are the other noble dames?” + +“Beryl’s out playing bridge and mother’s giving the boy his bath.... +Have you come to borrow something?” + +The Trouts were for ever running out of things and sending across to +the Burnells’ at the last moment. + +But Jonathan only answered, “A little love, a little kindness;” and he +walked by his sister-in-law’s side. + +Linda dropped into Beryl’s hammock under the manuka-tree, and Jonathan +stretched himself on the grass beside her, pulled a long stalk and +began chewing it. They knew each other well. The voices of children +cried from the other gardens. A fisherman’s light cart shook along the +sandy road, and from far away they heard a dog barking; it was muffled +as though the dog had its head in a sack. If you listened you could +just hear the soft swish of the sea at full tide sweeping the pebbles. +The sun was sinking. + +“And so you go back to the office on Monday, do you, Jonathan?” asked +Linda. + +“On Monday the cage door opens and clangs to upon the victim for +another eleven months and a week,” answered Jonathan. + +Linda swung a little. “It must be awful,” she said slowly. + +“Would ye have me laugh, my fair sister? Would ye have me weep?” + +Linda was so accustomed to Jonathan’s way of talking that she paid no +attention to it. + +“I suppose,” she said vaguely, “one gets used to it. One gets used to +anything.” + +“Does one? Hum!” The “Hum” was so deep it seemed to boom from +underneath the ground. “I wonder how it’s done,” brooded Jonathan; +“I’ve never managed it.” + +Looking at him as he lay there, Linda thought again how attractive he +was. It was strange to think that he was only an ordinary clerk, that +Stanley earned twice as much money as he. What was the matter with +Jonathan? He had no ambition; she supposed that was it. And yet one +felt he was gifted, exceptional. He was passionately fond of music; +every spare penny he had went on books. He was always full of new +ideas, schemes, plans. But nothing came of it all. The new fire blazed +in Jonathan; you almost heard it roaring softly as he explained, +described and dilated on the new thing; but a moment later it had +fallen in and there was nothing but ashes, and Jonathan went about with +a look like hunger in his black eyes. At these times he exaggerated his +absurd manner of speaking, and he sang in church—he was the leader of +the choir—with such fearful dramatic intensity that the meanest hymn +put on an unholy splendour. + +“It seems to me just as imbecile, just as infernal, to have to go to +the office on Monday,” said Jonathan, “as it always has done and always +will do. To spend all the best years of one’s life sitting on a stool +from nine to five, scratching in somebody’s ledger! It’s a queer use to +make of one’s... one and only life, isn’t it? Or do I fondly dream?” He +rolled over on the grass and looked up at Linda. “Tell me, what is the +difference between my life and that of an ordinary prisoner. The only +difference I can see is that I put myself in jail and nobody’s ever +going to let me out. That’s a more intolerable situation than the +other. For if I’d been—pushed in, against my will—kicking, even—once +the door was locked, or at any rate in five years or so, I might have +accepted the fact and begun to take an interest in the flight of flies +or counting the warder’s steps along the passage with particular +attention to variations of tread and so on. But as it is, I’m like an +insect that’s flown into a room of its own accord. I dash against the +walls, dash against the windows, flop against the ceiling, do +everything on God’s earth, in fact, except fly out again. And all the +while I’m thinking, like that moth, or that butterfly, or whatever it +is, ‘The shortness of life! The shortness of life!’ I’ve only one night +or one day, and there’s this vast dangerous garden, waiting out there, +undiscovered, unexplored.” + +“But, if you feel like that, why—” began Linda quickly. + +“_Ah!_” cried Jonathan. And that “ah!” was somehow almost exultant. +“There you have me. Why? Why indeed? There’s the maddening, mysterious +question. Why don’t I fly out again? There’s the window or the door or +whatever it was I came in by. It’s not hopelessly shut—is it? Why don’t +I find it and be off? Answer me that, little sister.” But he gave her +no time to answer. + +“I’m exactly like that insect again. For some reason”—Jonathan paused +between the words—“it’s not allowed, it’s forbidden, it’s against the +insect law, to stop banging and flopping and crawling up the pane even +for an instant. Why don’t I leave the office? Why don’t I seriously +consider, this moment, for instance, what it is that prevents me +leaving? It’s not as though I’m tremendously tied. I’ve two boys to +provide for, but, after all, they’re boys. I could cut off to sea, or +get a job up-country, or—” Suddenly he smiled at Linda and said in a +changed voice, as if he were confiding a secret, “Weak... weak. No +stamina. No anchor. No guiding principle, let us call it.” But then the +dark velvety voice rolled out: + + Would ye hear the story + How it unfolds itself. . . + +and they were silent. + +The sun had set. In the western sky there were great masses of +crushed-up rose-coloured clouds. Broad beams of light shone through the +clouds and beyond them as if they would cover the whole sky. Overhead +the blue faded; it turned a pale gold, and the bush outlined against it +gleamed dark and brilliant like metal. Sometimes when those beams of +light show in the sky they are very awful. They remind you that up +there sits Jehovah, the jealous God, the Almighty, Whose eye is upon +you, ever watchful, never weary. You remember that at His coming the +whole earth will shake into one ruined graveyard; the cold, bright +angels will drive you this way and that, and there will be no time to +explain what could be explained so simply.... But to-night it seemed to +Linda there was something infinitely joyful and loving in those silver +beams. And now no sound came from the sea. It breathed softly as if it +would draw that tender, joyful beauty into its own bosom. + +“It’s all wrong, it’s all wrong,” came the shadowy voice of Jonathan. +“It’s not the scene, it’s not the setting for... three stools, three +desks, three inkpots and a wire blind.” + +Linda knew that he would never change, but she said, “Is it too late, +even now?” + +“I’m old—I’m old,” intoned Jonathan. He bent towards her, he passed his +hand over his head. “Look!” His black hair was speckled all over with +silver, like the breast plumage of a black fowl. + +Linda was surprised. She had no idea that he was grey. And yet, as he +stood up beside her and sighed and stretched, she saw him, for the +first time, not resolute, not gallant, not careless, but touched +already with age. He looked very tall on the darkening grass, and the +thought crossed her mind, “He is like a weed.” + +Jonathan stooped again and kissed her fingers. + +“Heaven reward thy sweet patience, lady mine,” he murmured. “I must go +seek those heirs to my fame and fortune....” He was gone. + + +XI + +Light shone in the windows of the bungalow. Two square patches of gold +fell upon the pinks and the peaked marigolds. Florrie, the cat, came +out on to the veranda, and sat on the top step, her white paws close +together, her tail curled round. She looked content, as though she had +been waiting for this moment all day. + +“Thank goodness, it’s getting late,” said Florrie. “Thank goodness, the +long day is over.” Her greengage eyes opened. + +Presently there sounded the rumble of the coach, the crack of Kelly’s +whip. It came near enough for one to hear the voices of the men from +town, talking loudly together. It stopped at the Burnells’ gate. + +Stanley was half-way up the path before he saw Linda. “Is that you, +darling?” + +“Yes, Stanley.” + +He leapt across the flower-bed and seized her in his arms. She was +enfolded in that familiar, eager, strong embrace. + +“Forgive me, darling, forgive me,” stammered Stanley, and he put his +hand under her chin and lifted her face to him. + +“Forgive you?” smiled Linda. “But whatever for?” + +“Good God! You can’t have forgotten,” cried Stanley Burnell. “I’ve +thought of nothing else all day. I’ve had the hell of a day. I made up +my mind to dash out and telegraph, and then I thought the wire mightn’t +reach you before I did. I’ve been in tortures, Linda.” + +“But, Stanley,” said Linda, “what must I forgive you for?” + +“Linda!”—Stanley was very hurt—“didn’t you realize—you must have +realized—I went away without saying good-bye to you this morning? I +can’t imagine how I can have done such a thing. My confounded temper, +of course. But—well”—and he sighed and took her in his arms again—“I’ve +suffered for it enough to-day.” + +“What’s that you’ve got in your hand?” asked Linda. “New gloves? Let me +see.” + +“Oh, just a cheap pair of wash-leather ones,” said Stanley humbly. “I +noticed Bell was wearing some in the coach this morning, so, as I was +passing the shop, I dashed in and got myself a pair. What are you +smiling at? You don’t think it was wrong of me, do you?” + +“On the _con_-trary, darling,” said Linda, “I think it was most +sensible.” + +She pulled one of the large, pale gloves on her own fingers and looked +at her hand, turning it this way and that. She was still smiling. + +Stanley wanted to say, “I was thinking of you the whole time I bought +them.” It was true, but for some reason he couldn’t say it. “Let’s go +in,” said he. + + +XII + +Why does one feel so different at night? Why is it so exciting to be +awake when everybody else is asleep? Late—it is very late! And yet +every moment you feel more and more wakeful, as though you were slowly, +almost with every breath, waking up into a new, wonderful, far more +thrilling and exciting world than the daylight one. And what is this +queer sensation that you’re a conspirator? Lightly, stealthily you move +about your room. You take something off the dressing-table and put it +down again without a sound. And everything, even the bed-post, knows +you, responds, shares your secret.... + +You’re not very fond of your room by day. You never think about it. +You’re in and out, the door opens and slams, the cupboard creaks. You +sit down on the side of your bed, change your shoes and dash out again. +A dive down to the glass, two pins in your hair, powder your nose and +off again. But now—it’s suddenly dear to you. It’s a darling little +funny room. It’s yours. Oh, what a joy it is to own things! Mine—my +own! + +“My very own for ever?” + +“Yes.” Their lips met. + +No, of course, that had nothing to do with it. That was all nonsense +and rubbish. But, in spite of herself, Beryl saw so plainly two people +standing in the middle of her room. Her arms were round his neck; he +held her. And now he whispered, “My beauty, my little beauty!” She +jumped off her bed, ran over to the window and kneeled on the +window-seat, with her elbows on the sill. But the beautiful night, the +garden, every bush, every leaf, even the white palings, even the stars, +were conspirators too. So bright was the moon that the flowers were +bright as by day; the shadow of the nasturtiums, exquisite lily-like +leaves and wide-open flowers, lay across the silvery veranda. The +manuka-tree, bent by the southerly winds, was like a bird on one leg +stretching out a wing. + +But when Beryl looked at the bush, it seemed to her the bush was sad. + +“We are dumb trees, reaching up in the night, imploring we know not +what,” said the sorrowful bush. + +It is true when you are by yourself and you think about life, it is +always sad. All that excitement and so on has a way of suddenly leaving +you, and it’s as though, in the silence, somebody called your name, and +you heard your name for the first time. “Beryl!” + +“Yes, I’m here. I’m Beryl. Who wants me?” + +“Beryl!” + +“Let me come.” + +It is lonely living by oneself. Of course, there are relations, +friends, heaps of them; but that’s not what she means. She wants some +one who will find the Beryl they none of them know, who will expect her +to be that Beryl always. She wants a lover. + +“Take me away from all these other people, my love. Let us go far away. +Let us live our life, all new, all ours, from the very beginning. Let +us make our fire. Let us sit down to eat together. Let us have long +talks at night.” + +And the thought was almost, “Save me, my love. Save me!” + +... “Oh, go on! Don’t be a prude, my dear. You enjoy yourself while +you’re young. That’s my advice.” And a high rush of silly laughter +joined Mrs. Harry Kember’s loud, indifferent neigh. + +You see, it’s so frightfully difficult when you’ve nobody. You’re so at +the mercy of things. You can’t just be rude. And you’ve always this +horror of seeming inexperienced and stuffy like the other ninnies at +the Bay. And—and it’s fascinating to know you’ve power over people. +Yes, that is fascinating.... + +Oh why, oh why doesn’t “he” come soon? + +If I go on living here, thought Beryl, anything may happen to me. + +“But how do you know he is coming at all?” mocked a small voice within +her. + +But Beryl dismissed it. She couldn’t be left. Other people, perhaps, +but not she. It wasn’t possible to think that Beryl Fairfield never +married, that lovely fascinating girl. + +“Do you remember Beryl Fairfield?” + +“Remember her! As if I could forget her! It was one summer at the Bay +that I saw her. She was standing on the beach in a blue”—no, +pink—“muslin frock, holding on a big cream”—no, black—“straw hat. But +it’s years ago now.” + +“She’s as lovely as ever, more so if anything.” + +Beryl smiled, bit her lip, and gazed over the garden. As she gazed, she +saw somebody, a man, leave the road, step along the paddock beside +their palings as if he was coming straight towards her. Her heart beat. +Who was it? Who could it be? It couldn’t be a burglar, certainly not a +burglar, for he was smoking and he strolled lightly. Beryl’s heart +leapt; it seemed to turn right over, and then to stop. She recognized +him. + +“Good evening, Miss Beryl,” said the voice softly. + +“Good evening.” + +“Won’t you come for a little walk?” it drawled. + +Come for a walk—at that time of night! “I couldn’t. Everybody’s in bed. +Everybody’s asleep.” + +“Oh,” said the voice lightly, and a whiff of sweet smoke reached her. +“What does everybody matter? Do come! It’s such a fine night. There’s +not a soul about.” + +Beryl shook her head. But already something stirred in her, something +reared its head. + +The voice said, “Frightened?” It mocked, “Poor little girl!” + +“Not in the least,” said she. As she spoke that weak thing within her +seemed to uncoil, to grow suddenly tremendously strong; she longed to +go! + +And just as if this was quite understood by the other, the voice said, +gently and softly, but finally, “Come along!” + +Beryl stepped over her low window, crossed the veranda, ran down the +grass to the gate. He was there before her. + +“That’s right,” breathed the voice, and it teased, “You’re not +frightened, are you? You’re not frightened?” + +She was; now she was here she was terrified, and it seemed to her +everything was different. The moonlight stared and glittered; the +shadows were like bars of iron. Her hand was taken. + +“Not in the least,” she said lightly. “Why should I be?” + +Her hand was pulled gently, tugged. She held back. + +“No, I’m not coming any farther,” said Beryl. + +“Oh, rot!” Harry Kember didn’t believe her. “Come along! We’ll just go +as far as that fuchsia bush. Come along!” + +The fuchsia bush was tall. It fell over the fence in a shower. There +was a little pit of darkness beneath. + +“No, really, I don’t want to,” said Beryl. + +For a moment Harry Kember didn’t answer. Then he came close to her, +turned to her, smiled and said quickly, “Don’t be silly! Don’t be +silly!” + +His smile was something she’d never seen before. Was he drunk? That +bright, blind, terrifying smile froze her with horror. What was she +doing? How had she got here? the stern garden asked her as the gate +pushed open, and quick as a cat Harry Kember came through and snatched +her to him. + +“Cold little devil! Cold little devil!” said the hateful voice. + +But Beryl was strong. She slipped, ducked, wrenched free. + +“You are vile, vile,” said she. + +“Then why in God’s name did you come?” stammered Harry Kember. + +Nobody answered him. + +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. + + + + +The Garden-Party + + +And after all the weather was ideal. They could not have had a more +perfect day for a garden-party if they had ordered it. Windless, warm, +the sky without a cloud. Only the blue was veiled with a haze of light +gold, as it is sometimes in early summer. The gardener had been up +since dawn, mowing the lawns and sweeping them, until the grass and the +dark flat rosettes where the daisy plants had been seemed to shine. As +for the roses, you could not help feeling they understood that roses +are the only flowers that impress people at garden-parties; the only +flowers that everybody is certain of knowing. Hundreds, yes, literally +hundreds, had come out in a single night; the green bushes bowed down +as though they had been visited by archangels. + +Breakfast was not yet over before the men came to put up the marquee. + +“Where do you want the marquee put, mother?” + +“My dear child, it’s no use asking me. I’m determined to leave +everything to you children this year. Forget I am your mother. Treat me +as an honoured guest.” + +But Meg could not possibly go and supervise the men. She had washed her +hair before breakfast, and she sat drinking her coffee in a green +turban, with a dark wet curl stamped on each cheek. Jose, the +butterfly, always came down in a silk petticoat and a kimono jacket. + +“You’ll have to go, Laura; you’re the artistic one.” + +Away Laura flew, still holding her piece of bread-and-butter. It’s so +delicious to have an excuse for eating out of doors, and besides, she +loved having to arrange things; she always felt she could do it so much +better than anybody else. + +Four men in their shirt-sleeves stood grouped together on the garden +path. They carried staves covered with rolls of canvas, and they had +big tool-bags slung on their backs. They looked impressive. Laura +wished now that she had not got the bread-and-butter, but there was +nowhere to put it, and she couldn’t possibly throw it away. She blushed +and tried to look severe and even a little bit short-sighted as she +came up to them. + +“Good morning,” she said, copying her mother’s voice. But that sounded +so fearfully affected that she was ashamed, and stammered like a little +girl, “Oh—er—have you come—is it about the marquee?” + +“That’s right, miss,” said the tallest of the men, a lanky, freckled +fellow, and he shifted his tool-bag, knocked back his straw hat and +smiled down at her. “That’s about it.” + +His smile was so easy, so friendly that Laura recovered. What nice eyes +he had, small, but such a dark blue! And now she looked at the others, +they were smiling too. “Cheer up, we won’t bite,” their smile seemed to +say. How very nice workmen were! And what a beautiful morning! She +mustn’t mention the morning; she must be business-like. The marquee. + +“Well, what about the lily-lawn? Would that do?” + +And she pointed to the lily-lawn with the hand that didn’t hold the +bread-and-butter. They turned, they stared in the direction. A little +fat chap thrust out his under-lip, and the tall fellow frowned. + +“I don’t fancy it,” said he. “Not conspicuous enough. You see, with a +thing like a marquee,” and he turned to Laura in his easy way, “you +want to put it somewhere where it’ll give you a bang slap in the eye, +if you follow me.” + +Laura’s upbringing made her wonder for a moment whether it was quite +respectful of a workman to talk to her of bangs slap in the eye. But +she did quite follow him. + +“A corner of the tennis-court,” she suggested. “But the band’s going to +be in one corner.” + +“H’m, going to have a band, are you?” said another of the workmen. He +was pale. He had a haggard look as his dark eyes scanned the +tennis-court. What was he thinking? + +“Only a very small band,” said Laura gently. Perhaps he wouldn’t mind +so much if the band was quite small. But the tall fellow interrupted. + +“Look here, miss, that’s the place. Against those trees. Over there. +That’ll do fine.” + +Against the karakas. Then the karaka-trees would be hidden. And they +were so lovely, with their broad, gleaming leaves, and their clusters +of yellow fruit. They were like trees you imagined growing on a desert +island, proud, solitary, lifting their leaves and fruits to the sun in +a kind of silent splendour. Must they be hidden by a marquee? + +They must. Already the men had shouldered their staves and were making +for the place. Only the tall fellow was left. He bent down, pinched a +sprig of lavender, put his thumb and forefinger to his nose and snuffed +up the smell. When Laura saw that gesture she forgot all about the +karakas in her wonder at him caring for things like that—caring for the +smell of lavender. How many men that she knew would have done such a +thing? Oh, how extraordinarily nice workmen were, she thought. Why +couldn’t she have workmen for her friends rather than the silly boys +she danced with and who came to Sunday night supper? She would get on +much better with men like these. + +It’s all the fault, she decided, as the tall fellow drew something on +the back of an envelope, something that was to be looped up or left to +hang, of these absurd class distinctions. Well, for her part, she +didn’t feel them. Not a bit, not an atom.... And now there came the +chock-chock of wooden hammers. Some one whistled, some one sang out, +“Are you right there, matey?” “Matey!” The friendliness of it, +the—the—Just to prove how happy she was, just to show the tall fellow +how at home she felt, and how she despised stupid conventions, Laura +took a big bite of her bread-and-butter as she stared at the little +drawing. She felt just like a work-girl. + +“Laura, Laura, where are you? Telephone, Laura!” a voice cried from the +house. + +“Coming!” Away she skimmed, over the lawn, up the path, up the steps, +across the veranda, and into the porch. In the hall her father and +Laurie were brushing their hats ready to go to the office. + +“I say, Laura,” said Laurie very fast, “you might just give a squiz at +my coat before this afternoon. See if it wants pressing.” + +“I will,” said she. Suddenly she couldn’t stop herself. She ran at +Laurie and gave him a small, quick squeeze. “Oh, I do love parties, +don’t you?” gasped Laura. + +“Ra-ther,” said Laurie’s warm, boyish voice, and he squeezed his sister +too, and gave her a gentle push. “Dash off to the telephone, old girl.” + +The telephone. “Yes, yes; oh yes. Kitty? Good morning, dear. Come to +lunch? Do, dear. Delighted of course. It will only be a very scratch +meal—just the sandwich crusts and broken meringue-shells and what’s +left over. Yes, isn’t it a perfect morning? Your white? Oh, I certainly +should. One moment—hold the line. Mother’s calling.” And Laura sat +back. “What, mother? Can’t hear.” + +Mrs. Sheridan’s voice floated down the stairs. “Tell her to wear that +sweet hat she had on last Sunday.” + +“Mother says you’re to wear that _sweet_ hat you had on last Sunday. +Good. One o’clock. Bye-bye.” + +Laura put back the receiver, flung her arms over her head, took a deep +breath, stretched and let them fall. “Huh,” she sighed, and the moment +after the sigh she sat up quickly. She was still, listening. All the +doors in the house seemed to be open. The house was alive with soft, +quick steps and running voices. The green baize door that led to the +kitchen regions swung open and shut with a muffled thud. And now there +came a long, chuckling absurd sound. It was the heavy piano being moved +on its stiff castors. But the air! If you stopped to notice, was the +air always like this? Little faint winds were playing chase, in at the +tops of the windows, out at the doors. And there were two tiny spots of +sun, one on the inkpot, one on a silver photograph frame, playing too. +Darling little spots. Especially the one on the inkpot lid. It was +quite warm. A warm little silver star. She could have kissed it. + +The front door bell pealed, and there sounded the rustle of Sadie’s +print skirt on the stairs. A man’s voice murmured; Sadie answered, +careless, “I’m sure I don’t know. Wait. I’ll ask Mrs Sheridan.” + +“What is it, Sadie?” Laura came into the hall. + +“It’s the florist, Miss Laura.” + +It was, indeed. There, just inside the door, stood a wide, shallow tray +full of pots of pink lilies. No other kind. Nothing but lilies—canna +lilies, big pink flowers, wide open, radiant, almost frighteningly +alive on bright crimson stems. + +“O-oh, Sadie!” said Laura, and the sound was like a little moan. She +crouched down as if to warm herself at that blaze of lilies; she felt +they were in her fingers, on her lips, growing in her breast. + +“It’s some mistake,” she said faintly. “Nobody ever ordered so many. +Sadie, go and find mother.” + +But at that moment Mrs. Sheridan joined them. + +“It’s quite right,” she said calmly. “Yes, I ordered them. Aren’t they +lovely?” She pressed Laura’s arm. “I was passing the shop yesterday, +and I saw them in the window. And I suddenly thought for once in my +life I shall have enough canna lilies. The garden-party will be a good +excuse.” + +“But I thought you said you didn’t mean to interfere,” said Laura. +Sadie had gone. The florist’s man was still outside at his van. She put +her arm round her mother’s neck and gently, very gently, she bit her +mother’s ear. + +“My darling child, you wouldn’t like a logical mother, would you? Don’t +do that. Here’s the man.” + +He carried more lilies still, another whole tray. + +“Bank them up, just inside the door, on both sides of the porch, +please,” said Mrs. Sheridan. “Don’t you agree, Laura?” + +“Oh, I _do_, mother.” + +In the drawing-room Meg, Jose and good little Hans had at last +succeeded in moving the piano. + +“Now, if we put this chesterfield against the wall and move everything +out of the room except the chairs, don’t you think?” + +“Quite.” + +“Hans, move these tables into the smoking-room, and bring a sweeper to +take these marks off the carpet and—one moment, Hans—” Jose loved +giving orders to the servants, and they loved obeying her. She always +made them feel they were taking part in some drama. “Tell mother and +Miss Laura to come here at once.” + +“Very good, Miss Jose.” + +She turned to Meg. “I want to hear what the piano sounds like, just in +case I’m asked to sing this afternoon. Let’s try over ‘This life is +Weary.’” + +_Pom!_ Ta-ta-ta _Tee_-ta! The piano burst out so passionately that +Jose’s face changed. She clasped her hands. She looked mournfully and +enigmatically at her mother and Laura as they came in. + + This Life is _Wee_-ary, + A Tear—a Sigh. + A Love that _Chan_-ges, + This Life is _Wee_-ary, + A Tear—a Sigh. + A Love that _Chan_-ges, + And then. . . Good-bye! + +But at the word “Good-bye,” and although the piano sounded more +desperate than ever, her face broke into a brilliant, dreadfully +unsympathetic smile. + +“Aren’t I in good voice, mummy?” she beamed. + + This Life is _Wee_-ary, + Hope comes to Die. + A Dream—a _Wa_-kening. + +But now Sadie interrupted them. “What is it, Sadie?” + +“If you please, m’m, cook says have you got the flags for the +sandwiches?” + +“The flags for the sandwiches, Sadie?” echoed Mrs. Sheridan dreamily. +And the children knew by her face that she hadn’t got them. “Let me +see.” And she said to Sadie firmly, “Tell cook I’ll let her have them +in ten minutes.” + +Sadie went. + +“Now, Laura,” said her mother quickly, “come with me into the +smoking-room. I’ve got the names somewhere on the back of an envelope. +You’ll have to write them out for me. Meg, go upstairs this minute and +take that wet thing off your head. Jose, run and finish dressing this +instant. Do you hear me, children, or shall I have to tell your father +when he comes home to-night? And—and, Jose, pacify cook if you do go +into the kitchen, will you? I’m terrified of her this morning.” + +The envelope was found at last behind the dining-room clock, though how +it had got there Mrs. Sheridan could not imagine. + +“One of you children must have stolen it out of my bag, because I +remember vividly—cream-cheese and lemon-curd. Have you done that?” + +“Yes.” + +“Egg and—” Mrs. Sheridan held the envelope away from her. “It looks +like mice. It can’t be mice, can it?” + +“Olive, pet,” said Laura, looking over her shoulder. + +“Yes, of course, olive. What a horrible combination it sounds. Egg and +olive.” + +They were finished at last, and Laura took them off to the kitchen. She +found Jose there pacifying the cook, who did not look at all +terrifying. + +“I have never seen such exquisite sandwiches,” said Jose’s rapturous +voice. “How many kinds did you say there were, cook? Fifteen?” + +“Fifteen, Miss Jose.” + +“Well, cook, I congratulate you.” + +Cook swept up crusts with the long sandwich knife, and smiled broadly. + +“Godber’s has come,” announced Sadie, issuing out of the pantry. She +had seen the man pass the window. + +That meant the cream puffs had come. Godber’s were famous for their +cream puffs. Nobody ever thought of making them at home. + +“Bring them in and put them on the table, my girl,” ordered cook. + +Sadie brought them in and went back to the door. Of course Laura and +Jose were far too grown-up to really care about such things. All the +same, they couldn’t help agreeing that the puffs looked very +attractive. Very. Cook began arranging them, shaking off the extra +icing sugar. + +“Don’t they carry one back to all one’s parties?” said Laura. + +“I suppose they do,” said practical Jose, who never liked to be carried +back. “They look beautifully light and feathery, I must say.” + +“Have one each, my dears,” said cook in her comfortable voice. “Yer ma +won’t know.” + +Oh, impossible. Fancy cream puffs so soon after breakfast. The very +idea made one shudder. All the same, two minutes later Jose and Laura +were licking their fingers with that absorbed inward look that only +comes from whipped cream. + +“Let’s go into the garden, out by the back way,” suggested Laura. “I +want to see how the men are getting on with the marquee. They’re such +awfully nice men.” + +But the back door was blocked by cook, Sadie, Godber’s man and Hans. + +Something had happened. + +“Tuk-tuk-tuk,” clucked cook like an agitated hen. Sadie had her hand +clapped to her cheek as though she had toothache. Hans’s face was +screwed up in the effort to understand. Only Godber’s man seemed to be +enjoying himself; it was his story. + +“What’s the matter? What’s happened?” + +“There’s been a horrible accident,” said Cook. “A man killed.” + +“A man killed! Where? How? When?” + +But Godber’s man wasn’t going to have his story snatched from under his +very nose. + +“Know those little cottages just below here, miss?” Know them? Of +course, she knew them. “Well, there’s a young chap living there, name +of Scott, a carter. His horse shied at a traction-engine, corner of +Hawke Street this morning, and he was thrown out on the back of his +head. Killed.” + +“Dead!” Laura stared at Godber’s man. + +“Dead when they picked him up,” said Godber’s man with relish. “They +were taking the body home as I come up here.” And he said to the cook, +“He’s left a wife and five little ones.” + +“Jose, come here.” Laura caught hold of her sister’s sleeve and dragged +her through the kitchen to the other side of the green baize door. +There she paused and leaned against it. “Jose!” she said, horrified, +“however are we going to stop everything?” + +“Stop everything, Laura!” cried Jose in astonishment. “What do you +mean?” + +“Stop the garden-party, of course.” Why did Jose pretend? + +But Jose was still more amazed. “Stop the garden-party? My dear Laura, +don’t be so absurd. Of course we can’t do anything of the kind. Nobody +expects us to. Don’t be so extravagant.” + +“But we can’t possibly have a garden-party with a man dead just outside +the front gate.” + +That really was extravagant, for the little cottages were in a lane to +themselves at the very bottom of a steep rise that led up to the house. +A broad road ran between. True, they were far too near. They were the +greatest possible eyesore, and they had no right to be in that +neighbourhood at all. They were little mean dwellings painted a +chocolate brown. In the garden patches there was nothing but cabbage +stalks, sick hens and tomato cans. The very smoke coming out of their +chimneys was poverty-stricken. Little rags and shreds of smoke, so +unlike the great silvery plumes that uncurled from the Sheridans’ +chimneys. Washerwomen lived in the lane and sweeps and a cobbler, and a +man whose house-front was studded all over with minute bird-cages. +Children swarmed. When the Sheridans were little they were forbidden to +set foot there because of the revolting language and of what they might +catch. But since they were grown up, Laura and Laurie on their prowls +sometimes walked through. It was disgusting and sordid. They came out +with a shudder. But still one must go everywhere; one must see +everything. So through they went. + +“And just think of what the band would sound like to that poor woman,” +said Laura. + +“Oh, Laura!” Jose began to be seriously annoyed. “If you’re going to +stop a band playing every time some one has an accident, you’ll lead a +very strenuous life. I’m every bit as sorry about it as you. I feel +just as sympathetic.” Her eyes hardened. She looked at her sister just +as she used to when they were little and fighting together. “You won’t +bring a drunken workman back to life by being sentimental,” she said +softly. + +“Drunk! Who said he was drunk?” Laura turned furiously on Jose. She +said, just as they had used to say on those occasions, “I’m going +straight up to tell mother.” + +“Do, dear,” cooed Jose. + +“Mother, can I come into your room?” Laura turned the big glass +door-knob. + +“Of course, child. Why, what’s the matter? What’s given you such a +colour?” And Mrs. Sheridan turned round from her dressing-table. She +was trying on a new hat. + +“Mother, a man’s been killed,” began Laura. + +“_Not_ in the garden?” interrupted her mother. + +“No, no!” + +“Oh, what a fright you gave me!” Mrs. Sheridan sighed with relief, and +took off the big hat and held it on her knees. + +“But listen, mother,” said Laura. Breathless, half-choking, she told +the dreadful story. “Of course, we can’t have our party, can we?” she +pleaded. “The band and everybody arriving. They’d hear us, mother; +they’re nearly neighbours!” + +To Laura’s astonishment her mother behaved just like Jose; it was +harder to bear because she seemed amused. She refused to take Laura +seriously. + +“But, my dear child, use your common sense. It’s only by accident we’ve +heard of it. If some one had died there normally—and I can’t understand +how they keep alive in those poky little holes—we should still be +having our party, shouldn’t we?” + +Laura had to say “yes” to that, but she felt it was all wrong. She sat +down on her mother’s sofa and pinched the cushion frill. + +“Mother, isn’t it terribly heartless of us?” she asked. + +“Darling!” Mrs. Sheridan got up and came over to her, carrying the hat. +Before Laura could stop her she had popped it on. “My child!” said her +mother, “the hat is yours. It’s made for you. It’s much too young for +me. I have never seen you look such a picture. Look at yourself!” And +she held up her hand-mirror. + +“But, mother,” Laura began again. She couldn’t look at herself; she +turned aside. + +This time Mrs. Sheridan lost patience just as Jose had done. + +“You are being very absurd, Laura,” she said coldly. “People like that +don’t expect sacrifices from us. And it’s not very sympathetic to spoil +everybody’s enjoyment as you’re doing now.” + +“I don’t understand,” said Laura, and she walked quickly out of the +room into her own bedroom. There, quite by chance, the first thing she +saw was this charming girl in the mirror, in her black hat trimmed with +gold daisies, and a long black velvet ribbon. Never had she imagined +she could look like that. Is mother right? she thought. And now she +hoped her mother was right. Am I being extravagant? Perhaps it was +extravagant. Just for a moment she had another glimpse of that poor +woman and those little children, and the body being carried into the +house. But it all seemed blurred, unreal, like a picture in the +newspaper. I’ll remember it again after the party’s over, she decided. +And somehow that seemed quite the best plan.... + +Lunch was over by half-past one. By half-past two they were all ready +for the fray. The green-coated band had arrived and was established in +a corner of the tennis-court. + +“My dear!” trilled Kitty Maitland, “aren’t they too like frogs for +words? You ought to have arranged them round the pond with the +conductor in the middle on a leaf.” + +Laurie arrived and hailed them on his way to dress. At the sight of him +Laura remembered the accident again. She wanted to tell him. If Laurie +agreed with the others, then it was bound to be all right. And she +followed him into the hall. + +“Laurie!” + +“Hallo!” He was half-way upstairs, but when he turned round and saw +Laura he suddenly puffed out his cheeks and goggled his eyes at her. +“My word, Laura! You do look stunning,” said Laurie. “What an +absolutely topping hat!” + +Laura said faintly “Is it?” and smiled up at Laurie, and didn’t tell +him after all. + +Soon after that people began coming in streams. The band struck up; the +hired waiters ran from the house to the marquee. Wherever you looked +there were couples strolling, bending to the flowers, greeting, moving +on over the lawn. They were like bright birds that had alighted in the +Sheridans’ garden for this one afternoon, on their way to—where? Ah, +what happiness it is to be with people who all are happy, to press +hands, press cheeks, smile into eyes. + +“Darling Laura, how well you look!” + +“What a becoming hat, child!” + +“Laura, you look quite Spanish. I’ve never seen you look so striking.” + +And Laura, glowing, answered softly, “Have you had tea? Won’t you have +an ice? The passion-fruit ices really are rather special.” She ran to +her father and begged him. “Daddy darling, can’t the band have +something to drink?” + +And the perfect afternoon slowly ripened, slowly faded, slowly its +petals closed. + +“Never a more delightful garden-party....” “The greatest success....” +“Quite the most....” + +Laura helped her mother with the good-byes. They stood side by side in +the porch till it was all over. + +“All over, all over, thank heaven,” said Mrs. Sheridan. “Round up the +others, Laura. Let’s go and have some fresh coffee. I’m exhausted. Yes, +it’s been very successful. But oh, these parties, these parties! Why +will you children insist on giving parties!” And they all of them sat +down in the deserted marquee. + +“Have a sandwich, daddy dear. I wrote the flag.” + +“Thanks.” Mr. Sheridan took a bite and the sandwich was gone. He took +another. “I suppose you didn’t hear of a beastly accident that happened +to-day?” he said. + +“My dear,” said Mrs. Sheridan, holding up her hand, “we did. It nearly +ruined the party. Laura insisted we should put it off.” + +“Oh, mother!” Laura didn’t want to be teased about it. + +“It was a horrible affair all the same,” said Mr. Sheridan. “The chap +was married too. Lived just below in the lane, and leaves a wife and +half a dozen kiddies, so they say.” + +An awkward little silence fell. Mrs. Sheridan fidgeted with her cup. +Really, it was very tactless of father.... + +Suddenly she looked up. There on the table were all those sandwiches, +cakes, puffs, all uneaten, all going to be wasted. She had one of her +brilliant ideas. + +“I know,” she said. “Let’s make up a basket. Let’s send that poor +creature some of this perfectly good food. At any rate, it will be the +greatest treat for the children. Don’t you agree? And she’s sure to +have neighbours calling in and so on. What a point to have it all ready +prepared. Laura!” She jumped up. “Get me the big basket out of the +stairs cupboard.” + +“But, mother, do you really think it’s a good idea?” said Laura. + +Again, how curious, she seemed to be different from them all. To take +scraps from their party. Would the poor woman really like that? + +“Of course! What’s the matter with you to-day? An hour or two ago you +were insisting on us being sympathetic, and now—” + +Oh well! Laura ran for the basket. It was filled, it was heaped by her +mother. + +“Take it yourself, darling,” said she. “Run down just as you are. No, +wait, take the arum lilies too. People of that class are so impressed +by arum lilies.” + +“The stems will ruin her lace frock,” said practical Jose. + +So they would. Just in time. “Only the basket, then. And, Laura!”—her +mother followed her out of the marquee—“don’t on any account—” + +“What mother?” + +No, better not put such ideas into the child’s head! “Nothing! Run +along.” + +It was just growing dusky as Laura shut their garden gates. A big dog +ran by like a shadow. The road gleamed white, and down below in the +hollow the little cottages were in deep shade. How quiet it seemed +after the afternoon. Here she was going down the hill to somewhere +where a man lay dead, and she couldn’t realize it. Why couldn’t she? +She stopped a minute. And it seemed to her that kisses, voices, +tinkling spoons, laughter, the smell of crushed grass were somehow +inside her. She had no room for anything else. How strange! She looked +up at the pale sky, and all she thought was, “Yes, it was the most +successful party.” + +Now the broad road was crossed. The lane began, smoky and dark. Women +in shawls and men’s tweed caps hurried by. Men hung over the palings; +the children played in the doorways. A low hum came from the mean +little cottages. In some of them there was a flicker of light, and a +shadow, crab-like, moved across the window. Laura bent her head and +hurried on. She wished now she had put on a coat. How her frock shone! +And the big hat with the velvet streamer—if only it was another hat! +Were the people looking at her? They must be. It was a mistake to have +come; she knew all along it was a mistake. Should she go back even now? + +No, too late. This was the house. It must be. A dark knot of people +stood outside. Beside the gate an old, old woman with a crutch sat in a +chair, watching. She had her feet on a newspaper. The voices stopped as +Laura drew near. The group parted. It was as though she was expected, +as though they had known she was coming here. + +Laura was terribly nervous. Tossing the velvet ribbon over her +shoulder, she said to a woman standing by, “Is this Mrs. Scott’s +house?” and the woman, smiling queerly, said, “It is, my lass.” + +Oh, to be away from this! She actually said, “Help me, God,” as she +walked up the tiny path and knocked. To be away from those staring +eyes, or to be covered up in anything, one of those women’s shawls +even. I’ll just leave the basket and go, she decided. I shan’t even +wait for it to be emptied. + +Then the door opened. A little woman in black showed in the gloom. + +Laura said, “Are you Mrs. Scott?” But to her horror the woman answered, +“Walk in please, miss,” and she was shut in the passage. + +“No,” said Laura, “I don’t want to come in. I only want to leave this +basket. Mother sent—” + +The little woman in the gloomy passage seemed not to have heard her. +“Step this way, please, miss,” she said in an oily voice, and Laura +followed her. + +She found herself in a wretched little low kitchen, lighted by a smoky +lamp. There was a woman sitting before the fire. + +“Em,” said the little creature who had let her in. “Em! It’s a young +lady.” She turned to Laura. She said meaningly, “I’m ’er sister, miss. +You’ll excuse ’er, won’t you?” + +“Oh, but of course!” said Laura. “Please, please don’t disturb her. I—I +only want to leave—” + +But at that moment the woman at the fire turned round. Her face, puffed +up, red, with swollen eyes and swollen lips, looked terrible. She +seemed as though she couldn’t understand why Laura was there. What did +it mean? Why was this stranger standing in the kitchen with a basket? +What was it all about? And the poor face puckered up again. + +“All right, my dear,” said the other. “I’ll thenk the young lady.” + +And again she began, “You’ll excuse her, miss, I’m sure,” and her face, +swollen too, tried an oily smile. + +Laura only wanted to get out, to get away. She was back in the passage. +The door opened. She walked straight through into the bedroom, where +the dead man was lying. + +“You’d like a look at ’im, wouldn’t you?” said Em’s sister, and she +brushed past Laura over to the bed. “Don’t be afraid, my lass,”—and now +her voice sounded fond and sly, and fondly she drew down the sheet—“’e +looks a picture. There’s nothing to show. Come along, my dear.” + +Laura came. + +There lay a young man, fast asleep—sleeping so soundly, so deeply, that +he was far, far away from them both. Oh, so remote, so peaceful. He was +dreaming. Never wake him up again. His head was sunk in the pillow, his +eyes were closed; they were blind under the closed eyelids. He was +given up to his dream. What did garden-parties and baskets and lace +frocks matter to him? He was far from all those things. He was +wonderful, beautiful. While they were laughing and while the band was +playing, this marvel had come to the lane. Happy... happy.... All is +well, said that sleeping face. This is just as it should be. I am +content. + +But all the same you had to cry, and she couldn’t go out of the room +without saying something to him. Laura gave a loud childish sob. + +“Forgive my hat,” she said. + +And this time she didn’t wait for Em’s sister. She found her way out of +the door, down the path, past all those dark people. At the corner of +the lane she met Laurie. + +He stepped out of the shadow. “Is that you, Laura?” + +“Yes.” + +“Mother was getting anxious. Was it all right?” + +“Yes, quite. Oh, Laurie!” She took his arm, she pressed up against him. + +“I say, you’re not crying, are you?” asked her brother. + +Laura shook her head. She was. + +Laurie put his arm round her shoulder. “Don’t cry,” he said in his +warm, loving voice. “Was it awful?” + +“No,” sobbed Laura. “It was simply marvellous. But Laurie—” She +stopped, she looked at her brother. “Isn’t life,” she stammered, “isn’t +life—” But what life was she couldn’t explain. No matter. He quite +understood. + +“_Isn’t_ it, darling?” said Laurie. + + + + +The Daughters of the Late Colonel + + +I + +The week after was one of the busiest weeks of their lives. Even when +they went to bed it was only their bodies that lay down and rested; +their minds went on, thinking things out, talking things over, +wondering, deciding, trying to remember where.... + +Constantia lay like a statue, her hands by her sides, her feet just +overlapping each other, the sheet up to her chin. She stared at the +ceiling. + +“Do you think father would mind if we gave his top-hat to the porter?” + +“The porter?” snapped Josephine. “Why ever the porter? What a very +extraordinary idea!” + +“Because,” said Constantia slowly, “he must often have to go to +funerals. And I noticed at—at the cemetery that he only had a bowler.” +She paused. “I thought then how very much he’d appreciate a top-hat. We +ought to give him a present, too. He was always very nice to father.” + +“But,” cried Josephine, flouncing on her pillow and staring across the +dark at Constantia, “father’s head!” And suddenly, for one awful +moment, she nearly giggled. Not, of course, that she felt in the least +like giggling. It must have been habit. Years ago, when they had stayed +awake at night talking, their beds had simply heaved. And now the +porter’s head, disappearing, popped out, like a candle, under father’s +hat.... The giggle mounted, mounted; she clenched her hands; she fought +it down; she frowned fiercely at the dark and said “Remember” terribly +sternly. + +“We can decide to-morrow,” she said. + +Constantia had noticed nothing; she sighed. + +“Do you think we ought to have our dressing-gowns dyed as well?” + +“Black?” almost shrieked Josephine. + +“Well, what else?” said Constantia. “I was thinking—it doesn’t seem +quite sincere, in a way, to wear black out of doors and when we’re +fully dressed, and then when we’re at home—” + +“But nobody sees us,” said Josephine. She gave the bedclothes such a +twitch that both her feet became uncovered, and she had to creep up the +pillows to get them well under again. + +“Kate does,” said Constantia. “And the postman very well might.” + +Josephine thought of her dark-red slippers, which matched her +dressing-gown, and of Constantia’s favourite indefinite green ones +which went with hers. Black! Two black dressing-gowns and two pairs of +black woolly slippers, creeping off to the bathroom like black cats. + +“I don’t think it’s absolutely necessary,” said she. + +Silence. Then Constantia said, “We shall have to post the papers with +the notice in them to-morrow to catch the Ceylon mail.... How many +letters have we had up till now?” + +“Twenty-three.” + +Josephine had replied to them all, and twenty-three times when she came +to “We miss our dear father so much” she had broken down and had to use +her handkerchief, and on some of them even to soak up a very light-blue +tear with an edge of blotting-paper. Strange! She couldn’t have put it +on—but twenty-three times. Even now, though, when she said over to +herself sadly “We miss our dear father _so_ much,” she could have cried +if she’d wanted to. + +“Have you got enough stamps?” came from Constantia. + +“Oh, how can I tell?” said Josephine crossly. “What’s the good of +asking me that now?” + +“I was just wondering,” said Constantia mildly. + +Silence again. There came a little rustle, a scurry, a hop. + +“A mouse,” said Constantia. + +“It can’t be a mouse because there aren’t any crumbs,” said Josephine. + +“But it doesn’t know there aren’t,” said Constantia. + +A spasm of pity squeezed her heart. Poor little thing! She wished she’d +left a tiny piece of biscuit on the dressing-table. It was awful to +think of it not finding anything. What would it do? + +“I can’t think how they manage to live at all,” she said slowly. + +“Who?” demanded Josephine. + +And Constantia said more loudly than she meant to, “Mice.” + +Josephine was furious. “Oh, what nonsense, Con!” she said. “What have +mice got to do with it? You’re asleep.” + +“I don’t think I am,” said Constantia. She shut her eyes to make sure. +She was. + +Josephine arched her spine, pulled up her knees, folded her arms so +that her fists came under her ears, and pressed her cheek hard against +the pillow. + + +II + +Another thing which complicated matters was they had Nurse Andrews +staying on with them that week. It was their own fault; they had asked +her. It was Josephine’s idea. On the morning—well, on the last morning, +when the doctor had gone, Josephine had said to Constantia, “Don’t you +think it would be rather nice if we asked Nurse Andrews to stay on for +a week as our guest?” + +“Very nice,” said Constantia. + +“I thought,” went on Josephine quickly, “I should just say this +afternoon, after I’ve paid her, ‘My sister and I would be very pleased, +after all you’ve done for us, Nurse Andrews, if you would stay on for a +week as our guest.’ I’d have to put that in about being our guest in +case—” + +“Oh, but she could hardly expect to be paid!” cried Constantia. + +“One never knows,” said Josephine sagely. + +Nurse Andrews had, of course, jumped at the idea. But it was a bother. +It meant they had to have regular sit-down meals at the proper times, +whereas if they’d been alone they could just have asked Kate if she +wouldn’t have minded bringing them a tray wherever they were. And +meal-times now that the strain was over were rather a trial. + +Nurse Andrews was simply fearful about butter. Really they couldn’t +help feeling that about butter, at least, she took advantage of their +kindness. And she had that maddening habit of asking for just an inch +more of bread to finish what she had on her plate, and then, at the +last mouthful, absent-mindedly—of course it wasn’t +absent-mindedly—taking another helping. Josephine got very red when +this happened, and she fastened her small, bead-like eyes on the +tablecloth as if she saw a minute strange insect creeping through the +web of it. But Constantia’s long, pale face lengthened and set, and she +gazed away—away—far over the desert, to where that line of camels +unwound like a thread of wool.... + +“When I was with Lady Tukes,” said Nurse Andrews, “she had such a +dainty little contrayvance for the buttah. It was a silvah Cupid +balanced on the—on the bordah of a glass dish, holding a tayny fork. +And when you wanted some buttah you simply pressed his foot and he bent +down and speared you a piece. It was quite a gayme.” + +Josephine could hardly bear that. But “I think those things are very +extravagant” was all she said. + +“But whey?” asked Nurse Andrews, beaming through her eyeglasses. “No +one, surely, would take more buttah than one wanted—would one?” + +“Ring, Con,” cried Josephine. She couldn’t trust herself to reply. + +And proud young Kate, the enchanted princess, came in to see what the +old tabbies wanted now. She snatched away their plates of mock +something or other and slapped down a white, terrified blancmange. + +“Jam, please, Kate,” said Josephine kindly. + +Kate knelt and burst open the sideboard, lifted the lid of the jam-pot, +saw it was empty, put it on the table, and stalked off. + +“I’m afraid,” said Nurse Andrews a moment later, “there isn’t any.” + +“Oh, what a bother!” said Josephine. She bit her lip. “What had we +better do?” + +Constantia looked dubious. “We can’t disturb Kate again,” she said +softly. + +Nurse Andrews waited, smiling at them both. Her eyes wandered, spying +at everything behind her eyeglasses. Constantia in despair went back to +her camels. Josephine frowned heavily—concentrated. If it hadn’t been +for this idiotic woman she and Con would, of course, have eaten their +blancmange without. Suddenly the idea came. + +“I know,” she said. “Marmalade. There’s some marmalade in the +sideboard. Get it, Con.” + +“I hope,” laughed Nurse Andrews—and her laugh was like a spoon tinkling +against a medicine-glass—“I hope it’s not very bittah marmalayde.” + + +III + +But, after all, it was not long now, and then she’d be gone for good. +And there was no getting over the fact that she had been very kind to +father. She had nursed him day and night at the end. Indeed, both +Constantia and Josephine felt privately she had rather overdone the not +leaving him at the very last. For when they had gone in to say good-bye +Nurse Andrews had sat beside his bed the whole time, holding his wrist +and pretending to look at her watch. It couldn’t have been necessary. +It was so tactless, too. Supposing father had wanted to say +something—something private to them. Not that he had. Oh, far from it! +He lay there, purple, a dark, angry purple in the face, and never even +looked at them when they came in. Then, as they were standing there, +wondering what to do, he had suddenly opened one eye. Oh, what a +difference it would have made, what a difference to their memory of +him, how much easier to tell people about it, if he had only opened +both! But no—one eye only. It glared at them a moment and then... went +out. + + +IV + +It had made it very awkward for them when Mr. Farolles, of St. John’s, +called the same afternoon. + +“The end was quite peaceful, I trust?” were the first words he said as +he glided towards them through the dark drawing-room. + +“Quite,” said Josephine faintly. They both hung their heads. Both of +them felt certain that eye wasn’t at all a peaceful eye. + +“Won’t you sit down?” said Josephine. + +“Thank you, Miss Pinner,” said Mr. Farolles gratefully. He folded his +coat-tails and began to lower himself into father’s arm-chair, but just +as he touched it he almost sprang up and slid into the next chair +instead. + +He coughed. Josephine clasped her hands; Constantia looked vague. + +“I want you to feel, Miss Pinner,” said Mr. Farolles, “and you, Miss +Constantia, that I’m trying to be helpful. I want to be helpful to you +both, if you will let me. These are the times,” said Mr Farolles, very +simply and earnestly, “when God means us to be helpful to one another.” + +“Thank you very much, Mr. Farolles,” said Josephine and Constantia. + +“Not at all,” said Mr. Farolles gently. He drew his kid gloves through +his fingers and leaned forward. “And if either of you would like a +little Communion, either or both of you, here _and_ now, you have only +to tell me. A little Communion is often very help—a great comfort,” he +added tenderly. + +But the idea of a little Communion terrified them. What! In the +drawing-room by themselves—with no—no altar or anything! The piano +would be much too high, thought Constantia, and Mr. Farolles could not +possibly lean over it with the chalice. And Kate would be sure to come +bursting in and interrupt them, thought Josephine. And supposing the +bell rang in the middle? It might be somebody important—about their +mourning. Would they get up reverently and go out, or would they have +to wait... in torture? + +“Perhaps you will send round a note by your good Kate if you would care +for it later,” said Mr. Farolles. + +“Oh yes, thank you very much!” they both said. + +Mr. Farolles got up and took his black straw hat from the round table. + +“And about the funeral,” he said softly. “I may arrange that—as your +dear father’s old friend and yours, Miss Pinner—and Miss Constantia?” + +Josephine and Constantia got up too. + +“I should like it to be quite simple,” said Josephine firmly, “and not +too expensive. At the same time, I should like—” + +“A good one that will last,” thought dreamy Constantia, as if Josephine +were buying a nightgown. But, of course, Josephine didn’t say that. +“One suitable to our father’s position.” She was very nervous. + +“I’ll run round to our good friend Mr. Knight,” said Mr. Farolles +soothingly. “I will ask him to come and see you. I am sure you will +find him very helpful indeed.” + + +V + +Well, at any rate, all that part of it was over, though neither of them +could possibly believe that father was never coming back. Josephine had +had a moment of absolute terror at the cemetery, while the coffin was +lowered, to think that she and Constantia had done this thing without +asking his permission. What would father say when he found out? For he +was bound to find out sooner or later. He always did. “Buried. You two +girls had me _buried_!” She heard his stick thumping. Oh, what would +they say? What possible excuse could they make? It sounded such an +appallingly heartless thing to do. Such a wicked advantage to take of a +person because he happened to be helpless at the moment. The other +people seemed to treat it all as a matter of course. They were +strangers; they couldn’t be expected to understand that father was the +very last person for such a thing to happen to. No, the entire blame +for it all would fall on her and Constantia. And the expense, she +thought, stepping into the tight-buttoned cab. When she had to show him +the bills. What would he say then? + +She heard him absolutely roaring. “And do you expect me to pay for this +gimcrack excursion of yours?” + +“Oh,” groaned poor Josephine aloud, “we shouldn’t have done it, Con!” + +And Constantia, pale as a lemon in all that blackness, said in a +frightened whisper, “Done what, Jug?” + +“Let them bu-bury father like that,” said Josephine, breaking down and +crying into her new, queer-smelling mourning handkerchief. + +“But what else could we have done?” asked Constantia wonderingly. “We +couldn’t have kept him, Jug—we couldn’t have kept him unburied. At any +rate, not in a flat that size.” + +Josephine blew her nose; the cab was dreadfully stuffy. + +“I don’t know,” she said forlornly. “It is all so dreadful. I feel we +ought to have tried to, just for a time at least. To make perfectly +sure. One thing’s certain”—and her tears sprang out again—“father will +never forgive us for this—never!” + + +VI + +Father would never forgive them. That was what they felt more than ever +when, two mornings later, they went into his room to go through his +things. They had discussed it quite calmly. It was even down on +Josephine’s list of things to be done. “_Go through father’s things and +settle about them._” But that was a very different matter from saying +after breakfast: + +“Well, are you ready, Con?” + +“Yes, Jug—when you are.” + +“Then I think we’d better get it over.” + +It was dark in the hall. It had been a rule for years never to disturb +father in the morning, whatever happened. And now they were going to +open the door without knocking even.... Constantia’s eyes were enormous +at the idea; Josephine felt weak in the knees. + +“You—you go first,” she gasped, pushing Constantia. + +But Constantia said, as she always had said on those occasions, “No, +Jug, that’s not fair. You’re the eldest.” + +Josephine was just going to say—what at other times she wouldn’t have +owned to for the world—what she kept for her very last weapon, “But +you’re the tallest,” when they noticed that the kitchen door was open, +and there stood Kate.... + +“Very stiff,” said Josephine, grasping the 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. + + +VII + +But the strain told on them when they were back in the dining-room. +They sat down, very shaky, and looked at each other. + +“I don’t feel I can settle to anything,” said Josephine, “until I’ve +had something. Do you think we could ask Kate for two cups of hot +water?” + +“I really don’t see why we shouldn’t,” said Constantia carefully. She +was quite normal again. “I won’t ring. I’ll go to the kitchen door and +ask her.” + +“Yes, do,” said Josephine, sinking down into a chair. “Tell her, just +two cups, Con, nothing else—on a tray.” + +“She needn’t even put the jug on, need she?” said Constantia, as though +Kate might very well complain if the jug had been there. + +“Oh no, certainly not! The jug’s not at all necessary. She can pour it +direct out of the kettle,” cried Josephine, feeling that would be a +labour-saving indeed. + +Their cold lips quivered at the greenish brims. Josephine curved her +small red hands round the cup; Constantia sat up and blew on the wavy +steam, making it flutter from one side to the other. + +“Speaking of Benny,” said Josephine. + +And though Benny hadn’t been mentioned Constantia immediately looked as +though he had. + +“He’ll expect us to send him something of father’s, of course. But it’s +so difficult to know what to send to Ceylon.” + +“You mean things get unstuck so on the voyage,” murmured Constantia. + +“No, lost,” said Josephine sharply. “You know there’s no post. Only +runners.” + +Both paused to watch a black man in white linen drawers running through +the pale fields for dear life, with a large brown-paper parcel in his +hands. Josephine’s black man was tiny; he scurried along glistening +like an ant. But there was something blind and tireless about +Constantia’s tall, thin fellow, which made him, she decided, a very +unpleasant person indeed.... On the veranda, dressed all in white and +wearing a cork helmet, stood Benny. His right hand shook up and down, +as father’s did when he was impatient. And behind him, not in the least +interested, sat Hilda, the unknown sister-in-law. She swung in a cane +rocker and flicked over the leaves of the _Tatler_. + +“I think his watch would be the most suitable present,” said Josephine. + +Constantia looked up; she seemed surprised. + +“Oh, would you trust a gold watch to a native?” + +“But of course, I’d disguise it,” said Josephine. “No one would know it +was a watch.” She liked the idea of having to make a parcel such a +curious shape that no one could possibly guess what it was. She even +thought for a moment of hiding the watch in a narrow cardboard +corset-box that she’d kept by her for a long time, waiting for it to +come in for something. It was such beautiful, firm cardboard. But, no, +it wouldn’t be appropriate for this occasion. It had lettering on it: +_Medium Women’s_ 28. _Extra Firm Busks._ It would be almost too much of +a surprise for Benny to open that and find father’s watch inside. + +“And of course it isn’t as though it would be going—ticking, I mean,” +said Constantia, who was still thinking of the native love of +jewellery. “At least,” she added, “it would be very strange if after +all that time it was.” + + +VIII + +Josephine made no reply. She had flown off on one of her tangents. She +had suddenly thought of Cyril. Wasn’t it more usual for the only +grandson to have the watch? And then dear Cyril was so appreciative, +and a gold watch meant so much to a young man. Benny, in all +probability, had quite got out of the habit of watches; men so seldom +wore waistcoats in those hot climates. Whereas Cyril in London wore +them from year’s end to year’s end. And it would be so nice for her and +Constantia, when he came to tea, to know it was there. “I see you’ve +got on grandfather’s watch, Cyril.” It would be somehow so +satisfactory. + +Dear boy! What a blow his sweet, sympathetic little note had been! Of +course they quite understood; but it was most unfortunate. + +“It would have been such a point, having him,” said Josephine. + +“And he would have enjoyed it so,” said Constantia, not thinking what +she was saying. + +However, as soon as he got back he was coming to tea with his aunties. +Cyril to tea was one of their rare treats. + +“Now, Cyril, you mustn’t be frightened of our cakes. Your Auntie Con +and I bought them at Buszard’s this morning. We know what a man’s +appetite is. So don’t be ashamed of making a good tea.” + +Josephine cut recklessly into the rich dark cake that stood for her +winter gloves or the soling and heeling of Constantia’s only +respectable shoes. But Cyril was most unmanlike in appetite. + +“I say, Aunt Josephine, I simply can’t. I’ve only just had lunch, you +know.” + +“Oh, Cyril, that can’t be true! It’s after four,” cried Josephine. +Constantia sat with her knife poised over the chocolate-roll. + +“It is, all the same,” said Cyril. “I had to meet a man at Victoria, +and he kept me hanging about till... there was only time to get lunch +and to come on here. And he gave me—phew”—Cyril put his hand to his +forehead—“a terrific blow-out,” he said. + +It was disappointing—to-day of all days. But still he couldn’t be +expected to know. + +“But you’ll have a meringue, won’t you, Cyril?” said Aunt Josephine. +“These meringues were bought specially for you. Your dear father was so +fond of them. We were sure you are, too.” + +“I _am_, Aunt Josephine,” cried Cyril ardently. “Do you mind if I take +half to begin with?” + +“Not at all, dear boy; but we mustn’t let you off with that.” + +“Is your dear father still so fond of meringues?” asked Auntie Con +gently. She winced faintly as she broke through the shell of hers. + +“Well, I don’t quite know, Auntie Con,” said Cyril breezily. + +At that they both looked up. + +“Don’t know?” almost snapped Josephine. “Don’t know a thing like that +about your own father, Cyril?” + +“Surely,” said Auntie Con softly. + +Cyril tried to laugh it off. “Oh, well,” he said, “it’s such a long +time since—” He faltered. He stopped. Their faces were too much for +him. + +“Even _so_,” said Josephine. + +And Auntie Con looked. + +Cyril put down his teacup. “Wait a bit,” he cried. “Wait a bit, Aunt +Josephine. What am I thinking of?” + +He looked up. They were beginning to brighten. Cyril slapped his knee. + +“Of course,” he said, “it was meringues. How could I have forgotten? +Yes, Aunt Josephine, you’re perfectly right. Father’s most frightfully +keen on meringues.” + +They didn’t only beam. Aunt Josephine went scarlet with pleasure; +Auntie Con gave a deep, deep sigh. + +“And now, Cyril, you must come and see father,” said Josephine. “He +knows you were coming to-day.” + +“Right,” said Cyril, very firmly and heartily. He got up from his +chair; suddenly he glanced at the clock. + +“I say, Auntie Con, isn’t your clock a bit slow? I’ve got to meet a man +at—at Paddington just after five. I’m afraid I shan’t be able to stay +very long with grandfather.” + +“Oh, he won’t expect you to stay _very_ long!” said Aunt Josephine. + +Constantia was still gazing at the clock. She couldn’t make up her mind +if it was fast or slow. It was one or the other, she felt almost +certain of that. At any rate, it had been. + +Cyril still lingered. “Aren’t you coming along, Auntie Con?” + +“Of course,” said Josephine, “we shall all go. Come on, Con.” + + +IX + +They knocked at the door, and Cyril followed his aunts into +grandfather’s hot, sweetish room. + +“Come on,” said Grandfather Pinner. “Don’t hang about. What is it? +What’ve you been up to?” + +He was sitting in front of a roaring fire, clasping his stick. He had a +thick rug over his knees. On his lap there lay a beautiful pale yellow +silk handkerchief. + +“It’s Cyril, father,” said Josephine shyly. And she took Cyril’s hand +and led him forward. + +“Good afternoon, grandfather,” said Cyril, trying to take his hand out +of Aunt Josephine’s. Grandfather Pinner shot his eyes at Cyril in the +way he was famous for. Where was Auntie Con? She stood on the other +side of Aunt Josephine; her long arms hung down in front of her; her +hands were clasped. She never took her eyes off grandfather. + +“Well,” said Grandfather Pinner, beginning to thump, “what have you got +to tell me?” + +What had he, what had he got to tell him? Cyril felt himself smiling +like a perfect imbecile. The room was stifling, too. + +But Aunt Josephine came to his rescue. She cried brightly, “Cyril says +his father is still very fond of meringues, father dear.” + +“Eh?” said Grandfather Pinner, curving his hand like a purple +meringue-shell over one ear. + +Josephine repeated, “Cyril says his father is still very fond of +meringues.” + +“Can’t hear,” said old Colonel Pinner. And he waved Josephine away with +his stick, then pointed with his stick to Cyril. “Tell me what she’s +trying to say,” he said. + +(My God!) “Must I?” said Cyril, blushing and staring at Aunt Josephine. + +“Do, dear,” she smiled. “It will please him so much.” + +“Come on, out with it!” cried Colonel Pinner testily, beginning to +thump again. + +And Cyril leaned forward and yelled, “Father’s still very fond of +meringues.” + +At that Grandfather Pinner jumped as though he had been shot. + +“Don’t shout!” he cried. “What’s the matter with the boy? _Meringues!_ +What about ’em?” + +“Oh, Aunt Josephine, must we go on?” groaned Cyril desperately. + +“It’s quite all right, dear boy,” said Aunt Josephine, as though he and +she were at the dentist’s together. “He’ll understand in a minute.” And +she whispered to Cyril, “He’s getting a bit deaf, you know.” Then she +leaned forward and really bawled at Grandfather Pinner, “Cyril only +wanted to tell you, father dear, that _his_ father is still very fond +of meringues.” + +Colonel Pinner heard that time, heard and brooded, looking Cyril up and +down. + +“What an esstrordinary thing!” said old Grandfather Pinner. “What an +esstrordinary thing to come all this way here to tell me!” + +And Cyril felt it _was_. + + +“Yes, I shall send Cyril the watch,” said Josephine. + +“That would be very nice,” said Constantia. “I seem to remember last +time he came there was some little trouble about the time.” + + +X + +They were interrupted by Kate bursting through the door in her usual +fashion, as though she had discovered some secret panel in the wall. + +“Fried or boiled?” asked the bold voice. + +Fried or boiled? Josephine and Constantia were quite bewildered for the +moment. They could hardly take it in. + +“Fried or boiled what, Kate?” asked Josephine, trying to begin to +concentrate. + +Kate gave a loud sniff. “Fish.” + +“Well, why didn’t you say so immediately?” Josephine reproached her +gently. “How could you expect us to understand, Kate? There are a great +many things in this world you know, which are fried or boiled.” And +after such a display of courage she said quite brightly to Constantia, +“Which do you prefer, Con?” + +“I think it might be nice to have it fried,” said Constantia. “On the +other hand, of course, boiled fish is very nice. I think I prefer both +equally well.... Unless you.... In that case—” + +“I shall fry it,” said Kate, and she bounced back, leaving their door +open and slamming the door of her kitchen. + +Josephine gazed at Constantia; she raised her pale eyebrows until they +rippled away into her pale hair. She got up. She said in a very lofty, +imposing way, “Do you mind following me into the drawing-room, +Constantia? I’ve got something of great importance to discuss with +you.” + +For it was always to the drawing-room they retired when they wanted to +talk over Kate. + +Josephine closed the door meaningly. “Sit down, Constantia,” she said, +still very grand. She might have been receiving Constantia for the +first time. And Con looked round vaguely for a chair, as though she +felt indeed quite a stranger. + +“Now the question is,” said Josephine, bending forward, “whether we +shall keep her or not.” + +“That is the question,” agreed Constantia. + +“And this time,” said Josephine firmly, “we must come to a definite +decision.” + +Constantia looked for a moment as though she might begin going over all +the other times, but she pulled herself together and said, “Yes, Jug.” + +“You see, Con,” explained Josephine, “everything is so changed now.” +Constantia looked up quickly. “I mean,” went on Josephine, “we’re not +dependent on Kate as we were.” And she blushed faintly. “There’s not +father to cook for.” + +“That is perfectly true,” agreed Constantia. “Father certainly doesn’t +want any cooking now, whatever else—” + +Josephine broke in sharply, “You’re not sleepy, are you, Con?” + +“Sleepy, Jug?” Constantia was wide-eyed. + +“Well, concentrate more,” said Josephine sharply, and she returned to +the subject. “What it comes to is, if we did”—and this she barely +breathed, glancing at the door—“give Kate notice”—she raised her voice +again—“we could manage our own food.” + +“Why not?” cried Constantia. She couldn’t help smiling. The idea was so +exciting. She clasped her hands. “What should we live on, Jug?” + +“Oh, eggs in various forms!” said Jug, lofty again. “And, besides, +there are all the cooked foods.” + +“But I’ve always heard,” said Constantia, “they are considered so very +expensive.” + +“Not if one buys them in moderation,” said Josephine. But she tore +herself away from this fascinating bypath and dragged Constantia after +her. + +“What we’ve got to decide now, however, is whether we really do trust +Kate or not.” + +Constantia leaned back. Her flat little laugh flew from her lips. + +“Isn’t it curious, Jug,” said she, “that just on this one subject I’ve +never been able to quite make up my mind?” + + +XI + +She never had. The whole difficulty was to prove anything. How did one +prove things, how could one? Suppose Kate had stood in front of her and +deliberately made a face. Mightn’t she very well have been in pain? +Wasn’t it impossible, at any rate, to ask Kate if she was making a face +at her? If Kate answered “No”—and, of course, she would say “No”—what a +position! How undignified! Then again Constantia suspected, she was +almost certain that Kate went to her chest of drawers when she and +Josephine were out, not to take things but to spy. Many times she had +come back to find her amethyst cross in the most unlikely places, under +her lace ties or on top of her evening Bertha. More than once she had +laid a trap for Kate. She had arranged things in a special order and +then called Josephine to witness. + +“You see, Jug?” + +“Quite, Con.” + +“Now we shall be able to tell.” + +But, oh dear, when she did go to look, she was as far off from a proof +as ever! If anything was displaced, it might so very well have happened +as she closed the drawer; a jolt might have done it so easily. + +“You come, Jug, and decide. I really can’t. It’s too difficult.” + +But after a pause and a long glare Josephine would sigh, “Now you’ve +put the doubt into my mind, Con, I’m sure I can’t tell myself.” + + +“Well, we can’t postpone it again,” said Josephine. “If we postpone it +this time—” + + +XII + +But at that moment in the street below a barrel-organ struck up. +Josephine and Constantia sprang to their feet together. + +“Run, Con,” said Josephine. “Run quickly. There’s sixpence on the—” + +Then they remembered. It didn’t matter. They would never have to stop +the organ-grinder again. Never again would she and Constantia be told +to make that monkey take his noise somewhere else. Never would sound +that loud, strange bellow when father thought they were not hurrying +enough. The organ-grinder might play there all day and the stick would +not thump. + + It never will thump again, + It never will thump again, + +played the barrel-organ. + +What was Constantia thinking? She had such a strange smile; she looked +different. She couldn’t be going to cry. + +“Jug, Jug,” said Constantia softly, pressing her hands together. “Do +you know what day it is? It’s Saturday. It’s a week to-day, a whole +week.” + + A week since father died, + A week since father died, + +cried the barrel-organ. And Josephine, too, forgot to be practical and +sensible; she smiled faintly, strangely. On the Indian carpet there +fell a square of sunlight, pale red; it came and went and came—and +stayed, deepened—until it shone almost golden. + +“The sun’s out,” said Josephine, as though it really mattered. + +A perfect fountain of bubbling notes shook from the barrel-organ, +round, bright notes, carelessly scattered. + +Constantia lifted her big, cold hands as if to catch them, and then her +hands fell again. She walked over to the mantelpiece to her favourite +Buddha. And the stone and gilt image, whose smile always gave her such +a queer feeling, almost a pain and yet a pleasant pain, seemed to-day +to be more than smiling. He knew something; he had a secret. “I know +something that you don’t know,” said her Buddha. Oh, what was it, what +could it be? And yet she had always felt there was... something. + +The sunlight pressed through the windows, thieved its way in, flashed +its light over the furniture and the photographs. Josephine watched it. +When it came to mother’s photograph, the enlargement over the piano, it +lingered as though puzzled to find so little remained of mother, except +the earrings shaped like tiny pagodas and a black feather boa. Why did +the photographs of dead people always fade so? wondered Josephine. As +soon as a person was dead their photograph died too. But, of course, +this one of mother was very old. It was thirty-five years old. +Josephine remembered standing on a chair and pointing out that feather +boa to Constantia and telling her that it was a snake that had killed +their mother in Ceylon.... Would everything have been different if +mother hadn’t died? She didn’t see why. Aunt Florence had lived with +them until they had left school, and they had moved three times and had +their yearly holiday and... and there’d been changes of servants, of +course. + +Some little sparrows, young sparrows they sounded, chirped on the +window-ledge. _Yeep—eyeep—yeep._ But Josephine felt they were not +sparrows, not on the window-ledge. It was inside her, that queer little +crying noise. _Yeep—eyeep—yeep._ Ah, what was it crying, so weak and +forlorn? + +If mother had lived, might they have married? But there had been nobody +for them to marry. There had been father’s Anglo-Indian friends before +he quarrelled with them. But after that she and Constantia never met a +single man except clergymen. How did one meet men? Or even if they’d +met them, how could they have got to know men well enough to be more +than strangers? One read of people having adventures, being followed, +and so on. But nobody had ever followed Constantia and her. Oh yes, +there had been one year at Eastbourne a mysterious man at their +boarding-house who had put a note on the jug of hot water outside their +bedroom door! But by the time Connie had found it the steam had made +the writing too faint to read; they couldn’t even make out to which of +them it was addressed. And he had left next day. And that was all. The +rest had been looking after father, and at the same time keeping out of +father’s way. But now? But now? The thieving sun touched Josephine +gently. She lifted her face. She was drawn over to the window by gentle +beams.... + +Until the barrel-organ stopped playing Constantia stayed before the +Buddha, wondering, but not as usual, not vaguely. This time her wonder +was like longing. She remembered the times she had come in here, crept +out of bed in her nightgown when the moon was full, and lain on the +floor with her arms outstretched, as though she was crucified. Why? The +big, pale moon had made her do it. The horrible dancing figures on the +carved screen had leered at her and she hadn’t minded. She remembered +too how, whenever they were at the seaside, she had gone off by herself +and got as close to the sea as she could, and sung something, something +she had made up, while she gazed all over that restless water. There +had been this other life, running out, bringing things home in bags, +getting things on approval, discussing them with Jug, and taking them +back to get more things on approval, and arranging father’s trays and +trying not to annoy father. But it all seemed to have happened in a +kind of tunnel. It wasn’t real. It was only when she came out of the +tunnel into the moonlight or by the sea or into a thunderstorm that she +really felt herself. What did it mean? What was it she was always +wanting? What did it all lead to? Now? Now? + +She turned away from the Buddha with one of her vague gestures. She +went over to where Josephine was standing. She wanted to say something +to Josephine, something frightfully important, about—about the future +and what.... + +“Don’t you think perhaps—” she began. + +But Josephine interrupted her. “I was wondering if now—” she murmured. +They stopped; they waited for each other. + +“Go on, Con,” said Josephine. + +“No, no, Jug; after you,” said Constantia. + +“No, say what you were going to say. You began,” said Josephine. + +“I... I’d rather hear what you were going to say first,” said +Constantia. + +“Don’t be absurd, Con.” + +“Really, Jug.” + +“Connie!” + +“Oh, _Jug_!” + +A pause. Then Constantia said faintly, “I can’t say what I was going to +say, Jug, because I’ve forgotten what it was... that I was going to +say.” + +Josephine was silent for a moment. She stared at a big cloud where the +sun had been. Then she replied shortly, “I’ve forgotten too.” + + + + +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 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 ducklings, sailing +over the forest. There was just enough wind to shake the last drops off +the trees; one warm star splashed on his hand. Ping!—another drummed on +his hat. The empty road gleamed, the hedges smelled of briar, and how +big and bright the hollyhocks glowed in the cottage gardens. And here +was Colonel Proctor’s—here it was already. His hand was on the gate, +his elbow jogged the syringa bushes, and petals and pollen scattered +over his coat sleeve. But wait a bit. This was too quick altogether. +He’d meant to think the whole thing out again. Here, steady. But he was +walking up the path, with the huge rose bushes on either side. It can’t +be done like this. But his hand had grasped the bell, given it a pull, +and started it pealing wildly, as if he’d come to say the house was on +fire. The housemaid must have been in the hall, too, for the front door +flashed open, and Reggie was shut in the empty drawing-room before that +confounded bell had stopped ringing. Strangely enough, when it did, the +big room, shadowy, with some one’s parasol lying on top of the grand +piano, bucked him up—or rather, excited him. It was so quiet, and yet +in one moment the door would open, and his fate be decided. The feeling +was not unlike that of being at the dentist’s; he was almost reckless. +But at the same time, to his immense surprise, Reggie heard himself +saying, “Lord, Thou knowest, Thou hast not done _much_ for me....” That +pulled him up; that made him realize again how dead serious it was. Too +late. The door handle turned. Anne came in, crossed the shadowy space +between them, gave him her hand, and said, in her small, soft voice, +“I’m so sorry, father is out. And mother is having a day in town, +hat-hunting. There’s only me to entertain you, Reggie.” + +Reggie gasped, pressed his own hat to his jacket buttons, and stammered +out, “As a matter of fact, I’ve only come... to say good-bye.” + +“Oh!” cried Anne softly—she stepped back from him and her grey eyes +danced—“what a _very_ short visit!” + +Then, watching him, her chin tilted, she laughed outright, a long, soft +peal, and walked away from him over to the piano, and leaned against +it, playing with the tassel of the parasol. + +“I’m so sorry,” she said, “to be laughing like this. I don’t know why I +do. It’s just a bad ha-habit.” And suddenly she stamped her grey shoe, +and took a pocket-handkerchief out of her white woolly jacket. “I +really must conquer it, it’s too absurd,” said she. + +“Good heavens, Anne,” cried Reggie, “I love to hear you laughing! I +can’t imagine anything more—” + +But the truth was, and they both knew it, she wasn’t always laughing; +it wasn’t really a habit. Only ever since the day they’d met, ever +since that very first moment, for some strange reason that Reggie +wished to God he understood, Anne had laughed at him. Why? It didn’t +matter where they were or what they were talking about. They might +begin by being as serious as possible, dead serious—at any rate, as far +as he was concerned—but then suddenly, in the middle of a sentence, +Anne would glance at him, and a little quick quiver passed over her +face. Her lips parted, her eyes danced, and she began laughing. + +Another queer thing about it was, Reggie had an idea she didn’t herself +know why she laughed. He had seen her turn away, frown, suck in her +cheeks, press her hands together. But it was no use. The long, soft +peal sounded, even while she cried, “I don’t know why I’m laughing.” It +was a mystery.... + +Now she tucked the handkerchief away. + +“Do sit down,” said she. “And smoke, won’t you? There are cigarettes in +that little box beside you. I’ll have one too.” He lighted a match for +her, and as she bent forward he saw the tiny flame glow in the pearl +ring she wore. “It is to-morrow that you’re going, isn’t it?” said +Anne. + +“Yes, to-morrow as ever was,” said Reggie, and he blew a little fan of +smoke. Why on earth was he so nervous? Nervous wasn’t the word for it. + +“It’s—it’s frightfully hard to believe,” he added. + +“Yes—isn’t it?” said Anne softly, and she leaned forward and rolled the +point of her cigarette round the green ash-tray. How beautiful she +looked like that!—simply beautiful—and she was so small in that immense +chair. Reginald’s heart swelled with tenderness, but it was her voice, +her soft voice, that made him tremble. “I feel you’ve been here for +years,” she said. + +Reginald took a deep breath of his cigarette. “It’s ghastly, this idea +of going back,” he said. + +“_Coo-roo-coo-coo-coo_,” sounded from the quiet. + +“But you’re fond of being out there, aren’t you?” said Anne. She hooked +her finger through her pearl necklace. “Father was saying only the +other night how lucky he thought you were to have a life of your own.” +And she looked up at him. Reginald’s smile was rather wan. “I don’t +feel fearfully lucky,” he said lightly. + +“_Roo-coo-coo-coo_,” came again. And Anne murmured, “You mean it’s +lonely.” + +“Oh, it isn’t the loneliness I care about,” said Reginald, and he +stumped his cigarette savagely on the green ash-tray. “I could stand +any amount of it, used to like it even. It’s the idea of—” Suddenly, to +his horror, he felt himself blushing. + +“_Roo-coo-coo-coo! Roo-coo-coo-coo!_” + +Anne jumped up. “Come and say good-bye to my doves,” she said. “They’ve +been moved to the side veranda. You do like doves, don’t you, Reggie?” + +“Awfully,” said Reggie, so fervently that as he opened the French +window for her and stood to one side, Anne ran forward and laughed at +the doves instead. + +To and fro, to and fro over the fine red sand on the floor of the dove +house, walked the two doves. One was always in front of the other. One +ran forward, uttering a little cry, and the other followed, solemnly +bowing and bowing. “You see,” explained Anne, “the one in front, she’s +Mrs. Dove. She looks at Mr. Dove and gives that little laugh and runs +forward, and he follows her, bowing and bowing. And that makes her +laugh again. Away she runs, and after her,” cried Anne, and she sat +back on her heels, “comes poor Mr. Dove, bowing and bowing... and +that’s their whole life. They never do anything else, you know.” She +got up and took some yellow grains out of a bag on the roof of the dove +house. “When you think of them, out in Rhodesia, Reggie, you can be +sure that is what they will be doing....” + +Reggie gave no sign of having seen the doves or of having heard a word. +For the moment he was conscious only of the immense effort it took to +tear his secret out of himself and offer it to Anne. “Anne, do you +think you could ever care for me?” It was done. It was over. And in the +little pause that followed Reginald saw the garden open to the light, +the blue quivering sky, the flutter of leaves on the veranda poles, and +Anne turning over the grains of maize on her palm with one finger. Then +slowly she shut her hand, and the new world faded as she murmured +slowly, “No, never in that way.” But he had scarcely time to feel +anything before she walked quickly away, and he followed her down the +steps, along the garden path, under the pink rose arches, across the +lawn. There, with the gay herbaceous border behind her, Anne faced +Reginald. “It isn’t that I’m not awfully fond of you,” she said. “I am. +But”—her eyes widened—“not in the way”—a quiver passed over her +face—“one ought to be fond of—” Her lips parted, and she couldn’t stop +herself. She began laughing. “There, you see, you see,” she cried, +“it’s your check t-tie. Even at this moment, when one would think one +really would be solemn, your tie reminds me fearfully of the bow-tie +that cats wear in pictures! Oh, please forgive me for being so horrid, +please!” + +Reggie caught hold of her little warm hand. “There’s no question of +forgiving you,” he said quickly. “How could there be? And I do believe +I know why I make you laugh. It’s because you’re so far above me in +every way that I am somehow ridiculous. I see that, Anne. But if I were +to—” + +“No, no.” Anne squeezed his hand hard. “It’s not that. That’s all +wrong. I’m not far above you at all. You’re much better than I am. +You’re marvellously unselfish and... and kind and simple. I’m none of +those things. You don’t know me. I’m the most awful character,” said +Anne. “Please don’t interrupt. And besides, that’s not the point. The +point is”—she shook her head—“I couldn’t possibly marry a man I laughed +at. Surely you see that. The man I marry—” breathed Anne softly. She +broke off. She drew her hand away, and looking at Reggie she smiled +strangely, dreamily. “The man I marry—” + +And it seemed to Reggie that a tall, handsome, brilliant stranger +stepped in front of him and took his place—the kind of man that Anne +and he had seen often at the theatre, walking on to the stage from +nowhere, without a word catching the heroine in his arms, and after one +long, tremendous look, carrying her off to anywhere.... + +Reggie bowed to his vision. “Yes, I see,” he said huskily. + +“Do you?” said Anne. “Oh, I do hope you do. Because I feel so horrid +about it. It’s so hard to explain. You know I’ve never—” She stopped. +Reggie looked at her. She was smiling. “Isn’t it funny?” she said. “I +can say anything to you. I always have been able to from the very +beginning.” + +He tried to smile, to say “I’m glad.” She went on. “I’ve never known +anyone I like as much as I like you. I’ve never felt so happy with +anyone. 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. + + + + +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 Privée_—and she wants me to go +back with her while the luck lasts. Of course I can’t leave—her. But if +you’d—” + +At that “she” looked up; she simply withered her mother. “Why can’t you +leave me?” she said furiously. “What utter rot! How dare you make a +scene like this? This is the last time I’ll come out with you. You +really are too awful for words.” She looked her mother up and down. +“Calm yourself,” she said superbly. + +Mrs. Raddick was desperate, just desperate. She was “wild” to go back +with Mrs. MacEwen, but at the same time.... + +I seized my courage. “Would you—do you care to come to tea with—us?” + +“Yes, yes, she’ll be delighted. That’s just what I wanted, isn’t it, +darling? Mrs. MacEwen... I’ll be back here in an hour... or less... +I’ll—” + +Mrs. R. dashed up the steps. I saw her bag was open again. + +So we three were left. But really it wasn’t my fault. Hennie looked +crushed to the earth, too. When the car was there she wrapped her dark +coat round her—to escape contamination. Even her little feet looked as +though they scorned to carry her down the steps to us. + +“I am so awfully sorry,” I murmured as the car started. + +“Oh, I don’t _mind_,” said she. “I don’t _want_ to look twenty-one. Who +would—if they were seventeen! It’s”—and she gave a faint shudder—“the +stupidity I loathe, and being stared at by old fat men. Beasts!” + +Hennie gave her a quick look and then peered out of the window. + +We drew up before an immense palace of pink-and-white marble with +orange-trees outside the doors in gold-and-black tubs. + +“Would you care to go in?” I suggested. + +She hesitated, glanced, bit her lip, and resigned herself. “Oh well, +there seems nowhere else,” said she. “Get out, Hennie.” + +I went first—to find the table, of course—she followed. But the worst +of it was having her little brother, who was only twelve, with us. That +was the last, final straw—having that child, trailing at her heels. + +There was one table. It had pink carnations and pink plates with little +blue tea-napkins for sails. + +“Shall we sit here?” + +She put her hand wearily on the back of a white wicker chair. + +“We may as well. Why not?” said she. + +Hennie squeezed past her and wriggled on to a stool at the end. He felt +awfully out of it. She didn’t even take her gloves off. She lowered her +eyes and drummed on the table. When a faint violin sounded she winced +and bit her lip again. Silence. + +The waitress appeared. I hardly dared to ask her. “Tea—coffee? China +tea—or iced tea with lemon?” + +Really she didn’t mind. It was all the same to her. She didn’t really +want anything. Hennie whispered, “Chocolate!” + +But just as the waitress turned away she cried out carelessly, “Oh, you +may as well bring me a chocolate, too.” + +While we waited she took out a little, gold powder-box with a mirror in +the lid, shook the poor little puff as though she loathed it, and +dabbed her lovely nose. + +“Hennie,” she said, “take those flowers away.” She pointed with her +puff to the carnations, and I heard her murmur, “I can’t bear flowers +on a table.” They had evidently been giving her intense pain, for she +positively closed her eyes as I moved them away. + +The waitress came back with the chocolate and the tea. She put the big, +frothing cups before them and pushed across my clear glass. Hennie +buried his nose, emerged, with, for one dreadful moment, a little +trembling blob of cream on the tip. But he hastily wiped it off like a +little gentleman. I wondered if I should dare draw her attention to her +cup. She didn’t notice it—didn’t see it—until suddenly, quite by +chance, she took a sip. I watched anxiously; she faintly shuddered. + +“Dreadfully sweet!” said she. + +A tiny boy with a head like a raisin and a chocolate body came round +with a tray of pastries—row upon row of little freaks, little +inspirations, little melting dreams. He offered them to her. “Oh, I’m +not at all hungry. Take them away.” + +He offered them to Hennie. Hennie gave me a swift look—it must have +been satisfactory—for he took a chocolate cream, a coffee éclair, 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. + + + + +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 emigrated, and young Jim went to India with the army, +and Ethel, the youngest, married a good-for-nothing little waiter who +died of ulcers the year little Lennie was born. And now little +Lennie—my grandson.... + +The piles of dirty cups, dirty dishes, were washed and dried. The +ink-black knives were cleaned with a piece of potato and finished off +with a piece of cork. The table was scrubbed, and the dresser and the +sink that had sardine tails swimming in it.... + +He’d never been a strong child—never from the first. He’d been one of +those fair babies that everybody took for a girl. Silvery fair curls he +had, blue eyes, and a little freckle like a diamond on one side of his +nose. The trouble she and Ethel had had to rear that child! The things +out of the newspapers they tried him with! Every Sunday morning Ethel +would read aloud while Ma Parker did her washing. + +“Dear Sir,—Just a line to let you know my little Myrtil was laid out +for dead.... After four bottils... gained 8 lbs. in 9 weeks, _and is +still putting it on_.” + + +And then the egg-cup of ink would come off the dresser and the letter +would be written, and Ma would buy a postal order on her way to work +next morning. But it was no use. Nothing made little Lennie put it on. +Taking him to the cemetery, even, never gave him a colour; a nice +shake-up in the bus never improved his appetite. + +But he was gran’s boy from the first.... + +“Whose boy are you?” said old Ma Parker, straightening up from the +stove and going over to the smudgy window. And a little voice, so warm, +so close, it half stifled her—it seemed to be in her breast under her +heart—laughed out, and said, “I’m gran’s boy!” + +At that moment there was a sound of steps, and the literary gentleman +appeared, dressed for walking. + +“Oh, Mrs. Parker, I’m going out.” + +“Very good, sir.” + +“And you’ll find your half-crown in the tray of the inkstand.” + +“Thank you, sir.” + +“Oh, by the way, Mrs. Parker,” said the literary gentleman quickly, +“you didn’t throw away any cocoa last time you were here—did you?” + +“No, sir.” + +“_Very_ strange. I could have sworn I left a teaspoonful of cocoa in +the tin.” He broke off. He said softly and firmly, “You’ll always tell +me when you throw things away—won’t you, Mrs. Parker?” And he walked +off very well pleased with himself, convinced, in fact, he’d shown Mrs. +Parker that under his apparent carelessness he was as vigilant as a +woman. + +The door banged. She took her brushes and cloths into the bedroom. But +when she began to make the bed, smoothing, tucking, patting, the +thought of little Lennie was unbearable. Why did he have to suffer so? +That’s what she couldn’t understand. Why should a little angel child +have to arsk for his breath and fight for it? There was no sense in +making a child suffer like that. + +... From Lennie’s little box of a chest there came a sound as though +something was boiling. There was a great lump of something bubbling in +his chest that he couldn’t get rid of. When he coughed the sweat sprang +out on his head; his eyes bulged, his hands waved, and the great lump +bubbled as a potato knocks in a saucepan. But what was more awful than +all was when he didn’t cough he sat against the pillow and never spoke +or answered, or even made as if he heard. Only he looked offended. + +“It’s not your poor old gran’s doing it, my lovey,” said old Ma Parker, +patting back the damp hair from his little scarlet ears. But Lennie +moved his head and edged away. Dreadfully offended with her he +looked—and solemn. He bent his head and looked at her sideways as +though he couldn’t have believed it of his gran. + +But at the last... Ma Parker threw the counterpane over the bed. No, +she simply couldn’t think about it. It was too much—she’d had too much +in her life to bear. She’d borne it up till now, she’d kept herself to +herself, and never once had she been seen to cry. Never by a living +soul. Not even her own children had seen Ma break down. She’d kept a +proud face always. But now! Lennie gone—what had she? She had nothing. +He was all she’d got from life, and now he was took too. Why must it +all have happened to me? she wondered. “What have I done?” said old Ma +Parker. “What have I done?” + +As she said those words she suddenly let fall her brush. She found +herself in the kitchen. Her misery was so terrible that she pinned on +her hat, put on her jacket and walked out of the flat like a person in +a dream. She did not know what she was doing. She was like a person so +dazed by the horror of what has happened that he walks away—anywhere, +as though by walking away he could escape.... + + +It was cold in the street. There was a wind like ice. People went +flitting by, very fast; the men walked like scissors; the women trod +like cats. And nobody knew—nobody cared. Even if she broke down, if at +last, after all these years, she were to cry, she’d find herself in the +lock-up as like as not. + +But at the thought of crying it was as though little Lennie leapt in +his gran’s arms. Ah, that’s what she wants to do, my dove. Gran wants +to cry. If she could only cry now, cry for a long time, over +everything, beginning with her first place and the cruel cook, going on +to the doctor’s, and then the seven little ones, death of her husband, +the children’s leaving her, and all the years of misery that led up to +Lennie. But to have a proper cry over all these things would take a +long time. All the same, the time for it had come. She must do it. She +couldn’t put it off any longer; she couldn’t wait any more.... Where +could she go? + +“She’s had a hard life, has Ma Parker.” Yes, a hard life, indeed! Her +chin began to tremble; there was no time to lose. But where? Where? + +She couldn’t go home; Ethel was there. It would frighten Ethel out of +her life. She couldn’t sit on a bench anywhere; people would come +arsking her questions. She couldn’t possibly go back to the gentleman’s +flat; she had no right to cry in strangers’ houses. If she sat on some +steps a policeman would speak to her. + +Oh, wasn’t there anywhere where she could hide and keep herself to +herself and stay as long as she liked, not disturbing anybody, and +nobody worrying her? Wasn’t there anywhere in the world where she could +have her cry out—at last? + +Ma Parker stood, looking up and down. The icy wind blew out her apron +into a balloon. And now it began to rain. There was nowhere. + + + + +Marriage à 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 anyone.... + +“Well, I don’t know,” said William slowly. “When I was their age I used +to go to bed hugging an old towel with a knot in it.” + +The new Isabel looked at him, her eyes narrowed, her lips apart. + +“_Dear_ William! I’m sure you did!” She laughed in the new way. + +Sweets it would have to be, however, thought William gloomily, fishing +in his pocket for change for the taxi-man. And he saw the kiddies +handing the boxes round—they were awfully generous little chaps—while +Isabel’s precious friends didn’t hesitate to help themselves.... + +What about fruit? William hovered before a stall just inside the +station. What about a melon each? Would they have to share that, too? +Or a pineapple, for Pad, and a melon for Johnny? Isabel’s friends could +hardly go sneaking up to the nursery at the children’s meal-times. All +the same, as he bought the melon William had a horrible vision of one +of Isabel’s young poets lapping up a slice, for some reason, behind the +nursery door. + +With his two very awkward parcels he strode off to his train. The +platform was crowded, the train was in. Doors banged open and shut. +There came such a loud hissing from the engine that people looked dazed +as they scurried to and fro. William made straight for a first-class +smoker, stowed away his suit-case and parcels, and taking a huge wad of +papers out of his inner pocket, he flung down in the corner and began +to read. + +“Our client moreover is positive.... We are inclined to reconsider... +in the event of—” Ah, that was better. William pressed back his +flattened hair and stretched his legs across the carriage floor. The +familiar dull gnawing in his breast quietened down. “With regard to our +decision—” He took out a blue pencil and scored a paragraph slowly. + +Two men came in, stepped across him, and made for the farther corner. A +young fellow swung his golf clubs into the rack and sat down opposite. +The train gave a gentle lurch, they were off. William glanced up and +saw the hot, bright station slipping away. A red-faced girl raced along +by the carriages, there was something strained and almost desperate in +the way she waved and called. “Hysterical!” thought William dully. Then +a greasy, black-faced workman at the end of the platform grinned at the +passing train. And William thought, “A filthy life!” and went back to +his papers. + +When he looked up again there were fields, and beasts standing for +shelter under the dark trees. A wide river, with naked children +splashing in the shallows, glided into sight and was gone again. The +sky shone pale, and one bird drifted high like a dark fleck in a jewel. + +“We have examined our client’s correspondence files....” The last +sentence he had read echoed in his mind. “We have examined....” William +hung on to that sentence, but it was no good; it snapped in the middle, +and the fields, the sky, the sailing bird, the water, all said, +“Isabel.” The same thing happened every Saturday afternoon. When he was +on his way to meet Isabel there began those countless imaginary +meetings. She was at the station, standing just a little apart from +everybody else; she was sitting in the open taxi outside; she was at +the garden gate; walking across the parched grass; at the door, or just +inside the hall. + +And her clear, light voice said, “It’s William,” or “Hillo, William!” +or “So William has come!” He touched her cool hand, her cool cheek. + +The exquisite freshness of Isabel! When he had been a little boy, it +was his delight to run into the garden after a shower of rain and shake +the rose-bush over him. Isabel was that rose-bush, petal-soft, +sparkling and cool. And he was still that little boy. But there was no +running into the garden now, no laughing and shaking. The dull, +persistent gnawing in his breast started again. He drew up his legs, +tossed the papers aside, and shut his eyes. + +“What is it, Isabel? What is it?” he said tenderly. They were in their +bedroom in the new house. Isabel sat on a painted stool before the +dressing-table that was strewn with little black and green boxes. + +“What is what, William?” And she bent forward, and her fine light hair +fell over her cheeks. + +“Ah, you know!” He stood in the middle of the room and he felt a +stranger. At that Isabel wheeled round quickly and faced him. + +“Oh, William!” she cried imploringly, and she held up the hair-brush: +“Please! Please don’t be so dreadfully stuffy and—tragic. You’re always +saying or looking or hinting that I’ve changed. Just because I’ve got +to know really congenial people, and go about more, and am frightfully +keen on—on everything, you behave as though I’d—” Isabel tossed back +her hair and laughed—“killed our love or something. It’s so awfully +absurd”—she bit her lip—“and it’s so maddening, William. Even this new +house and the servants you grudge me.” + +“Isabel!” + +“Yes, yes, it’s true in a way,” said Isabel quickly. “You think they +are another bad sign. Oh, I know you do. I feel it,” she said softly, +“every time you come up the stairs. But we couldn’t have gone on living +in that other poky little hole, William. Be practical, at least! Why, +there wasn’t enough room for the babies even.” + +No, it was true. Every morning when he came back from chambers it was +to find the babies with Isabel in the back drawing-room. They were +having rides on the leopard skin thrown over the sofa back, or they +were playing shops with Isabel’s desk for a counter, or Pad was sitting +on the hearthrug rowing away for dear life with a little brass fire +shovel, while Johnny shot at pirates with the tongs. Every evening they +each had a pick-a-back up the narrow stairs to their fat old Nanny. + +Yes, he supposed it was a poky little house. A little white house with +blue curtains and a window-box of petunias. William met their friends +at the door with “Seen our petunias? Pretty terrific for London, don’t +you think?” + +But the imbecile thing, the absolutely extraordinary thing was that he +hadn’t the slightest idea that Isabel wasn’t as happy as he. God, what +blindness! He hadn’t the remotest notion in those days that she really +hated that inconvenient little house, that she thought the fat Nanny +was ruining the babies, that she was desperately lonely, pining for new +people and new music and pictures and so on. If they hadn’t gone to +that studio party at Moira Morrison’s—if Moira Morrison hadn’t said as +they were leaving, “I’m going to rescue your wife, selfish man. She’s +like an exquisite little Titania”—if Isabel hadn’t gone with Moira to +Paris—if—if.... + +The train stopped at another station. Bettingford. Good heavens! They’d +be there in ten minutes. William stuffed that papers back into his +pockets; the young man opposite had long since disappeared. Now the +other two got out. The late afternoon sun shone on women in cotton +frocks and little sunburnt, barefoot children. It blazed on a silky +yellow flower with coarse leaves which sprawled over a bank of rock. +The air ruffling through the window smelled of the sea. Had Isabel the +same crowd with her this week-end, wondered William? + +And he remembered the holidays they used to have, the four of them, +with a little farm girl, Rose, to look after the babies. Isabel wore a +jersey and her hair in a plait; she looked about fourteen. Lord! how +his nose used to peel! And the amount they ate, and the amount they +slept in that immense feather bed with their feet locked together.... +William couldn’t help a grim smile as he thought of Isabel’s horror if +she knew the full extent of his sentimentality. + + +“Hillo, William!” She was at the station after all, standing just as he +had imagined, apart from the others, and—William’s heart leapt—she was +alone. + +“Hallo, Isabel!” William stared. He thought she looked so beautiful +that he had to say something, “You look very cool.” + +“Do I?” said Isabel. “I don’t feel very cool. Come along, your horrid +old train is late. The taxi’s outside.” She put her hand lightly on his +arm as they passed the ticket collector. “We’ve all come to meet you,” +she said. “But we’ve left Bobby Kane at the sweet shop, to be called +for.” + +“Oh!” said William. It was all he could say for the moment. + +There in the glare waited the taxi, with Bill Hunt and Dennis Green +sprawling on one side, their hats tilted over their faces, while on the +other, Moira Morrison, in a bonnet like a huge strawberry, jumped up +and down. + +“No ice! No ice! No ice!” she shouted gaily. + +And Dennis chimed in from under his hat. “_Only_ to be had from the +fishmonger’s.” + +And Bill Hunt, emerging, added, “With _whole_ fish in it.” + +“Oh, what a bore!” wailed Isabel. And she explained to William how they +had been chasing round the town for ice while she waited for him. +“Simply everything is running down the steep cliffs into the sea, +beginning with the butter.” + +“We shall have to anoint ourselves with butter,” said Dennis. “May thy +head, William, lack not ointment.” + +“Look here,” said William, “how are we going to sit? I’d better get up +by the driver.” + +“No, Bobby Kane’s by the driver,” said Isabel. “You’re to sit between +Moira and me.” The taxi started. “What have you got in those mysterious +parcels?” + +“De-cap-it-ated heads!” said Bill Hunt, shuddering beneath his hat. + +“Oh, fruit!” Isabel sounded very pleased. “Wise William! A melon and a +pineapple. How too nice!” + +“No, wait a bit,” said William, smiling. But he really was anxious. “I +brought them down for the kiddies.” + +“Oh, my dear!” Isabel laughed, and slipped her hand through his arm. +“They’d be rolling in agonies if they were to eat them. No”—she patted +his hand—“you must bring them something next time. I refuse to part +with my pineapple.” + +“Cruel Isabel! Do let me smell it!” said Moira. She flung her arms +across William appealingly. “Oh!” The strawberry bonnet fell forward: +she sounded quite faint. + +“A Lady in Love with a Pineapple,” said Dennis, as the taxi drew up +before a little shop with a striped blind. Out came Bobby Kane, his +arms full of little packets. + +“I do hope they’ll be good. I’ve chosen them because of the colours. +There are some round things which really look too divine. And just look +at this nougat,” he cried ecstatically, “just look at it! It’s a +perfect little ballet!” + +But at that moment the shopman appeared. “Oh, I forgot. They’re none of +them paid for,” said Bobby, looking frightened. Isabel gave the shopman +a note, and Bobby was radiant again. “Hallo, William! I’m sitting by +the driver.” And bareheaded, all in white, with his sleeves rolled up +to the shoulders, he leapt into his place. “Avanti!” he cried.... + +After tea the others went off to bathe, while William stayed and made +his peace with the kiddies. But Johnny and Paddy were asleep, the +rose-red glow had paled, bats were flying, and still the bathers had +not returned. As William wandered downstairs, the maid crossed the hall +carrying a lamp. He followed her into the sitting-room. It was a long +room, coloured yellow. On the wall opposite William some one had +painted a young man, over life-size, with very wobbly legs, offering a +wide-eyed daisy to a young woman who had one very short arm and one +very long, thin one. Over the chairs and sofa there hung strips of +black material, covered with big splashes like broken eggs, and +everywhere one looked there seemed to be an ash-tray full of cigarette +ends. William sat down in one of the arm-chairs. Nowadays, when one +felt with one hand down the sides, it wasn’t to come upon a sheep with +three legs or a cow that had lost one horn, or a very fat dove out of +the Noah’s Ark. One fished up yet another little paper-covered book of +smudged-looking poems.... He thought of the wad of papers in his +pocket, but he was too hungry and tired to read. The door was open; +sounds came from the kitchen. The servants were talking as if they were +alone in the house. Suddenly there came a loud screech of laughter and +an equally loud “Sh!” They had remembered him. William got up and went +through the French windows into the garden, and as he stood there in +the shadow he heard the bathers coming up the sandy road; their voices +rang through the quiet. + +“I think its up to Moira to use her little arts and wiles.” + +A tragic moan from Moira. + +“We ought to have a gramophone for the week-ends that played ‘The Maid +of the Mountains.’” + +“Oh no! Oh no!” cried Isabel’s voice. “That’s not fair to William. Be +nice to him, my children! He’s only staying until to-morrow evening.” + +“Leave him to me,” cried Bobby Kane. “I’m awfully good at looking after +people.” + +The gate swung open and shut. William moved on the terrace; they had +seen him. “Hallo, William!” And Bobby Kane, flapping his towel, began +to leap and pirouette on the parched lawn. “Pity you didn’t come, +William. The water was divine. And we all went to a little pub +afterwards and had sloe gin.” + +The others had reached the house. “I say, Isabel,” called Bobby, “would +you like me to wear my Nijinsky dress to-night?” + +“No,” said Isabel, “nobody’s going to dress. We’re all starving. +William’s starving, too. Come along, _mes amis_, let’s begin with +sardines.” + +“I’ve found the sardines,” said Moira, and she ran into the hall, +holding a box high in the air. + +“A Lady with a Box of Sardines,” said Dennis gravely. + +“Well, William, and how’s London?” asked Bill Hunt, drawing the cork +out of a bottle of whisky. + +“Oh, London’s not much changed,” answered William. + +“Good old London,” said Bobby, very hearty, spearing a sardine. + +But a moment later William was forgotten. Moira Morrison began +wondering what colour one’s legs really were under water. + +“Mine are the palest, palest mushroom colour.” + +Bill and Dennis ate enormously. And Isabel filled glasses, and changed +plates, and found matches, smiling blissfully. At one moment, she said, +“I do wish, Bill, you’d paint it.” + +“Paint what?” said Bill loudly, stuffing his mouth with bread. + +“Us,” said Isabel, “round the table. It would be so fascinating in +twenty years’ time.” + +Bill screwed up his eyes and chewed. “Light’s wrong,” he said rudely, +“far too much yellow”; and went on eating. And that seemed to charm +Isabel, too. + +But after supper they were all so tired they could do nothing but yawn +until it was late enough to go to bed.... + +It was not until William was waiting for his taxi the next afternoon +that he found himself alone with Isabel. When he brought his suit-case +down into the hall, Isabel left the others and went over to him. She +stooped down and picked up the suit-case. “What a weight!” she said, +and she gave a little awkward laugh. “Let me carry it! To the gate.” + +“No, why should you?” said William. “Of course, not. Give it to me.” + +“Oh, please, do let me,” said Isabel. “I want to, really.” They walked +together silently. William felt there was nothing to say now. + +“There,” said Isabel triumphantly, setting the suit-case down, and she +looked anxiously along the sandy road. “I hardly seem to have seen you +this time,” she said breathlessly. “It’s so short, isn’t it? I feel +you’ve only just come. Next time—” The taxi came into sight. “I hope +they look after you properly in London. I’m so sorry the babies have +been out all day, but Miss Neil had arranged it. They’ll hate missing +you. Poor William, going back to London.” The taxi turned. “Good-bye!” +She gave him a little hurried kiss; she was gone. + +Fields, trees, hedges streamed by. They shook through the empty, +blind-looking little town, ground up the steep pull to the station. + +The train was in. William made straight for a first-class smoker, flung +back into the corner, but this time he let the papers alone. He folded +his arms against the dull, persistent gnawing, and began in his mind to +write a letter to Isabel. + + +The post was late as usual. They sat outside the house in long chairs +under coloured parasols. Only Bobby Kane lay on the turf at Isabel’s +feet. It was dull, stifling; the day drooped like a flag. + +“Do you think there will be Mondays in Heaven?” asked Bobby childishly. + +And Dennis murmured, “Heaven will be one long Monday.” + +But Isabel couldn’t help wondering what had happened to the salmon they +had for supper last night. She had meant to have fish mayonnaise for +lunch and now.... + +Moira was asleep. Sleeping was her latest discovery. “It’s _so_ +wonderful. One simply shuts one’s eyes, that’s all. It’s _so_ +delicious.” + +When the old ruddy postman came beating along the sandy road on his +tricycle one felt the handle-bars ought to have been oars. + +Bill Hunt put down his book. “Letters,” he said complacently, and they +all waited. But, heartless postman—O malignant world! There was only +one, a fat one for Isabel. Not even a paper. + +“And mine’s only from William,” said Isabel mournfully. + +“From William—already?” + +“He’s sending you back your marriage lines as a gentle reminder.” + +“Does everybody have marriage lines? I thought they were only for +servants.” + +“Pages and pages! Look at her! A Lady reading a Letter,” said Dennis. + +“_My darling, precious Isabel_.” Pages and pages there were. As Isabel +read on her feeling of astonishment changed to a stifled feeling. What +on earth had induced William...? How extraordinary it was.... What +could have made him...? She felt confused, more and more excited, even +frightened. It was just like William. Was it? It was absurd, of course, +it must be absurd, ridiculous. “Ha, ha, ha! Oh dear!” What was she to +do? Isabel flung back in her chair and laughed till she couldn’t stop +laughing. + +“Do, do tell us,” said the others. “You must tell us.” + +“I’m longing to,” gurgled Isabel. She sat up, gathered the letter, and +waved it at them. “Gather round,” she said. “Listen, it’s too +marvellous. A love-letter!” + +“A love-letter! But how divine!” _Darling, precious Isabel._ But she +had hardly begun before their laughter interrupted her. + +“Go on, Isabel, it’s perfect.” + +“It’s the most marvellous find.” + +“Oh, do go on, Isabel!” + +_God forbid, my darling, that I should be a drag on your happiness._ + +“Oh! oh! oh!” + +“Sh! sh! sh!” + +And Isabel went on. When she reached the end they were hysterical: +Bobby rolled on the turf and almost sobbed. + +“You must let me have it just as it is, entire, for my new book,” said +Dennis firmly. “I shall give it a whole chapter.” + +“Oh, Isabel,” moaned Moira, “that wonderful bit about holding you in +his arms!” + +“I always thought those letters in divorce cases were made up. But they +pale before this.” + +“Let me hold it. Let me read it, mine own self,” said Bobby Kane. + +But, to their surprise, Isabel crushed the letter in her hand. She was +laughing no longer. She glanced quickly at them all; she looked +exhausted. “No, not just now. Not just now,” she stammered. + +And before they could recover she had run into the house, through the +hall, up the stairs into her bedroom. Down she sat on the side of the +bed. “How vile, odious, abominable, vulgar,” muttered Isabel. She +pressed her eyes with her knuckles and rocked to and fro. And again she +saw them, but not four, more like forty, laughing, sneering, jeering, +stretching out their hands while she read them William’s letter. Oh, +what a loathsome thing to have done. How could she have done it! _God +forbid, my darling, that I should be a drag on your happiness._ +William! Isabel pressed her face into the pillow. But she felt that +even the grave bedroom knew her for what she was, shallow, tinkling, +vain.... + +Presently from the garden below there came voices. + +“Isabel, we’re all going for a bathe. Do come!” + +“Come, thou wife of William!” + +“Call her once before you go, call once yet!” + +Isabel sat up. Now was the moment, now she must decide. Would she go +with them, or stay here and write to William. Which, which should it +be? “I must make up my mind.” Oh, but how could there be any question? +Of course she would stay here and write. + +“Titania!” piped Moira. + +“Isa-bel?” + +No, it was too difficult. “I’ll—I’ll go with them, and write to William +later. Some other time. Later. Not now. But I shall _certainly_ write,” +thought Isabel hurriedly. + +And, laughing, in the new way, she ran down the stairs. + + + + +The Voyage + + +The Picton boat was due to leave at half-past eleven. It was a +beautiful night, mild, starry, only when they got out of the cab and +started to walk down the Old Wharf that jutted out into the harbour, a +faint wind blowing off the water ruffled under Fenella’s hat, and she +put up her hand to keep it on. It was dark on the Old Wharf, very dark; +the wool sheds, the cattle trucks, the cranes standing up so high, the +little squat railway engine, all seemed carved out of solid darkness. +Here and there on a rounded wood-pile, that was like the stalk of a +huge black mushroom, there hung a lantern, but it seemed afraid to +unfurl its timid, quivering light in all that blackness; it burned +softly, as if for itself. + +Fenella’s father pushed on with quick, nervous strides. Beside him her +grandma bustled along in her crackling black ulster; they went so fast +that she had now and again to give an undignified little skip to keep +up with them. As well as her luggage strapped into a neat sausage, +Fenella carried clasped to her her grandma’s umbrella, and the handle, +which was a swan’s head, kept giving her shoulder a sharp little peck +as if it too wanted her to hurry.... Men, their caps pulled down, their +collars turned up, swung by; a few women all muffled scurried along; +and one tiny boy, only his little black arms and legs showing out of a +white woolly shawl, was jerked along angrily between his father and +mother; he looked like a baby fly that had fallen into the cream. + +Then suddenly, so suddenly that Fenella and her grandma both leapt, +there sounded from behind the largest wool shed, that had a trail of +smoke hanging over it, “_Mia-oo-oo-O-O!_” + +“First whistle,” said her father briefly, and at that moment they came +in sight of the Picton boat. Lying beside the dark wharf, all strung, +all beaded with round golden lights, the Picton boat looked as if she +was more ready to sail among stars than out into the cold sea. People +pressed along the gangway. First went her grandma, then her father, +then Fenella. There was a high step down on to the deck, and an old +sailor in a jersey standing by gave her his dry, hard hand. They were +there; they stepped out of the way of the hurrying people, and standing +under a little iron stairway that led to the upper deck they began to +say good-bye. + +“There, mother, there’s your luggage!” said Fenella’s father, giving +grandma another strapped-up sausage. + +“Thank you, Frank.” + +“And you’ve got your cabin tickets safe?” + +“Yes, dear.” + +“And your other tickets?” + +Grandma felt for them inside her glove and showed him the tips. + +“That’s right.” + +He sounded stern, but Fenella, eagerly watching him, saw that he looked +tired and sad. “_Mia-oo-oo-O-O!_” The second whistle blared just above +their heads, and a voice like a cry shouted, “Any more for the +gangway?” + +“You’ll give my love to father,” Fenella saw her father’s lips say. And +her grandma, very agitated, answered, “Of course I will, dear. Go now. +You’ll be left. Go now, Frank. Go now.” + +“It’s all right, mother. I’ve got another three minutes.” To her +surprise Fenella saw her father take off his hat. He clasped grandma in +his arms and pressed her to him. “God bless you, mother!” she heard him +say. + +And grandma put her hand, with the black thread glove that was worn +through on her ring finger, against his cheek, and she sobbed, “God +bless you, my own brave son!” + +This was so awful that Fenella quickly turned her back on them, +swallowed once, twice, and frowned terribly at a little green star on a +mast head. But she had to turn round again; her father was going. + +“Good-bye, Fenella. Be a good girl.” His cold, wet moustache brushed +her cheek. But Fenella caught hold of the lapels of his coat. + +“How long am I going to stay?” she whispered anxiously. He wouldn’t +look at her. He shook her off gently, and gently said, “We’ll see about +that. Here! Where’s your hand?” He pressed something into her palm. +“Here’s a shilling in case you should need it.” + +A shilling! She must be going away for ever! “Father!” cried Fenella. +But he was gone. He was the last off the ship. The sailors put their +shoulders to the gangway. A huge coil of dark rope went flying through +the air and fell “thump” on the wharf. A bell rang; a whistle shrilled. +Silently the dark wharf began to slip, to slide, to edge away from +them. Now there was a rush of water between. Fenella strained to see +with all her might. “Was that father turning round?”—or waving?—or +standing alone?—or walking off by himself? The strip of water grew +broader, darker. Now the Picton boat began to swing round steady, +pointing out to sea. It was no good looking any longer. There was +nothing to be seen but a few lights, the face of the town clock hanging +in the air, and more lights, little patches of them, on the dark hills. + +The freshening wind tugged at Fenella’s skirts; she went back to her +grandma. To her relief grandma seemed no longer sad. She had put the +two sausages of luggage one on top of the other, and she was sitting on +them, her hands folded, her head a little on one side. There was an +intent, bright look on her face. Then Fenella saw that her lips were +moving and guessed that she was praying. But the old woman gave her a +bright nod as if to say the prayer was nearly over. She unclasped her +hands, sighed, clasped them again, bent forward, and at last gave +herself a soft shake. + +“And now, child,” she said, fingering the bow of her bonnet-strings, “I +think we ought to see about our cabins. Keep close to me, and mind you +don’t slip.” + +“Yes, grandma!” + +“And be careful the umbrellas aren’t caught in the stair rail. I saw a +beautiful umbrella broken in half like that on my way over.” + +“Yes, grandma.” + +Dark figures of men lounged against the rails. In the glow of their +pipes a nose shone out, or the peak of a cap, or a pair of +surprised-looking eyebrows. Fenella glanced up. High in the air, a +little figure, his hands thrust in his short jacket pockets, stood +staring out to sea. The ship rocked ever so little, and she thought the +stars rocked too. And now a pale steward in a linen coat, holding a +tray high in the palm of his hand, stepped out of a lighted doorway and +skimmed past them. They went through that doorway. Carefully over the +high brass-bound step on to the rubber mat and then down such a +terribly steep flight of stairs that grandma had to put both feet on +each step, and Fenella clutched the clammy brass rail and forgot all +about the swan-necked umbrella. + +At the bottom grandma stopped; Fenella was rather afraid she was going +to pray again. But no, it was only to get out the cabin tickets. They +were in the saloon. It was glaring bright and stifling; the air smelled +of paint and burnt chop-bones and 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 watering-can on the other. + +“Tut! tut! Your grandpa,” said grandma. She turned the handle. Not a +sound. She called, “Walter!” And immediately a deep voice that sounded +half stifled called back, “Is that you, Mary?” + +“Wait, dear,” said grandma. “Go in there.” She pushed Fenella gently +into a small dusky sitting-room. + +On the table a white cat, that had been folded up like a camel, rose, +stretched itself, yawned, and then sprang on to the tips of its toes. +Fenella buried one cold little hand in the white, warm fur, and smiled +timidly while she stroked and listened to grandma’s gentle voice and +the rolling tones of grandpa. + +A door creaked. “Come in, dear.” The old woman beckoned, Fenella +followed. There, lying to one side on an immense bed, lay grandpa. Just +his head with a white tuft and his rosy face and long silver beard +showed over the quilt. He was like a very old wide-awake bird. + +“Well, my girl!” said grandpa. “Give us a kiss!” Fenella kissed him. +“Ugh!” said grandpa. “Her little nose is as cold as a button. What’s +that she’s holding? Her grandma’s umbrella?” + +Fenella smiled again, and crooked the swan neck over the bed-rail. +Above the bed there was a big text in a deep black frame:— + + Lost! One Golden Hour + Set with Sixty Diamond Minutes. + No Reward Is Offered + For It Is Gone For Ever! + +“Yer grandma painted that,” said grandpa. And he ruffled his white tuft +and looked at Fenella so merrily she almost thought he winked at her. + + + + +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-fur 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 chère—” + +“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. + + + + +Her First Ball + + +Exactly when the ball began Leila would have found it hard to say. +Perhaps her first real partner was the cab. It did not matter that she +shared the cab with the Sheridan girls and their brother. She sat back +in her own little corner of it, and the bolster on which her hand +rested felt like the sleeve of an unknown young man’s dress suit; and +away they bowled, past waltzing lamp-posts and houses and fences and +trees. + +“Have you really never been to a ball before, Leila? But, my child, how +too weird—” cried the Sheridan girls. + +“Our nearest neighbour was fifteen miles,” said Leila softly, gently +opening and shutting her fan. + +Oh dear, how hard it was to be indifferent like the others! She tried +not to smile too much; she tried not to care. But every single thing +was so new and exciting... Meg’s tuberoses, Jose’s long loop of amber, +Laura’s little dark head, pushing above her white fur like a flower +through snow. She would remember for ever. It even gave her a pang to +see her cousin Laurie throw away the wisps of tissue paper he pulled +from the fastenings of his new gloves. She would like to have kept +those wisps as a keepsake, as a remembrance. Laurie leaned forward and +put his hand on Laura’s knee. + +“Look here, darling,” he said. “The third and the ninth as usual. +Twig?” + +Oh, how marvellous to have a brother! In her excitement Leila felt that +if there had been time, if it hadn’t been impossible, she couldn’t have +helped crying because she was an only child, and no brother had ever +said “Twig?” to her; no sister would ever say, as Meg said to Jose that +moment, “I’ve never known your hair go up more successfully than it has +to-night!” + +But, of course, there was no time. They were at the drill hall already; +there were cabs in front of them and cabs behind. The road was bright +on either side with moving fan-like lights, and on the pavement gay +couples seemed to float through the air; little satin shoes chased each +other like birds. + +“Hold on to me, Leila; you’ll get lost,” said Laura. + +“Come on, girls, let’s make a dash for it,” said Laurie. + +Leila put two fingers on Laura’s pink velvet cloak, and they were +somehow lifted past the big golden lantern, carried along the passage, +and pushed into the little room marked “Ladies.” Here the crowd was so +great there was hardly space to take off their things; the noise was +deafening. Two benches on either side were stacked high with wraps. Two +old women in white aprons ran up and down tossing fresh armfuls. And +everybody was pressing forward trying to get at the little +dressing-table and mirror at the far end. + +A great quivering jet of gas lighted the ladies’ room. It couldn’t +wait; it was dancing already. When the door opened again and there came +a burst of tuning from the drill hall, it leaped almost to the ceiling. + +Dark girls, fair girls were patting their hair, tying ribbons again, +tucking handkerchiefs down the fronts of their bodices, smoothing +marble-white gloves. And because they were all laughing it seemed to +Leila that they were all lovely. + +“Aren’t there any invisible hair-pins?” cried a voice. “How most +extraordinary! I can’t see a single invisible hair-pin.” + +“Powder my back, there’s a darling,” cried some one else. + +“But I must have a needle and cotton. I’ve torn simply miles and miles +of the frill,” wailed a third. + +Then, “Pass them along, pass them along!” The straw basket of +programmes was tossed from arm to arm. Darling little pink-and-silver +programmes, with pink pencils and fluffy tassels. Leila’s fingers shook +as she took one out of the basket. She wanted to ask some one, “Am I +meant to have one too?” but she had just time to read: “Waltz 3. _Two, +Two in a Canoe._ Polka 4. _Making the Feathers Fly_,” when Meg cried, +“Ready, Leila?” and they pressed their way through the crush in the +passage towards the big double doors of the drill hall. + +Dancing had not begun yet, but the band had stopped tuning, and the +noise was so great it seemed that when it did begin to play it would +never be heard. Leila, pressing close to Meg, looking over Meg’s +shoulder, felt that even the little quivering coloured flags strung +across the ceiling were talking. She quite forgot to be shy; she forgot +how in the middle of dressing she had sat down on the bed with one shoe +off and one shoe on and begged her mother to ring up her cousins and +say she couldn’t go after all. And the rush of longing she had had to +be sitting on the veranda of their forsaken up-country home, listening +to the baby owls crying “More pork” in the moonlight, was changed to a +rush of joy so sweet that it was hard to bear alone. She clutched her +fan, and, gazing at the gleaming, golden floor, the azaleas, the +lanterns, the stage at one end with its red carpet and gilt chairs and +the band in a corner, she thought breathlessly, “How heavenly; how +simply heavenly!” + +All the girls stood grouped together at one side of the doors, the men +at the other, and the chaperones in dark dresses, smiling rather +foolishly, walked with little careful steps over the polished floor +towards the stage. + +“This is my little country cousin Leila. Be nice to her. Find her +partners; she’s under my wing,” said Meg, going up to one girl after +another. + +Strange faces smiled at Leila—sweetly, vaguely. Strange voices +answered, “Of course, my dear.” But Leila felt the girls didn’t really +see her. They were looking towards the men. Why didn’t the men begin? +What were they waiting for? There they stood, smoothing their gloves, +patting their glossy hair and smiling among themselves. Then, quite +suddenly, as if they had only just made up their minds that that was +what they had to do, the men came gliding over the parquet. There was a +joyful flutter among the girls. A tall, fair man flew up to Meg, seized +her programme, scribbled something; Meg passed him on to Leila. “May I +have the pleasure?” He ducked and smiled. There came a dark man wearing +an eyeglass, then cousin Laurie with a friend, and Laura with a little +freckled fellow whose tie was crooked. Then quite an old man—fat, with +a big bald patch on his head—took her programme and murmured, “Let me +see, let me see!” And he was a long time comparing his programme, which +looked black with names, with hers. It seemed to give him so much +trouble that Leila was ashamed. “Oh, please don’t bother,” she said +eagerly. But instead of replying the fat man wrote something, glanced +at her again. “Do I remember this bright little face?” he said softly. +“Is it known to me of yore?” At that moment the band began playing; the +fat man disappeared. He was tossed away on a great wave of music that +came flying over the gleaming floor, breaking the groups up into +couples, scattering them, sending them spinning.... + +Leila had learned to dance at boarding school. Every Saturday afternoon +the boarders were hurried off to a little corrugated iron mission hall +where Miss Eccles (of London) held her “select” classes. But the +difference between that dusty-smelling hall—with calico texts on the +walls, the poor terrified little woman in a brown velvet toque with +rabbit’s ears thumping the cold piano, Miss Eccles poking the girls’ +feet with her long white wand—and this was so tremendous that Leila was +sure if her partner didn’t come and she had to listen to that +marvellous music and to watch the others sliding, gliding over the +golden floor, she would die at least, or faint, or lift her arms and +fly out of one of those dark windows that showed the stars. + +“Ours, I think—” Some one bowed, smiled, and offered her his arm; she +hadn’t to die after all. Some one’s hand pressed her waist, and she +floated away like a flower that is tossed into a pool. + +“Quite a good floor, isn’t it?” drawled a faint voice close to her ear. + +“I think it’s most beautifully slippery,” said Leila. + +“Pardon!” The faint voice sounded surprised. Leila said it again. And +there was a tiny pause before the voice echoed, “Oh, quite!” and she +was swung round again. + +He steered so beautifully. That was the great difference between +dancing with girls and men, Leila decided. Girls banged into each +other, and stamped on each other’s feet; the girl who was gentleman +always clutched you so. + +The azaleas were separate flowers no longer; they were pink and white +flags streaming by. + +“Were you at the Bells’ last week?” the voice came again. It sounded +tired. Leila wondered whether she ought to ask him if he would like to +stop. + +“No, this is my first dance,” said she. + +Her partner gave a little gasping laugh. “Oh, I say,” he protested. + +“Yes, it is really the first dance I’ve ever been to.” Leila was most +fervent. It was such a relief to be able to tell somebody. “You see, +I’ve lived in the country all my life up till now....” + +At that moment the music stopped, and they went to sit on two chairs +against the wall. Leila tucked her pink satin feet under and fanned +herself, while she blissfully watched the other couples passing and +disappearing through the swing doors. + +“Enjoying yourself, Leila?” asked Jose, nodding her golden head. + +Laura passed and gave her the faintest little wink; it made Leila +wonder for a moment whether she was quite grown up after all. Certainly +her partner did not say very much. He coughed, tucked his handkerchief +away, pulled down his waistcoat, took a minute thread off his sleeve. +But it didn’t matter. Almost immediately the band started and her +second partner seemed to spring from the ceiling. + +“Floor’s not bad,” said the new voice. Did one always begin with the +floor? And then, “Were you at the Neaves’ on Tuesday?” And again Leila +explained. Perhaps it was a little strange that her partners were not +more interested. For it was thrilling. Her first ball! She was only at +the beginning of everything. It seemed to her that she had never known +what the night was like before. Up till now it had been dark, silent, +beautiful very often—oh yes—but mournful somehow. Solemn. And now it +would never be like that again—it had opened dazzling bright. + +“Care for an ice?” said her partner. And they went through the swing +doors, down the passage, to the supper room. Her cheeks burned, she was +fearfully thirsty. How sweet the ices looked on little glass plates and +how cold the frosted spoon was, iced too! And when they came back to +the hall there was the fat man waiting for her by the door. It gave her +quite a shock again to see how old he was; he ought to have been on the +stage with the fathers and mothers. And when Leila compared him with +her other partners he looked shabby. His waistcoat was creased, there +was a button off his glove, his coat looked as if it was dusty with +French chalk. + +“Come along, little lady,” said the fat man. He scarcely troubled to +clasp her, and they moved away so gently, it was more like walking than +dancing. But he said not a word about the floor. “Your first dance, +isn’t it?” he murmured. + +“How _did_ you know?” + +“Ah,” said the fat man, “that’s what it is to be old!” He wheezed +faintly as he steered her past an awkward couple. “You see, I’ve been +doing this kind of thing for the last thirty years.” + +“Thirty years?” cried Leila. Twelve years before she was born! + +“It hardly bears thinking about, does it?” said the fat man gloomily. +Leila looked at his bald head, and she felt quite sorry for him. + +“I think it’s marvellous to be still going on,” she said kindly. + +“Kind little lady,” said the fat man, and he pressed her a little +closer, and hummed a bar of the waltz. “Of course,” he said, “you can’t +hope to last anything like as long as that. No-o,” said the fat man, +“long before that you’ll be sitting up there on the stage, looking on, +in your nice black velvet. And these pretty arms will have turned into +little short fat ones, and you’ll beat time with such a different kind +of fan—a black bony one.” The fat man seemed to shudder. “And you’ll +smile away like the poor old dears up there, and point to your +daughter, and tell the elderly lady next to you how some dreadful man +tried to kiss her at the club ball. And your heart will ache, ache”—the +fat man squeezed her closer still, as if he really was sorry for that +poor heart—“because no one wants to kiss you now. And you’ll say how +unpleasant these polished floors are to walk on, how dangerous they +are. Eh, Mademoiselle Twinkletoes?” said the fat man softly. + +Leila gave a light little laugh, but she did not feel like laughing. +Was it—could it all be true? It sounded terribly true. Was this first +ball only the beginning of her last ball, after all? At that the music +seemed to change; it sounded sad, sad; it rose upon a great sigh. Oh, +how quickly things changed! Why didn’t happiness last for ever? For +ever wasn’t a bit too long. + +“I want to stop,” she said in a breathless voice. The fat man led her +to the door. + +“No,” she said, “I won’t go outside. I won’t sit down. I’ll just stand +here, thank you.” She leaned against the wall, tapping with her foot, +pulling up her gloves and trying to smile. But deep inside her a little +girl threw her pinafore over her head and sobbed. Why had he spoiled it +all? + +“I say, you know,” said the fat man, “you mustn’t take me seriously, +little lady.” + +“As if I should!” said Leila, tossing her small dark head and sucking +her underlip.... + +Again the couples paraded. The swing doors opened and shut. Now new +music was given out by the bandmaster. But Leila didn’t want to dance +any more. She wanted to be home, or sitting on the veranda listening to +those baby owls. When she looked through the dark windows at the stars, +they had long beams like wings.... + +But presently a soft, melting, ravishing tune began, and a young man +with curly hair bowed before her. She would have to dance, out of +politeness, until she could find Meg. Very stiffly she walked into the +middle; very haughtily she put her hand on his sleeve. But in one +minute, in one turn, her feet glided, glided. The lights, the azaleas, +the dresses, the pink faces, the velvet chairs, all became one +beautiful flying wheel. And when her next partner bumped her into the +fat man and he said, “Par_don_,” she smiled at him more radiantly than +ever. She didn’t even recognize him again. + + + + +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 would +not have been surprised to see a bee caught in the tangles of that +yellow hair. + +“It is rather sharp,” said Miss Meadows, grimly. + +The other smiled her sugary smile. + +“You look fro-zen,” said she. Her blue eyes opened wide; there came a +mocking light in them. (Had she noticed anything?) + +“Oh, not quite as bad as that,” said Miss Meadows, and she gave the +Science Mistress, in exchange for her smile, a quick grimace and passed +on.... + +Forms Four, Five, and Six were assembled in the music hall. The noise +was deafening. On the platform, by the piano, stood Mary Beazley, Miss +Meadows’ favourite, who played accompaniments. She was turning the +music stool. When she saw Miss Meadows she gave a loud, warning “Sh-sh! +girls!” and Miss Meadows, her hands thrust in her sleeves, the baton +under her arm, strode down the centre aisle, mounted the steps, turned +sharply, seized the brass music stand, planted it in front of her, and +gave two sharp taps with her baton for silence. + +“Silence, please! Immediately!” and, looking at nobody, her glance +swept over that sea of coloured flannel blouses, with bobbing pink +faces and hands, quivering butterfly hair-bows, and music-books +outspread. She knew perfectly well what they were thinking. “Meady is +in a wax.” Well, let them think it! Her eyelids quivered; she tossed +her head, defying them. What could the thoughts of those creatures +matter to some one who stood there bleeding to death, pierced to the +heart, to the heart, by such a letter— + +... “I feel more and more strongly that our marriage would be a +mistake. Not that I do not love you. I love you as much as it is +possible for me to love any woman, but, truth to tell, I have come to +the conclusion that I am not a marrying man, and the idea of settling +down fills me with nothing but—” and the word “disgust” was scratched +out lightly and “regret” written over the top. + +Basil! Miss Meadows stalked over to the piano. And Mary Beazley, who +was waiting for this moment, bent forward; her curls fell over her +cheeks while she breathed, “Good morning, Miss Meadows,” and she +motioned towards rather than handed to her mistress a beautiful yellow +chrysanthemum. This little ritual of the flower had been gone through +for ages and ages, quite a term and a half. It was as much part of the +lesson as opening the piano. But this morning, instead of taking it up, +instead of tucking it into her belt while she leant over Mary and said, +“Thank you, Mary. How very nice! Turn to page thirty-two,” what was +Mary’s horror when Miss Meadows totally ignored the chrysanthemum, made +no reply to her greeting, but said in a voice of ice, “Page fourteen, +please, and mark the accents well.” + +Staggering moment! Mary blushed until the tears stood in her eyes, but +Miss Meadows was gone back to the music stand; her voice rang through +the music hall. + +“Page fourteen. We will begin with page fourteen. ‘A Lament.’ Now, +girls, you ought to know it by this time. We shall take it all +together; not in parts, all together. And without expression. Sing it, +though, quite simply, beating time with the left hand.” + +She raised the baton; she tapped the music stand twice. Down came Mary +on the opening chord; down came all those left hands, beating the air, +and in chimed those young, mournful voices:— + + Fast! Ah, too Fast Fade the Ro-o-ses of Pleasure; + Soon Autumn yields unto Wi-i-nter Drear. + Fleetly! Ah, Fleetly Mu-u-sic’s Gay Measure + Passes away from the Listening Ear. + +Good Heavens, what could be more tragic than that lament! Every note +was a sigh, a sob, a groan of awful mournfulness. Miss Meadows lifted +her arms in the wide gown and began conducting with both hands. “... I +feel more and more strongly that our marriage would be a mistake....” +she beat. And the voices cried: _Fleetly! Ah, Fleetly._ What could have +possessed him to write such a letter! What could have led up to it! It +came out of nothing. His last letter had been all about a fumed-oak +bookcase he had bought for “our” books, and a “natty little hall-stand” +he had seen, “a very neat affair with a carved owl on a bracket, +holding three hat-brushes in its claws.” How she had smiled at that! So +like a man to think one needed three hat-brushes! _From the Listening +Ear_, sang the voices. + +“Once again,” said Miss Meadows. “But this time in parts. Still without +expression.” _Fast! Ah, too Fast._ With the gloom of the contraltos +added, one could scarcely help shuddering. _Fade the Roses of +Pleasure._ Last time he had come to see her, Basil had worn a rose in +his buttonhole. How handsome he had looked in that bright blue suit, +with that dark red rose! And he knew it, too. He couldn’t help knowing +it. First he stroked his hair, then his moustache; his teeth gleamed +when he smiled. + +“The headmaster’s wife keeps on asking me to dinner. It’s a perfect +nuisance. I never get an evening to myself in that place.” + +“But can’t you refuse?” + +“Oh, well, it doesn’t do for a man in my position to be unpopular.” + +_Music’s Gay Measure_, wailed the voices. The willow trees, outside the +high, narrow windows, waved in the wind. They had lost half their +leaves. The tiny ones that clung wriggled like fishes caught on a line. +“... I am not a marrying man....” The voices were silent; the piano +waited. + +“Quite good,” said Miss Meadows, but still in such a strange, stony +tone that the younger girls began to feel positively frightened. “But +now that we know it, we shall take it with expression. As much +expression as you can put into it. Think of the words, girls. Use your +imaginations. _Fast! Ah, too Fast_,” cried Miss Meadows. “That ought to +break out—a loud, strong _forte_—a lament. And then in the second line, +_Winter Drear_, make that _Drear_ sound as if a cold wind were blowing +through it. _Dre-ear!_” said she so awfully that Mary Beazley, on the +music stool, wriggled her spine. “The third line should be one +crescendo. _Fleetly! Ah, Fleetly Music’s Gay Measure._ Breaking on the +first word of the last line, _Passes._ And then on the word, _Away_, +you must begin to die... to fade... until _The Listening Ear_ is +nothing more than a faint whisper.... You can slow down as much as you +like almost on the last line. Now, please.” + +Again the two light taps; she lifted her arms again. _Fast! Ah, too +Fast._ “... and the idea of settling down fills me with nothing but +disgust—” Disgust was what he had written. That was as good as to say +their engagement was definitely broken off. Broken off! Their +engagement! People had been surprised enough that she had got engaged. +The Science Mistress would not believe it at first. But nobody had been +as surprised as she. She was thirty. Basil was twenty-five. It had been +a miracle, simply a miracle, to hear him say, as they walked home from +church that very dark night, “You know, somehow or other, I’ve got fond +of you.” And he had taken hold of the end of her ostrich feather boa. +_Passes away from the Listening Ear._ + +“Repeat! Repeat!” said Miss Meadows. “More expression, girls! Once +more!” + +_Fast! Ah, too Fast._ The older girls were crimson; some of the younger +ones began to cry. Big spots of rain blew against the windows, and one +could hear the willows whispering, “... not that I do not love you....” + +“But, my darling, if you love me,” thought Miss Meadows, “I don’t mind +how much it is. Love me as little as you like.” But she knew he didn’t +love her. Not to have cared enough to scratch out that word “disgust,” +so that she couldn’t read it! _Soon Autumn yields unto Winter Drear._ +She would have to leave the school, too. She could never face the +Science Mistress or the girls after it got known. She would have to +disappear somewhere. _Passes away._ The voices began to die, to fade, +to whisper... to vanish.... + +Suddenly the door opened. A little girl in blue walked fussily up the +aisle, hanging her head, biting her lips, and twisting the silver +bangle on her red little wrist. She came up the steps and stood before +Miss Meadows. + +“Well, Monica, what is it?” + +“Oh, if you please, Miss Meadows,” said the little girl, gasping, “Miss +Wyatt wants to see you in the mistress’s room.” + +“Very well,” said Miss Meadows. And she called to the girls, “I shall +put you on your honour to talk quietly while I am away.” But they were +too subdued to do anything else. Most of them were blowing their noses. + +The corridors were silent and cold; they echoed to Miss Meadows’ steps. +The head mistress sat at her desk. For a moment she did not look up. +She was as usual disentangling her eyeglasses, which had got caught in +her lace tie. “Sit down, Miss Meadows,” she said very kindly. And then +she picked up a pink envelope from the blotting-pad. “I sent for you +just now because this telegram has come for you.” + +“A telegram for me, Miss Wyatt?” + +Basil! He had committed suicide, decided Miss Meadows. Her hand flew +out, but Miss Wyatt held the telegram back a moment. “I hope it’s not +bad news,” she said, so more than kindly. And Miss Meadows tore it +open. + +“Pay no attention to letter, must have been mad, bought hat-stand +to-day—Basil,” she read. She couldn’t take her eyes off the telegram. + +“I do hope it’s nothing very serious,” said Miss Wyatt, leaning +forward. + +“Oh, no, thank you, Miss Wyatt,” blushed Miss Meadows. “It’s nothing +bad at all. It’s”—and she gave an apologetic little laugh—“it’s from my +_fiancé_ 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. + + + + +The Stranger + + +It seemed to the little crowd on the wharf that she was never going to +move again. There she lay, immense, motionless on the grey crinkled +water, a loop of smoke above her, an immense flock of gulls screaming +and diving after the galley droppings at the stern. You could just see +little couples parading—little flies walking up and down the dish on +the grey crinkled tablecloth. Other flies clustered and swarmed at the +edge. Now there was a gleam of white on the lower deck—the cook’s apron +or the stewardess perhaps. Now a tiny black spider raced up the ladder +on to the bridge. + +In the front of the crowd a strong-looking, middle-aged man, dressed +very well, very snugly in a grey overcoat, grey silk scarf, thick +gloves and dark felt hat, marched up and down, twirling his folded +umbrella. He seemed to be the leader of the little crowd on the wharf +and at the same time to keep them together. He was something between +the sheep-dog and the shepherd. + +But what a fool—what a fool he had been not to bring any glasses! There +wasn’t a pair of glasses between the whole lot of them. + +“Curious thing, Mr. Scott, that none of us thought of glasses. We might +have been able to stir ’em up a bit. We might have managed a little +signalling. _Don’t hesitate to land. Natives harmless._ Or: _A welcome +awaits you. All is forgiven._ What? Eh?” + +Mr. Hammond’s quick, eager glance, so nervous and yet so friendly and +confiding, took in everybody on the wharf, roped in even those old +chaps lounging against the gangways. They knew, every man-jack of them, +that Mrs. Hammond was on that boat, and that he was so tremendously +excited it never entered his head not to believe that this marvellous +fact meant something to them too. It warmed his heart towards them. +They were, he decided, as decent a crowd of people—— Those old chaps +over by the gangways, too—fine, solid old chaps. What chests—by Jove! +And he squared his own, plunged his thick-gloved hands into his +pockets, rocked from heel to toe. + +“Yes, my wife’s been in Europe for the last ten months. On a visit to +our eldest girl, who was married last year. I brought her up here, as +far as Salisbury, myself. So I thought I’d better come and fetch her +back. Yes, yes, yes.” The shrewd grey eyes narrowed again and searched +anxiously, quickly, the motionless liner. Again his overcoat was +unbuttoned. Out came the thin, butter-yellow watch again, and for the +twentieth—fiftieth—hundredth time he made the calculation. + +“Let me see now. It was two fifteen when the doctor’s launch went off. +Two fifteen. It is now exactly twenty-eight minutes past four. That is +to say, the doctor’s been gone two hours and thirteen minutes. Two +hours and thirteen minutes! Whee-ooh!” He gave a queer little +half-whistle and snapped his watch to again. “But I think we should +have been told if there was anything up—don’t you, Mr. Gaven?” + +“Oh, yes, Mr. Hammond! I don’t think there’s anything to—anything to +worry about,” said Mr. Gaven, knocking out his pipe against the heel of +his shoe. “At the same time—” + +“Quite so! Quite so!” cried Mr. Hammond. “Dashed annoying!” He paced +quickly up and down and came back again to his stand between Mr. and +Mrs. Scott and Mr. Gaven. “It’s getting quite dark, too,” and he waved +his folded umbrella as though the dusk at least might have had the +decency to keep off for a bit. But the dusk came slowly, spreading like +a slow stain over the water. Little Jean Scott dragged at her mother’s +hand. + +“I wan’ my tea, mammy!” she wailed. + +“I expect you do,” said Mr. Hammond. “I expect all these ladies want +their tea.” And his kind, flushed, almost pitiful glance roped them all +in again. He wondered whether Janey was having a final cup of tea in +the saloon out there. He hoped so; he thought not. It would be just +like her not to leave the deck. In that case perhaps the deck steward +would bring her up a cup. If he’d been there he’d have got it for +her—somehow. And for a moment he was on deck, standing over her, +watching her little hand fold round the cup in the way she had, while +she drank the only cup of tea to be got on board.... But now he was +back here, and the Lord only knew when that cursed Captain would stop +hanging about in the stream. He took another turn, up and down, up and +down. He walked as far as the cab-stand to make sure his driver hadn’t +disappeared; back he swerved again to the little flock huddled in the +shelter of the banana crates. Little Jean Scott was still wanting her +tea. Poor little beggar! He wished he had a bit of chocolate on him. + +“Here, Jean!” he said. “Like a lift up?” And easily, gently, he swung +the little girl on to a higher barrel. The movement of holding her, +steadying her, relieved him wonderfully, lightened his heart. + +“Hold on,” he said, keeping an arm round her. + +“Oh, don’t worry about _Jean_, Mr. Hammond!” said Mrs. Scott. + +“That’s all right, Mrs. Scott. No trouble. It’s a pleasure. Jean’s a +little pal of mine, aren’t you, Jean?” + +“Yes, Mr. Hammond,” said Jean, and she ran her finger down the dent of +his felt hat. + +But suddenly she caught him by the ear and gave a loud scream. “Lo-ok, +Mr. Hammond! She’s moving! Look, she’s coming in!” + +By Jove! So she was. At last! She was slowly, slowly turning round. A +bell sounded far over the water and a great spout of steam gushed into +the air. The gulls rose; they fluttered away like bits of white paper. +And whether that deep throbbing was her engines or his heart Mr. +Hammond couldn’t say. He had to nerve himself to bear it, whatever it +was. At that moment old Captain Johnson, the harbour-master, came +striding down the wharf, a leather portfolio under his arm. + +“Jean’ll be all right,” said Mr. Scott. “I’ll hold her.” He was just in +time. Mr. Hammond had forgotten about Jean. He sprang away to greet old +Captain Johnson. + +“Well, Captain,” the eager, nervous voice rang out again, “you’ve taken +pity on us at last.” + +“It’s no good blaming me, Mr. Hammond,” wheezed old Captain Johnson, +staring at the liner. “You got Mrs. Hammond on board, ain’t yer?” + +“Yes, yes!” said Hammond, and he kept by the harbour-master’s side. +“Mrs. Hammond’s there. Hul-lo! We shan’t be long now!” + +With her telephone ring-ringing, the thrum of her screw filling the +air, the big liner bore down on them, cutting sharp through the dark +water so that big white shavings curled to either side. Hammond and the +harbour-master kept in front of the rest. Hammond took off his hat; he +raked the decks—they were crammed with passengers; he waved his hat and +bawled a loud, strange “Hul-lo!” across the water; and then turned +round and burst out laughing and said something—nothing—to old Captain +Johnson. + +“Seen her?” asked the harbour-master. + +“No, not yet. Steady—wait a bit!” And suddenly, between two great +clumsy idiots—“Get out of the way there!” he signed with his +umbrella—he saw a hand raised—a white glove shaking a handkerchief. +Another moment, and—thank God, thank God!—there she was. There was +Janey. There was Mrs. Hammond, yes, yes, yes—standing by the rail and +smiling and nodding and waving her handkerchief. + +“Well that’s first class—first class! Well, well, well!” He positively +stamped. Like lightning he drew out his cigar-case and offered it to +old Captain Johnson. “Have a cigar, Captain! They’re pretty good. Have +a couple! Here”—and he pressed all the cigars in the case on the +harbour-master—“I’ve a couple of boxes up at the hotel.” + +“Thenks, Mr. Hammond!” wheezed old Captain Johnson. + +Hammond stuffed the cigar-case back. His hands were shaking, but he’d +got hold of himself again. He was able to face Janey. There she was, +leaning on the rail, talking to some woman and at the same time +watching him, ready for him. It struck him, as the gulf of water +closed, how small she looked on that huge ship. His heart was wrung +with such a spasm that he could have cried out. How little she looked +to have come all that long way and back by herself! Just like her, +though. Just like Janey. She had the courage of a—— And now the crew +had come forward and parted the passengers; they had lowered the rails +for the gangways. + +The voices on shore and the voices on board flew to greet each other. + +“All well?” + +“All well.” + +“How’s mother?” + +“Much better.” + +“Hullo, Jean!” + +“Hillo, Aun’ Emily!” + +“Had a good voyage?” + +“Splendid!” + +“Shan’t be long now!” + +“Not long now.” + +The engines stopped. Slowly she edged to the wharf-side. + +“Make way there—make way—make way!” And the wharf hands brought the +heavy gangways along at a sweeping run. Hammond signed to Janey to stay +where she was. The old harbour-master stepped forward; he followed. As +to “ladies first,” or any rot like that, it never entered his head. + +“After you, Captain!” he cried genially. And, treading on the old man’s +heels, he strode up the gangway on to the deck in a bee-line to Janey, +and Janey was clasped in his arms. + +“Well, well, well! Yes, yes! Here we are at last!” he stammered. It was +all he could say. And Janey emerged, and her cool little voice—the only +voice in the world for him—said, + +“Well, darling! Have you been waiting long?” + +No; not long. Or, at any rate, it didn’t matter. It was over now. But +the point was, he had a cab waiting at the end of the wharf. Was she +ready to go off. Was her luggage ready? In that case they could cut off +sharp with her cabin luggage and let the rest go hang until to-morrow. +He bent over her and she looked up with her familiar half-smile. She +was just the same. Not a day changed. Just as he’d always known her. +She laid her small hand on his sleeve. + +“How are the children, John?” she asked. + +(Hang the children!) “Perfectly well. Never better in their lives.” + +“Haven’t they sent me letters?” + +“Yes, yes—of course! I’ve left them at the hotel for you to digest +later on.” + +“We can’t go quite so fast,” said she. “I’ve got people to say good-bye +to—and then there’s the Captain.” As his face fell she gave his arm a +small understanding squeeze. “If the Captain comes off the bridge I +want you to thank him for having looked after your wife so +beautifully.” Well, he’d got her. If she wanted another ten minutes—As +he gave way she was surrounded. The whole first-class seemed to want to +say good-bye to Janey. + +“Good-bye, _dear_ Mrs. Hammond! And next time you’re in Sydney I’ll +_expect_ you.” + +“Darling Mrs. Hammond! You won’t forget to write to me, will you?” + +“Well, Mrs. Hammond, what this boat would have been without you!” + +It was as plain as a pikestaff that she was by far the most popular +woman on board. And she took it all—just as usual. Absolutely composed. +Just her little self—just Janey all over; standing there with her veil +thrown back. Hammond never noticed what his wife had on. It was all the +same to him whatever she wore. But to-day he did notice that she wore a +black “costume”—didn’t they call it?—with white frills, trimmings he +supposed they were, at the neck and sleeves. All this while Janey +handed him round. + +“John, dear!” And then: “I want to introduce you to—” + +Finally they did escape, and she led the way to her state-room. To +follow Janey down the passage that she knew so well—that was so strange +to him; to part the green curtains after her and to step into the cabin +that had been hers gave him exquisite happiness. But—confound it!—the +stewardess was there on the floor, strapping up the rugs. + +“That’s the last, Mrs. Hammond,” said the stewardess, rising and +pulling down her cuffs. + +He was introduced again, and then Janey and the stewardess disappeared +into the passage. He heard whisperings. She was getting the tipping +business over, he supposed. He sat down on the striped sofa and took +his hat off. There were the rugs she had taken with her; they looked +good as new. All her luggage looked fresh, perfect. The labels were +written in her beautiful little clear hand—“Mrs. John Hammond.” + +“Mrs. John Hammond!” He gave a long sigh of content and leaned back, +crossing his arms. The strain was over. He felt he could have sat there +for ever sighing his relief—the relief at being rid of that horrible +tug, pull, grip on his heart. The danger was over. That was the +feeling. They were on dry land again. + +But at that moment Janey’s head came round the corner. + +“Darling—do you mind? I just want to go and say good-bye to the +doctor.” + +Hammond started up. “I’ll come with you.” + +“No, no!” she said. “Don’t bother. I’d rather not. I’ll not be a +minute.” + +And before he could answer she was gone. He had half a mind to run +after her; but instead he sat down again. + +Would she really not be long? What was the time now? Out came the +watch; he stared at nothing. That was rather queer of Janey, wasn’t it? +Why couldn’t she have told the stewardess to say good-bye for her? Why +did she have to go chasing after the ship’s doctor? She could have sent +a note from the hotel even if the affair had been urgent. Urgent? Did +it—could it mean that she had been ill on the voyage—she was keeping +something from him? That was it! He seized his hat. He was going off to +find that fellow and to wring the truth out of him at all costs. He +thought he’d noticed just something. She was just a touch too calm—too +steady. From the very first moment— + +The curtains rang. Janey was back. He jumped to his feet. + +“Janey, have you been ill on this voyage? You have!” + +“Ill?” Her airy little voice mocked him. She stepped over the rugs, and +came up close, touched his breast, and looked up at him. + +“Darling,” she said, “don’t frighten me. Of course I haven’t! Whatever +makes you think I have? Do I look ill?” + +But Hammond didn’t see her. He only felt that she was looking at him +and that there was no need to worry about anything. She was here to +look after things. It was all right. Everything was. + +The gentle pressure of her hand was so calming that he put his over +hers to hold it there. And she said: + +“Stand still. I want to look at you. I haven’t seen you yet. You’ve had +your beard beautifully trimmed, and you look—younger, I think, and +decidedly thinner! Bachelor life agrees with you.” + +“Agrees with me!” He groaned for love and caught her close again. And +again, as always, he had the feeling that he was holding something that +never was quite his—his. Something too delicate, too precious, that +would fly away once he let go. + +“For God’s sake let’s get off to the hotel so that we can be by +ourselves!” And he rang the bell hard for some one to look sharp with +the luggage. + + +Walking down the wharf together she took his arm. He had her on his arm +again. And the difference it made to get into the cab after Janey—to +throw the red-and-yellow striped blanket round them both—to tell the +driver to hurry because neither of them had had any tea. No more going +without his tea or pouring out his own. She was back. He turned to her, +squeezed her hand, and said gently, teasingly, in the “special” voice +he had for her: “Glad to be home again, dearie?” She smiled; she didn’t +even bother to answer, but gently she drew his hand away as they came +to the brighter streets. + +“We’ve got the best room in the hotel,” he said. “I wouldn’t be put off +with another. And I asked the chambermaid to put in a bit of a fire in +case you felt chilly. She’s a nice, attentive girl. And I thought now +we were here we wouldn’t bother to go home to-morrow, but spend the day +looking round and leave the morning after. Does that suit you? There’s +no hurry, is there? The children will have you soon enough.... I +thought a day’s sight-seeing might make a nice break in your +journey—eh, Janey?” + +“Have you taken the tickets for the day after?” she asked. + +“I should think I have!” He unbuttoned his overcoat and took out his +bulging pocket-book. “Here we are! I reserved a first-class carriage to +Cooktown. There it is—‘Mr. _and_ Mrs. John Hammond.’ I thought we might +as well do ourselves comfortably, and we don’t want other people +butting in, do we? But if you’d like to stop here a bit longer—?” + +“Oh, no!” said Janey quickly. “Not for the world! The day after +to-morrow, then. And the children—” + +But they had reached the hotel. The manager was standing in the broad, +brilliantly-lighted porch. He came down to greet them. A porter ran +from the hall for their boxes. + +“Well, Mr. Arnold, here’s Mrs. Hammond at last!” + +The manager led them through the hall himself and pressed the +elevator-bell. Hammond knew there were business pals of his sitting at +the little hall tables having a drink before dinner. But he wasn’t +going to risk interruption; he looked neither to the right nor the +left. They could think what they pleased. If they didn’t understand, +the more fools they—and he stepped out of the lift, unlocked the door +of their room, and shepherded Janey in. The door shut. Now, at last, +they were alone together. He turned up the light. The curtains were +drawn; the fire blazed. He flung his hat on to the huge bed and went +towards her. + +But—would you believe it!—again they were interrupted. This time it was +the porter with the luggage. He made two journeys of it, leaving the +door open in between, taking his time, whistling through his teeth in +the corridor. Hammond paced up and down the room, tearing off his +gloves, tearing off his scarf. Finally he flung his overcoat on to the +bedside. + +At last the fool was gone. The door clicked. Now they _were_ alone. +Said Hammond: “I feel I’ll never have you to myself again. These cursed +people! Janey”—and he bent his flushed, eager gaze upon her—“let’s have +dinner up here. If we go down to the restaurant we’ll be interrupted, +and then there’s the confounded music” (the music he’d praised so +highly, applauded so loudly last night!). “We shan’t be able to hear +each other speak. Let’s have something up here in front of the fire. +It’s too late for tea. I’ll order a little supper, shall I? How does +that idea strike you?” + +“Do, darling!” said Janey. “And while you’re away—the children’s +letters—” + +“Oh, later on will do!” said Hammond. + +“But then we’d get it over,” said Janey. “And I’d first have time to—” + +“Oh, I needn’t go down!” explained Hammond. “I’ll just ring and give +the order... you don’t want to send me away, do you?” + +Janey shook her head and smiled. + +“But you’re thinking of something else. You’re worrying about +something,” said Hammond. “What is it? Come and sit here—come and sit +on my knee before the fire.” + +“I’ll just unpin my hat,” said Janey, and she went over to the +dressing-table. “A-ah!” She gave a little cry. + +“What is it?” + +“Nothing, darling. I’ve just found the children’s letters. That’s all +right! They will keep. No hurry now!” She turned to him, clasping them. +She tucked them into her frilled blouse. She cried quickly, gaily: “Oh, +how typical this dressing-table is of you!” + +“Why? What’s the matter with it?” said Hammond. + +“If it were floating in eternity I should say ‘John!’” laughed Janey, +staring at the big bottle of hair tonic, the wicker bottle of +eau-de-Cologne, the two hair-brushes, and a dozen new collars tied with +pink tape. “Is this all your luggage?” + +“Hang my luggage!” said Hammond; but all the same he liked being +laughed at by Janey. “Let’s talk. Let’s get down to things. Tell +me”—and as Janey perched on his knees he leaned back and drew her into +the deep, ugly chair—“tell me you’re really glad to be back, Janey.” + +“Yes, darling, I am glad,” she said. + +But just as when he embraced her he felt she would fly away, so Hammond +never knew—never knew for dead certain that she was as glad as he was. +How could he know? Would he ever know? Would he always have this +craving—this pang like hunger, somehow, to make Janey so much part of +him that there wasn’t any of her to escape? He wanted to blot out +everybody, everything. He wished now he’d turned off the light. That +might have brought her nearer. And now those letters from the children +rustled in her blouse. He could have chucked them into the fire. + +“Janey,” he whispered. + +“Yes, dear?” She lay on his breast, but so lightly, so remotely. Their +breathing rose and fell together. + +“Janey!” + +“What is it?” + +“Turn to me,” he whispered. A slow, deep flush flowed into his +forehead. “Kiss me, Janey! You kiss me!” + +It seemed to him there was a tiny pause—but long enough for him to +suffer torture—before her lips touched his, firmly, lightly—kissing +them as she always kissed him, as though the kiss—how could he describe +it?—confirmed what they were saying, signed the contract. But that +wasn’t what he wanted; that wasn’t at all what he thirsted for. He felt +suddenly, horrible tired. + +“If you knew,” he said, opening his eyes, “what it’s been like—waiting +to-day. I thought the boat never would come in. There we were, hanging +about. What kept you so long?” + +She made no answer. She was looking away from him at the fire. The +flames hurried—hurried over the coals, flickered, fell. + +“Not asleep, are you?” said Hammond, and he jumped her up and down. + +“No,” she said. And then: “Don’t do that, dear. No, I was thinking. As +a matter of fact,” she said, “one of the passengers died last night—a +man. That’s what held us up. We brought him in—I mean, he wasn’t buried +at sea. So, of course, the ship’s doctor and the shore doctor—” + +“What was it?” asked Hammond uneasily. He hated to hear of death. He +hated this to have happened. It was, in some queer way, as though he +and Janey had met a funeral on their way to the hotel. + +“Oh, it wasn’t anything in the least infectious!” said Janey. She was +speaking scarcely above her breath. “It was _heart_.” A pause. “Poor +fellow!” she said. “Quite young.” And she watched the fire flicker and +fall. “He died in my arms,” said Janey. + +The blow was so sudden that Hammond thought he would faint. He couldn’t +move; he couldn’t breathe. He felt all his strength flowing—flowing +into the big dark chair, and the big dark chair held him fast, gripped +him, forced him to bear it. + +“What?” he said dully. “What’s that you say?” + +“The end was quite peaceful,” said the small voice. “He just”—and +Hammond saw her lift her gentle hand—“breathed his life away at the +end.” And her hand fell. + +“Who—else was there?” Hammond managed to ask. + +“Nobody. I was alone with him.” + +Ah, my God, what was she saying! What was she doing to him! This would +kill him! And all the while she spoke: + +“I saw the change coming and I sent the steward for the doctor, but the +doctor was too late. He couldn’t have done anything, anyway.” + +“But—why _you_, why _you_?” moaned Hammond. + +At that Janey turned quickly, quickly searched his face. + +“You don’t _mind_, John, do you?” she asked. “You don’t—It’s nothing to +do with you and me.” + +Somehow or other he managed to shake some sort of smile at her. Somehow +or other he stammered: “No—go—on, go on! I want you to tell me.” + +“But, John darling—” + +“Tell me, Janey!” + +“There’s nothing to tell,” she said, wondering. “He was one of the +first-class passengers. I saw he was very ill when he came on board.... +But he seemed to be so much better until yesterday. He had a severe +attack in the afternoon—excitement—nervousness, I think, about +arriving. And after that he never recovered.” + +“But why didn’t the stewardess—” + +“Oh, my dear—the stewardess!” said Janey. “What would he have felt? And +besides... he might have wanted to leave a message... to—” + +“Didn’t he?” muttered Hammond. “Didn’t he say anything?” + +“No, darling, not a word!” She shook her head softly. “All the time I +was with him he was too weak... he was too weak even to move a +finger....” + +Janey was silent. But her words, so light, so soft, so chill, seemed to +hover in the air, to rain into his breast like snow. + +The fire had gone red. Now it fell in with a sharp sound and the room +was colder. Cold crept up his arms. The room was huge, immense, +glittering. It filled his whole world. There was the great blind bed, +with his coat flung across it like some headless man saying his +prayers. There was the luggage, ready to be carried away again, +anywhere, tossed into trains, carted on to boats. + +... “He was too weak. He was too weak to move a finger.” And yet he +died in Janey’s arms. She—who’d never—never once in all these +years—never on one single solitary occasion— + +No; he mustn’t think of it. Madness lay in thinking of it. No, he +wouldn’t face it. He couldn’t stand it. It was too much to bear! + +And now Janey touched his tie with her fingers. She pinched the edges +of the tie together. + +“You’re not—sorry I told you, John darling? It hasn’t made you sad? It +hasn’t spoilt our evening—our being alone together?” + +But at that he had to hide his face. He put his face into her bosom and +his arms enfolded her. + +Spoilt their evening! Spoilt their being alone together! They would +never be alone together again. + + + + +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? + + + + +An Ideal Family + + +That evening for the first time in his life, as he pressed through the +swing door and descended the three broad steps to the pavement, old Mr. +Neave felt he was too old for the spring. Spring—warm, eager, +restless—was there, waiting for him in the golden light, ready in front +of everybody to run up, to blow in his white beard, to drag sweetly on +his arm. And he couldn’t meet her, no; he couldn’t square up once more +and stride off, jaunty as a young man. He was tired and, although the +late sun was still shining, curiously cold, with a numbed feeling all +over. Quite suddenly he hadn’t the energy, he hadn’t the heart to stand +this gaiety and bright movement any longer; it confused him. He wanted +to stand still, to wave it away with his stick, to say, “Be off with +you!” Suddenly it was a terrible effort to greet as usual—tipping his +wide-awake with his stick—all the people whom he knew, the friends, +acquaintances, shopkeepers, postmen, drivers. But the gay glance that +went with the gesture, the kindly twinkle that seemed to say, “I’m a +match and more for any of you”—that old Mr. Neave could not manage at +all. He stumped along, lifting his knees high as if he were walking +through air that had somehow grown heavy and solid like water. And the +homeward-looking crowd hurried by, the trams clanked, the light carts +clattered, the big swinging cabs bowled along with that reckless, +defiant indifference that one knows only in dreams.... + +It had been a day like other days at the office. Nothing special had +happened. Harold hadn’t come back from lunch until close on four. Where +had he been? What had he been up to? He wasn’t going to let his father +know. Old Mr. Neave had happened to be in the vestibule, saying +good-bye to a caller, when Harold sauntered in, perfectly turned out as +usual, cool, suave, smiling that peculiar little half-smile that women +found so fascinating. + +Ah, Harold was too handsome, too handsome by far; that had been the +trouble all along. No man had a right to such eyes, such lashes, and +such lips; it was uncanny. As for his mother, his sisters, and the +servants, it was not too much to say they made a young god of him; they +worshipped Harold, they forgave him everything; and he had needed some +forgiving ever since the time when he was thirteen and he had stolen +his mother’s purse, taken the money, and hidden the purse in the cook’s +bedroom. Old Mr. Neave struck sharply with his stick upon the pavement +edge. But it wasn’t only his family who spoiled Harold, he reflected, +it was everybody; he had only to look and to smile, and down they went +before him. So perhaps it wasn’t to be wondered at that he expected the +office to carry on the tradition. H’m, h’m! But it couldn’t be done. No +business—not even a successful, established, big paying concern—could +be played with. A man had either to put his whole heart and soul into +it, or it went all to pieces before his eyes.... + +And then Charlotte and the girls were always at him to make the whole +thing over to Harold, to retire, and to spend his time enjoying +himself. Enjoying himself! Old Mr. Neave stopped dead under a group of +ancient cabbage palms outside the Government buildings! Enjoying +himself! The wind of evening shook the dark leaves to a thin airy +cackle. Sitting at home, twiddling his thumbs, conscious all the while +that his life’s work was slipping away, dissolving, disappearing +through Harold’s fine fingers, while Harold smiled.... + +“Why will you be so unreasonable, father? There’s absolutely no need +for you to go to the office. It only makes it very awkward for us when +people persist in saying how tired you’re looking. Here’s this huge +house and garden. Surely you could be happy in—in—appreciating it for a +change. Or you could take up some hobby.” + +And Lola the baby had chimed in loftily, “All men ought to have +hobbies. It makes life impossible if they haven’t.” + +Well, well! He couldn’t help a grim smile as painfully he began to +climb the hill that led into Harcourt Avenue. Where would Lola and her +sisters and Charlotte be if he’d gone in for hobbies, he’d like to +know? Hobbies couldn’t pay for the town house and the seaside bungalow, +and their horses, and their golf, and the sixty-guinea gramophone in +the music-room for them to dance to. Not that he grudged them these +things. No, they were smart, good-looking girls, and Charlotte was a +remarkable woman; it was natural for them to be in the swim. As a +matter of fact, no other house in the town was as popular as theirs; no +other family entertained so much. And how many times old Mr. Neave, +pushing the cigar box across the smoking-room table, had listened to +praises of his wife, his girls, of himself even. + +“You’re an ideal family, sir, an ideal family. It’s like something one +reads about or sees on the stage.” + +“That’s all right, my boy,” old Mr. Neave would reply. “Try one of +those; I think you’ll like them. And if you care to smoke in the +garden, you’ll find the girls on the lawn, I dare say.” + +That was why the girls had never married, so people said. They could +have married anybody. But they had too good a time at home. They were +too happy together, the girls and Charlotte. H’m, h’m! Well, well. +Perhaps so.... + +By this time he had walked the length of fashionable Harcourt Avenue; +he had reached the corner house, their house. The carriage gates were +pushed back; there were fresh marks of wheels on the drive. And then he +faced the big white-painted house, with its wide-open windows, its +tulle curtains floating outwards, its blue jars of hyacinths on the +broad sills. On either side of the carriage porch their +hydrangeas—famous in the town—were coming into flower; the pinkish, +bluish masses of flower lay like light among the spreading leaves. And +somehow, it seemed to old Mr. Neave that the house and the flowers, and +even the fresh marks on the drive, were saying, “There is young life +here. There are girls—” + +The hall, as always, was dusky with wraps, parasols, gloves, piled on +the oak chests. From the music-room sounded the piano, quick, loud and +impatient. Through the drawing-room door that was ajar voices floated. + +“And were there ices?” came from Charlotte. Then the creak, creak of +her rocker. + +“Ices!” cried Ethel. “My dear mother, you never saw such ices. Only two +kinds. And one a common little strawberry shop ice, in a sopping wet +frill.” + +“The food altogether was too appalling,” came from Marion. + +“Still, it’s rather early for ices,” said Charlotte easily. + +“But why, if one has them at all....” began Ethel. + +“Oh, quite so, darling,” crooned Charlotte. + +Suddenly the music-room door opened and Lola dashed out. She started, +she nearly screamed, at the sight of old Mr. Neave. + +“Gracious, father! What a fright you gave me! Have you just come home? +Why isn’t Charles here to help you off with your coat?” + +Her cheeks were crimson from playing, her eyes glittered, the hair fell +over her forehead. And she breathed as though she had come running +through the dark and was frightened. Old Mr. Neave stared at his +youngest daughter; he felt he had never seen her before. So that was +Lola, was it? But she seemed to have forgotten her father; it was not +for him that she was waiting there. Now she put the tip of her crumpled +handkerchief between her teeth and tugged at it angrily. The telephone +rang. A-ah! Lola gave a cry like a sob and dashed past him. The door of +the telephone-room slammed, and at the same moment Charlotte called, +“Is that you, father?” + +“You’re tired again,” said Charlotte reproachfully, and she stopped the +rocker and offered her warm plum-like cheek. Bright-haired Ethel pecked +his beard, Marion’s lips brushed his ear. + +“Did you walk back, father?” asked Charlotte. + +“Yes, I walked home,” said old Mr. Neave, and he sank into one of the +immense drawing-room chairs. + +“But why didn’t you take a cab?” said Ethel. “There are hundreds 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. + + + + +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 anyone—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!...” + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GARDEN PARTY *** + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, +and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following +the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use +of the Project Gutenberg trademark. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The Garden Party</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Katherine Mansfield</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: July 10, 1998 [eBook #1429]<br /> +[Most recently updated: September 9, 2022]</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Sue Asscher and David Widger</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GARDEN PARTY ***</div> + +<div class="fig" style="width:60%;"> +<img src="images/cover.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="cover " /> +</div> + +<h1>The Garden Party</h1> + +<h3>AND OTHER STORIES</h3> + +<h2 class="no-break">by Katherine Mansfield</h2> + +<hr /> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Montaigne dit que les hommes vont béant<br/> +aux choses futures; j’ai la manie de béer<br/> +aux choses passées</i> +</p> + +<h4> +To John Middleton Murry +</h4> + +<hr /> + +<h2> +Contents +</h2> + +<table summary="" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto"> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap01">At the Bay</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap02">The Garden-Party</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap03">The Daughters of the Late Colonel</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap04">Mr. and Mrs. Dove</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap05">The Young Girl</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap06">Life of Ma Parker</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap07">Marriage à la Mode</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap08">The Voyage</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap09">Miss Brill</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap10">Her First Ball</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap11">The Singing Lesson</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap12">The Stranger</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap13">Bank Holiday</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap14">An Ideal Family</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap15">The Lady’s Maid</a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap01"></a>At the Bay</h2> + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Round the corner of Crescent Bay, between the piled-up masses of broken rock, a +flock of sheep came pattering. They were huddled together, a small, tossing, +woolly mass, and their thin, stick-like legs trotted along quickly as if the +cold and the quiet had frightened them. Behind them an old sheep-dog, his +soaking paws covered with sand, ran along with his nose to the ground, but +carelessly, as if thinking of something else. And then in the rocky gateway the +shepherd himself appeared. He was a lean, upright old man, in a frieze coat +that was covered with a web of tiny drops, velvet trousers tied under the knee, +and a wide-awake with a folded blue handkerchief round the brim. One hand was +crammed into his belt, the other grasped a beautifully smooth yellow stick. And +as he walked, taking his time, he kept up a very soft light whistling, an airy, +far-away fluting that sounded mournful and tender. The old dog cut an ancient +caper or two and then drew up sharp, ashamed of his levity, and walked a few +dignified paces by his master’s side. The sheep ran forward in little +pattering rushes; they began to bleat, and ghostly flocks and herds answered +them from under the sea. “Baa! Baaa!” For a time they seemed to be +always on the same piece of ground. There ahead was stretched the sandy road +with shallow puddles; the same soaking bushes showed on either side and the +same shadowy palings. Then something immense came into view; an enormous +shock-haired giant with his arms stretched out. It was the big gum-tree outside +Mrs. Stubbs’ shop, and as they passed by there was a strong whiff of +eucalyptus. And now big spots of light gleamed in the mist. The shepherd +stopped whistling; he rubbed his red nose and wet beard on his wet sleeve and, +screwing up his eyes, glanced in the direction of the sea. The sun was rising. +It was marvellous how quickly the mist thinned, sped away, dissolved from the +shallow plain, rolled up from the bush and was gone as if in a hurry to escape; +big twists and curls jostled and shouldered each other as the silvery beams +broadened. The far-away sky—a bright, pure blue—was reflected in +the puddles, and the drops, swimming along the telegraph poles, flashed into +points of light. Now the leaping, glittering sea was so bright it made +one’s eyes ache to look at it. The shepherd drew a pipe, the bowl as +small as an acorn, out of his breast pocket, fumbled for a chunk of speckled +tobacco, pared off a few shavings and stuffed the bowl. He was a grave, +fine-looking old man. As he lit up and the blue smoke wreathed his head, the +dog, watching, looked proud of him. +</p> + +<p> +“Baa! Baaa!” The sheep spread out into a fan. They were just clear +of the summer colony before the first sleeper turned over and lifted a drowsy +head; their cry sounded in the dreams of little children... who lifted their +arms to drag down, to cuddle the darling little woolly lambs of sleep. Then the +first inhabitant appeared; it was the Burnells’ cat Florrie, sitting on +the gatepost, far too early as usual, looking for their milk-girl. When she saw +the old sheep-dog she sprang up quickly, arched her back, drew in her tabby +head, and seemed to give a little fastidious shiver. “Ugh! What a coarse, +revolting creature!” said Florrie. But the old sheep-dog, not looking up, +waggled past, flinging out his legs from side to side. Only one of his ears +twitched to prove that he saw, and thought her a silly young female. +</p> + +<p> +The breeze of morning lifted in the bush and the smell of leaves and wet black +earth mingled with the sharp smell of the sea. Myriads of birds were singing. A +goldfinch flew over the shepherd’s head and, perching on the tiptop of a +spray, it turned to the sun, ruffling its small breast feathers. And now they +had passed the fisherman’s hut, passed the charred-looking little +<i>whare</i> 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. +</p> + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Hail, brother! All hail, Thou Mighty One!” A velvety bass voice +came booming over the water. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I had an extraordinary dream last night!” he shouted. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re WHAT?” Jonathan was so surprised—or pretended +to be—that he sank under the water, then reappeared again blowing. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>III</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve just got twenty-five minutes,” he said. “You +might go and see if the porridge is ready, Beryl?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mother’s just gone for it,” said Beryl. She sat down at the +table and poured out his tea. +</p> + +<p> +“Thanks!” Stanley took a sip. “Hallo!” he said in an +astonished voice, “you’ve forgotten the sugar.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, sorry!” But even then Beryl didn’t help him; she pushed +the basin across. What did this mean? As Stanley helped himself his blue eyes +widened; they seemed to quiver. He shot a quick glance at his sister-in-law and +leaned back. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing wrong, is there?” he asked carelessly, fingering his +collar. +</p> + +<p> +Beryl’s head was bent; she turned her plate in her fingers. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing,” said her light voice. Then she too looked up, and smiled +at Stanley. “Why should there be?” +</p> + +<p> +“O-oh! No reason at all as far as I know. I thought you seemed +rather—” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, grandma.” They settled themselves on the bench opposite +Stanley and Beryl. +</p> + +<p> +“Good morning, Stanley!” Old Mrs. Fairfield gave him his plate. +</p> + +<p> +“Morning, mother! How’s the boy?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“You might <i>cut</i> 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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, they’re ready for you.” Mrs. Fairfield was quite +unruffled. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Kezia! Why are you such a messy child!” cried Beryl +despairingly. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Why can’t you eat your food properly like Isabel and +Lottie?” How unfair grown-ups are! +</p> + +<p> +“But Lottie always makes a floating island, don’t you, +Lottie?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Stanley pushed back his chair and got up. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, father!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Stick, dear? What stick?” Linda’s vagueness on these +occasions could not be real, Stanley decided. Would nobody sympathize with him? +</p> + +<p> +“Coach! Coach, Stanley!” Beryl’s voice cried from the gate. +</p> + +<p> +Stanley waved his arm to Linda. “No time to say good-bye!” he +cried. And he meant that as a punishment to her. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Gone?” +</p> + +<p> +“Gone!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<h3>IV</h3> + +<p> +“Wait for me, Isa-bel! Kezia, wait for me!” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Here, put your other foot over,” said Kezia. +</p> + +<p> +“Where?” +</p> + +<p> +Lottie looked down at Kezia as if from a mountain height. +</p> + +<p> +“Here where my hand is.” Kezia patted the place. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, <i>there</i> do you mean!” Lottie gave a deep sigh and put the +second foot over. +</p> + +<p> +“Now—sort of turn round and sit down and slide,” said Kezia. +</p> + +<p> +“But there’s nothing to sit down <i>on</i>, Kezia,” said +Lottie. +</p> + +<p> +She managed it at last, and once it was over she shook herself and began to +beam. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m getting better at climbing over stiles, aren’t I, +Kezia?” +</p> + +<p> +Lottie’s was a very hopeful nature. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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 “Limmonadear.” 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Look!” said Pip. “Look what I’ve discovered.” +And he showed them an old wet, squashed-looking boot. The three little girls +stared. +</p> + +<p> +“Whatever are you going to do with it?” asked Kezia. +</p> + +<p> +“Keep it, of course!” Pip was very scornful. “It’s a +find—see?” +</p> + +<p> +Yes, Kezia saw that. All the same.... +</p> + +<p> +“There’s lots of things buried in the sand,” explained Pip. +“They get chucked up from wrecks. Treasure. Why—you might +find—” +</p> + +<p> +“But why does Rags have to keep on pouring water in?” asked Lottie. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, that’s to moisten it,” said Pip, “to make the work +a bit easier. Keep it up, Rags.” +</p> + +<p> +And good little Rags ran up and down, pouring in the water that turned brown +like cocoa. +</p> + +<p> +“Here, shall I show you what I found yesterday?” said Pip +mysteriously, and he stuck his spade into the sand. “Promise not to +tell.” +</p> + +<p> +They promised. +</p> + +<p> +“Say, cross my heart straight dinkum.” +</p> + +<p> +The little girls said it. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Now turn round!” he ordered. +</p> + +<p> +They turned round. +</p> + +<p> +“All look the same way! Keep still! Now!” +</p> + +<p> +And his hand opened; he held up to the light something that flashed, that +winked, that was a most lovely green. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a nemeral,” said Pip solemnly. +</p> + +<p> +“Is it really, Pip?” Even Isabel was impressed. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>V</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Here, mother, keep those for me, will you?” +</p> + +<p> +Two rings and a thin gold chain were dropped into Mrs Fairfield’s lap. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, dear. But aren’t you going to bathe here?” +</p> + +<p> +“No-o,” Beryl drawled. She sounded vague. “I’m +undressing farther along. I’m going to bathe with Mrs. Harry +Kember.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very well.” But Mrs. Fairfield’s lips set. She disapproved +of Mrs Harry Kember. Beryl knew it. +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +“You look very pleased,” said Mrs. Harry Kember. She sat hunched up +on the stones, her arms round her knees, smoking. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s such a lovely day,” said Beryl, smiling down at her. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh my <i>dear</i>!” 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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Mercy on us,” said Mrs. Harry Kember, “what a little beauty +you are!” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t!” said Beryl softly; but, drawing off one stocking and +then the other, she felt a little beauty. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Lucky little creature,” sighed Mrs. Kember, unfastening her own. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<h3>VI</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +... 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.... +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, papa.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Linny’s beau,” he whispered. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, papa, fancy being married to Stanley Burnell!” +</p> + +<p> +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 +anyone—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. +</p> + +<p> +But the trouble was—here Linda felt almost inclined to laugh, though +Heaven knows it was no laughing matter—she saw <i>her</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m here!” that happy smile seemed to say. “Why +don’t you like me?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t like babies?” The boy couldn’t believe her. +“Don’t like <i>me</i>?” He waved his arms foolishly at his +mother. +</p> + +<p> +Linda dropped off her chair on to the grass. +</p> + +<p> +“Why do you keep on smiling?” she said severely. “If you knew +what I was thinking about, you wouldn’t.” +</p> + +<p> +But he only squeezed up his eyes, slyly, and rolled his head on the pillow. He +didn’t believe a word she said. +</p> + +<p> +“We know all about that!” smiled the boy. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>VII</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What are you looking at, my grandma? Why do you keep stopping and sort +of staring at the wall?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me, grandma,” said Kezia. +</p> + +<p> +The old woman sighed, whipped the wool twice round her thumb, and drew the bone +needle through. She was casting on. +</p> + +<p> +“I was thinking of your Uncle William, darling,” she said quietly. +</p> + +<p> +“My Australian Uncle William?” said Kezia. She had another. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, of course.” +</p> + +<p> +“The one I never saw?” +</p> + +<p> +“That was the one.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, what happened to him?” Kezia knew perfectly well, but she +wanted to be told again. +</p> + +<p> +“He went to the mines, and he got a sunstroke there and died,” said +old Mrs. Fairfield. +</p> + +<p> +Kezia blinked and considered the picture again.... A little man fallen over +like a tin soldier by the side of a big black hole. +</p> + +<p> +“Does it make you sad to think about him, grandma?” She hated her +grandma to be sad. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>them</i> as a woman does, long after <i>they</i> were out of sight. Did it +make her sad? No, life was like that. +</p> + +<p> +“No, Kezia.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Fairfield began counting the stitches in threes. “It just +happened,” she said in an absorbed voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Does everybody have to die?” asked Kezia. +</p> + +<p> +“Everybody!” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Me?</i>” Kezia sounded fearfully incredulous. +</p> + +<p> +“Some day, my darling.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, grandma.” Kezia waved her left leg and waggled the toes. They +felt sandy. “What if I just won’t?” +</p> + +<p> +The old woman sighed again and drew a long thread from the ball. +</p> + +<p> +“We’re not asked, Kezia,” she said sadly. “It happens +to all of us sooner or later.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Grandma,” she said in a startled voice. +</p> + +<p> +“What, my pet!” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>You’re</i> not to die.” Kezia was very decided. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, Kezia”—her grandma looked up and smiled and shook her +head—“don’t let’s talk about it.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +The old woman went on knitting. +</p> + +<p> +“Promise me! Say never!” +</p> + +<p> +But still her grandma was silent. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Say never... say never... say never—” She gasped between the +kisses. And then she began, very softly and lightly, to tickle her grandma. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Both of them had forgotten what the “never” was about. +</p> + +<h3>VIII</h3> + +<p> +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 “<i>perishall</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Dear heart!” Mrs. Stubbs had clapped her hand to her side. +“I never seen anyone so eaten. You might have been attacked by +canningbals.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="center"> +LOST! HANSOME GOLE BROOCH<br /> +SOLID GOLD<br /> +ON OR NEAR BEACH<br /> +REWARD OFFERED +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Tea was laid on the parlour table—ham, sardines, a whole pound of butter, +and such a large johnny cake that it looked like an advertisement for +somebody’s baking-powder. But the Primus stove roared so loudly that it +was useless to try to talk above it. Alice sat down on the edge of a +basket-chair while Mrs. Stubbs pumped the stove still higher. Suddenly Mrs. +Stubbs whipped the cushion off a chair and disclosed a large brown-paper +parcel. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve just had some new photers taken, my dear,” she shouted +cheerfully to Alice. “Tell me what you think of them.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Alice quite saw what she meant. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Alice burned to know exactly what it was that was drawn from him. She ventured, +“I suppose it was water.” +</p> + +<p> +But Mrs. Stubbs fixed Alice with her eyes and replied meaningly, “It was +<i>liquid</i>, my dear.” +</p> + +<p> +Liquid! Alice jumped away from the word like a cat and came back to it, nosing +and wary. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s ’im!” said Mrs. Stubbs, and she pointed +dramatically to the life-size head and shoulders of a burly man with a dead +white rose in the buttonhole of his coat that made you think of a curl of cold +mutting fat. Just below, in silver letters on a red cardboard ground, were the +words, “Be not afraid, it is I.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s ever such a fine face,” said Alice faintly. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>IX</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You can’t be a bee, Kezia. A bee’s not an animal. It’s +a ninseck.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“A ninseck must be an animal,” she said stoutly. “It makes a +noise. It’s not like a fish.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll be a sheep,” said little Rags. “A whole lot of +sheep went past this morning.” +</p> + +<p> +“How do you know?” +</p> + +<p> +“Dad heard them. Baa!” He sounded like the little lamb that trots +behind and seems to wait to be carried. +</p> + +<p> +“Cock-a-doodle-do!” shrilled Isabel. With her red cheeks and bright +eyes she looked like a rooster. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Be a donkey, Lottie.” It was Kezia’s suggestion. +“Hee-haw! You can’t forget that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hee-haw!” said Lottie solemnly. “When do I have to say +it?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mine?” Lottie was round-eyed. “To keep?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, silly. Just for the game, see? Just while we’re +playing.” The bull was very cross with her. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Lottie, you <i>are</i> a little silly,” said the proud +rooster. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, you <i>do</i>, Lottie. It’s quite easy,” said Kezia. +</p> + +<p> +And Isabel, repentant, said exactly like a grown-up, “Watch <i>me</i>, +Lottie, and you’ll soon learn.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +Lottie revived at that. But now she was in another difficulty. “I +haven’t got a hanky,” she said; “I want one badly, +too.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.’” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Lottie, you begin.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“No, Lottie, you can’t do that. You mustn’t look first. You +must turn it the other way over.” +</p> + +<p> +“But then everybody will see it the same time as me,” said Lottie. +</p> + +<p> +The game proceeded. Mooe-ooo-er! The bull was terrible. He charged over the +table and seemed to eat the cards up. +</p> + +<p> +Bss-ss! said the bee. +</p> + +<p> +Cock-a-doodle-do! Isabel stood up in her excitement and moved her elbows like +wings. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Why don’t you call out, Lottie?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve forgotten what I am,” said the donkey woefully. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, change! Be a dog instead! Bow-wow!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh yes. That’s <i>much</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“What noise? What do you mean?” asked the rooster. +</p> + +<p> +“Ss! Shut up! Listen!” They were mouse-still. “I thought I +heard a—a sort of knocking,” said the bull. +</p> + +<p> +“What was it like?” asked the sheep faintly. +</p> + +<p> +No answer. +</p> + +<p> +The bee gave a shudder. “Whatever did we shut the door for?” she +said softly. Oh, why, why had they shut the door? +</p> + +<p> +While they were playing, the day had faded; the gorgeous sunset had blazed and +died. And now the quick dark came racing over the sea, over the sand-hills, up +the paddock. You were frightened to look in the corners of the washhouse, and +yet you had to look with all your might. And somewhere, far away, grandma was +lighting a lamp. The blinds were being pulled down; the kitchen fire leapt in +the tins on the mantelpiece. +</p> + +<p> +“It would be awful now,” said the bull, “if a spider was to +fall from the ceiling on to the table, wouldn’t it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Spiders don’t fall from ceilings.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Quickly all the little heads were jerked up; all the little bodies drew +together, pressed together. +</p> + +<p> +“Why doesn’t somebody come and call us?” cried the rooster. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +It was true, it was real. Pressed against the window was a pale face, black +eyes, a black beard. +</p> + +<p> +“Grandma! Mother! Somebody!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>X</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Greeting, my Fair One! Greeting, my Celestial Peach Blossom!” +boomed the bass voice gently. “Where are the other noble dames?” +</p> + +<p> +“Beryl’s out playing bridge and mother’s giving the boy his +bath.... Have you come to borrow something?” +</p> + +<p> +The Trouts were for ever running out of things and sending across to the +Burnells’ at the last moment. +</p> + +<p> +But Jonathan only answered, “A little love, a little kindness;” and +he walked by his sister-in-law’s side. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“And so you go back to the office on Monday, do you, Jonathan?” +asked Linda. +</p> + +<p> +“On Monday the cage door opens and clangs to upon the victim for another +eleven months and a week,” answered Jonathan. +</p> + +<p> +Linda swung a little. “It must be awful,” she said slowly. +</p> + +<p> +“Would ye have me laugh, my fair sister? Would ye have me weep?” +</p> + +<p> +Linda was so accustomed to Jonathan’s way of talking that she paid no +attention to it. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose,” she said vaguely, “one gets used to it. One gets +used to anything.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, if you feel like that, why—” began Linda quickly. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Ah!</i>” 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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: +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Would ye hear the story<br /> +How it unfolds itself. . . +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +and they were silent. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Linda knew that he would never change, but she said, “Is it too late, +even now?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +Jonathan stooped again and kissed her fingers. +</p> + +<p> +“Heaven reward thy sweet patience, lady mine,” he murmured. +“I must go seek those heirs to my fame and fortune....” He was +gone. +</p> + +<h3>XI</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank goodness, it’s getting late,” said Florrie. +“Thank goodness, the long day is over.” Her greengage eyes opened. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Stanley was half-way up the path before he saw Linda. “Is that you, +darling?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Stanley.” +</p> + +<p> +He leapt across the flower-bed and seized her in his arms. She was enfolded in +that familiar, eager, strong embrace. +</p> + +<p> +“Forgive me, darling, forgive me,” stammered Stanley, and he put +his hand under her chin and lifted her face to him. +</p> + +<p> +“Forgive you?” smiled Linda. “But whatever for?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, Stanley,” said Linda, “what must I forgive you +for?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“What’s that you’ve got in your hand?” asked Linda. +“New gloves? Let me see.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“On the <i>con</i>-trary, darling,” said Linda, “I think it +was most sensible.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>XII</h3> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +“My very own for ever?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” Their lips met. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +But when Beryl looked at the bush, it seemed to her the bush was sad. +</p> + +<p> +“We are dumb trees, reaching up in the night, imploring we know not +what,” said the sorrowful bush. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I’m here. I’m Beryl. Who wants me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Beryl!” +</p> + +<p> +“Let me come.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +And the thought was almost, “Save me, my love. Save me!” +</p> + +<p> +... “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. +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +Oh why, oh why doesn’t “he” come soon? +</p> + +<p> +If I go on living here, thought Beryl, anything may happen to me. +</p> + +<p> +“But how do you know he is coming at all?” mocked a small voice +within her. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you remember Beryl Fairfield?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“She’s as lovely as ever, more so if anything.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Good evening, Miss Beryl,” said the voice softly. +</p> + +<p> +“Good evening.” +</p> + +<p> +“Won’t you come for a little walk?” it drawled. +</p> + +<p> +Come for a walk—at that time of night! “I couldn’t. +Everybody’s in bed. Everybody’s asleep.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Beryl shook her head. But already something stirred in her, something reared +its head. +</p> + +<p> +The voice said, “Frightened?” It mocked, “Poor little +girl!” +</p> + +<p> +“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! +</p> + +<p> +And just as if this was quite understood by the other, the voice said, gently +and softly, but finally, “Come along!” +</p> + +<p> +Beryl stepped over her low window, crossed the veranda, ran down the grass to +the gate. He was there before her. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s right,” breathed the voice, and it teased, +“You’re not frightened, are you? You’re not +frightened?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Not in the least,” she said lightly. “Why should I +be?” +</p> + +<p> +Her hand was pulled gently, tugged. She held back. +</p> + +<p> +“No, I’m not coming any farther,” said Beryl. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, rot!” Harry Kember didn’t believe her. “Come +along! We’ll just go as far as that fuchsia bush. Come along!” +</p> + +<p> +The fuchsia bush was tall. It fell over the fence in a shower. There was a +little pit of darkness beneath. +</p> + +<p> +“No, really, I don’t want to,” said Beryl. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Cold little devil! Cold little devil!” said the hateful voice. +</p> + +<p> +But Beryl was strong. She slipped, ducked, wrenched free. +</p> + +<p> +“You are vile, vile,” said she. +</p> + +<p> +“Then why in God’s name did you come?” stammered Harry +Kember. +</p> + +<p> +Nobody answered him. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap02"></a>The Garden-Party</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Breakfast was not yet over before the men came to put up the marquee. +</p> + +<p> +“Where do you want the marquee put, mother?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll have to go, Laura; you’re the artistic one.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Four men in their shirt-sleeves stood grouped together on the garden path. They +carried staves covered with rolls of canvas, and they had big tool-bags slung +on their backs. They looked impressive. Laura wished now that she had not got +the bread-and-butter, but there was nowhere to put it, and she couldn’t +possibly throw it away. She blushed and tried to look severe and even a little +bit short-sighted as she came up to them. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, what about the lily-lawn? Would that do?” +</p> + +<p> +And she pointed to the lily-lawn with the hand that didn’t hold the +bread-and-butter. They turned, they stared in the direction. A little fat chap +thrust out his under-lip, and the tall fellow frowned. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“A corner of the tennis-court,” she suggested. “But the +band’s going to be in one corner.” +</p> + +<p> +“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? +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Look here, miss, that’s the place. Against those trees. Over +there. That’ll do fine.” +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +It’s all the fault, she decided, as the tall fellow drew something on the +back of an envelope, something that was to be looped up or left to hang, of +these absurd class distinctions. Well, for her part, she didn’t feel +them. Not a bit, not an atom.... And now there came the chock-chock of wooden +hammers. Some one whistled, some one sang out, “Are you right there, +matey?” “Matey!” The friendliness of it, +the—the—Just to prove how happy she was, just to show the tall +fellow how at home she felt, and how she despised stupid conventions, Laura +took a big bite of her bread-and-butter as she stared at the little drawing. +She felt just like a work-girl. +</p> + +<p> +“Laura, Laura, where are you? Telephone, Laura!” a voice cried from +the house. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I say, Laura,” said Laurie very fast, “you might just give a +squiz at my coat before this afternoon. See if it wants pressing.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Sheridan’s voice floated down the stairs. “Tell her to wear +that sweet hat she had on last Sunday.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mother says you’re to wear that <i>sweet</i> hat you had on last +Sunday. Good. One o’clock. Bye-bye.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is it, Sadie?” Laura came into the hall. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s the florist, Miss Laura.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s some mistake,” she said faintly. “Nobody ever +ordered so many. Sadie, go and find mother.” +</p> + +<p> +But at that moment Mrs. Sheridan joined them. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“My darling child, you wouldn’t like a logical mother, would you? +Don’t do that. Here’s the man.” +</p> + +<p> +He carried more lilies still, another whole tray. +</p> + +<p> +“Bank them up, just inside the door, on both sides of the porch, +please,” said Mrs. Sheridan. “Don’t you agree, Laura?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I <i>do</i>, mother.” +</p> + +<p> +In the drawing-room Meg, Jose and good little Hans had at last succeeded in +moving the piano. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, if we put this chesterfield against the wall and move everything +out of the room except the chairs, don’t you think?” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good, Miss Jose.” +</p> + +<p> +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.’” +</p> + +<p> +<i>Pom!</i> Ta-ta-ta <i>Tee</i>-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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +This Life is <i>Wee</i>-ary,<br /> +A Tear—a Sigh.<br /> +A Love that <i>Chan</i>-ges,<br /> +This Life is <i>Wee</i>-ary,<br /> +A Tear—a Sigh.<br /> +A Love that <i>Chan</i>-ges,<br /> +And then. . . Good-bye! +</p> + +<p> +But at the word “Good-bye,” and although the piano sounded more +desperate than ever, her face broke into a brilliant, dreadfully unsympathetic +smile. +</p> + +<p> +“Aren’t I in good voice, mummy?” she beamed. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +This Life is <i>Wee</i>-ary,<br /> +Hope comes to Die.<br /> +A Dream—a <i>Wa</i>-kening. +</p> + +<p> +But now Sadie interrupted them. “What is it, Sadie?” +</p> + +<p> +“If you please, m’m, cook says have you got the flags for the +sandwiches?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Sadie went. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The envelope was found at last behind the dining-room clock, though how it had +got there Mrs. Sheridan could not imagine. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Egg and—” Mrs. Sheridan held the envelope away from her. +“It looks like mice. It can’t be mice, can it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Olive, pet,” said Laura, looking over her shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, of course, olive. What a horrible combination it sounds. Egg and +olive.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I have never seen such exquisite sandwiches,” said Jose’s +rapturous voice. “How many kinds did you say there were, cook? +Fifteen?” +</p> + +<p> +“Fifteen, Miss Jose.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, cook, I congratulate you.” +</p> + +<p> +Cook swept up crusts with the long sandwich knife, and smiled broadly. +</p> + +<p> +“Godber’s has come,” announced Sadie, issuing out of the +pantry. She had seen the man pass the window. +</p> + +<p> +That meant the cream puffs had come. Godber’s were famous for their cream +puffs. Nobody ever thought of making them at home. +</p> + +<p> +“Bring them in and put them on the table, my girl,” ordered cook. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t they carry one back to all one’s parties?” said +Laura. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose they do,” said practical Jose, who never liked to be +carried back. “They look beautifully light and feathery, I must +say.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have one each, my dears,” said cook in her comfortable voice. +“Yer ma won’t know.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +But the back door was blocked by cook, Sadie, Godber’s man and Hans. +</p> + +<p> +Something had happened. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“What’s the matter? What’s happened?” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s been a horrible accident,” said Cook. “A man +killed.” +</p> + +<p> +“A man killed! Where? How? When?” +</p> + +<p> +But Godber’s man wasn’t going to have his story snatched from under +his very nose. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dead!” Laura stared at Godber’s man. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Stop everything, Laura!” cried Jose in astonishment. “What +do you mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“Stop the garden-party, of course.” Why did Jose pretend? +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But we can’t possibly have a garden-party with a man dead just +outside the front gate.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“And just think of what the band would sound like to that poor +woman,” said Laura. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do, dear,” cooed Jose. +</p> + +<p> +“Mother, can I come into your room?” Laura turned the big glass +door-knob. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Mother, a man’s been killed,” began Laura. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Not</i> in the garden?” interrupted her mother. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, what a fright you gave me!” Mrs. Sheridan sighed with relief, +and took off the big hat and held it on her knees. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Mother, isn’t it terribly heartless of us?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“But, mother,” Laura began again. She couldn’t look at +herself; she turned aside. +</p> + +<p> +This time Mrs. Sheridan lost patience just as Jose had done. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.... +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Laurie!” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +Laura said faintly “Is it?” and smiled up at Laurie, and +didn’t tell him after all. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Darling Laura, how well you look!” +</p> + +<p> +“What a becoming hat, child!” +</p> + +<p> +“Laura, you look quite Spanish. I’ve never seen you look so +striking.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +And the perfect afternoon slowly ripened, slowly faded, slowly its petals +closed. +</p> + +<p> +“Never a more delightful garden-party....” “The greatest +success....” “Quite the most....” +</p> + +<p> +Laura helped her mother with the good-byes. They stood side by side in the +porch till it was all over. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Have a sandwich, daddy dear. I wrote the flag.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear,” said Mrs. Sheridan, holding up her hand, “we did. +It nearly ruined the party. Laura insisted we should put it off.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, mother!” Laura didn’t want to be teased about it. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +An awkward little silence fell. Mrs. Sheridan fidgeted with her cup. Really, it +was very tactless of father.... +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, mother, do you really think it’s a good idea?” said +Laura. +</p> + +<p> +Again, how curious, she seemed to be different from them all. To take scraps +from their party. Would the poor woman really like that? +</p> + +<p> +“Of course! What’s the matter with you to-day? An hour or two ago +you were insisting on us being sympathetic, and now—” +</p> + +<p> +Oh well! Laura ran for the basket. It was filled, it was heaped by her mother. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“The stems will ruin her lace frock,” said practical Jose. +</p> + +<p> +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—” +</p> + +<p> +“What mother?” +</p> + +<p> +No, better not put such ideas into the child’s head! “Nothing! Run +along.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Then the door opened. A little woman in black showed in the gloom. +</p> + +<p> +Laura said, “Are you Mrs. Scott?” But to her horror the woman +answered, “Walk in please, miss,” and she was shut in the passage. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Laura, “I don’t want to come in. I only want +to leave this basket. Mother sent—” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +She found herself in a wretched little low kitchen, lighted by a smoky lamp. +There was a woman sitting before the fire. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, but of course!” said Laura. “Please, please don’t +disturb her. I—I only want to leave—” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“All right, my dear,” said the other. “I’ll thenk the +young lady.” +</p> + +<p> +And again she began, “You’ll excuse her, miss, I’m +sure,” and her face, swollen too, tried an oily smile. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Laura came. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Forgive my hat,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +He stepped out of the shadow. “Is that you, Laura?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mother was getting anxious. Was it all right?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, quite. Oh, Laurie!” She took his arm, she pressed up against +him. +</p> + +<p> +“I say, you’re not crying, are you?” asked her brother. +</p> + +<p> +Laura shook her head. She was. +</p> + +<p> +Laurie put his arm round her shoulder. “Don’t cry,” he said +in his warm, loving voice. “Was it awful?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Isn’t</i> it, darling?” said Laurie. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap03"></a>The Daughters of the Late Colonel</h2> + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think father would mind if we gave his top-hat to the +porter?” +</p> + +<p> +“The porter?” snapped Josephine. “Why ever the porter? What a +very extraordinary idea!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“We can decide to-morrow,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +Constantia had noticed nothing; she sighed. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think we ought to have our dressing-gowns dyed as well?” +</p> + +<p> +“Black?” almost shrieked Josephine. +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Kate does,” said Constantia. “And the postman very well +might.” +</p> + +<p> +Josephine thought of her dark-red slippers, which matched her dressing-gown, +and of Constantia’s favourite indefinite green ones which went with hers. +Black! Two black dressing-gowns and two pairs of black woolly slippers, +creeping off to the bathroom like black cats. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think it’s absolutely necessary,” said she. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Twenty-three.” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>so</i> much,” she could +have cried if she’d wanted to. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you got enough stamps?” came from Constantia. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, how can I tell?” said Josephine crossly. “What’s +the good of asking me that now?” +</p> + +<p> +“I was just wondering,” said Constantia mildly. +</p> + +<p> +Silence again. There came a little rustle, a scurry, a hop. +</p> + +<p> +“A mouse,” said Constantia. +</p> + +<p> +“It can’t be a mouse because there aren’t any crumbs,” +said Josephine. +</p> + +<p> +“But it doesn’t know there aren’t,” said Constantia. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t think how they manage to live at all,” she said +slowly. +</p> + +<p> +“Who?” demanded Josephine. +</p> + +<p> +And Constantia said more loudly than she meant to, “Mice.” +</p> + +<p> +Josephine was furious. “Oh, what nonsense, Con!” she said. +“What have mice got to do with it? You’re asleep.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think I am,” said Constantia. She shut her eyes to +make sure. She was. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Very nice,” said Constantia. +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, but she could hardly expect to be paid!” cried Constantia. +</p> + +<p> +“One never knows,” said Josephine sagely. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Josephine could hardly bear that. But “I think those things are very +extravagant” was all she said. +</p> + +<p> +“But whey?” asked Nurse Andrews, beaming through her eyeglasses. +“No one, surely, would take more buttah than one wanted—would +one?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ring, Con,” cried Josephine. She couldn’t trust herself to +reply. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Jam, please, Kate,” said Josephine kindly. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m afraid,” said Nurse Andrews a moment later, “there +isn’t any.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, what a bother!” said Josephine. She bit her lip. “What +had we better do?” +</p> + +<p> +Constantia looked dubious. “We can’t disturb Kate again,” she +said softly. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I know,” she said. “Marmalade. There’s some marmalade +in the sideboard. Get it, Con.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<h3>III</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>IV</h3> + +<p> +It had made it very awkward for them when Mr. Farolles, of St. John’s, +called the same afternoon. +</p> + +<p> +“The end was quite peaceful, I trust?” were the first words he said +as he glided towards them through the dark drawing-room. +</p> + +<p> +“Quite,” said Josephine faintly. They both hung their heads. Both +of them felt certain that eye wasn’t at all a peaceful eye. +</p> + +<p> +“Won’t you sit down?” said Josephine. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +He coughed. Josephine clasped her hands; Constantia looked vague. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you very much, Mr. Farolles,” said Josephine and Constantia. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>and</i> now, you have only +to tell me. A little Communion is often very help—a great comfort,” +he added tenderly. +</p> + +<p> +But the idea of a little Communion terrified them. What! In the drawing-room by +themselves—with no—no altar or anything! The piano would be much +too high, thought Constantia, and Mr. Farolles could not possibly lean over it +with the chalice. And Kate would be sure to come bursting in and interrupt +them, thought Josephine. And supposing the bell rang in the middle? It might be +somebody important—about their mourning. Would they get up reverently and +go out, or would they have to wait... in torture? +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps you will send round a note by your good Kate if you would care +for it later,” said Mr. Farolles. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh yes, thank you very much!” they both said. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Farolles got up and took his black straw hat from the round table. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Josephine and Constantia got up too. +</p> + +<p> +“I should like it to be quite simple,” said Josephine firmly, +“and not too expensive. At the same time, I should like—” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<h3>V</h3> + +<p> +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 <i>buried</i>!” +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? +</p> + +<p> +She heard him absolutely roaring. “And do you expect me to pay for this +gimcrack excursion of yours?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” groaned poor Josephine aloud, “we shouldn’t have +done it, Con!” +</p> + +<p> +And Constantia, pale as a lemon in all that blackness, said in a frightened +whisper, “Done what, Jug?” +</p> + +<p> +“Let them bu-bury father like that,” said Josephine, breaking down +and crying into her new, queer-smelling mourning handkerchief. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Josephine blew her nose; the cab was dreadfully stuffy. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<h3>VI</h3> + +<p> +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. “<i>Go through father’s things and settle about +them.</i>” But that was a very different matter from saying after +breakfast: +</p> + +<p> +“Well, are you ready, Con?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Jug—when you are.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I think we’d better get it over.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You—you go first,” she gasped, pushing Constantia. +</p> + +<p> +But Constantia said, as she always had said on those occasions, “No, Jug, +that’s not fair. You’re the eldest.” +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +“Very stiff,” said Josephine, grasping the doorhandle and doing her +best to turn it. As if anything ever deceived Kate! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I had better pull up a blind,” said Josephine bravely. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, it might be a good idea,” whispered Constantia. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you think—don’t you think we might put it off +for another day?” she whispered. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I didn’t know I was whispering,” whispered Constantia. +</p> + +<p> +“And why do you keep staring at the bed?” said Josephine, raising +her voice almost defiantly. “There’s nothing <i>on</i> the +bed.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Jug, don’t say so!” said poor Connie. “At any +rate, not so loudly.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Connie!” she gasped, and she wheeled round and leaned with her +back against the chest of drawers. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Jug—what?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +She pulled a funny old-fashioned face at Constantia, just as she used to in the +old days when she was going to cry. +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t open,” she nearly wailed. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But—but it seems so weak,” said Josephine, breaking down. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<h3>VII</h3> + +<p> +But the strain told on them when they were back in the dining-room. They sat +down, very shaky, and looked at each other. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, do,” said Josephine, sinking down into a chair. “Tell +her, just two cups, Con, nothing else—on a tray.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh no, certainly not! The jug’s not at all necessary. She can pour +it direct out of the kettle,” cried Josephine, feeling that would be a +labour-saving indeed. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Speaking of Benny,” said Josephine. +</p> + +<p> +And though Benny hadn’t been mentioned Constantia immediately looked as +though he had. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You mean things get unstuck so on the voyage,” murmured +Constantia. +</p> + +<p> +“No, lost,” said Josephine sharply. “You know there’s +no post. Only runners.” +</p> + +<p> +Both paused to watch a black man in white linen drawers running through the +pale fields for dear life, with a large brown-paper parcel in his hands. +Josephine’s black man was tiny; he scurried along glistening like an ant. +But there was something blind and tireless about Constantia’s tall, thin +fellow, which made him, she decided, a very unpleasant person indeed.... On the +veranda, dressed all in white and wearing a cork helmet, stood Benny. His right +hand shook up and down, as father’s did when he was impatient. And behind +him, not in the least interested, sat Hilda, the unknown sister-in-law. She +swung in a cane rocker and flicked over the leaves of the <i>Tatler</i>. +</p> + +<p> +“I think his watch would be the most suitable present,” said +Josephine. +</p> + +<p> +Constantia looked up; she seemed surprised. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, would you trust a gold watch to a native?” +</p> + +<p> +“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: <i>Medium +Women’s</i> 28. <i>Extra Firm Busks.</i> It would be almost too much of a +surprise for Benny to open that and find father’s watch inside. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<h3>VIII</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Dear boy! What a blow his sweet, sympathetic little note had been! Of course +they quite understood; but it was most unfortunate. +</p> + +<p> +“It would have been such a point, having him,” said Josephine. +</p> + +<p> +“And he would have enjoyed it so,” said Constantia, not thinking +what she was saying. +</p> + +<p> +However, as soon as he got back he was coming to tea with his aunties. Cyril to +tea was one of their rare treats. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I say, Aunt Josephine, I simply can’t. I’ve only just had +lunch, you know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Cyril, that can’t be true! It’s after four,” cried +Josephine. Constantia sat with her knife poised over the chocolate-roll. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +It was disappointing—to-day of all days. But still he couldn’t be +expected to know. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I <i>am</i>, Aunt Josephine,” cried Cyril ardently. “Do you +mind if I take half to begin with?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all, dear boy; but we mustn’t let you off with that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is your dear father still so fond of meringues?” asked Auntie Con +gently. She winced faintly as she broke through the shell of hers. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I don’t quite know, Auntie Con,” said Cyril breezily. +</p> + +<p> +At that they both looked up. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t know?” almost snapped Josephine. “Don’t +know a thing like that about your own father, Cyril?” +</p> + +<p> +“Surely,” said Auntie Con softly. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Even <i>so</i>,” said Josephine. +</p> + +<p> +And Auntie Con looked. +</p> + +<p> +Cyril put down his teacup. “Wait a bit,” he cried. “Wait a +bit, Aunt Josephine. What am I thinking of?” +</p> + +<p> +He looked up. They were beginning to brighten. Cyril slapped his knee. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +They didn’t only beam. Aunt Josephine went scarlet with pleasure; Auntie +Con gave a deep, deep sigh. +</p> + +<p> +“And now, Cyril, you must come and see father,” said Josephine. +“He knows you were coming to-day.” +</p> + +<p> +“Right,” said Cyril, very firmly and heartily. He got up from his +chair; suddenly he glanced at the clock. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, he won’t expect you to stay <i>very</i> long!” said Aunt +Josephine. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Cyril still lingered. “Aren’t you coming along, Auntie Con?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course,” said Josephine, “we shall all go. Come on, +Con.” +</p> + +<h3>IX</h3> + +<p> +They knocked at the door, and Cyril followed his aunts into grandfather’s +hot, sweetish room. +</p> + +<p> +“Come on,” said Grandfather Pinner. “Don’t hang about. +What is it? What’ve you been up to?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s Cyril, father,” said Josephine shyly. And she took +Cyril’s hand and led him forward. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” said Grandfather Pinner, beginning to thump, “what +have you got to tell me?” +</p> + +<p> +What had he, what had he got to tell him? Cyril felt himself smiling like a +perfect imbecile. The room was stifling, too. +</p> + +<p> +But Aunt Josephine came to his rescue. She cried brightly, “Cyril says +his father is still very fond of meringues, father dear.” +</p> + +<p> +“Eh?” said Grandfather Pinner, curving his hand like a purple +meringue-shell over one ear. +</p> + +<p> +Josephine repeated, “Cyril says his father is still very fond of +meringues.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +(My God!) “Must I?” said Cyril, blushing and staring at Aunt +Josephine. +</p> + +<p> +“Do, dear,” she smiled. “It will please him so much.” +</p> + +<p> +“Come on, out with it!” cried Colonel Pinner testily, beginning to +thump again. +</p> + +<p> +And Cyril leaned forward and yelled, “Father’s still very fond of +meringues.” +</p> + +<p> +At that Grandfather Pinner jumped as though he had been shot. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t shout!” he cried. “What’s the matter with +the boy? <i>Meringues!</i> What about ’em?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Aunt Josephine, must we go on?” groaned Cyril desperately. +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<i>his</i> father is still very fond of meringues.” +</p> + +<p> +Colonel Pinner heard that time, heard and brooded, looking Cyril up and down. +</p> + +<p> +“What an esstrordinary thing!” said old Grandfather Pinner. +“What an esstrordinary thing to come all this way here to tell me!” +</p> + +<p> +And Cyril felt it <i>was</i>. +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +“Yes, I shall send Cyril the watch,” said Josephine. +</p> + +<p> +“That would be very nice,” said Constantia. “I seem to +remember last time he came there was some little trouble about the time.” +</p> + +<h3>X</h3> + +<p> +They were interrupted by Kate bursting through the door in her usual fashion, +as though she had discovered some secret panel in the wall. +</p> + +<p> +“Fried or boiled?” asked the bold voice. +</p> + +<p> +Fried or boiled? Josephine and Constantia were quite bewildered for the moment. +They could hardly take it in. +</p> + +<p> +“Fried or boiled what, Kate?” asked Josephine, trying to begin to +concentrate. +</p> + +<p> +Kate gave a loud sniff. “Fish.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall fry it,” said Kate, and she bounced back, leaving their +door open and slamming the door of her kitchen. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +For it was always to the drawing-room they retired when they wanted to talk +over Kate. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Now the question is,” said Josephine, bending forward, +“whether we shall keep her or not.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is the question,” agreed Constantia. +</p> + +<p> +“And this time,” said Josephine firmly, “we must come to a +definite decision.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is perfectly true,” agreed Constantia. “Father +certainly doesn’t want any cooking now, whatever else—” +</p> + +<p> +Josephine broke in sharply, “You’re not sleepy, are you, +Con?” +</p> + +<p> +“Sleepy, Jug?” Constantia was wide-eyed. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not?” cried Constantia. She couldn’t help smiling. The +idea was so exciting. She clasped her hands. “What should we live on, +Jug?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, eggs in various forms!” said Jug, lofty again. “And, +besides, there are all the cooked foods.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I’ve always heard,” said Constantia, “they are +considered so very expensive.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not if one buys them in moderation,” said Josephine. But she tore +herself away from this fascinating bypath and dragged Constantia after her. +</p> + +<p> +“What we’ve got to decide now, however, is whether we really do +trust Kate or not.” +</p> + +<p> +Constantia leaned back. Her flat little laugh flew from her lips. +</p> + +<p> +“Isn’t it curious, Jug,” said she, “that just on this +one subject I’ve never been able to quite make up my mind?” +</p> + +<h3>XI</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You see, Jug?” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite, Con.” +</p> + +<p> +“Now we shall be able to tell.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You come, Jug, and decide. I really can’t. It’s too +difficult.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +“Well, we can’t postpone it again,” said Josephine. “If +we postpone it this time—” +</p> + +<h3>XII</h3> + +<p> +But at that moment in the street below a barrel-organ struck up. Josephine and +Constantia sprang to their feet together. +</p> + +<p> +“Run, Con,” said Josephine. “Run quickly. There’s +sixpence on the—” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +It never will thump again,<br /> +It never will thump again, +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +played the barrel-organ. +</p> + +<p> +What was Constantia thinking? She had such a strange smile; she looked +different. She couldn’t be going to cry. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +A week since father died,<br /> +A week since father died, +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“The sun’s out,” said Josephine, as though it really +mattered. +</p> + +<p> +A perfect fountain of bubbling notes shook from the barrel-organ, round, bright +notes, carelessly scattered. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Some little sparrows, young sparrows they sounded, chirped on the window-ledge. +<i>Yeep—eyeep—yeep.</i> But Josephine felt they were not sparrows, +not on the window-ledge. It was inside her, that queer little crying noise. +<i>Yeep—eyeep—yeep.</i> Ah, what was it crying, so weak and forlorn? +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you think perhaps—” she began. +</p> + +<p> +But Josephine interrupted her. “I was wondering if now—” she +murmured. They stopped; they waited for each other. +</p> + +<p> +“Go on, Con,” said Josephine. +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, Jug; after you,” said Constantia. +</p> + +<p> +“No, say what you were going to say. You began,” said Josephine. +</p> + +<p> +“I... I’d rather hear what you were going to say first,” said +Constantia. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t be absurd, Con.” +</p> + +<p> +“Really, Jug.” +</p> + +<p> +“Connie!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, <i>Jug</i>!” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap04"></a>Mr. and Mrs. Dove</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +The mater, with her scissors outspread to snap the head of a dead something or +other, stopped at the sight of Reggie. +</p> + +<p> +“You are not going out, Reginald?” she asked, seeing that he was. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll be back for tea, mater,” said Reggie weakly, plunging +his hands into his jacket pockets. +</p> + +<p> +Snip. Off came a head. Reggie almost jumped. +</p> + +<p> +“I should have thought you could have spared your mother your last +afternoon,” said she. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +“And where are you going, if your mother may ask?” asked the mater. +</p> + +<p> +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 ducklings, 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 <i>much</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” cried Anne softly—she stepped back from him and her +grey eyes danced—“what a <i>very</i> short visit!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Good heavens, Anne,” cried Reggie, “I love to hear you +laughing! I can’t imagine anything more—” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +Now she tucked the handkerchief away. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s—it’s frightfully hard to believe,” he +added. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +Reginald took a deep breath of his cigarette. “It’s ghastly, this +idea of going back,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Coo-roo-coo-coo-coo</i>,” sounded from the quiet. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Roo-coo-coo-coo</i>,” came again. And Anne murmured, “You +mean it’s lonely.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Roo-coo-coo-coo! Roo-coo-coo-coo!</i>” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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....” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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—” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +Reggie bowed to his vision. “Yes, I see,” he said huskily. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +He tried to smile, to say “I’m glad.” She went on. +“I’ve never known anyone I like as much as I like you. I’ve +never felt so happy with anyone. 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, quite, quite,” said Reggie, looking at her with haggard eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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—” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +But it did not seem at all simple to Reginald. It seemed impossibly difficult. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Roo-coo-coo-coo! Roo-coo-coo-coo!</i>” sounded from the +veranda. “Reggie, Reggie,” from the garden. +</p> + +<p> +He stopped, he turned. But when she saw his timid, puzzled look, she gave a +little laugh. +</p> + +<p> +“Come back, Mr. Dove,” said Anne. And Reginald came slowly across +the lawn. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap05"></a>The Young Girl</h2> + +<p> +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 +<i>croupiers</i> and crowns to play with. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m sorry, darling,” said Mrs. Raddick. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, <i>do</i> come in! I want to make money,” said the impatient +voice. “It’s all jolly well for you—but I’m +broke!” +</p> + +<p> +“Here—take fifty francs, darling, take a hundred!” I saw Mrs. +Raddick pressing notes into her hand as they passed through the swing doors. +</p> + +<p> +Hennie and I stood on the steps a minute, watching the people. He had a very +broad, delighted smile. +</p> + +<p> +“I say,” he cried, “there’s an English bulldog. Are +they allowed to take dogs in there?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, they’re not.” +</p> + +<p> +“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, <i>do</i> look at that old woman. Who is she? Why does she look +like that? Is she a gambler?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +But just at that moment there was Mrs. Raddick again +with—<i>her</i>—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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>Salle +Privée</i>—and she wants me to go back with her while the luck lasts. Of +course I can’t leave—her. But if you’d—” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Raddick was desperate, just desperate. She was “wild” to go +back with Mrs. MacEwen, but at the same time.... +</p> + +<p> +I seized my courage. “Would you—do you care to come to tea +with—us?” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. R. dashed up the steps. I saw her bag was open again. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I am so awfully sorry,” I murmured as the car started. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I don’t <i>mind</i>,” said she. “I don’t +<i>want</i> 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!” +</p> + +<p> +Hennie gave her a quick look and then peered out of the window. +</p> + +<p> +We drew up before an immense palace of pink-and-white marble with orange-trees +outside the doors in gold-and-black tubs. +</p> + +<p> +“Would you care to go in?” I suggested. +</p> + +<p> +She hesitated, glanced, bit her lip, and resigned herself. “Oh well, +there seems nowhere else,” said she. “Get out, Hennie.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +There was one table. It had pink carnations and pink plates with little blue +tea-napkins for sails. +</p> + +<p> +“Shall we sit here?” +</p> + +<p> +She put her hand wearily on the back of a white wicker chair. +</p> + +<p> +“We may as well. Why not?” said she. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The waitress appeared. I hardly dared to ask her. “Tea—coffee? +China tea—or iced tea with lemon?” +</p> + +<p> +Really she didn’t mind. It was all the same to her. She didn’t +really want anything. Hennie whispered, “Chocolate!” +</p> + +<p> +But just as the waitress turned away she cried out carelessly, “Oh, you +may as well bring me a chocolate, too.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Dreadfully sweet!” said she. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +He offered them to Hennie. Hennie gave me a swift look—it must have been +satisfactory—for he took a chocolate cream, a coffee éclair, 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh well, give me <i>one</i>,” said she. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You <i>utter</i> little beast!” said she. +</p> + +<p> +Good heavens! I had to fly to the rescue. I cried hastily, “Will you be +abroad long?” +</p> + +<p> +But she had already forgotten Hennie. I was forgotten, too. She was trying to +remember something.... She was miles away. +</p> + +<p> +“I—don’t—know,” she said slowly, from that far +place. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose you prefer it to London. It’s +more—more—” +</p> + +<p> +When I didn’t go on she came back and looked at me, very puzzled. +“More—?” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Enfin</i>—gayer,” I cried, waving my cigarette. +</p> + +<p> +But that took a whole cake to consider. Even then, “Oh well, that +depends!” was all she could safely say. +</p> + +<p> +Hennie had finished. He was still very warm. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +Hennie strongly approved. The waitress had her eye on us. The order was taken +when she looked up from her crumbs. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +But it was a charming air. Now that I noticed it, it warmed me. +</p> + +<p> +“I think this is rather a nice place, don’t you, Hennie?” I +said. +</p> + +<p> +Hennie said: “Ripping!” He meant to say it very low, but it came +out very high in a kind of squeak. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Hennie bounded forward to open the door and she got in and sank back +with—oh—such a sigh! +</p> + +<p> +“Tell him,” she gasped, “to drive as fast as he can.” +</p> + +<p> +Hennie grinned at his friend the chauffeur. “<i>Allie veet!</i>” +said he. Then he composed himself and sat on the small seat facing us. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you stay in the car while I go and look?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“But I scarcely like to leave you,” I murmured. “I’d +very much rather not leave you here.” +</p> + +<p> +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....” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap06"></a>Life of Ma Parker</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Beg parding, sir?” said old Ma Parker huskily. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Overcome, I suppose,” he said aloud, helping himself to the +marmalade. +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +“Gran! Gran!” Her little grandson stood on her lap in his button +boots. He’d just come in from playing in the street. +</p> + +<p> +“Look what a state you’ve made your gran’s skirt +into—you wicked boy!” +</p> + +<p> +But he put his arms round her neck and rubbed his cheek against hers. +</p> + +<p> +“Gran, gi’ us a penny!” he coaxed. +</p> + +<p> +“Be off with you; Gran ain’t got no pennies.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, you ’ave.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I ain’t.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, you ’ave. Gi’ us one!” +</p> + +<p> +Already she was feeling for the old, squashed, black leather purse. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, what’ll you give your gran?” +</p> + +<p> +He gave a shy little laugh and pressed closer. She felt his eyelid quivering +against her cheek. “I ain’t got nothing,” he murmured.... +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You simply dirty everything you’ve got, get a hag in once a week +to clean up, and the thing’s done.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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!... +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Parker didn’t look so sure. +</p> + +<p> +“Such a clean trade,” said the gentleman. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Parker didn’t look convinced. +</p> + +<p> +“And didn’t you like handing the new loaves to the +customers?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“You might, <i>indeed</i>, Mrs. Parker!” said the gentleman, +shuddering, and taking up his pen again. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, if we were to cut him open <i>here</i>, 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.... +</p> + +<p> +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 +emigrated, 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.... +</p> + +<p> +The piles of dirty cups, dirty dishes, were washed and dried. The ink-black +knives were cleaned with a piece of potato and finished off with a piece of +cork. The table was scrubbed, and the dresser and the sink that had sardine +tails swimming in it.... +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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, <i>and is still +putting it on</i>.” +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +But he was gran’s boy from the first.... +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +At that moment there was a sound of steps, and the literary gentleman appeared, +dressed for walking. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Mrs. Parker, I’m going out.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you’ll find your half-crown in the tray of the +inkstand.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Very</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +... 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p class="p2"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +“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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap07"></a>Marriage à la Mode</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +And Paddy had said, “I had red ribbing on mine <i>bee</i>-fore!” +</p> + +<p> +And Johnny had said, “It’s always pink on mine. I hate pink.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +And she spoke as though a visit to the Royal Academy was certain immediate +death to anyone.... +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The new Isabel looked at him, her eyes narrowed, her lips apart. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Dear</i> William! I’m sure you did!” She laughed in the +new way. +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“What is what, William?” And she bent forward, and her fine light +hair fell over her cheeks. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Isabel!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Hallo, Isabel!” William stared. He thought she looked so beautiful +that he had to say something, “You look very cool.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” said William. It was all he could say for the moment. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“No ice! No ice! No ice!” she shouted gaily. +</p> + +<p> +And Dennis chimed in from under his hat. “<i>Only</i> to be had from the +fishmonger’s.” +</p> + +<p> +And Bill Hunt, emerging, added, “With <i>whole</i> fish in it.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“We shall have to anoint ourselves with butter,” said Dennis. +“May thy head, William, lack not ointment.” +</p> + +<p> +“Look here,” said William, “how are we going to sit? +I’d better get up by the driver.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“De-cap-it-ated heads!” said Bill Hunt, shuddering beneath his hat. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, fruit!” Isabel sounded very pleased. “Wise William! A +melon and a pineapple. How too nice!” +</p> + +<p> +“No, wait a bit,” said William, smiling. But he really was anxious. +“I brought them down for the kiddies.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +After tea the others went off to bathe, while William stayed and made his peace +with the kiddies. But Johnny and Paddy were asleep, the rose-red glow had +paled, bats were flying, and still the bathers had not returned. As William +wandered downstairs, the maid crossed the hall carrying a lamp. He followed her +into the sitting-room. It was a long room, coloured yellow. On the wall +opposite William some one had painted a young man, over life-size, with very +wobbly legs, offering a wide-eyed daisy to a young woman who had one very short +arm and one very long, thin one. Over the chairs and sofa there hung strips of +black material, covered with big splashes like broken eggs, and everywhere one +looked there seemed to be an ash-tray full of cigarette ends. William sat down +in one of the arm-chairs. Nowadays, when one felt with one hand down the sides, +it wasn’t to come upon a sheep with three legs or a cow that had lost one +horn, or a very fat dove out of the Noah’s Ark. One fished up yet another +little paper-covered book of smudged-looking poems.... He thought of the wad of +papers in his pocket, but he was too hungry and tired to read. The door was +open; sounds came from the kitchen. The servants were talking as if they were +alone in the house. Suddenly there came a loud screech of laughter and an +equally loud “Sh!” They had remembered him. William got up and went +through the French windows into the garden, and as he stood there in the shadow +he heard the bathers coming up the sandy road; their voices rang through the +quiet. +</p> + +<p> +“I think its up to Moira to use her little arts and wiles.” +</p> + +<p> +A tragic moan from Moira. +</p> + +<p> +“We ought to have a gramophone for the week-ends that played ‘The +Maid of the Mountains.’” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Leave him to me,” cried Bobby Kane. “I’m awfully good +at looking after people.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +The others had reached the house. “I say, Isabel,” called Bobby, +“would you like me to wear my Nijinsky dress to-night?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said Isabel, “nobody’s going to dress. +We’re all starving. William’s starving, too. Come along, <i>mes +amis</i>, let’s begin with sardines.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve found the sardines,” said Moira, and she ran into the +hall, holding a box high in the air. +</p> + +<p> +“A Lady with a Box of Sardines,” said Dennis gravely. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, William, and how’s London?” asked Bill Hunt, drawing +the cork out of a bottle of whisky. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, London’s not much changed,” answered William. +</p> + +<p> +“Good old London,” said Bobby, very hearty, spearing a sardine. +</p> + +<p> +But a moment later William was forgotten. Moira Morrison began wondering what +colour one’s legs really were under water. +</p> + +<p> +“Mine are the palest, palest mushroom colour.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Paint what?” said Bill loudly, stuffing his mouth with bread. +</p> + +<p> +“Us,” said Isabel, “round the table. It would be so +fascinating in twenty years’ time.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +But after supper they were all so tired they could do nothing but yawn until it +was late enough to go to bed.... +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, why should you?” said William. “Of course, not. Give it +to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, please, do let me,” said Isabel. “I want to, +really.” They walked together silently. William felt there was nothing to +say now. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +Fields, trees, hedges streamed by. They shook through the empty, blind-looking +little town, ground up the steep pull to the station. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think there will be Mondays in Heaven?” asked Bobby +childishly. +</p> + +<p> +And Dennis murmured, “Heaven will be one long Monday.” +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +Moira was asleep. Sleeping was her latest discovery. “It’s +<i>so</i> wonderful. One simply shuts one’s eyes, that’s all. +It’s <i>so</i> delicious.” +</p> + +<p> +When the old ruddy postman came beating along the sandy road on his tricycle +one felt the handle-bars ought to have been oars. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“And mine’s only from William,” said Isabel mournfully. +</p> + +<p> +“From William—already?” +</p> + +<p> +“He’s sending you back your marriage lines as a gentle +reminder.” +</p> + +<p> +“Does everybody have marriage lines? I thought they were only for +servants.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pages and pages! Look at her! A Lady reading a Letter,” said +Dennis. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>My darling, precious Isabel</i>.” 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Do, do tell us,” said the others. “You must tell us.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“A love-letter! But how divine!” <i>Darling, precious Isabel.</i> +But she had hardly begun before their laughter interrupted her. +</p> + +<p> +“Go on, Isabel, it’s perfect.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s the most marvellous find.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, do go on, Isabel!” +</p> + +<p> +<i>God forbid, my darling, that I should be a drag on your happiness.</i> +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! oh! oh!” +</p> + +<p> +“Sh! sh! sh!” +</p> + +<p> +And Isabel went on. When she reached the end they were hysterical: Bobby rolled +on the turf and almost sobbed. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Isabel,” moaned Moira, “that wonderful bit about holding +you in his arms!” +</p> + +<p> +“I always thought those letters in divorce cases were made up. But they +pale before this.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let me hold it. Let me read it, mine own self,” said Bobby Kane. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! <i>God forbid, my darling, that I should be a drag +on your happiness.</i> 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.... +</p> + +<p> +Presently from the garden below there came voices. +</p> + +<p> +“Isabel, we’re all going for a bathe. Do come!” +</p> + +<p> +“Come, thou wife of William!” +</p> + +<p> +“Call her once before you go, call once yet!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Titania!” piped Moira. +</p> + +<p> +“Isa-bel?” +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>certainly</i> write,” thought Isabel hurriedly. +</p> + +<p> +And, laughing, in the new way, she ran down the stairs. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap08"></a>The Voyage</h2> + +<p> +The Picton boat was due to leave at half-past eleven. It was a beautiful night, +mild, starry, only when they got out of the cab and started to walk down the +Old Wharf that jutted out into the harbour, a faint wind blowing off the water +ruffled under Fenella’s hat, and she put up her hand to keep it on. It +was dark on the Old Wharf, very dark; the wool sheds, the cattle trucks, the +cranes standing up so high, the little squat railway engine, all seemed carved +out of solid darkness. Here and there on a rounded wood-pile, that was like the +stalk of a huge black mushroom, there hung a lantern, but it seemed afraid to +unfurl its timid, quivering light in all that blackness; it burned softly, as +if for itself. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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, “<i>Mia-oo-oo-O-O!</i>” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“There, mother, there’s your luggage!” said Fenella’s +father, giving grandma another strapped-up sausage. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, Frank.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you’ve got your cabin tickets safe?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, dear.” +</p> + +<p> +“And your other tickets?” +</p> + +<p> +Grandma felt for them inside her glove and showed him the tips. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s right.” +</p> + +<p> +He sounded stern, but Fenella, eagerly watching him, saw that he looked tired +and sad. “<i>Mia-oo-oo-O-O!</i>” The second whistle blared just +above their heads, and a voice like a cry shouted, “Any more for the +gangway?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-bye, Fenella. Be a good girl.” His cold, wet moustache +brushed her cheek. But Fenella caught hold of the lapels of his coat. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, grandma!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, grandma.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“How much are the sandwiches?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Tuppence!” bawled a rude steward, slamming down a knife and fork. +</p> + +<p> +Grandma could hardly believe it. +</p> + +<p> +“Twopence <i>each</i>?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s right,” said the steward, and he winked at his +companion. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Mrs. Crane,” said she, unlocking their washstand. +“We’ve got you back again. It’s not often you give yourself a +cabin.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” said grandma. “But this time my dear son’s +thoughtfulness—” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +Grandma nodded. “It was God’s will,” said she. +</p> + +<p> +The stewardess shut her lips and, taking a deep breath, she seemed to expand. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Grandma shook her head. “Nothing, thank you. We’ve got a few wine +biscuits, and Fenella has a very nice banana.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I’ll give you a look later on,” said the stewardess, +and she went out, shutting the door. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +By the time Fenella had taken off her coat and skirt and put on her flannel +dressing-gown grandma was quite ready. +</p> + +<p> +“Must I take off my boots, grandma? They’re lace.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, grandma, however will you get up there?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You didn’t think your grandma could do that, did you?” said +she. And as she sank back Fenella heard her light laugh again. +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +A long time passed. Then the stewardess came in; she trod softly and leaned her +hand on grandma’s bunk. +</p> + +<p> +“We’re just entering the Straits,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a fine night, but we’re rather empty. We may pitch a +little.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I wonder if you’d mind, stewardess, laying down my +umbrella,” she whispered. +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all, Mrs. Crane.” And the stewardess, coming back to +grandma, breathed, “Your little granddaughter’s in such a beautiful +sleep.” +</p> + +<p> +“God be praised for that!” said grandma. +</p> + +<p> +“Poor little motherless mite!” said the stewardess. And grandma was +still telling the stewardess all about what happened when Fenella fell asleep. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m awake, grandma,” said Fenella. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, dear, am I near the ladder?” asked grandma. “I thought +it was this end.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, grandma, it’s the other. I’ll put your foot on it. Are +we there?” asked Fenella. +</p> + +<p> +“In the harbour,” said grandma. “We must get up, child. +You’d better have a biscuit to steady yourself before you move.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve got my—” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, grandma.” Fenella showed it to her. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I seen Mr. Crane yestiddy,” said Mr. Penreddy. “He looked +himself then. Missus knocked him up a batch of scones last week.” +</p> + +<p> +And now the little horse pulled up before one of the shell-like houses. They +got down. Fenella put her hand on the gate, and the big, trembling dew-drops +soaked through her glove-tips. Up a little path of round white pebbles they +went, with drenched sleeping flowers on either side. Grandma’s delicate +white picotees were so heavy with dew that they were fallen, but their sweet +smell was part of the cold morning. The blinds were down in the little house; +they mounted the steps on to the veranda. A pair of old bluchers was on one +side of the door, and a large red watering-can on the other. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Wait, dear,” said grandma. “Go in there.” She pushed +Fenella gently into a small dusky sitting-room. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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:— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Lost! One Golden Hour<br /> +Set with Sixty Diamond Minutes.<br /> +No Reward Is Offered<br /> +For It Is Gone For Ever! +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap09"></a>Miss Brill</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Tum-tum-tum tiddle-um! tiddle-um! tum tiddley-um tum ta! blew the band. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“No, not now,” said the girl. “Not here, I +can’t.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s her fu-fur which is so funny,” giggled the girl. +“It’s exactly like a fried whiting.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, be off with you!” said the boy in an angry whisper. Then: +“Tell me, ma petite chère—” +</p> + +<p> +“No, not here,” said the girl. “Not <i>yet</i>.” +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap10"></a>Her First Ball</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you really never been to a ball before, Leila? But, my child, how +too weird—” cried the Sheridan girls. +</p> + +<p> +“Our nearest neighbour was fifteen miles,” said Leila softly, +gently opening and shutting her fan. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Look here, darling,” he said. “The third and the ninth as +usual. Twig?” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Hold on to me, Leila; you’ll get lost,” said Laura. +</p> + +<p> +“Come on, girls, let’s make a dash for it,” said Laurie. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Dark girls, fair girls were patting their hair, tying ribbons again, tucking +handkerchiefs down the fronts of their bodices, smoothing marble-white gloves. +And because they were all laughing it seemed to Leila that they were all +lovely. +</p> + +<p> +“Aren’t there any invisible hair-pins?” cried a voice. +“How most extraordinary! I can’t see a single invisible +hair-pin.” +</p> + +<p> +“Powder my back, there’s a darling,” cried some one else. +</p> + +<p> +“But I must have a needle and cotton. I’ve torn simply miles and +miles of the frill,” wailed a third. +</p> + +<p> +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. +<i>Two, Two in a Canoe.</i> Polka 4. <i>Making the Feathers Fly</i>,” +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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Quite a good floor, isn’t it?” drawled a faint voice close +to her ear. +</p> + +<p> +“I think it’s most beautifully slippery,” said Leila. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The azaleas were separate flowers no longer; they were pink and white flags +streaming by. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“No, this is my first dance,” said she. +</p> + +<p> +Her partner gave a little gasping laugh. “Oh, I say,” he protested. +</p> + +<p> +“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....” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Enjoying yourself, Leila?” asked Jose, nodding her golden head. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“How <i>did</i> you know?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thirty years?” cried Leila. Twelve years before she was born! +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I think it’s marvellous to be still going on,” she said +kindly. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I want to stop,” she said in a breathless voice. The fat man led +her to the door. +</p> + +<p> +“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? +</p> + +<p> +“I say, you know,” said the fat man, “you mustn’t take +me seriously, little lady.” +</p> + +<p> +“As if I should!” said Leila, tossing her small dark head and +sucking her underlip.... +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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, “Par<i>don</i>,” she smiled at +him more radiantly than ever. She didn’t even recognize him again. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap11"></a>The Singing Lesson</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The Science Mistress stopped Miss Meadows. +</p> + +<p> +“Good mor-ning,” she cried, in her sweet, affected drawl. +“Isn’t it cold? It might be win-ter.” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Meadows, hugging the knife, stared in hatred at the Science Mistress. +Everything about her was sweet, pale, like honey. You would not have been +surprised to see a bee caught in the tangles of that yellow hair. +</p> + +<p> +“It is rather sharp,” said Miss Meadows, grimly. +</p> + +<p> +The other smiled her sugary smile. +</p> + +<p> +“You look fro-zen,” said she. Her blue eyes opened wide; there came +a mocking light in them. (Had she noticed anything?) +</p> + +<p> +“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.... +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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— +</p> + +<p> +... “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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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:— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Fast! Ah, too Fast Fade the Ro-o-ses of Pleasure;<br /> +Soon Autumn yields unto Wi-i-nter Drear.<br /> +Fleetly! Ah, Fleetly Mu-u-sic’s Gay Measure<br /> +Passes away from the Listening Ear. +</p> + +<p> +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: <i>Fleetly! Ah, Fleetly.</i> 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! <i>From the Listening Ear</i>, sang the +voices. +</p> + +<p> +“Once again,” said Miss Meadows. “But this time in parts. +Still without expression.” <i>Fast! Ah, too Fast.</i> With the gloom of +the contraltos added, one could scarcely help shuddering. <i>Fade the Roses of +Pleasure.</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But can’t you refuse?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, well, it doesn’t do for a man in my position to be +unpopular.” +</p> + +<p> +<i>Music’s Gay Measure</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. <i>Fast! Ah, +too Fast</i>,” cried Miss Meadows. “That ought to break out—a +loud, strong <i>forte</i>—a lament. And then in the second line, +<i>Winter Drear</i>, make that <i>Drear</i> sound as if a cold wind were +blowing through it. <i>Dre-ear!</i>” said she so awfully that Mary +Beazley, on the music stool, wriggled her spine. “The third line should +be one crescendo. <i>Fleetly! Ah, Fleetly Music’s Gay Measure.</i> +Breaking on the first word of the last line, <i>Passes.</i> And then on the +word, <i>Away</i>, you must begin to die... to fade... until <i>The Listening +Ear</i> is nothing more than a faint whisper.... You can slow down as much as +you like almost on the last line. Now, please.” +</p> + +<p> +Again the two light taps; she lifted her arms again. <i>Fast! Ah, too +Fast.</i> “... 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. <i>Passes away from the Listening +Ear.</i> +</p> + +<p> +“Repeat! Repeat!” said Miss Meadows. “More expression, girls! +Once more!” +</p> + +<p> +<i>Fast! Ah, too Fast.</i> 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....” +</p> + +<p> +“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! <i>Soon Autumn +yields unto Winter Drear.</i> 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. <i>Passes away.</i> The voices began to die, +to fade, to whisper... to vanish.... +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Monica, what is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, if you please, Miss Meadows,” said the little girl, gasping, +“Miss Wyatt wants to see you in the mistress’s room.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“A telegram for me, Miss Wyatt?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I do hope it’s nothing very serious,” said Miss Wyatt, +leaning forward. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>fiancé</i> saying +that... saying that—” There was a pause. “I +<i>see</i>,” said Miss Wyatt. And another pause. +Then—“You’ve fifteen minutes more of your class, Miss +Meadows, haven’t you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Miss Wyatt.” She got up. She half ran towards the door. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +We come here To-day with Flowers o’erladen,<br /> +With Baskets of Fruit and Ribbons to boot,<br /> +To-oo Congratulate . . . +</p> + +<p> +“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. <i>With Flowers o’erladen. Baskets of Fruit and Ribbons to +boot.</i> And <i>Congratulate.</i>” Miss Meadows broke off. +“Don’t look so doleful, girls. It ought to sound warm, joyful, +eager. <i>Congratulate.</i> Once more. Quickly. All together. Now then!” +</p> + +<p> +And this time Miss Meadows’ voice sounded over all the other +voices—full, deep, glowing with expression. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap12"></a>The Stranger</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. <i>Don’t hesitate to land. Natives harmless.</i> Or: <i>A +welcome awaits you. All is forgiven.</i> What? Eh?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I wan’ my tea, mammy!” she wailed. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Hold on,” he said, keeping an arm round her. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, don’t worry about <i>Jean</i>, Mr. Hammond!” said Mrs. +Scott. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s all right, Mrs. Scott. No trouble. It’s a pleasure. +Jean’s a little pal of mine, aren’t you, Jean?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Mr. Hammond,” said Jean, and she ran her finger down the dent +of his felt hat. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Captain,” the eager, nervous voice rang out again, +“you’ve taken pity on us at last.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +With her telephone ring-ringing, the thrum of her screw filling the air, the +big liner bore down on them, cutting sharp through the dark water so that big +white shavings curled to either side. Hammond and the harbour-master kept in +front of the rest. Hammond took off his hat; he raked the decks—they were +crammed with passengers; he waved his hat and bawled a loud, strange +“Hul-lo!” across the water; and then turned round and burst out +laughing and said something—nothing—to old Captain Johnson. +</p> + +<p> +“Seen her?” asked the harbour-master. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Well that’s first class—first class! Well, well, +well!” He positively stamped. Like lightning he drew out his cigar-case +and offered it to old Captain Johnson. “Have a cigar, Captain! +They’re pretty good. Have a couple! Here”—and he pressed all +the cigars in the case on the harbour-master—“I’ve a couple +of boxes up at the hotel.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thenks, Mr. Hammond!” wheezed old Captain Johnson. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The voices on shore and the voices on board flew to greet each other. +</p> + +<p> +“All well?” +</p> + +<p> +“All well.” +</p> + +<p> +“How’s mother?” +</p> + +<p> +“Much better.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hullo, Jean!” +</p> + +<p> +“Hillo, Aun’ Emily!” +</p> + +<p> +“Had a good voyage?” +</p> + +<p> +“Splendid!” +</p> + +<p> +“Shan’t be long now!” +</p> + +<p> +“Not long now.” +</p> + +<p> +The engines stopped. Slowly she edged to the wharf-side. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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, +</p> + +<p> +“Well, darling! Have you been waiting long?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“How are the children, John?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +(Hang the children!) “Perfectly well. Never better in their lives.” +</p> + +<p> +“Haven’t they sent me letters?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, yes—of course! I’ve left them at the hotel for you to +digest later on.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-bye, <i>dear</i> Mrs. Hammond! And next time you’re in Sydney +I’ll <i>expect</i> you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Darling Mrs. Hammond! You won’t forget to write to me, will +you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Mrs. Hammond, what this boat would have been without you!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“John, dear!” And then: “I want to introduce you +to—” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s the last, Mrs. Hammond,” said the stewardess, rising +and pulling down her cuffs. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +But at that moment Janey’s head came round the corner. +</p> + +<p> +“Darling—do you mind? I just want to go and say good-bye to the +doctor.” +</p> + +<p> +Hammond started up. “I’ll come with you.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no!” she said. “Don’t bother. I’d rather +not. I’ll not be a minute.” +</p> + +<p> +And before he could answer she was gone. He had half a mind to run after her; +but instead he sat down again. +</p> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<p> +The curtains rang. Janey was back. He jumped to his feet. +</p> + +<p> +“Janey, have you been ill on this voyage? You have!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ill?” Her airy little voice mocked him. She stepped over the rugs, +and came up close, touched his breast, and looked up at him. +</p> + +<p> +“Darling,” she said, “don’t frighten me. Of course I +haven’t! Whatever makes you think I have? Do I look ill?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The gentle pressure of her hand was so calming that he put his over hers to +hold it there. And she said: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you taken the tickets for the day after?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“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. <i>and</i> 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—?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no!” said Janey quickly. “Not for the world! The day +after to-morrow, then. And the children—” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Mr. Arnold, here’s Mrs. Hammond at last!” +</p> + +<p> +The manager led them through the hall himself and pressed the elevator-bell. +Hammond knew there were business pals of his sitting at the little hall tables +having a drink before dinner. But he wasn’t going to risk interruption; +he looked neither to the right nor the left. They could think what they +pleased. If they didn’t understand, the more fools they—and he +stepped out of the lift, unlocked the door of their room, and shepherded Janey +in. The door shut. Now, at last, they were alone together. He turned up the +light. The curtains were drawn; the fire blazed. He flung his hat on to the +huge bed and went towards her. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +At last the fool was gone. The door clicked. Now they <i>were</i> 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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Do, darling!” said Janey. “And while you’re +away—the children’s letters—” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, later on will do!” said Hammond. +</p> + +<p> +“But then we’d get it over,” said Janey. “And I’d +first have time to—” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Janey shook her head and smiled. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll just unpin my hat,” said Janey, and she went over to +the dressing-table. “A-ah!” She gave a little cry. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Why? What’s the matter with it?” said Hammond. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, darling, I am glad,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Janey,” he whispered. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, dear?” She lay on his breast, but so lightly, so remotely. +Their breathing rose and fell together. +</p> + +<p> +“Janey!” +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Turn to me,” he whispered. A slow, deep flush flowed into his +forehead. “Kiss me, Janey! You kiss me!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“If you knew,” he said, opening his eyes, “what it’s +been like—waiting to-day. I thought the boat never would come in. There +we were, hanging about. What kept you so long?” +</p> + +<p> +She made no answer. She was looking away from him at the fire. The flames +hurried—hurried over the coals, flickered, fell. +</p> + +<p> +“Not asleep, are you?” said Hammond, and he jumped her up and down. +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, it wasn’t anything in the least infectious!” said Janey. +She was speaking scarcely above her breath. “It was <i>heart</i>.” +A pause. “Poor fellow!” she said. “Quite young.” And +she watched the fire flicker and fall. “He died in my arms,” said +Janey. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What?” he said dully. “What’s that you say?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Who—else was there?” Hammond managed to ask. +</p> + +<p> +“Nobody. I was alone with him.” +</p> + +<p> +Ah, my God, what was she saying! What was she doing to him! This would kill +him! And all the while she spoke: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But—why <i>you</i>, why <i>you</i>?” moaned Hammond. +</p> + +<p> +At that Janey turned quickly, quickly searched his face. +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t <i>mind</i>, John, do you?” she asked. “You +don’t—It’s nothing to do with you and me.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, John darling—” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell me, Janey!” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s nothing to tell,” she said, wondering. “He was +one of the first-class passengers. I saw he was very ill when he came on +board.... But he seemed to be so much better until yesterday. He had a severe +attack in the afternoon—excitement—nervousness, I think, about +arriving. And after that he never recovered.” +</p> + +<p> +“But why didn’t the stewardess—” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, my dear—the stewardess!” said Janey. “What would +he have felt? And besides... he might have wanted to leave a message... +to—” +</p> + +<p> +“Didn’t he?” muttered Hammond. “Didn’t he say +anything?” +</p> + +<p> +“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....” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +... “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— +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +And now Janey touched his tie with her fingers. She pinched the edges of the +tie together. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +But at that he had to hide his face. He put his face into her bosom and his +arms enfolded her. +</p> + +<p> +Spoilt their evening! Spoilt their being alone together! They would never be +alone together again. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap13"></a>Bank Holiday</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>dear</i>!” 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 +<i>price</i>!” 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“An’ by the time they was cooked there wasn’t so much as you +could put in the palm of me ’and!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Ain’t it lovely?” whispers a small girl behind her hand. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +At the corner of the road the stalls begin. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Buy a golliwog! Tuppence a golliwog!” +</p> + +<p> +“Buy a jumping donkey! All alive-oh!” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Su</i>-perior chewing gum. Buy something to do, boys.” +</p> + +<p> +“Buy a rose. Give ’er a rose, boy. Roses, lady?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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! +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap14"></a>An Ideal Family</h2> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +And Lola the baby had chimed in loftily, “All men ought to have hobbies. +It makes life impossible if they haven’t.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re an ideal family, sir, an ideal family. It’s like +something one reads about or sees on the stage.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.... +</p> + +<p> +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—” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“And were there ices?” came from Charlotte. Then the creak, creak +of her rocker. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“The food altogether was too appalling,” came from Marion. +</p> + +<p> +“Still, it’s rather early for ices,” said Charlotte easily. +</p> + +<p> +“But why, if one has them at all....” began Ethel. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, quite so, darling,” crooned Charlotte. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly the music-room door opened and Lola dashed out. She started, she +nearly screamed, at the sight of old Mr. Neave. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Her cheeks were crimson from playing, her eyes glittered, the hair fell over +her forehead. And she breathed as though she had come running through the dark +and was frightened. Old Mr. Neave stared at his youngest daughter; he felt he +had never seen her before. So that was Lola, was it? But she seemed to have +forgotten her father; it was not for him that she was waiting there. Now she +put the tip of her crumpled handkerchief between her teeth and tugged at it +angrily. The telephone rang. A-ah! Lola gave a cry like a sob and dashed past +him. The door of the telephone-room slammed, and at the same moment Charlotte +called, “Is that you, father?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you walk back, father?” asked Charlotte. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I walked home,” said old Mr. Neave, and he sank into one of +the immense drawing-room chairs. +</p> + +<p> +“But why didn’t you take a cab?” said Ethel. “There are +hundreds of cabs about at that time.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Children, children?” coaxed Charlotte. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Did Harold leave the office before you, dear?” asked Charlotte, +beginning to rock again. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m not sure,” said Old Mr. Neave. “I’m not +sure. I didn’t see him after four o’clock.” +</p> + +<p> +“He said—” began Charlotte. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“There, you see,” she cried. “That’s what I mean, +mummy. Yellow, with touches of silver. Don’t you agree?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not the train!” wailed Ethel tragically. “But the +train’s the whole point.” +</p> + +<p> +“Here, mother, let me decide.” Marion snatched the paper playfully +from Charlotte. “I agree with mother,” she cried triumphantly. +“The train overweights it.” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>rich</i> 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? +</p> + +<p> +“I shan’t dress to-night,” he muttered. +</p> + +<p> +“What do you say, father?” +</p> + +<p> +“Eh, what, what?” Old Mr. Neave woke with a start and stared across +at them. “I shan’t dress to-night,” he repeated. +</p> + +<p> +“But, father, we’ve got Lucile coming, and Henry Davenport, and +Mrs. Teddie Walker.” +</p> + +<p> +“It will look so <i>very</i> out of the picture.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you feel well, dear?” +</p> + +<p> +“You needn’t make any effort. What is Charles <i>for</i>?” +</p> + +<p> +“But if you’re really not up to it,” Charlotte wavered. +</p> + +<p> +“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.... +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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, <i>played</i>, partner.... +Oh, <i>very</i> 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—” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“That will do, my lad.” The door shut, he sank back, he was +alone.... +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re an ideal family, sir, an ideal family.” +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +... 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.” +</p> + +<p> +My treasure! “Good-bye, my treasure!” Which of them had spoken? Why +had they said good-bye? There had been some terrible mistake. <i>She</i> was +his wife, that little pale girl, and all the rest of his life had been a dream. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m coming, I’m coming,” said old Mr. Neave. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap15"></a>The Lady’s Maid</h2> + +<p> +<i>Eleven o’clock. A knock at the door.</i> +</p> + +<p> +... 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.... +</p> + +<p> +... 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 +<i>your</i> 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 <i>too</i> 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!” +</p> + +<p> +... 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.” +</p> + +<p> +... 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? +</p> + +<p> +... 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. +</p> + +<p> +... 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. +</p> + +<p> +... 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 <i>furious</i>! 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. +</p> + +<p> +... 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.... +</p> + +<p> +... 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.... +</p> + +<p> +... 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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! +</p> + +<p> +... 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>I do want to go +on a donkey. I do want a donkey-ride!</i>” 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.... +</p> + +<p> +... 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 <i>wide +world</i>!” 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, <i>madam</i>! +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>was</i> 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.... +</p> + +<p> +... 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. +</p> + +<p> +... Oh dear, I sometimes think... whatever should I do if anything were to.... +But, there, thinking’s no good to anyone—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!...” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GARDEN PARTY ***</div> +<div style='text-align:left'> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ +concept and trademark. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Garden Party + +Author: Katherine Mansfield + +Posting Date: August 20, 2008 [EBook #1429] +Release Date: 1998 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GARDEN PARTY *** + + + + +Produced by Sue Asscher + + + + + +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 shock-haired giant with +his arms stretched out. It was the big gum-tree outside Mrs. Stubbs' +shop, and as they passed by there was a strong whiff of eucalyptus. +And now big spots of light gleamed in the mist. The shepherd stopped +whistling; he rubbed his red nose and wet beard on his wet sleeve and, +screwing up his eyes, glanced in the direction of the sea. The sun +was rising. It was marvellous how quickly the mist thinned, sped away, +dissolved from the shallow plain, rolled up from the bush and was gone +as if in a hurry to escape; big twists and curls jostled and shouldered +each other as the silvery beams broadened. The far-away sky--a bright, +pure blue--was reflected in the puddles, and the drops, swimming along +the telegraph poles, flashed into points of light. Now the leaping, +glittering sea was so bright it made one's eyes ache to look at it. The +shepherd drew a pipe, the bowl as small as an acorn, out of his breast +pocket, fumbled for a chunk of speckled tobacco, pared off a few +shavings and stuffed the bowl. He was a grave, fine-looking old man. +As he lit up and the blue smoke wreathed his head, the dog, watching, +looked proud of him. + +"Baa! Baaa!" The sheep spread out into a fan. They were just clear of +the summer colony before the first sleeper turned over and lifted a +drowsy head; their cry sounded in the dreams of little children... who +lifted their arms to drag down, to cuddle the darling little woolly +lambs of sleep. Then the first inhabitant appeared; it was the Burnells' +cat Florrie, sitting on the gatepost, far too early as usual, looking +for their milk-girl. When she saw the old sheep-dog she sprang up +quickly, arched her back, drew in her tabby head, and seemed to give a +little fastidious shiver. "Ugh! What a coarse, revolting creature!" said +Florrie. But the old sheep-dog, not looking up, waggled past, flinging +out his legs from side to side. Only one of his ears twitched to prove +that he saw, and thought her a silly young female. + +The breeze of morning lifted in the bush and the smell of leaves and wet +black earth mingled with the sharp smell of the sea. Myriads of birds +were singing. A goldfinch flew over the shepherd's head and, perching on +the tiptop of a spray, it turned to the sun, ruffling its small breast +feathers. And now they had passed the fisherman's hut, passed the +charred-looking little whare where Leila the milk-girl lived with her +old Gran. The sheep strayed over a yellow swamp and Wag, the sheep-dog, +padded after, rounded them up and headed them for the steeper, narrower +rocky pass that led out of Crescent Bay and towards Daylight Cove. "Baa! +Baa!" Faint the cry came as they rocked along the fast-drying road. The +shepherd put away his pipe, dropping it into his breast-pocket so that +the little bowl hung over. And straightway the soft airy whistling began +again. Wag ran out along a ledge of rock after something that smelled, +and ran back again disgusted. Then pushing, nudging, hurrying, the sheep +rounded the bend and the shepherd followed after out of sight. + + +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-in-law and leaned back. + +"Nothing wrong, is there?" he asked carelessly, fingering his collar. + +Beryl's head was bent; she turned her plate in her fingers. + +"Nothing," said her light voice. Then she too looked up, and smiled at +Stanley. "Why should there be?" + +"O-oh! No reason at all as far as I know. I thought you seemed rather--" + +At that moment the door opened and the three little girls appeared, each +carrying a porridge plate. They were dressed alike in blue jerseys and +knickers; their brown legs were bare, and each had her hair plaited +and pinned up in what was called a horse's tail. Behind them came Mrs. +Fairfield with the tray. + +"Carefully, children," she warned. But they were taking the very +greatest care. They loved being allowed to carry things. "Have you said +good morning to your father?" + +"Yes, grandma." They settled themselves on the bench opposite Stanley +and Beryl. + +"Good morning, Stanley!" Old Mrs. Fairfield gave him his plate. + +"Morning, mother! How's the boy?" + +"Splendid! He only woke up once last night. What a perfect morning!" The +old woman paused, her hand on the loaf of bread, to gaze out of the +open door into the garden. The sea sounded. Through the wide-open +window streamed the sun on to the yellow varnished walls and bare floor. +Everything on the table flashed and glittered. In the middle there was +an old salad bowl filled with yellow and red nasturtiums. She smiled, +and a look of deep content shone in her eyes. + +"You might cut me a slice of that bread, mother," said Stanley. "I've +only twelve and a half minutes before the coach passes. Has anyone given +my shoes to the servant girl?" + +"Yes, they're ready for you." Mrs. Fairfield was quite unruffled. + +"Oh, Kezia! Why are you such a messy child!" cried Beryl despairingly. + +"Me, Aunt Beryl?" Kezia stared at her. What had she done now? She had +only dug a river down the middle of her porridge, filled it, and was +eating the banks away. But she did that every single morning, and no one +had said a word up till now. + +"Why can't you eat your food properly like Isabel and Lottie?" How +unfair grown-ups are! + +"But Lottie always makes a floating island, don't you, Lottie?" + +"I don't," said Isabel smartly. "I just sprinkle mine with sugar and put +on the milk and finish it. Only babies play with their food." + +Stanley pushed back his chair and got up. + +"Would you get me those shoes, mother? And, Beryl, if you've finished, +I wish you'd cut down to the gate and stop the coach. Run in to your +mother, Isabel, and ask her where my bowler hat's been put. Wait a +minute--have you children been playing with my stick?" + +"No, father!" + +"But I put it here." Stanley began to bluster. "I remember distinctly +putting it in this corner. Now, who's had it? There's no time to lose. +Look sharp! The stick's got to be found." + +Even Alice, the servant-girl, was drawn into the chase. "You haven't +been using it to poke the kitchen fire with by any chance?" + +Stanley dashed into the bedroom where Linda was lying. "Most +extraordinary thing. I can't keep a single possession to myself. They've +made away with my stick, now!" + +"Stick, dear? What stick?" Linda's vagueness on these occasions could +not be real, Stanley decided. Would nobody sympathize with him? + +"Coach! Coach, Stanley!" Beryl's voice cried from the gate. + +Stanley waved his arm to Linda. "No time to say good-bye!" he cried. And +he meant that as a punishment to her. + +He snatched his bowler hat, dashed out of the house, and swung down the +garden path. Yes, the coach was there waiting, and Beryl, leaning over +the open gate, was laughing up at somebody or other just as if nothing +had happened. The heartlessness of women! The way they took it for +granted it was your job to slave away for them while they didn't even +take the trouble to see that your walking-stick wasn't lost. Kelly +trailed his whip across the horses. + +"Good-bye, Stanley," called Beryl, sweetly and gaily. It was easy enough +to say good-bye! And there she stood, idle, shading her eyes with her +hand. The worst of it was Stanley had to shout good-bye too, for the +sake of appearances. Then he saw her turn, give a little skip and run +back to the house. She was glad to be rid of him! + +Yes, she was thankful. Into the living-room she ran and called "He's +gone!" Linda cried from her room: "Beryl! Has Stanley gone?" Old Mrs. +Fairfield appeared, carrying the boy in his little flannel coatee. + +"Gone?" + +"Gone!" + +Oh, the relief, the difference it made to have the man out of the house. +Their very voices were changed as they called to one another; they +sounded warm and loving and as if they shared a secret. Beryl went over +to the table. "Have another cup of tea, mother. It's still hot." She +wanted, somehow, to celebrate the fact that they could do what they +liked now. There was no man to disturb them; the whole perfect day was +theirs. + +"No, thank you, child," said old Mrs. Fairfield, but the way at that +moment she tossed the boy up and said "a-goos-a-goos-a-ga!" to him +meant that she felt the same. The little girls ran into the paddock like +chickens let out of a coop. + +Even Alice, the servant-girl, washing up the dishes in the kitchen, +caught the infection and used the precious tank water in a perfectly +reckless fashion. + +"Oh, these men!" said she, and she plunged the teapot into the bowl and +held it under the water even after it had stopped bubbling, as if it too +was a man and drowning was too good for them. + + +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 brown-paper parcel. + +"I've just had some new photers taken, my dear," she shouted cheerfully +to Alice. "Tell me what you think of them." + +In a very dainty, refined way Alice wet her finger and put the tissue +back from the first one. Life! How many there were! There were three +dozzing at least. And she held it up to the light. + +Mrs. Stubbs sat in an arm-chair, leaning very much to one side. There +was a look of mild astonishment on her large face, and well there might +be. For though the arm-chair stood on a carpet, to the left of it, +miraculously skirting the carpet-border, there was a dashing water-fall. +On her right stood a Grecian pillar with a giant fern-tree on either +side of it, and in the background towered a gaunt mountain, pale with +snow. + +"It is a nice style, isn't it?" shouted Mrs. Stubbs; and Alice had +just screamed "Sweetly" when the roaring of the Primus stove died +down, fizzled out, ceased, and she said "Pretty" in a silence that was +frightening. + +"Draw up your chair, my dear," said Mrs. Stubbs, beginning to pour out. +"Yes," she said thoughtfully, as she handed the tea, "but I don't care +about the size. I'm having an enlargemint. All very well for Christmas +cards, but I never was the one for small photers myself. You get no +comfort out of them. To say the truth, I find them dis'eartening." + +Alice quite saw what she meant. + +"Size," said Mrs. Stubbs. "Give me size. That was what my poor dear +husband was always saying. He couldn't stand anything small. Gave him +the creeps. And, strange as it may seem, my dear"--here Mrs. Stubbs +creaked and seemed to expand herself at the memory--"it was dropsy that +carried him off at the larst. Many's the time they drawn one and a half +pints from 'im at the 'ospital... It seemed like a judgmint." + +Alice burned to know exactly what it was that was drawn from him. She +ventured, "I suppose it was water." + +But Mrs. Stubbs fixed Alice with her eyes and replied meaningly, "It was +liquid, my dear." + +Liquid! Alice jumped away from the word like a cat and came back to it, +nosing and wary. + +"That's 'im!" said Mrs. Stubbs, and she pointed dramatically to the +life-size head and shoulders of a burly man with a dead white rose in +the buttonhole of his coat that made you think of a curl of cold mutting +fat. Just below, in silver letters on a red cardboard ground, were the +words, "Be not afraid, it is I." + +"It's ever such a fine face," said Alice faintly. + +The pale-blue bow on the top of Mrs. Stubbs's fair frizzy hair quivered. +She arched her plump neck. What a neck she had! It was bright pink where +it began and then it changed to warm apricot, and that faded to the +colour of a brown egg and then to a deep creamy. + +"All the same, my dear," she said surprisingly, "freedom's best!" Her +soft, fat chuckle sounded like a purr. "Freedom's best," said Mrs. +Stubbs again. + +Freedom! Alice gave a loud, silly little titter. She felt awkward. Her +mind flew back to her own kitching. Ever so queer! She wanted to be back +in it again. + + +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 sand-hills, up the paddock. You were frightened to look in the +corners of the washhouse, and yet you had to look with all your might. +And somewhere, far away, grandma was lighting a lamp. The blinds +were being pulled down; the kitchen fire leapt in the tins on the +mantelpiece. + +"It would be awful now," said the bull, "if a spider was to fall from +the ceiling on to the table, wouldn't it?" + +"Spiders don't fall from ceilings." + +"Yes, they do. Our Min told us she'd seen a spider as big as a saucer, +with long hairs on it like a gooseberry." + +Quickly all the little heads were jerked up; all the little bodies drew +together, pressed together. + +"Why doesn't somebody come and call us?" cried the rooster. + +Oh, those grown-ups, laughing and snug, sitting in the lamp-light, +drinking out of cups! They'd forgotten about them. No, not really +forgotten. That was what their smile meant. They had decided to leave +them there all by themselves. + +Suddenly Lottie gave such a piercing scream that all of them jumped off +the forms, all of them screamed too. "A face--a face looking!" shrieked +Lottie. + +It was true, it was real. Pressed against the window was a pale face, +black eyes, a black beard. + +"Grandma! Mother! Somebody!" + +But they had not got to the door, tumbling over one another, before it +opened for Uncle Jonathan. He had come to take the little boys home. + + +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 +tool-bags slung on their backs. They looked impressive. Laura wished now +that she had not got the bread-and-butter, but there was nowhere to put +it, and she couldn't possibly throw it away. She blushed and tried to +look severe and even a little bit short-sighted as she came up to them. + +"Good morning," she said, copying her mother's voice. But that sounded +so fearfully affected that she was ashamed, and stammered like a little +girl, "Oh--er--have you come--is it about the marquee?" + +"That's right, miss," said the tallest of the men, a lanky, freckled +fellow, and he shifted his tool-bag, knocked back his straw hat and +smiled down at her. "That's about it." + +His smile was so easy, so friendly that Laura recovered. What nice eyes +he had, small, but such a dark blue! And now she looked at the others, +they were smiling too. "Cheer up, we won't bite," their smile seemed +to say. How very nice workmen were! And what a beautiful morning! She +mustn't mention the morning; she must be business-like. The marquee. + +"Well, what about the lily-lawn? Would that do?" + +And she pointed to the lily-lawn with the hand that didn't hold the +bread-and-butter. They turned, they stared in the direction. A little +fat chap thrust out his under-lip, and the tall fellow frowned. + +"I don't fancy it," said he. "Not conspicuous enough. You see, with a +thing like a marquee," and he turned to Laura in his easy way, "you want +to put it somewhere where it'll give you a bang slap in the eye, if you +follow me." + +Laura's upbringing made her wonder for a moment whether it was quite +respectful of a workman to talk to her of bangs slap in the eye. But she +did quite follow him. + +"A corner of the tennis-court," she suggested. "But the band's going to +be in one corner." + +"H'm, going to have a band, are you?" said another of the workmen. +He was pale. He had a haggard look as his dark eyes scanned the +tennis-court. What was he thinking? + +"Only a very small band," said Laura gently. Perhaps he wouldn't mind so +much if the band was quite small. But the tall fellow interrupted. + +"Look here, miss, that's the place. Against those trees. Over there. +That'll do fine." + +Against the karakas. Then the karaka-trees would be hidden. And they +were so lovely, with their broad, gleaming leaves, and their clusters +of yellow fruit. They were like trees you imagined growing on a desert +island, proud, solitary, lifting their leaves and fruits to the sun in a +kind of silent splendour. Must they be hidden by a marquee? + +They must. Already the men had shouldered their staves and were making +for the place. Only the tall fellow was left. He bent down, pinched a +sprig of lavender, put his thumb and forefinger to his nose and snuffed +up the smell. When Laura saw that gesture she forgot all about the +karakas in her wonder at him caring for things like that--caring for +the smell of lavender. How many men that she knew would have done such +a thing? Oh, how extraordinarily nice workmen were, she thought. Why +couldn't she have workmen for her friends rather than the silly boys she +danced with and who came to Sunday night supper? She would get on much +better with men like these. + +It's all the fault, she decided, as the tall fellow drew something on +the back of an envelope, something that was to be looped up or left to +hang, of these absurd class distinctions. Well, for her part, she didn't +feel them. Not a bit, not an atom... And now there came the chock-chock +of wooden hammers. Some one whistled, some one sang out, "Are you right +there, matey?" "Matey!" The friendliness of it, the--the--Just to prove +how happy she was, just to show the tall fellow how at home she felt, +and how she despised stupid conventions, Laura took a big bite of her +bread-and-butter as she stared at the little drawing. She felt just like +a work-girl. + +"Laura, Laura, where are you? Telephone, Laura!" a voice cried from the +house. + +"Coming!" Away she skimmed, over the lawn, up the path, up the steps, +across the veranda, and into the porch. In the hall her father and +Laurie were brushing their hats ready to go to the office. + +"I say, Laura," said Laurie very fast, "you might just give a squiz at +my coat before this afternoon. See if it wants pressing." + +"I will," said she. Suddenly she couldn't stop herself. She ran at +Laurie and gave him a small, quick squeeze. "Oh, I do love parties, +don't you?" gasped Laura. + +"Ra-ther," said Laurie's warm, boyish voice, and he squeezed his sister +too, and gave her a gentle push. "Dash off to the telephone, old girl." + +The telephone. "Yes, yes; oh yes. Kitty? Good morning, dear. Come to +lunch? Do, dear. Delighted of course. It will only be a very scratch +meal--just the sandwich crusts and broken meringue-shells and what's +left over. Yes, isn't it a perfect morning? Your white? Oh, I certainly +should. One moment--hold the line. Mother's calling." And Laura sat +back. "What, mother? Can't hear." + +Mrs. Sheridan's voice floated down the stairs. "Tell her to wear that +sweet hat she had on last Sunday." + +"Mother says you're to wear that sweet hat you had on last Sunday. Good. +One o'clock. Bye-bye." + +Laura put back the receiver, flung her arms over her head, took a deep +breath, stretched and let them fall. "Huh," she sighed, and the moment +after the sigh she sat up quickly. She was still, listening. All the +doors in the house seemed to be open. The house was alive with soft, +quick steps and running voices. The green baize door that led to the +kitchen regions swung open and shut with a muffled thud. And now there +came a long, chuckling absurd sound. It was the heavy piano being moved +on its stiff castors. But the air! If you stopped to notice, was the air +always like this? Little faint winds were playing chase, in at the tops +of the windows, out at the doors. And there were two tiny spots of +sun, one on the inkpot, one on a silver photograph frame, playing too. +Darling little spots. Especially the one on the inkpot lid. It was quite +warm. A warm little silver star. She could have kissed it. + +The front door bell pealed, and there sounded the rustle of Sadie's +print skirt on the stairs. A man's voice murmured; Sadie answered, +careless, "I'm sure I don't know. Wait. I'll ask Mrs Sheridan." + +"What is it, Sadie?" Laura came into the hall. + +"It's the florist, Miss Laura." + +It was, indeed. There, just inside the door, stood a wide, shallow tray +full of pots of pink lilies. No other kind. Nothing but lilies--canna +lilies, big pink flowers, wide open, radiant, almost frighteningly alive +on bright crimson stems. + +"O-oh, Sadie!" said Laura, and the sound was like a little moan. She +crouched down as if to warm herself at that blaze of lilies; she felt +they were in her fingers, on her lips, growing in her breast. + +"It's some mistake," she said faintly. "Nobody ever ordered so many. +Sadie, go and find mother." + +But at that moment Mrs. Sheridan joined them. + +"It's quite right," she said calmly. "Yes, I ordered them. Aren't they +lovely?" She pressed Laura's arm. "I was passing the shop yesterday, and +I saw them in the window. And I suddenly thought for once in my life I +shall have enough canna lilies. The garden-party will be a good excuse." + +"But I thought you said you didn't mean to interfere," said Laura. Sadie +had gone. The florist's man was still outside at his van. She put +her arm round her mother's neck and gently, very gently, she bit her +mother's ear. + +"My darling child, you wouldn't like a logical mother, would you? Don't +do that. Here's the man." + +He carried more lilies still, another whole tray. + +"Bank them up, just inside the door, on both sides of the porch, +please," said Mrs. Sheridan. "Don't you agree, Laura?" + +"Oh, I do, mother." + +In the drawing-room Meg, Jose and good little Hans had at last succeeded +in moving the piano. + +"Now, if we put this chesterfield against the wall and move everything +out of the room except the chairs, don't you think?" + +"Quite." + +"Hans, move these tables into the smoking-room, and bring a sweeper +to take these marks off the carpet and--one moment, Hans--" Jose loved +giving orders to the servants, and they loved obeying her. She always +made them feel they were taking part in some drama. "Tell mother and +Miss Laura to come here at once." + +"Very good, Miss Jose." + +She turned to Meg. "I want to hear what the piano sounds like, just +in case I'm asked to sing this afternoon. Let's try over 'This life is +Weary.'" + +Pom! Ta-ta-ta Tee-ta! The piano burst out so passionately that +Jose's face changed. She clasped her hands. She looked mournfully and +enigmatically at her mother and Laura as they came in. + + "This Life is Wee-ary, + A Tear--a Sigh. + A Love that Chan-ges, + This Life is Wee-ary, + A Tear--a Sigh. + A Love that Chan-ges, + And then... Good-bye!" + +But at the word "Good-bye," and although the piano sounded more +desperate than ever, her face broke into a brilliant, dreadfully +unsympathetic smile. + +"Aren't I in good voice, mummy?" she beamed. + + "This Life is Wee-ary, + Hope comes to Die. + A Dream--a Wa-kening." + +But now Sadie interrupted them. "What is it, Sadie?" + +"If you please, m'm, cook says have you got the flags for the +sandwiches?" + +"The flags for the sandwiches, Sadie?" echoed Mrs. Sheridan dreamily. +And the children knew by her face that she hadn't got them. "Let me +see." And she said to Sadie firmly, "Tell cook I'll let her have them in +ten minutes." + +Sadie went. + +"Now, Laura," said her mother quickly, "come with me into the +smoking-room. I've got the names somewhere on the back of an envelope. +You'll have to write them out for me. Meg, go upstairs this minute and +take that wet thing off your head. Jose, run and finish dressing this +instant. Do you hear me, children, or shall I have to tell your father +when he comes home to-night? And--and, Jose, pacify cook if you do go +into the kitchen, will you? I'm terrified of her this morning." + +The envelope was found at last behind the dining-room clock, though how +it had got there Mrs. Sheridan could not imagine. + +"One of you children must have stolen it out of my bag, because I +remember vividly--cream cheese and lemon-curd. Have you done that?" + +"Yes." + +"Egg and--" Mrs. Sheridan held the envelope away from her. "It looks +like mice. It can't be mice, can it?" + +"Olive, pet," said Laura, looking over her shoulder. + +"Yes, of course, olive. What a horrible combination it sounds. Egg and +olive." + +They were finished at last, and Laura took them off to the kitchen. She +found Jose there pacifying the cook, who did not look at all terrifying. + +"I have never seen such exquisite sandwiches," said Jose's rapturous +voice. "How many kinds did you say there were, cook? Fifteen?" + +"Fifteen, Miss Jose." + +"Well, cook, I congratulate you." + +Cook swept up crusts with the long sandwich knife, and smiled broadly. + +"Godber's has come," announced Sadie, issuing out of the pantry. She had +seen the man pass the window. + +That meant the cream puffs had come. Godber's were famous for their +cream puffs. Nobody ever thought of making them at home. + +"Bring them in and put them on the table, my girl," ordered cook. + +Sadie brought them in and went back to the door. Of course Laura and +Jose were far too grown-up to really care about such things. All the +same, they couldn't help agreeing that the puffs looked very attractive. +Very. Cook began arranging them, shaking off the extra icing sugar. + +"Don't they carry one back to all one's parties?" said Laura. + +"I suppose they do," said practical Jose, who never liked to be carried +back. "They look beautifully light and feathery, I must say." + +"Have one each, my dears," said cook in her comfortable voice. "Yer ma +won't know." + +Oh, impossible. Fancy cream puffs so soon after breakfast. The very idea +made one shudder. All the same, two minutes later Jose and Laura were +licking their fingers with that absorbed inward look that only comes +from whipped cream. + +"Let's go into the garden, out by the back way," suggested Laura. "I +want to see how the men are getting on with the marquee. They're such +awfully nice men." + +But the back door was blocked by cook, Sadie, Godber's man and Hans. + +Something had happened. + +"Tuk-tuk-tuk," clucked cook like an agitated hen. Sadie had her hand +clapped to her cheek as though she had toothache. Hans's face was +screwed up in the effort to understand. Only Godber's man seemed to be +enjoying himself; it was his story. + +"What's the matter? What's happened?" + +"There's been a horrible accident," said Cook. "A man killed." + +"A man killed! Where? How? When?" + +But Godber's man wasn't going to have his story snatched from under his +very nose. + +"Know those little cottages just below here, miss?" Know them? Of +course, she knew them. "Well, there's a young chap living there, name of +Scott, a carter. His horse shied at a traction-engine, corner of Hawke +Street this morning, and he was thrown out on the back of his head. +Killed." + +"Dead!" Laura stared at Godber's man. + +"Dead when they picked him up," said Godber's man with relish. "They +were taking the body home as I come up here." And he said to the cook, +"He's left a wife and five little ones." + +"Jose, come here." Laura caught hold of her sister's sleeve and dragged +her through the kitchen to the other side of the green baize door. There +she paused and leaned against it. "Jose!" she said, horrified, "however +are we going to stop everything?" + +"Stop everything, Laura!" cried Jose in astonishment. "What do you +mean?" + +"Stop the garden-party, of course." Why did Jose pretend? + +But Jose was still more amazed. "Stop the garden-party? My dear Laura, +don't be so absurd. Of course we can't do anything of the kind. Nobody +expects us to. Don't be so extravagant." + +"But we can't possibly have a garden-party with a man dead just outside +the front gate." + +That really was extravagant, for the little cottages were in a lane to +themselves at the very bottom of a steep rise that led up to the house. +A broad road ran between. True, they were far too near. They were +the greatest possible eyesore, and they had no right to be in that +neighbourhood at all. They were little mean dwellings painted a +chocolate brown. In the garden patches there was nothing but cabbage +stalks, sick hens and tomato cans. The very smoke coming out of their +chimneys was poverty-stricken. Little rags and shreds of smoke, so +unlike the great silvery plumes that uncurled from the Sheridans' +chimneys. Washerwomen lived in the lane and sweeps and a cobbler, and +a man whose house-front was studded all over with minute bird-cages. +Children swarmed. When the Sheridans were little they were forbidden to +set foot there because of the revolting language and of what they might +catch. But since they were grown up, Laura and Laurie on their prowls +sometimes walked through. It was disgusting and sordid. They came +out with a shudder. But still one must go everywhere; one must see +everything. So through they went. + +"And just think of what the band would sound like to that poor woman," +said Laura. + +"Oh, Laura!" Jose began to be seriously annoyed. "If you're going to +stop a band playing every time some one has an accident, you'll lead a +very strenuous life. I'm every bit as sorry about it as you. I feel just +as sympathetic." Her eyes hardened. She looked at her sister just as she +used to when they were little and fighting together. "You won't bring a +drunken workman back to life by being sentimental," she said softly. + +"Drunk! Who said he was drunk?" Laura turned furiously on Jose. She +said, just as they had used to say on those occasions, "I'm going +straight up to tell mother." + +"Do, dear," cooed Jose. + +"Mother, can I come into your room?" Laura turned the big glass +door-knob. + +"Of course, child. Why, what's the matter? What's given you such a +colour?" And Mrs. Sheridan turned round from her dressing-table. She was +trying on a new hat. + +"Mother, a man's been killed," began Laura. + +"Not in the garden?" interrupted her mother. + +"No, no!" + +"Oh, what a fright you gave me!" Mrs. Sheridan sighed with relief, and +took off the big hat and held it on her knees. + +"But listen, mother," said Laura. Breathless, half-choking, she told +the dreadful story. "Of course, we can't have our party, can we?" she +pleaded. "The band and everybody arriving. They'd hear us, mother; +they're nearly neighbours!" + +To Laura's astonishment her mother behaved just like Jose; it was harder +to bear because she seemed amused. She refused to take Laura seriously. + +"But, my dear child, use your common sense. It's only by accident we've +heard of it. If some one had died there normally--and I can't understand +how they keep alive in those poky little holes--we should still be +having our party, shouldn't we?" + +Laura had to say "yes" to that, but she felt it was all wrong. She sat +down on her mother's sofa and pinched the cushion frill. + +"Mother, isn't it terribly heartless of us?" she asked. + +"Darling!" Mrs. Sheridan got up and came over to her, carrying the hat. +Before Laura could stop her she had popped it on. "My child!" said her +mother, "the hat is yours. It's made for you. It's much too young for +me. I have never seen you look such a picture. Look at yourself!" And +she held up her hand-mirror. + +"But, mother," Laura began again. She couldn't look at herself; she +turned aside. + +This time Mrs. Sheridan lost patience just as Jose had done. + +"You are being very absurd, Laura," she said coldly. "People like that +don't expect sacrifices from us. And it's not very sympathetic to spoil +everybody's enjoyment as you're doing now." + +"I don't understand," said Laura, and she walked quickly out of the room +into her own bedroom. There, quite by chance, the first thing she saw +was this charming girl in the mirror, in her black hat trimmed with +gold daisies, and a long black velvet ribbon. Never had she imagined she +could look like that. Is mother right? she thought. And now she +hoped her mother was right. Am I being extravagant? Perhaps it was +extravagant. Just for a moment she had another glimpse of that poor +woman and those little children, and the body being carried into +the house. But it all seemed blurred, unreal, like a picture in the +newspaper. I'll remember it again after the party's over, she decided. +And somehow that seemed quite the best plan... + +Lunch was over by half-past one. By half-past two they were all ready +for the fray. The green-coated band had arrived and was established in a +corner of the tennis-court. + +"My dear!" trilled Kitty Maitland, "aren't they too like frogs for +words? You ought to have arranged them round the pond with the conductor +in the middle on a leaf." + +Laurie arrived and hailed them on his way to dress. At the sight of him +Laura remembered the accident again. She wanted to tell him. If Laurie +agreed with the others, then it was bound to be all right. And she +followed him into the hall. + +"Laurie!" + +"Hallo!" He was half-way upstairs, but when he turned round and saw +Laura he suddenly puffed out his cheeks and goggled his eyes at her. +"My word, Laura! You do look stunning," said Laurie. "What an absolutely +topping hat!" + +Laura said faintly "Is it?" and smiled up at Laurie, and didn't tell him +after all. + +Soon after that people began coming in streams. The band struck up; the +hired waiters ran from the house to the marquee. Wherever you looked +there were couples strolling, bending to the flowers, greeting, moving +on over the lawn. They were like bright birds that had alighted in the +Sheridans' garden for this one afternoon, on their way to--where? Ah, +what happiness it is to be with people who all are happy, to press +hands, press cheeks, smile into eyes. + +"Darling Laura, how well you look!" + +"What a becoming hat, child!" + +"Laura, you look quite Spanish. I've never seen you look so striking." + +And Laura, glowing, answered softly, "Have you had tea? Won't you have +an ice? The passion-fruit ices really are rather special." She ran to +her father and begged him. "Daddy darling, can't the band have something +to drink?" + +And the perfect afternoon slowly ripened, slowly faded, slowly its +petals closed. + +"Never a more delightful garden-party... " "The greatest success... " +"Quite the most... " + +Laura helped her mother with the good-byes. They stood side by side in +the porch till it was all over. + +"All over, all over, thank heaven," said Mrs. Sheridan. "Round up the +others, Laura. Let's go and have some fresh coffee. I'm exhausted. Yes, +it's been very successful. But oh, these parties, these parties! Why +will you children insist on giving parties!" And they all of them sat +down in the deserted marquee. + +"Have a sandwich, daddy dear. I wrote the flag." + +"Thanks." Mr. Sheridan took a bite and the sandwich was gone. He took +another. "I suppose you didn't hear of a beastly accident that happened +to-day?" he said. + +"My dear," said Mrs. Sheridan, holding up her hand, "we did. It nearly +ruined the party. Laura insisted we should put it off." + +"Oh, mother!" Laura didn't want to be teased about it. + +"It was a horrible affair all the same," said Mr. Sheridan. "The chap +was married too. Lived just below in the lane, and leaves a wife and +half a dozen kiddies, so they say." + +An awkward little silence fell. Mrs. Sheridan fidgeted with her cup. +Really, it was very tactless of father... + +Suddenly she looked up. There on the table were all those sandwiches, +cakes, puffs, all uneaten, all going to be wasted. She had one of her +brilliant ideas. + +"I know," she said. "Let's make up a basket. Let's send that poor +creature some of this perfectly good food. At any rate, it will be the +greatest treat for the children. Don't you agree? And she's sure to +have neighbours calling in and so on. What a point to have it all ready +prepared. Laura!" She jumped up. "Get me the big basket out of the +stairs cupboard." + +"But, mother, do you really think it's a good idea?" said Laura. + +Again, how curious, she seemed to be different from them all. To take +scraps from their party. Would the poor woman really like that? + +"Of course! What's the matter with you to-day? An hour or two ago you +were insisting on us being sympathetic, and now--" + +Oh well! Laura ran for the basket. It was filled, it was heaped by her +mother. + +"Take it yourself, darling," said she. "Run down just as you are. No, +wait, take the arum lilies too. People of that class are so impressed by +arum lilies." + +"The stems will ruin her lace frock," said practical Jose. + +So they would. Just in time. "Only the basket, then. And, Laura!"--her +mother followed her out of the marquee--"don't on any account--" + +"What mother?" + +No, better not put such ideas into the child's head! "Nothing! Run +along." + +It was just growing dusky as Laura shut their garden gates. A big dog +ran by like a shadow. The road gleamed white, and down below in the +hollow the little cottages were in deep shade. How quiet it seemed after +the afternoon. Here she was going down the hill to somewhere where a man +lay dead, and she couldn't realize it. Why couldn't she? She stopped +a minute. And it seemed to her that kisses, voices, tinkling spoons, +laughter, the smell of crushed grass were somehow inside her. She had no +room for anything else. How strange! She looked up at the pale sky, and +all she thought was, "Yes, it was the most successful party." + +Now the broad road was crossed. The lane began, smoky and dark. Women in +shawls and men's tweed caps hurried by. Men hung over the palings; the +children played in the doorways. A low hum came from the mean little +cottages. In some of them there was a flicker of light, and a shadow, +crab-like, moved across the window. Laura bent her head and hurried on. +She wished now she had put on a coat. How her frock shone! And the +big hat with the velvet streamer--if only it was another hat! Were the +people looking at her? They must be. It was a mistake to have come; she +knew all along it was a mistake. Should she go back even now? + +No, too late. This was the house. It must be. A dark knot of people +stood outside. Beside the gate an old, old woman with a crutch sat in a +chair, watching. She had her feet on a newspaper. The voices stopped as +Laura drew near. The group parted. It was as though she was expected, as +though they had known she was coming here. + +Laura was terribly nervous. Tossing the velvet ribbon over her shoulder, +she said to a woman standing by, "Is this Mrs. Scott's house?" and the +woman, smiling queerly, said, "It is, my lass." + +Oh, to be away from this! She actually said, "Help me, God," as she +walked up the tiny path and knocked. To be away from those staring eyes, +or to be covered up in anything, one of those women's shawls even. I'll +just leave the basket and go, she decided. I shan't even wait for it to +be emptied. + +Then the door opened. A little woman in black showed in the gloom. + +Laura said, "Are you Mrs. Scott?" But to her horror the woman answered, +"Walk in please, miss," and she was shut in the passage. + +"No," said Laura, "I don't want to come in. I only want to leave this +basket. Mother sent--" + +The little woman in the gloomy passage seemed not to have heard her. +"Step this way, please, miss," she said in an oily voice, and Laura +followed her. + +She found herself in a wretched little low kitchen, lighted by a smoky +lamp. There was a woman sitting before the fire. + +"Em," said the little creature who had let her in. "Em! It's a young +lady." She turned to Laura. She said meaningly, "I'm 'er sister, miss. +You'll excuse 'er, won't you?" + +"Oh, but of course!" said Laura. "Please, please don't disturb her. I--I +only want to leave--" + +But at that moment the woman at the fire turned round. Her face, puffed +up, red, with swollen eyes and swollen lips, looked terrible. She seemed +as though she couldn't understand why Laura was there. What did it mean? +Why was this stranger standing in the kitchen with a basket? What was it +all about? And the poor face puckered up again. + +"All right, my dear," said the other. "I'll thenk the young lady." + +And again she began, "You'll excuse her, miss, I'm sure," and her face, +swollen too, tried an oily smile. + +Laura only wanted to get out, to get away. She was back in the passage. +The door opened. She walked straight through into the bedroom, where the +dead man was lying. + +"You'd like a look at 'im, wouldn't you?" said Em's sister, and she +brushed past Laura over to the bed. "Don't be afraid, my lass,"--and now +her voice sounded fond and sly, and fondly she drew down the sheet--"'e +looks a picture. There's nothing to show. Come along, my dear." + +Laura came. + +There lay a young man, fast asleep--sleeping so soundly, so deeply, that +he was far, far away from them both. Oh, so remote, so peaceful. He was +dreaming. Never wake him up again. His head was sunk in the pillow, his +eyes were closed; they were blind under the closed eyelids. He was given +up to his dream. What did garden-parties and baskets and lace frocks +matter to him? He was far from all those things. He was wonderful, +beautiful. While they were laughing and while the band was playing, +this marvel had come to the lane. Happy... happy... All is well, said that +sleeping face. This is just as it should be. I am content. + +But all the same you had to cry, and she couldn't go out of the room +without saying something to him. Laura gave a loud childish sob. + +"Forgive my hat," she said. + +And this time she didn't wait for Em's sister. She found her way out of +the door, down the path, past all those dark people. At the corner of +the lane she met Laurie. + +He stepped out of the shadow. "Is that you, Laura?" + +"Yes." + +"Mother was getting anxious. Was it all right?" + +"Yes, quite. Oh, Laurie!" She took his arm, she pressed up against him. + +"I say, you're not crying, are you?" asked her brother. + +Laura shook her head. She was. + +Laurie put his arm round her shoulder. "Don't cry," he said in his warm, +loving voice. "Was it awful?" + +"No," sobbed Laura. "It was simply marvellous. But Laurie--" She +stopped, she looked at her brother. "Isn't life," she stammered, "isn't +life--" But what life was she couldn't explain. No matter. He quite +understood. + +"Isn't it, darling?" said Laurie. + + + + +3. THE DAUGHTERS OF THE LATE COLONEL. + +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 +dressing-gown, and of Constantia's favourite indefinite green ones which +went with hers. Black! Two black dressing-gowns and two pairs of black +woolly slippers, creeping off to the bathroom like black cats. + +"I don't think it's absolutely necessary," said she. + +Silence. Then Constantia said, "We shall have to post the papers with +the notice in them to-morrow to catch the Ceylon mail... How many letters +have we had up till now?" + +"Twenty-three." + +Josephine had replied to them all, and twenty-three times when she came +to "We miss our dear father so much" she had broken down and had to use +her handkerchief, and on some of them even to soak up a very light-blue +tear with an edge of blotting-paper. Strange! She couldn't have put +it on--but twenty-three times. Even now, though, when she said over to +herself sadly "We miss our dear father so much," she could have cried if +she'd wanted to. + +"Have you got enough stamps?" came from Constantia. + +"Oh, how can I tell?" said Josephine crossly. "What's the good of asking +me that now?" + +"I was just wondering," said Constantia mildly. + +Silence again. There came a little rustle, a scurry, a hop. + +"A mouse," said Constantia. + +"It can't be a mouse because there aren't any crumbs," said Josephine. + +"But it doesn't know there aren't," said Constantia. + +A spasm of pity squeezed her heart. Poor little thing! She wished she'd +left a tiny piece of biscuit on the dressing-table. It was awful to +think of it not finding anything. What would it do? + +"I can't think how they manage to live at all," she said slowly. + +"Who?" demanded Josephine. + +And Constantia said more loudly than she meant to, "Mice." + +Josephine was furious. "Oh, what nonsense, Con!" she said. "What have +mice got to do with it? You're asleep." + +"I don't think I am," said Constantia. She shut her eyes to make sure. +She was. + +Josephine arched her spine, pulled up her knees, folded her arms so that +her fists came under her ears, and pressed her cheek hard against the +pillow. + + +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 +drawing-room by themselves--with no--no altar or anything! The piano +would be much too high, thought Constantia, and Mr. Farolles could not +possibly lean over it with the chalice. And Kate would be sure to come +bursting in and interrupt them, thought Josephine. And supposing the +bell rang in the middle? It might be somebody important--about their +mourning. Would they get up reverently and go out, or would they have to +wait... in torture? + +"Perhaps you will send round a note by your good Kate if you would care +for it later," said Mr. Farolles. + +"Oh yes, thank you very much!" they both said. + +Mr. Farolles got up and took his black straw hat from the round table. + +"And about the funeral," he said softly. "I may arrange that--as your +dear father's old friend and yours, Miss Pinner--and Miss Constantia?" + +Josephine and Constantia got up too. + +"I should like it to be quite simple," said Josephine firmly, "and not +too expensive. At the same time, I should like--" + +"A good one that will last," thought dreamy Constantia, as if Josephine +were buying a nightgown. But, of course, Josephine didn't say that. "One +suitable to our father's position." She was very nervous. + +"I'll run round to our good friend Mr. Knight," said Mr. Farolles +soothingly. "I will ask him to come and see you. I am sure you will find +him very helpful indeed." + + +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 +labour-saving indeed. + +Their cold lips quivered at the greenish brims. Josephine curved her +small red hands round the cup; Constantia sat up and blew on the wavy +steam, making it flutter from one side to the other. + +"Speaking of Benny," said Josephine. + +And though Benny hadn't been mentioned Constantia immediately looked as +though he had. + +"He'll expect us to send him something of father's, of course. But it's +so difficult to know what to send to Ceylon." + +"You mean things get unstuck so on the voyage," murmured Constantia. + +"No, lost," said Josephine sharply. "You know there's no post. Only +runners." + +Both paused to watch a black man in white linen drawers running through +the pale fields for dear life, with a large brown-paper parcel in his +hands. Josephine's black man was tiny; he scurried along glistening like +an ant. But there was something blind and tireless about Constantia's +tall, thin fellow, which made him, she decided, a very unpleasant person +indeed... On the veranda, dressed all in white and wearing a cork helmet, +stood Benny. His right hand shook up and down, as father's did when he +was impatient. And behind him, not in the least interested, sat Hilda, +the unknown sister-in-law. She swung in a cane rocker and flicked over +the leaves of the "Tatler." + +"I think his watch would be the most suitable present," said Josephine. + +Constantia looked up; she seemed surprised. + +"Oh, would you trust a gold watch to a native?" + +"But of course, I'd disguise it," said Josephine. "No one would know +it was a watch." She liked the idea of having to make a parcel such a +curious shape that no one could possibly guess what it was. She +even thought for a moment of hiding the watch in a narrow cardboard +corset-box that she'd kept by her for a long time, waiting for it to +come in for something. It was such beautiful, firm cardboard. But, no, +it wouldn't be appropriate for this occasion. It had lettering on it: +"Medium Women's 28. Extra Firm Busks." It would be almost too much of a +surprise for Benny to open that and find father's watch inside. + +"And of course it isn't as though it would be going--ticking, I mean," +said Constantia, who was still thinking of the native love of jewellery. +"At least," she added, "it would be very strange if after all that time +it was." + + +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 +meringue-shell over one ear. + +Josephine repeated, "Cyril says his father is still very fond of +meringues." + +"Can't hear," said old Colonel Pinner. And he waved Josephine away with +his stick, then pointed with his stick to Cyril. "Tell me what she's +trying to say," he said. + +(My God!) "Must I?" said Cyril, blushing and staring at Aunt Josephine. + +"Do, dear," she smiled. "It will please him so much." + +"Come on, out with it!" cried Colonel Pinner testily, beginning to thump +again. + +And Cyril leaned forward and yelled, "Father's still very fond of +meringues." + +At that Grandfather Pinner jumped as though he had been shot. + +"Don't shout!" he cried. "What's the matter with the boy? Meringues! +What about 'em?" + +"Oh, Aunt Josephine, must we go on?" groaned Cyril desperately. + +"It's quite all right, dear boy," said Aunt Josephine, as though he and +she were at the dentist's together. "He'll understand in a minute." And +she whispered to Cyril, "He's getting a bit deaf, you know." Then she +leaned forward and really bawled at Grandfather Pinner, "Cyril only +wanted to tell you, father dear, that his father is still very fond of +meringues." + +Colonel Pinner heard that time, heard and brooded, looking Cyril up and +down. + +"What an esstrordinary thing!" said old Grandfather Pinner. "What an +esstrordinary thing to come all this way here to tell me!" + +And Cyril felt it was. + +"Yes, I shall send Cyril the watch," said Josephine. + +"That would be very nice," said Constantia. "I seem to remember last +time he came there was some little trouble about the time." + + +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 +window-ledge. "Yeep--eyeep--yeep." But Josephine felt they were not +sparrows, not on the window-ledge. It was inside her, that queer little +crying noise. "Yeep--eyeep--yeep." Ah, what was it crying, so weak and +forlorn? + +If mother had lived, might they have married? But there had been nobody +for them to marry. There had been father's Anglo-Indian friends before +he quarrelled with them. But after that she and Constantia never met a +single man except clergymen. How did one meet men? Or even if they'd met +them, how could they have got to know men well enough to be more than +strangers? One read of people having adventures, being followed, and so +on. But nobody had ever followed Constantia and her. Oh yes, there had +been one year at Eastbourne a mysterious man at their boarding-house who +had put a note on the jug of hot water outside their bedroom door! But +by the time Connie had found it the steam had made the writing too faint +to read; they couldn't even make out to which of them it was addressed. +And he had left next day. And that was all. The rest had been looking +after father, and at the same time keeping out of father's way. But now? +But now? The thieving sun touched Josephine gently. She lifted her face. +She was drawn over to the window by gentle beams... + +Until the barrel-organ stopped playing Constantia stayed before the +Buddha, wondering, but not as usual, not vaguely. This time her wonder +was like longing. She remembered the times she had come in here, crept +out of bed in her nightgown when the moon was full, and lain on the +floor with her arms outstretched, as though she was crucified. Why? The +big, pale moon had made her do it. The horrible dancing figures on the +carved screen had leered at her and she hadn't minded. She remembered +too how, whenever they were at the seaside, she had gone off by herself +and got as close to the sea as she could, and sung something, something +she had made up, while she gazed all over that restless water. There had +been this other life, running out, bringing things home in bags, getting +things on approval, discussing them with Jug, and taking them back to +get more things on approval, and arranging father's trays and trying not +to annoy father. But it all seemed to have happened in a kind of tunnel. +It wasn't real. It was only when she came out of the tunnel into the +moonlight or by the sea or into a thunderstorm that she really felt +herself. What did it mean? What was it she was always wanting? What did +it all lead to? Now? Now? + +She turned away from the Buddha with one of her vague gestures. She went +over to where Josephine was standing. She wanted to say something to +Josephine, something frightfully important, about--about the future and +what... + +"Don't you think perhaps--" she began. + +But Josephine interrupted her. "I was wondering if now--" she murmured. +They stopped; they waited for each other. + +"Go on, Con," said Josephine. + +"No, no, Jug; after you," said Constantia. + +"No, say what you were going to say. You began," said Josephine. + +"I... I'd rather hear what you were going to say first," said Constantia. + +"Don't be absurd, Con." + +"Really, Jug." + +"Connie!" + +"Oh, Jug!" + +A pause. Then Constantia said faintly, "I can't say what I was going to +say, Jug, because I've forgotten what it was... that I was going to say." + +Josephine was silent for a moment. She stared at a big cloud where the +sun had been. Then she replied shortly, "I've forgotten too." + + + + +4. MR. AND MRS. DOVE. + +Of course he knew--no man better--that he hadn't a ghost of a chance, +he hadn't an earthly. The very idea of such a thing was preposterous. +So preposterous that he'd perfectly understand it if her father--well, +whatever her father chose to do he'd perfectly understand. In fact, +nothing short of desperation, nothing short of the fact that this was +positively his last day in England for God knows how long, would have +screwed him up to it. And even now... He chose a tie out of the chest +of drawers, a blue and cream check tie, and sat on the side of his bed. +Supposing she replied, "What impertinence!" would he be surprised? Not +in the least, he decided, turning up his soft collar and turning it down +over the tie. He expected her to say something like that. He didn't see, +if he looked at the affair dead soberly, what else she could say. + +Here he was! And nervously he tied a bow in front of the mirror, jammed +his hair down with both hands, pulled out the flaps of his jacket +pockets. Making between 500 and 600 pounds a year on a fruit farm in--of +all places--Rhodesia. No capital. Not a penny coming to him. No chance +of his income increasing for at least four years. As for looks and all +that sort of thing, he was completely out of the running. He couldn't +even boast of top-hole health, for the East Africa business had knocked +him out so thoroughly that he'd had to take six months' leave. He was +still fearfully pale--worse even than usual this afternoon, he thought, +bending forward and peering into the mirror. Good heavens! What had +happened? His hair looked almost bright green. Dash it all, he hadn't +green hair at all events. That was a bit too steep. And then the green +light trembled in the glass; it was the shadow from the tree outside. +Reggie turned away, took out his cigarette case, but remembering how the +mater hated him to smoke in his bedroom, put it back again and drifted +over to the chest of drawers. No, he was dashed if he could think of one +blessed thing in his favour, while she... Ah!... He stopped dead, folded +his arms, and leaned hard against the chest of drawers. + +And in spite of her position, her father's wealth, the fact +that she was an only child and far and away the most popular +girl in the neighbourhood; in spite of her beauty and her +cleverness--cleverness!--it was a great deal more than that, there +was really nothing she couldn't do; he fully believed, had it been +necessary, she would have been a genius at anything--in spite of the +fact that her parents adored her, and she them, and they'd as soon let +her go all that way as... In spite of every single thing you could think +of, so terrific was his love that he couldn't help hoping. Well, was +it hope? Or was this queer, timid longing to have the chance of looking +after her, of making it his job to see that she had everything she +wanted, and that nothing came near her that wasn't perfect--just love? +How he loved her! He squeezed hard against the chest of drawers and +murmured to it, "I love her, I love her!" And just for the moment he was +with her on the way to Umtali. It was night. She sat in a corner asleep. +Her soft chin was tucked into her soft collar, her gold-brown lashes lay +on her cheeks. He doted on her delicate little nose, her perfect lips, +her ear like a baby's, and the gold-brown curl that half covered it. +They were passing through the jungle. It was warm and dark and far away. +Then she woke up and said, "Have I been asleep?" and he answered, "Yes. +Are you all right? Here, let me--" And he leaned forward to... He bent +over her. This was such bliss that he could dream no further. But it +gave him the courage to bound downstairs, to snatch his straw hat from +the hall, and to say as he closed the front door, "Well, I can only try +my luck, that's all." + +But his luck gave him a nasty jar, to say the least, almost immediately. +Promenading up and down the garden path with Chinny and Biddy, the +ancient Pekes, was the mater. Of course Reginald was fond of the mater +and all that. She--she meant well, she had no end of grit, and so on. +But there was no denying it, she was rather a grim parent. And there had +been moments, many of them, in Reggie's life, before Uncle Alick died +and left him the fruit farm, when he was convinced that to be a widow's +only son was about the worst punishment a chap could have. And what made +it rougher than ever was that she was positively all that he had. She +wasn't only a combined parent, as it were, but she had quarrelled with +all her own and the governor's relations before Reggie had won his first +trouser pockets. So that whenever Reggie was homesick out there, sitting +on his dark veranda by starlight, while the gramophone cried, "Dear, +what is Life but Love?" his only vision was of the mater, tall and +stout, rustling down the garden path, with Chinny and Biddy at her +heels... + +The mater, with her scissors outspread to snap the head of a dead +something or other, stopped at the sight of Reggie. + +"You are not going out, Reginald?" she asked, seeing that he was. + +"I'll be back for tea, mater," said Reggie weakly, plunging his hands +into his jacket pockets. + +Snip. Off came a head. Reggie almost jumped. + +"I should have thought you could have spared your mother your last +afternoon," said she. + +Silence. The Pekes stared. They understood every word of the mater's. +Biddy lay down with her tongue poked out; she was so fat and glossy she +looked like a lump of half-melted toffee. But Chinny's porcelain eyes +gloomed at Reginald, and he sniffed faintly, as though the whole world +were one unpleasant smell. Snip, went the scissors again. Poor little +beggars; they were getting it! + +"And where are you going, if your mother may ask?" asked the mater. + +It was over at last, but Reggie did not slow down until he was out +of sight of the house and half-way to Colonel Proctor's. Then only he +noticed what a top-hole afternoon it was. It had been raining all the +morning, late summer rain, warm, heavy, quick, and now the sky was +clear, except for a long tail of little clouds, like ducklings, sailing +over the forest. There was just enough wind to shake the last drops off +the trees; one warm star splashed on his hand. Ping!--another drummed +on his hat. The empty road gleamed, the hedges smelled of briar, and how +big and bright the hollyhocks glowed in the cottage gardens. And here +was Colonel Proctor's--here it was already. His hand was on the gate, +his elbow jogged the syringa bushes, and petals and pollen scattered +over his coat sleeve. But wait a bit. This was too quick altogether. +He'd meant to think the whole thing out again. Here, steady. But he was +walking up the path, with the huge rose bushes on either side. It can't +be done like this. But his hand had grasped the bell, given it a pull, +and started it pealing wildly, as if he'd come to say the house was on +fire. The housemaid must have been in the hall, too, for the front door +flashed open, and Reggie was shut in the empty drawing-room before that +confounded bell had stopped ringing. Strangely enough, when it did, the +big room, shadowy, with some one's parasol lying on top of the grand +piano, bucked him up--or rather, excited him. It was so quiet, and yet +in one moment the door would open, and his fate be decided. The feeling +was not unlike that of being at the dentist's; he was almost reckless. +But at the same time, to his immense surprise, Reggie heard himself +saying, "Lord, Thou knowest, Thou hast not done much for me... " That +pulled him up; that made him realize again how dead serious it was. Too +late. The door handle turned. Anne came in, crossed the shadowy space +between them, gave him her hand, and said, in her small, soft voice, +"I'm so sorry, father is out. And mother is having a day in town, +hat-hunting. There's only me to entertain you, Reggie." + +Reggie gasped, pressed his own hat to his jacket buttons, and stammered +out, "As a matter of fact, I've only come... to say good-bye." + +"Oh!" cried Anne softly--she stepped back from him and her grey eyes +danced--"what a very short visit!" + +Then, watching him, her chin tilted, she laughed outright, a long, soft +peal, and walked away from him over to the piano, and leaned against it, +playing with the tassel of the parasol. + +"I'm so sorry," she said, "to be laughing like this. I don't know why I +do. It's just a bad ha--habit." And suddenly she stamped her grey shoe, +and took a pocket-handkerchief out of her white woolly jacket. "I really +must conquer it, it's too absurd," said she. + +"Good heavens, Anne," cried Reggie, "I love to hear you laughing! I +can't imagine anything more--" + +But the truth was, and they both knew it, she wasn't always laughing; +it wasn't really a habit. Only ever since the day they'd met, ever since +that very first moment, for some strange reason that Reggie wished to +God he understood, Anne had laughed at him. Why? It didn't matter where +they were or what they were talking about. They might begin by being +as serious as possible, dead serious--at any rate, as far as he was +concerned--but then suddenly, in the middle of a sentence, Anne would +glance at him, and a little quick quiver passed over her face. Her lips +parted, her eyes danced, and she began laughing. + +Another queer thing about it was, Reggie had an idea she didn't herself +know why she laughed. He had seen her turn away, frown, suck in her +cheeks, press her hands together. But it was no use. The long, soft peal +sounded, even while she cried, "I don't know why I'm laughing." It was a +mystery... + +Now she tucked the handkerchief away. + +"Do sit down," said she. "And smoke, won't you? There are cigarettes in +that little box beside you. I'll have one too." He lighted a match for +her, and as she bent forward he saw the tiny flame glow in the pearl +ring she wore. "It is to-morrow that you're going, isn't it?" said Anne. + +"Yes, to-morrow as ever was," said Reggie, and he blew a little fan of +smoke. Why on earth was he so nervous? Nervous wasn't the word for it. + +"It's--it's frightfully hard to believe," he added. + +"Yes--isn't it?" said Anne softly, and she leaned forward and rolled +the point of her cigarette round the green ash-tray. How beautiful +she looked like that!--simply beautiful--and she was so small in that +immense chair. Reginald's heart swelled with tenderness, but it was her +voice, her soft voice, that made him tremble. "I feel you've been here +for years," she said. + +Reginald took a deep breath of his cigarette. "It's ghastly, this idea +of going back," he said. + +"Coo-roo-coo-coo-coo," sounded from the quiet. + +"But you're fond of being out there, aren't you?" said Anne. She hooked +her finger through her pearl necklace. "Father was saying only the other +night how lucky he thought you were to have a life of your own." And +she looked up at him. Reginald's smile was rather wan. "I don't feel +fearfully lucky," he said lightly. + +"Roo-coo-coo-coo," came again. And Anne murmured, "You mean it's +lonely." + +"Oh, it isn't the loneliness I care about," said Reginald, and he +stumped his cigarette savagely on the green ash-tray. "I could stand any +amount of it, used to like it even. It's the idea of--" Suddenly, to his +horror, he felt himself blushing. + +"Roo-coo-coo-coo! Roo-coo-coo-coo!" + +Anne jumped up. "Come and say good-bye to my doves," she said. "They've +been moved to the side veranda. You do like doves, don't you, Reggie?" + +"Awfully," said Reggie, so fervently that as he opened the French window +for her and stood to one side, Anne ran forward and laughed at the doves +instead. + +To and fro, to and fro over the fine red sand on the floor of the dove +house, walked the two doves. One was always in front of the other. One +ran forward, uttering a little cry, and the other followed, solemnly +bowing and bowing. "You see," explained Anne, "the one in front, she's +Mrs. Dove. She looks at Mr. Dove and gives that little laugh and runs +forward, and he follows her, bowing and bowing. And that makes her laugh +again. Away she runs, and after her," cried Anne, and she sat back on +her heels, "comes poor Mr. Dove, bowing and bowing... and that's their +whole life. They never do anything else, you know." She got up and took +some yellow grains out of a bag on the roof of the dove house. "When +you think of them, out in Rhodesia, Reggie, you can be sure that is what +they will be doing... " + +Reggie gave no sign of having seen the doves or of having heard a word. +For the moment he was conscious only of the immense effort it took to +tear his secret out of himself and offer it to Anne. "Anne, do you think +you could ever care for me?" It was done. It was over. And in the little +pause that followed Reginald saw the garden open to the light, the blue +quivering sky, the flutter of leaves on the veranda poles, and Anne +turning over the grains of maize on her palm with one finger. Then +slowly she shut her hand, and the new world faded as she murmured +slowly, "No, never in that way." But he had scarcely time to feel +anything before she walked quickly away, and he followed her down the +steps, along the garden path, under the pink rose arches, across the +lawn. There, with the gay herbaceous border behind her, Anne faced +Reginald. "It isn't that I'm not awfully fond of you," she said. "I +am. But"--her eyes widened--"not in the way"--a quiver passed over her +face--"one ought to be fond of--" Her lips parted, and she couldn't stop +herself. She began laughing. "There, you see, you see," she cried, "it's +your check t-tie. Even at this moment, when one would think one really +would be solemn, your tie reminds me fearfully of the bow-tie that cats +wear in pictures! Oh, please forgive me for being so horrid, please!" + +Reggie caught hold of her little warm hand. "There's no question of +forgiving you," he said quickly. "How could there be? And I do believe I +know why I make you laugh. It's because you're so far above me in every +way that I am somehow ridiculous. I see that, Anne. But if I were to--" + +"No, no." Anne squeezed his hand hard. "It's not that. That's all wrong. +I'm not far above you at all. You're much better than I am. You're +marvellously unselfish and... and kind and simple. I'm none of those +things. You don't know me. I'm the most awful character," said Anne. +"Please don't interrupt. And besides, that's not the point. The point +is"--she shook her head--"I couldn't possibly marry a man I laughed at. +Surely you see that. The man I marry--" breathed Anne softly. She broke +off. She drew her hand away, and looking at Reggie she smiled strangely, +dreamily. "The man I marry--" + +And it seemed to Reggie that a tall, handsome, brilliant stranger +stepped in front of him and took his place--the kind of man that Anne +and he had seen often at the theatre, walking on to the stage from +nowhere, without a word catching the heroine in his arms, and after one +long, tremendous look, carrying her off to anywhere... + +Reggie bowed to his vision. "Yes, I see," he said huskily. + +"Do you?" said Anne. "Oh, I do hope you do. Because I feel so horrid +about it. It's so hard to explain. You know I've never--" She stopped. +Reggie looked at her. She was smiling. "Isn't it funny?" she said. +"I can say anything to you. I always have been able to from the very +beginning." + +He tried to smile, to say "I'm glad." She went on. "I've never known any +one I like as much as I like you. I've never felt so happy with any one. +But I'm sure it's not what people and what books mean when they talk +about love. Do you understand? Oh, if you only knew how horrid I feel. +But we'd be like... like Mr. and Mrs. Dove." + +That did it. That seemed to Reginald final, and so terribly true that he +could hardly bear it. "Don't drive it home," he said, and he turned away +from Anne and looked across the lawn. There was the gardener's cottage, +with the dark ilex-tree beside it. A wet, blue thumb of transparent +smoke hung above the chimney. It didn't look real. How his throat +ached! Could he speak? He had a shot. "I must be getting along home," he +croaked, and he began walking across the lawn. But Anne ran after him. +"No, don't. You can't go yet," she said imploringly. "You can't possibly +go away feeling like that." And she stared up at him frowning, biting +her lip. + +"Oh, that's all right," said Reggie, giving himself a shake. "I'll... +I'll--" And he waved his hand as much to say "get over it." + +"But this is awful," said Anne. She clasped her hands and stood in front +of him. "Surely you do see how fatal it would be for us to marry, don't +you?" + +"Oh, quite, quite," said Reggie, looking at her with haggard eyes. + +"How wrong, how wicked, feeling as I do. I mean, it's all very well for +Mr. and Mrs. Dove. But imagine that in real life--imagine it!" + +"Oh, absolutely," said Reggie, and he started to walk on. But again Anne +stopped him. She tugged at his sleeve, and to his astonishment, this +time, instead of laughing, she looked like a little girl who was going +to cry. + +"Then why, if you understand, are you so un-unhappy?" she wailed. "Why +do you mind so fearfully? Why do you look so aw-awful?" + +Reggie gulped, and again he waved something away. "I can't help it," he +said, "I've had a blow. If I cut off now, I'll be able to--" + +"How can you talk of cutting off now?" said Anne scornfully. She stamped +her foot at Reggie; she was crimson. "How can you be so cruel? I can't +let you go until I know for certain that you are just as happy as you +were before you asked me to marry you. Surely you must see that, it's so +simple." + +But it did not seem at all simple to Reginald. It seemed impossibly +difficult. + +"Even if I can't marry you, how can I know that you're all that +way away, with only that awful mother to write to, and that you're +miserable, and that it's all my fault?" + +"It's not your fault. Don't think that. It's just fate." Reggie took her +hand off his sleeve and kissed it. "Don't pity me, dear little Anne," he +said gently. And this time he nearly ran, under the pink arches, along +the garden path. + +"Roo-coo-coo-coo! Roo-coo-coo-coo!" sounded from the veranda. "Reggie, +Reggie," from the garden. + +He stopped, he turned. But when she saw his timid, puzzled look, she +gave a little laugh. + +"Come back, Mr. Dove," said Anne. And Reginald came slowly across the +lawn. + + + + +5. THE YOUNG GIRL. + +In her blue dress, with her cheeks lightly flushed, her blue, blue eyes, +and her gold curls pinned up as though for the first time--pinned up +to be out of the way for her flight--Mrs. Raddick's daughter might have +just dropped from this radiant heaven. Mrs. Raddick's timid, faintly +astonished, but deeply admiring glance looked as if she believed it, +too; but the daughter didn't appear any too pleased--why should she?--to +have alighted on the steps of the Casino. Indeed, she was bored--bored +as though Heaven had been full of casinos with snuffy old saints for +croupiers and crowns to play with. + +"You don't mind taking Hennie?" said Mrs. Raddick. "Sure you don't? +There's the car, and you'll have tea and we'll be back here on this +step--right here--in an hour. You see, I want her to go in. She's not +been before, and it's worth seeing. I feel it wouldn't be fair to her." + +"Oh, shut up, mother," said she wearily. "Come along. Don't talk so +much. And your bag's open; you'll be losing all your money again." + +"I'm sorry, darling," said Mrs. Raddick. + +"Oh, do come in! I want to make money," said the impatient voice. "It's +all jolly well for you--but I'm broke!" + +"Here--take fifty francs, darling, take a hundred!" I saw Mrs. Raddick +pressing notes into her hand as they passed through the swing doors. + +Hennie and I stood on the steps a minute, watching the people. He had a +very broad, delighted smile. + +"I say," he cried, "there's an English bulldog. Are they allowed to take +dogs in there?" + +"No, they're not." + +"He's a ripping chap, isn't he? I wish I had one. They're such fun. They +frighten people so, and they're never fierce with their--the people they +belong to." Suddenly he squeezed my arm. "I say, do look at that old +woman. Who is she? Why does she look like that? Is she a gambler?" + +The ancient, withered creature, wearing a green satin dress, a black +velvet cloak and a white hat with purple feathers, jerked slowly, slowly +up the steps as though she were being drawn up on wires. She stared in +front of her, she was laughing and nodding and cackling to herself; her +claws clutched round what looked like a dirty boot-bag. + +But just at that moment there was Mrs. Raddick again with--her--and +another lady hovering in the background. Mrs. Raddick rushed at me. She +was brightly flushed, gay, a different creature. She was like a woman +who is saying "good-bye" to her friends on the station platform, with +not a minute to spare before the train starts. + +"Oh, you're here, still. Isn't that lucky! You've not gone. Isn't that +fine! I've had the most dreadful time with--her," and she waved to +her daughter, who stood absolutely still, disdainful, looking down, +twiddling her foot on the step, miles away. "They won't let her in. I +swore she was twenty-one. But they won't believe me. I showed the man +my purse; I didn't dare to do more. But it was no use. He simply +scoffed... And now I've just met Mrs. MacEwen from New York, and she just +won thirteen thousand in the Salle Privee--and she wants me to go back +with her while the luck lasts. Of course I can't leave--her. But if +you'd--" + +At that "she" looked up; she simply withered her mother. "Why can't +you leave me?" she said furiously. "What utter rot! How dare you make +a scene like this? This is the last time I'll come out with you. You +really are too awful for words." She looked her mother up and down. +"Calm yourself," she said superbly. + +Mrs. Raddick was desperate, just desperate. She was "wild" to go back +with Mrs. MacEwen, but at the same time... + +I seized my courage. "Would you--do you care to come to tea with--us?" + +"Yes, yes, she'll be delighted. That's just what I wanted, isn't it, +darling? Mrs. MacEwen... I'll be back here in an hour... or less... I'll--" + +Mrs. R. dashed up the steps. I saw her bag was open again. + +So we three were left. But really it wasn't my fault. Hennie looked +crushed to the earth, too. When the car was there she wrapped her dark +coat round her--to escape contamination. Even her little feet looked as +though they scorned to carry her down the steps to us. + +"I am so awfully sorry," I murmured as the car started. + +"Oh, I don't mind," said she. "I don't want to look twenty-one. Who +would--if they were seventeen! It's"--and she gave a faint shudder--"the +stupidity I loathe, and being stared at by old fat men. Beasts!" + +Hennie gave her a quick look and then peered out of the window. + +We drew up before an immense palace of pink-and-white marble with +orange-trees outside the doors in gold-and-black tubs. + +"Would you care to go in?" I suggested. + +She hesitated, glanced, bit her lip, and resigned herself. "Oh well, +there seems nowhere else," said she. "Get out, Hennie." + +I went first--to find the table, of course--she followed. But the worst +of it was having her little brother, who was only twelve, with us. That +was the last, final straw--having that child, trailing at her heels. + +There was one table. It had pink carnations and pink plates with little +blue tea-napkins for sails. + +"Shall we sit here?" + +She put her hand wearily on the back of a white wicker chair. + +"We may as well. Why not?" said she. + +Hennie squeezed past her and wriggled on to a stool at the end. He felt +awfully out of it. She didn't even take her gloves off. She lowered her +eyes and drummed on the table. When a faint violin sounded she winced +and bit her lip again. Silence. + +The waitress appeared. I hardly dared to ask her. "Tea--coffee? China +tea--or iced tea with lemon?" + +Really she didn't mind. It was all the same to her. She didn't really +want anything. Hennie whispered, "Chocolate!" + +But just as the waitress turned away she cried out carelessly, "Oh, you +may as well bring me a chocolate, too." + +While we waited she took out a little, gold powder-box with a mirror in +the lid, shook the poor little puff as though she loathed it, and dabbed +her lovely nose. + +"Hennie," she said, "take those flowers away." She pointed with her puff +to the carnations, and I heard her murmur, "I can't bear flowers on +a table." They had evidently been giving her intense pain, for she +positively closed her eyes as I moved them away. + +The waitress came back with the chocolate and the tea. She put the +big, frothing cups before them and pushed across my clear glass. Hennie +buried his nose, emerged, with, for one dreadful moment, a little +trembling blob of cream on the tip. But he hastily wiped it off like a +little gentleman. I wondered if I should dare draw her attention to +her cup. She didn't notice it--didn't see it--until suddenly, quite by +chance, she took a sip. I watched anxiously; she faintly shuddered. + +"Dreadfully sweet!" said she. + +A tiny boy with a head like a raisin and a chocolate body came +round with a tray of pastries--row upon row of little freaks, little +inspirations, little melting dreams. He offered them to her. "Oh, I'm +not at all hungry. Take them away." + +He offered them to Hennie. Hennie gave me a swift look--it must have +been satisfactory--for he took a chocolate cream, a coffee eclair, +a meringue stuffed with chestnut and a tiny horn filled with fresh +strawberries. She could hardly bear to watch him. But just as the boy +swerved away she held up her plate. + +"Oh well, give me one," said she. + +The silver tongs dropped one, two, three--and a cherry tartlet. "I don't +know why you're giving me all these," she said, and nearly smiled. "I +shan't eat them; I couldn't!" + +I felt much more comfortable. I sipped my tea, leaned back, and even +asked if I might smoke. At that she paused, the fork in her hand, opened +her eyes, and really did smile. "Of course," said she. "I always expect +people to." + +But at that moment a tragedy happened to Hennie. He speared his pastry +horn too hard, and it flew in two, and one half spilled on the table. +Ghastly affair! He turned crimson. Even his ears flared, and one ashamed +hand crept across the table to take what was left of the body away. + +"You utter little beast!" said she. + +Good heavens! I had to fly to the rescue. I cried hastily, "Will you be +abroad long?" + +But she had already forgotten Hennie. I was forgotten, too. She was +trying to remember something... She was miles away. + +"I--don't--know," she said slowly, from that far place. + +"I suppose you prefer it to London. It's more--more--" + +When I didn't go on she came back and looked at me, very puzzled. +"More--?" + +"Enfin--gayer," I cried, waving my cigarette. + +But that took a whole cake to consider. Even then, "Oh well, that +depends!" was all she could safely say. + +Hennie had finished. He was still very warm. + +I seized the butterfly list off the table. "I say--what about an ice, +Hennie? What about tangerine and ginger? No, something cooler. What +about a fresh pineapple cream?" + +Hennie strongly approved. The waitress had her eye on us. The order was +taken when she looked up from her crumbs. + +"Did you say tangerine and ginger? I like ginger. You can bring me one." +And then quickly, "I wish that orchestra wouldn't play things from +the year One. We were dancing to that all last Christmas. It's too +sickening!" + +But it was a charming air. Now that I noticed it, it warmed me. + +"I think this is rather a nice place, don't you, Hennie?" I said. + +Hennie said: "Ripping!" He meant to say it very low, but it came out +very high in a kind of squeak. + +Nice? This place? Nice? For the first time she stared about her, trying +to see what there was... She blinked; her lovely eyes wondered. A very +good-looking elderly man stared back at her through a monocle on a black +ribbon. But him she simply couldn't see. There was a hole in the air +where he was. She looked through and through him. + +Finally the little flat spoons lay still on the glass plates. Hennie +looked rather exhausted, but she pulled on her white gloves again. She +had some trouble with her diamond wrist-watch; it got in her way. She +tugged at it--tried to break the stupid little thing--it wouldn't break. +Finally, she had to drag her glove over. I saw, after that, she couldn't +stand this place a moment longer, and, indeed, she jumped up and turned +away while I went through the vulgar act of paying for the tea. + +And then we were outside again. It had grown dusky. The sky was +sprinkled with small stars; the big lamps glowed. While we waited for +the car to come up she stood on the step, just as before, twiddling her +foot, looking down. + +Hennie bounded forward to open the door and she got in and sank back +with--oh--such a sigh! + +"Tell him," she gasped, "to drive as fast as he can." + +Hennie grinned at his friend the chauffeur. "Allie veet!" said he. Then +he composed himself and sat on the small seat facing us. + +The gold powder-box came out again. Again the poor little puff was +shaken; again there was that swift, deadly-secret glance between her and +the mirror. + +We tore through the black-and-gold town like a pair of scissors tearing +through brocade. Hennie had great difficulty not to look as though he +were hanging on to something. + +And when we reached the Casino, of course Mrs. Raddick wasn't there. +There wasn't a sign of her on the steps--not a sign. + +"Will you stay in the car while I go and look?" + +But no--she wouldn't do that. Good heavens, no! Hennie could stay. She +couldn't bear sitting in a car. She'd wait on the steps. + +"But I scarcely like to leave you," I murmured. "I'd very much rather +not leave you here." + +At that she threw back her coat; she turned and faced me; her lips +parted. "Good heavens--why! I--I don't mind it a bit. I--I like +waiting." And suddenly her cheeks crimsoned, her eyes grew dark--for +a moment I thought she was going to cry. "L--let me, please," she +stammered, in a warm, eager voice. "I like it. I love waiting! +Really--really I do! I'm always waiting--in all kinds of places... " + +Her dark coat fell open, and her white throat--all her soft young body +in the blue dress--was like a flower that is just emerging from its dark +bud. + + + + +6. LIFE OF MA PARKER. + +When the literary gentleman, whose flat old Ma Parker cleaned every +Tuesday, opened the door to her that morning, he asked after her +grandson. Ma Parker stood on the doormat inside the dark little hall, +and she stretched out her hand to help her gentleman shut the door +before she replied. "We buried 'im yesterday, sir," she said quietly. + +"Oh, dear me! I'm sorry to hear that," said the literary gentleman in +a shocked tone. He was in the middle of his breakfast. He wore a very +shabby dressing-gown and carried a crumpled newspaper in one hand. +But he felt awkward. He could hardly go back to the warm sitting-room +without saying something--something more. Then because these people set +such store by funerals he said kindly, "I hope the funeral went off all +right." + +"Beg parding, sir?" said old Ma Parker huskily. + +Poor old bird! She did look dashed. "I hope the funeral was +a--a--success," said he. Ma Parker gave no answer. She bent her head +and hobbled off to the kitchen, clasping the old fish bag that held +her cleaning things and an apron and a pair of felt shoes. The literary +gentleman raised his eyebrows and went back to his breakfast. + +"Overcome, I suppose," he said aloud, helping himself to the marmalade. + +Ma Parker drew the two jetty spears out of her toque and hung it behind +the door. She unhooked her worn jacket and hung that up too. Then she +tied her apron and sat down to take off her boots. To take off her boots +or to put them on was an agony to her, but it had been an agony for +years. In fact, she was so accustomed to the pain that her face was +drawn and screwed up ready for the twinge before she'd so much as untied +the laces. That over, she sat back with a sigh and softly rubbed her +knees... + +"Gran! Gran!" Her little grandson stood on her lap in his button boots. +He'd just come in from playing in the street. + +"Look what a state you've made your gran's skirt into--you wicked boy!" + +But he put his arms round her neck and rubbed his cheek against hers. + +"Gran, gi' us a penny!" he coaxed. + +"Be off with you; Gran ain't got no pennies." + +"Yes, you 'ave." + +"No, I ain't." + +"Yes, you 'ave. Gi' us one!" + +Already she was feeling for the old, squashed, black leather purse. + +"Well, what'll you give your gran?" + +He gave a shy little laugh and pressed closer. She felt his eyelid +quivering against her cheek. "I ain't got nothing," he murmured... + +The old woman sprang up, seized the iron kettle off the gas stove and +took it over to the sink. The noise of the water drumming in the +kettle deadened her pain, it seemed. She filled the pail, too, and the +washing-up bowl. + +It would take a whole book to describe the state of that kitchen. During +the week the literary gentleman "did" for himself. That is to say, he +emptied the tea leaves now and again into a jam jar set aside for that +purpose, and if he ran out of clean forks he wiped over one or two +on the roller towel. Otherwise, as he explained to his friends, his +"system" was quite simple, and he couldn't understand why people made +all this fuss about housekeeping. + +"You simply dirty everything you've got, get a hag in once a week to +clean up, and the thing's done." + +The result looked like a gigantic dustbin. Even the floor was littered +with toast crusts, envelopes, cigarette ends. But Ma Parker bore him no +grudge. She pitied the poor young gentleman for having no one to look +after him. Out of the smudgy little window you could see an immense +expanse of sad-looking sky, and whenever there were clouds they looked +very worn, old clouds, frayed at the edges, with holes in them, or dark +stains like tea. + +While the water was heating, Ma Parker began sweeping the floor. "Yes," +she thought, as the broom knocked, "what with one thing and another I've +had my share. I've had a hard life." + +Even the neighbours said that of her. Many a time, hobbling home with +her fish bag she heard them, waiting at the corner, or leaning over +the area railings, say among themselves, "She's had a hard life, has Ma +Parker." And it was so true she wasn't in the least proud of it. It was +just as if you were to say she lived in the basement-back at Number 27. +A hard life!... + +At sixteen she'd left Stratford and come up to London as kitching-maid. +Yes, she was born in Stratford-on-Avon. Shakespeare, sir? No, people +were always arsking her about him. But she'd never heard his name until +she saw it on the theatres. + +Nothing remained of Stratford except that "sitting in the fire-place +of a evening you could see the stars through the chimley," and "Mother +always 'ad 'er side of bacon, 'anging from the ceiling." And there was +something--a bush, there was--at the front door, that smelt ever so +nice. But the bush was very vague. She'd only remembered it once or +twice in the hospital, when she'd been taken bad. + +That was a dreadful place--her first place. She was never allowed out. +She never went upstairs except for prayers morning and evening. It was a +fair cellar. And the cook was a cruel woman. She used to snatch away her +letters from home before she'd read them, and throw them in the range +because they made her dreamy... And the beedles! Would you believe +it?--until she came to London she'd never seen a black beedle. Here Ma +always gave a little laugh, as though--not to have seen a black beedle! +Well! It was as if to say you'd never seen your own feet. + +When that family was sold up she went as "help" to a doctor's house, and +after two years there, on the run from morning till night, she married +her husband. He was a baker. + +"A baker, Mrs. Parker!" the literary gentleman would say. For +occasionally he laid aside his tomes and lent an ear, at least, to this +product called Life. "It must be rather nice to be married to a baker!" + +Mrs. Parker didn't look so sure. + +"Such a clean trade," said the gentleman. + +Mrs. Parker didn't look convinced. + +"And didn't you like handing the new loaves to the customers?" + +"Well, sir," said Mrs. Parker, "I wasn't in the shop above a great deal. +We had thirteen little ones and buried seven of them. If it wasn't the +'ospital it was the infirmary, you might say!" + +"You might, indeed, Mrs. Parker!" said the gentleman, shuddering, and +taking up his pen again. + +Yes, seven had gone, and while the six were still small her husband was +taken ill with consumption. It was flour on the lungs, the doctor told +her at the time... Her husband sat up in bed with his shirt pulled over +his head, and the doctor's finger drew a circle on his back. + +"Now, if we were to cut him open here, Mrs. Parker," said the doctor, +"you'd find his lungs chock-a-block with white powder. Breathe, my +good fellow!" And Mrs. Parker never knew for certain whether she saw or +whether she fancied she saw a great fan of white dust come out of her +poor dead husband's lips... + +But the struggle she'd had to bring up those six little children and +keep herself to herself. Terrible it had been! Then, just when they were +old enough to go to school her husband's sister came to stop with them +to help things along, and she hadn't been there more than two months +when she fell down a flight of steps and hurt her spine. And for five +years Ma Parker had another baby--and such a one for crying!--to look +after. Then young Maudie went wrong and took her sister Alice with her; +the two boys emigrated, and young Jim went to India with the army, and +Ethel, the youngest, married a good-for-nothing little waiter who died +of ulcers the year little Lennie was born. And now little Lennie--my +grandson... + +The piles of dirty cups, dirty dishes, were washed and dried. The +ink-black knives were cleaned with a piece of potato and finished off +with a piece of cork. The table was scrubbed, and the dresser and the +sink that had sardine tails swimming in it... + +He'd never been a strong child--never from the first. He'd been one of +those fair babies that everybody took for a girl. Silvery fair curls he +had, blue eyes, and a little freckle like a diamond on one side of his +nose. The trouble she and Ethel had had to rear that child! The things +out of the newspapers they tried him with! Every Sunday morning Ethel +would read aloud while Ma Parker did her washing. + +"Dear Sir,--Just a line to let you know my little Myrtil was laid out +for dead... After four bottils... gained 8 lbs. in 9 weeks, and is still +putting it on." + +And then the egg-cup of ink would come off the dresser and the letter +would be written, and Ma would buy a postal order on her way to work +next morning. But it was no use. Nothing made little Lennie put it +on. Taking him to the cemetery, even, never gave him a colour; a nice +shake-up in the bus never improved his appetite. + +But he was gran's boy from the first... + +"Whose boy are you?" said old Ma Parker, straightening up from the stove +and going over to the smudgy window. And a little voice, so warm, so +close, it half stifled her--it seemed to be in her breast under her +heart--laughed out, and said, "I'm gran's boy!" + +At that moment there was a sound of steps, and the literary gentleman +appeared, dressed for walking. + +"Oh, Mrs. Parker, I'm going out." + +"Very good, sir." + +"And you'll find your half-crown in the tray of the inkstand." + +"Thank you, sir." + +"Oh, by the way, Mrs. Parker," said the literary gentleman quickly, "you +didn't throw away any cocoa last time you were here--did you?" + +"No, sir." "Very strange. I could have sworn I left a teaspoonful of +cocoa in the tin." He broke off. He said softly and firmly, "You'll +always tell me when you throw things away--won't you, Mrs. Parker?" And +he walked off very well pleased with himself, convinced, in fact, +he'd shown Mrs. Parker that under his apparent carelessness he was as +vigilant as a woman. + +The door banged. She took her brushes and cloths into the bedroom. But +when she began to make the bed, smoothing, tucking, patting, the thought +of little Lennie was unbearable. Why did he have to suffer so? That's +what she couldn't understand. Why should a little angel child have to +arsk for his breath and fight for it? There was no sense in making a +child suffer like that. + +... From Lennie's little box of a chest there came a sound as though +something was boiling. There was a great lump of something bubbling in +his chest that he couldn't get rid of. When he coughed the sweat sprang +out on his head; his eyes bulged, his hands waved, and the great lump +bubbled as a potato knocks in a saucepan. But what was more awful than +all was when he didn't cough he sat against the pillow and never spoke +or answered, or even made as if he heard. Only he looked offended. + +"It's not your poor old gran's doing it, my lovey," said old Ma Parker, +patting back the damp hair from his little scarlet ears. But Lennie +moved his head and edged away. Dreadfully offended with her he +looked--and solemn. He bent his head and looked at her sideways as +though he couldn't have believed it of his gran. + +But at the last... Ma Parker threw the counterpane over the bed. No, she +simply couldn't think about it. It was too much--she'd had too much +in her life to bear. She'd borne it up till now, she'd kept herself +to herself, and never once had she been seen to cry. Never by a living +soul. Not even her own children had seen Ma break down. She'd kept a +proud face always. But now! Lennie gone--what had she? She had nothing. +He was all she'd got from life, and now he was took too. Why must it +all have happened to me? she wondered. "What have I done?" said old Ma +Parker. "What have I done?" + +As she said those words she suddenly let fall her brush. She found +herself in the kitchen. Her misery was so terrible that she pinned on +her hat, put on her jacket and walked out of the flat like a person in +a dream. She did not know what she was doing. She was like a person so +dazed by the horror of what has happened that he walks away--anywhere, +as though by walking away he could escape... + +It was cold in the street. There was a wind like ice. People went +flitting by, very fast; the men walked like scissors; the women trod +like cats. And nobody knew--nobody cared. Even if she broke down, if at +last, after all these years, she were to cry, she'd find herself in the +lock-up as like as not. + +But at the thought of crying it was as though little Lennie leapt in +his gran's arms. Ah, that's what she wants to do, my dove. Gran wants +to cry. If she could only cry now, cry for a long time, over everything, +beginning with her first place and the cruel cook, going on to the +doctor's, and then the seven little ones, death of her husband, the +children's leaving her, and all the years of misery that led up to +Lennie. But to have a proper cry over all these things would take a +long time. All the same, the time for it had come. She must do it. She +couldn't put it off any longer; she couldn't wait any more... Where could +she go? + +"She's had a hard life, has Ma Parker." Yes, a hard life, indeed! Her +chin began to tremble; there was no time to lose. But where? Where? + +She couldn't go home; Ethel was there. It would frighten Ethel out +of her life. She couldn't sit on a bench anywhere; people would come +arsking her questions. She couldn't possibly go back to the gentleman's +flat; she had no right to cry in strangers' houses. If she sat on some +steps a policeman would speak to her. + +Oh, wasn't there anywhere where she could hide and keep herself to +herself and stay as long as she liked, not disturbing anybody, and +nobody worrying her? Wasn't there anywhere in the world where she could +have her cry out--at last? + +Ma Parker stood, looking up and down. The icy wind blew out her apron +into a balloon. And now it began to rain. There was nowhere. + + + + +7. MARRIAGE A LA MODE. + +On his way to the station William remembered with a fresh pang of +disappointment that he was taking nothing down to the kiddies. Poor +little chaps! It was hard lines on them. Their first words always were +as they ran to greet him, "What have you got for me, daddy?" and he had +nothing. He would have to buy them some sweets at the station. But that +was what he had done for the past four Saturdays; their faces had fallen +last time when they saw the same old boxes produced again. + +And Paddy had said, "I had red ribbing on mine bee-fore!" + +And Johnny had said, "It's always pink on mine. I hate pink." + +But what was William to do? The affair wasn't so easily settled. In the +old days, of course, he would have taken a taxi off to a decent toyshop +and chosen them something in five minutes. But nowadays they had Russian +toys, French toys, Serbian toys--toys from God knows where. It was over +a year since Isabel had scrapped the old donkeys and engines and so on +because they were so "dreadfully sentimental" and "so appallingly bad +for the babies' sense of form." + +"It's so important," the new Isabel had explained, "that they should +like the right things from the very beginning. It saves so much time +later on. Really, if the poor pets have to spend their infant years +staring at these horrors, one can imagine them growing up and asking to +be taken to the Royal Academy." + +And she spoke as though a visit to the Royal Academy was certain +immediate death to any one... + +"Well, I don't know," said William slowly. "When I was their age I used +to go to bed hugging an old towel with a knot in it." + +The new Isabel looked at him, her eyes narrowed, her lips apart. + +"Dear William! I'm sure you did!" She laughed in the new way. + +Sweets it would have to be, however, thought William gloomily, fishing +in his pocket for change for the taxi-man. And he saw the kiddies +handing the boxes round--they were awfully generous little chaps--while +Isabel's precious friends didn't hesitate to help themselves... + +What about fruit? William hovered before a stall just inside the +station. What about a melon each? Would they have to share that, too? +Or a pineapple, for Pad, and a melon for Johnny? Isabel's friends could +hardly go sneaking up to the nursery at the children's meal-times. All +the same, as he bought the melon William had a horrible vision of one +of Isabel's young poets lapping up a slice, for some reason, behind the +nursery door. + +With his two very awkward parcels he strode off to his train. The +platform was crowded, the train was in. Doors banged open and shut. +There came such a loud hissing from the engine that people looked dazed +as they scurried to and fro. William made straight for a first-class +smoker, stowed away his suit-case and parcels, and taking a huge wad of +papers out of his inner pocket, he flung down in the corner and began to +read. + +"Our client moreover is positive... We are inclined to reconsider... in +the event of--" Ah, that was better. William pressed back his flattened +hair and stretched his legs across the carriage floor. The familiar dull +gnawing in his breast quietened down. "With regard to our decision--" He +took out a blue pencil and scored a paragraph slowly. + +Two men came in, stepped across him, and made for the farther corner. A +young fellow swung his golf clubs into the rack and sat down opposite. +The train gave a gentle lurch, they were off. William glanced up and saw +the hot, bright station slipping away. A red-faced girl raced along by +the carriages, there was something strained and almost desperate in the +way she waved and called. "Hysterical!" thought William dully. Then a +greasy, black-faced workman at the end of the platform grinned at the +passing train. And William thought, "A filthy life!" and went back to +his papers. + +When he looked up again there were fields, and beasts standing for +shelter under the dark trees. A wide river, with naked children +splashing in the shallows, glided into sight and was gone again. The sky +shone pale, and one bird drifted high like a dark fleck in a jewel. + +"We have examined our client's correspondence files... " The last +sentence he had read echoed in his mind. "We have examined... " William +hung on to that sentence, but it was no good; it snapped in the +middle, and the fields, the sky, the sailing bird, the water, all said, +"Isabel." The same thing happened every Saturday afternoon. When he +was on his way to meet Isabel there began those countless imaginary +meetings. She was at the station, standing just a little apart from +everybody else; she was sitting in the open taxi outside; she was at +the garden gate; walking across the parched grass; at the door, or just +inside the hall. + +And her clear, light voice said, "It's William," or "Hillo, William!" or +"So William has come!" He touched her cool hand, her cool cheek. + +The exquisite freshness of Isabel! When he had been a little boy, it was +his delight to run into the garden after a shower of rain and shake the +rose-bush over him. Isabel was that rose-bush, petal-soft, sparkling and +cool. And he was still that little boy. But there was no running into +the garden now, no laughing and shaking. The dull, persistent gnawing in +his breast started again. He drew up his legs, tossed the papers aside, +and shut his eyes. + +"What is it, Isabel? What is it?" he said tenderly. They were in their +bedroom in the new house. Isabel sat on a painted stool before the +dressing-table that was strewn with little black and green boxes. + +"What is what, William?" And she bent forward, and her fine light hair +fell over her cheeks. + +"Ah, you know!" He stood in the middle of the room and he felt a +stranger. At that Isabel wheeled round quickly and faced him. + +"Oh, William!" she cried imploringly, and she held up the hair-brush: +"Please! Please don't be so dreadfully stuffy and--tragic. You're always +saying or looking or hinting that I've changed. Just because I've got to +know really congenial people, and go about more, and am frightfully keen +on--on everything, you behave as though I'd--" Isabel tossed back +her hair and laughed--"killed our love or something. It's so awfully +absurd"--she bit her lip--"and it's so maddening, William. Even this new +house and the servants you grudge me." + +"Isabel!" + +"Yes, yes, it's true in a way," said Isabel quickly. "You think they are +another bad sign. Oh, I know you do. I feel it," she said softly, "every +time you come up the stairs. But we couldn't have gone on living in +that other poky little hole, William. Be practical, at least! Why, there +wasn't enough room for the babies even." + +No, it was true. Every morning when he came back from chambers it was to +find the babies with Isabel in the back drawing-room. They were having +rides on the leopard skin thrown over the sofa back, or they were +playing shops with Isabel's desk for a counter, or Pad was sitting on +the hearthrug rowing away for dear life with a little brass fire shovel, +while Johnny shot at pirates with the tongs. Every evening they each had +a pick-a-back up the narrow stairs to their fat old Nanny. + +Yes, he supposed it was a poky little house. A little white house with +blue curtains and a window-box of petunias. William met their friends at +the door with "Seen our petunias? Pretty terrific for London, don't you +think?" + +But the imbecile thing, the absolutely extraordinary thing was that he +hadn't the slightest idea that Isabel wasn't as happy as he. God, what +blindness! He hadn't the remotest notion in those days that she really +hated that inconvenient little house, that she thought the fat Nanny +was ruining the babies, that she was desperately lonely, pining for new +people and new music and pictures and so on. If they hadn't gone to that +studio party at Moira Morrison's--if Moira Morrison hadn't said as they +were leaving, "I'm going to rescue your wife, selfish man. She's like +an exquisite little Titania"--if Isabel hadn't gone with Moira to +Paris--if--if... + +The train stopped at another station. Bettingford. Good heavens! They'd +be there in ten minutes. William stuffed that papers back into his +pockets; the young man opposite had long since disappeared. Now the +other two got out. The late afternoon sun shone on women in cotton +frocks and little sunburnt, barefoot children. It blazed on a silky +yellow flower with coarse leaves which sprawled over a bank of rock. The +air ruffling through the window smelled of the sea. Had Isabel the same +crowd with her this week-end, wondered William? + +And he remembered the holidays they used to have, the four of them, with +a little farm girl, Rose, to look after the babies. Isabel wore a jersey +and her hair in a plait; she looked about fourteen. Lord! how his nose +used to peel! And the amount they ate, and the amount they slept in that +immense feather bed with their feet locked together... William couldn't +help a grim smile as he thought of Isabel's horror if she knew the full +extent of his sentimentality. + +***** + +"Hillo, William!" She was at the station after all, standing just as he +had imagined, apart from the others, and--William's heart leapt--she was +alone. + +"Hallo, Isabel!" William stared. He thought she looked so beautiful that +he had to say something, "You look very cool." + +"Do I?" said Isabel. "I don't feel very cool. Come along, your horrid +old train is late. The taxi's outside." She put her hand lightly on his +arm as they passed the ticket collector. "We've all come to meet you," +she said. "But we've left Bobby Kane at the sweet shop, to be called +for." + +"Oh!" said William. It was all he could say for the moment. + +There in the glare waited the taxi, with Bill Hunt and Dennis Green +sprawling on one side, their hats tilted over their faces, while on the +other, Moira Morrison, in a bonnet like a huge strawberry, jumped up and +down. + +"No ice! No ice! No ice!" she shouted gaily. + +And Dennis chimed in from under his hat. "Only to be had from the +fishmonger's." + +And Bill Hunt, emerging, added, "With whole fish in it." + +"Oh, what a bore!" wailed Isabel. And she explained to William how +they had been chasing round the town for ice while she waited for +him. "Simply everything is running down the steep cliffs into the sea, +beginning with the butter." + +"We shall have to anoint ourselves with butter," said Dennis. "May thy +head, William, lack not ointment." + +"Look here," said William, "how are we going to sit? I'd better get up +by the driver." + +"No, Bobby Kane's by the driver," said Isabel. "You're to sit between +Moira and me." The taxi started. "What have you got in those mysterious +parcels?" + +"De-cap-it-ated heads!" said Bill Hunt, shuddering beneath his hat. + +"Oh, fruit!" Isabel sounded very pleased. "Wise William! A melon and a +pineapple. How too nice!" + +"No, wait a bit," said William, smiling. But he really was anxious. "I +brought them down for the kiddies." + +"Oh, my dear!" Isabel laughed, and slipped her hand through his arm. +"They'd be rolling in agonies if they were to eat them. No"--she patted +his hand--"you must bring them something next time. I refuse to part +with my pineapple." + +"Cruel Isabel! Do let me smell it!" said Moira. She flung her arms +across William appealingly. "Oh!" The strawberry bonnet fell forward: +she sounded quite faint. + +"A Lady in Love with a Pineapple," said Dennis, as the taxi drew up +before a little shop with a striped blind. Out came Bobby Kane, his arms +full of little packets. + +"I do hope they'll be good. I've chosen them because of the colours. +There are some round things which really look too divine. And just look +at this nougat," he cried ecstatically, "just look at it! It's a perfect +little ballet." + +But at that moment the shopman appeared. "Oh, I forgot. They're none of +them paid for," said Bobby, looking frightened. Isabel gave the shopman +a note, and Bobby was radiant again. "Hallo, William! I'm sitting by the +driver." And bareheaded, all in white, with his sleeves rolled up to the +shoulders, he leapt into his place. "Avanti!" he cried... + +After tea the others went off to bathe, while William stayed and made +his peace with the kiddies. But Johnny and Paddy were asleep, the +rose-red glow had paled, bats were flying, and still the bathers had +not returned. As William wandered downstairs, the maid crossed the hall +carrying a lamp. He followed her into the sitting-room. It was a long +room, coloured yellow. On the wall opposite William some one had painted +a young man, over life-size, with very wobbly legs, offering a wide-eyed +daisy to a young woman who had one very short arm and one very long, +thin one. Over the chairs and sofa there hung strips of black material, +covered with big splashes like broken eggs, and everywhere one looked +there seemed to be an ash-tray full of cigarette ends. William sat down +in one of the arm-chairs. Nowadays, when one felt with one hand down the +sides, it wasn't to come upon a sheep with three legs or a cow that had +lost one horn, or a very fat dove out of the Noah's Ark. One fished +up yet another little paper-covered book of smudged-looking poems... He +thought of the wad of papers in his pocket, but he was too hungry and +tired to read. The door was open; sounds came from the kitchen. The +servants were talking as if they were alone in the house. Suddenly +there came a loud screech of laughter and an equally loud "Sh!" They had +remembered him. William got up and went through the French windows into +the garden, and as he stood there in the shadow he heard the bathers +coming up the sandy road; their voices rang through the quiet. + +"I think its up to Moira to use her little arts and wiles." + +A tragic moan from Moira. + +"We ought to have a gramophone for the weekends that played 'The Maid of +the Mountains.'" + +"Oh no! Oh no!" cried Isabel's voice. "That's not fair to William. Be +nice to him, my children! He's only staying until to-morrow evening." + +"Leave him to me," cried Bobby Kane. "I'm awfully good at looking after +people." + +The gate swung open and shut. William moved on the terrace; they had +seen him. "Hallo, William!" And Bobby Kane, flapping his towel, began to +leap and pirouette on the parched lawn. "Pity you didn't come, William. +The water was divine. And we all went to a little pub afterwards and had +sloe gin." + +The others had reached the house. "I say, Isabel," called Bobby, "would +you like me to wear my Nijinsky dress to-night?" + +"No," said Isabel, "nobody's going to dress. We're all starving. +William's starving, too. Come along, mes amis, let's begin with +sardines." + +"I've found the sardines," said Moira, and she ran into the hall, +holding a box high in the air. + +"A Lady with a Box of Sardines," said Dennis gravely. + +"Well, William, and how's London?" asked Bill Hunt, drawing the cork out +of a bottle of whisky. + +"Oh, London's not much changed," answered William. + +"Good old London," said Bobby, very hearty, spearing a sardine. + +But a moment later William was forgotten. Moira Morrison began wondering +what colour one's legs really were under water. + +"Mine are the palest, palest mushroom colour." + +Bill and Dennis ate enormously. And Isabel filled glasses, and changed +plates, and found matches, smiling blissfully. At one moment, she said, +"I do wish, Bill, you'd paint it." + +"Paint what?" said Bill loudly, stuffing his mouth with bread. + +"Us," said Isabel, "round the table. It would be so fascinating in +twenty years' time." + +Bill screwed up his eyes and chewed. "Light's wrong," he said rudely, +"far too much yellow"; and went on eating. And that seemed to charm +Isabel, too. + +But after supper they were all so tired they could do nothing but yawn +until it was late enough to go to bed... + +It was not until William was waiting for his taxi the next afternoon +that he found himself alone with Isabel. When he brought his suit-case +down into the hall, Isabel left the others and went over to him. She +stooped down and picked up the suit-case. "What a weight!" she said, and +she gave a little awkward laugh. "Let me carry it! To the gate." + +"No, why should you?" said William. "Of course, not. Give it to me." + +"Oh, please, do let me," said Isabel. "I want to, really." They walked +together silently. William felt there was nothing to say now. + +"There," said Isabel triumphantly, setting the suit-case down, and she +looked anxiously along the sandy road. "I hardly seem to have seen you +this time," she said breathlessly. "It's so short, isn't it? I feel +you've only just come. Next time--" The taxi came into sight. "I hope +they look after you properly in London. I'm so sorry the babies have +been out all day, but Miss Neil had arranged it. They'll hate missing +you. Poor William, going back to London." The taxi turned. "Good-bye!" +She gave him a little hurried kiss; she was gone. + +Fields, trees, hedges streamed by. They shook through the empty, +blind-looking little town, ground up the steep pull to the station. + +The train was in. William made straight for a first-class smoker, flung +back into the corner, but this time he let the papers alone. He folded +his arms against the dull, persistent gnawing, and began in his mind to +write a letter to Isabel. + +***** + +The post was late as usual. They sat outside the house in long chairs +under coloured parasols. Only Bobby Kane lay on the turf at Isabel's +feet. It was dull, stifling; the day drooped like a flag. + +"Do you think there will be Mondays in Heaven?" asked Bobby childishly. + +And Dennis murmured, "Heaven will be one long Monday." + +But Isabel couldn't help wondering what had happened to the salmon they +had for supper last night. She had meant to have fish mayonnaise for +lunch and now... + +Moira was asleep. Sleeping was her latest discovery. "It's so wonderful. +One simply shuts one's eyes, that's all. It's so delicious." + +When the old ruddy postman came beating along the sandy road on his +tricycle one felt the handle-bars ought to have been oars. + +Bill Hunt put down his book. "Letters," he said complacently, and they +all waited. But, heartless postman--O malignant world! There was only +one, a fat one for Isabel. Not even a paper. + +"And mine's only from William," said Isabel mournfully. + +"From William--already?" + +"He's sending you back your marriage lines as a gentle reminder." + +"Does everybody have marriage lines? I thought they were only for +servants." + +"Pages and pages! Look at her! A Lady reading a Letter," said Dennis. + +"My darling, precious Isabel." Pages and pages there were. As Isabel +read on her feeling of astonishment changed to a stifled feeling. What +on earth had induced William... ? How extraordinary it was... What +could have made him... ? She felt confused, more and more excited, even +frightened. It was just like William. Was it? It was absurd, of course, +it must be absurd, ridiculous. "Ha, ha, ha! Oh dear!" What was she to +do? Isabel flung back in her chair and laughed till she couldn't stop +laughing. + +"Do, do tell us," said the others. "You must tell us." + +"I'm longing to," gurgled Isabel. She sat up, gathered the letter, +and waved it at them. "Gather round," she said. "Listen, it's too +marvellous. A love-letter!" + +"A love-letter! But how divine!" "Darling, precious Isabel." But she had +hardly begun before their laughter interrupted her. + +"Go on, Isabel, it's perfect." + +"It's the most marvellous find." + +"Oh, do go on, Isabel!" + +"God forbid, my darling, that I should be a drag on your happiness." + +"Oh! oh! oh!" + +"Sh! sh! sh!" + +And Isabel went on. When she reached the end they were hysterical: Bobby +rolled on the turf and almost sobbed. + +"You must let me have it just as it is, entire, for my new book," said +Dennis firmly. "I shall give it a whole chapter." + +"Oh, Isabel," moaned Moira, "that wonderful bit about holding you in his +arms!" + +"I always thought those letters in divorce cases were made up. But they +pale before this." + +"Let me hold it. Let me read it, mine own self," said Bobby Kane. + +But, to their surprise, Isabel crushed the letter in her hand. She +was laughing no longer. She glanced quickly at them all; she looked +exhausted. "No, not just now. Not just now," she stammered. + +And before they could recover she had run into the house, through the +hall, up the stairs into her bedroom. Down she sat on the side of +the bed. "How vile, odious, abominable, vulgar," muttered Isabel. She +pressed her eyes with her knuckles and rocked to and fro. And again she +saw them, but not four, more like forty, laughing, sneering, jeering, +stretching out their hands while she read them William's letter. Oh, +what a loathsome thing to have done. How could she have done it! "God +forbid, my darling, that I should be a drag on your happiness." William! +Isabel pressed her face into the pillow. But she felt that even the +grave bedroom knew her for what she was, shallow, tinkling, vain... + +Presently from the garden below there came voices. + +"Isabel, we're all going for a bathe. Do come!" + +"Come, thou wife of William!" + +"Call her once before you go, call once yet!" + +Isabel sat up. Now was the moment, now she must decide. Would she go +with them, or stay here and write to William. Which, which should it be? +"I must make up my mind." Oh, but how could there be any question? Of +course she would stay here and write. + +"Titania!" piped Moira. + +"Isa-bel?" + +No, it was too difficult. "I'll--I'll go with them, and write to William +later. Some other time. Later. Not now. But I shall certainly write," +thought Isabel hurriedly. + +And, laughing, in the new way, she ran down the stairs. + + + + +8. THE VOYAGE. + +The Picton boat was due to leave at half-past eleven. It was a beautiful +night, mild, starry, only when they got out of the cab and started to +walk down the Old Wharf that jutted out into the harbour, a faint wind +blowing off the water ruffled under Fenella's hat, and she put up her +hand to keep it on. It was dark on the Old Wharf, very dark; the wool +sheds, the cattle trucks, the cranes standing up so high, the little +squat railway engine, all seemed carved out of solid darkness. Here and +there on a rounded wood-pile, that was like the stalk of a huge black +mushroom, there hung a lantern, but it seemed afraid to unfurl its +timid, quivering light in all that blackness; it burned softly, as if +for itself. + +Fenella's father pushed on with quick, nervous strides. Beside him her +grandma bustled along in her crackling black ulster; they went so fast +that she had now and again to give an undignified little skip to keep up +with them. As well as her luggage strapped into a neat sausage, Fenella +carried clasped to her her grandma's umbrella, and the handle, which was +a swan's head, kept giving her shoulder a sharp little peck as if it too +wanted her to hurry... Men, their caps pulled down, their collars turned +up, swung by; a few women all muffled scurried along; and one tiny boy, +only his little black arms and legs showing out of a white woolly shawl, +was jerked along angrily between his father and mother; he looked like a +baby fly that had fallen into the cream. + +Then suddenly, so suddenly that Fenella and her grandma both leapt, +there sounded from behind the largest wool shed, that had a trail of +smoke hanging over it, "Mia-oo-oo-O-O!" + +"First whistle," said her father briefly, and at that moment they came +in sight of the Picton boat. Lying beside the dark wharf, all strung, +all beaded with round golden lights, the Picton boat looked as if she +was more ready to sail among stars than out into the cold sea. People +pressed along the gangway. First went her grandma, then her father, then +Fenella. There was a high step down on to the deck, and an old sailor in +a jersey standing by gave her his dry, hard hand. They were there; they +stepped out of the way of the hurrying people, and standing under +a little iron stairway that led to the upper deck they began to say +good-bye. + +"There, mother, there's your luggage!" said Fenella's father, giving +grandma another strapped-up sausage. + +"Thank you, Frank." + +"And you've got your cabin tickets safe?" + +"Yes, dear." + +"And your other tickets?" + +Grandma felt for them inside her glove and showed him the tips. + +"That's right." + +He sounded stern, but Fenella, eagerly watching him, saw that he looked +tired and sad. "Mia-oo-oo-O-O!" The second whistle blared just above +their heads, and a voice like a cry shouted, "Any more for the gangway?" + +"You'll give my love to father," Fenella saw her father's lips say. And +her grandma, very agitated, answered, "Of course I will, dear. Go now. +You'll be left. Go now, Frank. Go now." + +"It's all right, mother. I've got another three minutes." To her +surprise Fenella saw her father take off his hat. He clasped grandma in +his arms and pressed her to him. "God bless you, mother!" she heard him +say. + +And grandma put her hand, with the black thread glove that was worn +through on her ring finger, against his cheek, and she sobbed, "God +bless you, my own brave son!" + +This was so awful that Fenella quickly turned her back on them, +swallowed once, twice, and frowned terribly at a little green star on a +mast head. But she had to turn round again; her father was going. + +"Good-bye, Fenella. Be a good girl." His cold, wet moustache brushed her +cheek. But Fenella caught hold of the lapels of his coat. + +"How long am I going to stay?" she whispered anxiously. He wouldn't look +at her. He shook her off gently, and gently said, "We'll see about that. +Here! Where's your hand?" He pressed something into her palm. "Here's a +shilling in case you should need it." + +A shilling! She must be going away for ever! "Father!" cried Fenella. +But he was gone. He was the last off the ship. The sailors put their +shoulders to the gangway. A huge coil of dark rope went flying through +the air and fell "thump" on the wharf. A bell rang; a whistle shrilled. +Silently the dark wharf began to slip, to slide, to edge away from them. +Now there was a rush of water between. Fenella strained to see with all +her might. "Was that father turning round?"--or waving?--or standing +alone?--or walking off by himself? The strip of water grew broader, +darker. Now the Picton boat began to swing round steady, pointing out to +sea. It was no good looking any longer. There was nothing to be seen but +a few lights, the face of the town clock hanging in the air, and more +lights, little patches of them, on the dark hills. + +The freshening wind tugged at Fenella's skirts; she went back to her +grandma. To her relief grandma seemed no longer sad. She had put the +two sausages of luggage one on top of the other, and she was sitting +on them, her hands folded, her head a little on one side. There was an +intent, bright look on her face. Then Fenella saw that her lips were +moving and guessed that she was praying. But the old woman gave her a +bright nod as if to say the prayer was nearly over. She unclasped +her hands, sighed, clasped them again, bent forward, and at last gave +herself a soft shake. + +"And now, child," she said, fingering the bow of her bonnet-strings, "I +think we ought to see about our cabins. Keep close to me, and mind you +don't slip." + +"Yes, grandma!" + +"And be careful the umbrellas aren't caught in the stair rail. I saw a +beautiful umbrella broken in half like that on my way over." + +"Yes, grandma." + +Dark figures of men lounged against the rails. In the glow of +their pipes a nose shone out, or the peak of a cap, or a pair of +surprised-looking eyebrows. Fenella glanced up. High in the air, a +little figure, his hands thrust in his short jacket pockets, stood +staring out to sea. The ship rocked ever so little, and she thought the +stars rocked too. And now a pale steward in a linen coat, holding a +tray high in the palm of his hand, stepped out of a lighted doorway and +skimmed past them. They went through that doorway. Carefully over the +high brass-bound step on to the rubber mat and then down such a terribly +steep flight of stairs that grandma had to put both feet on each step, +and Fenella clutched the clammy brass rail and forgot all about the +swan-necked umbrella. + +At the bottom grandma stopped; Fenella was rather afraid she was going +to pray again. But no, it was only to get out the cabin tickets. They +were in the saloon. It was glaring bright and stifling; the air smelled +of paint and burnt chop-bones and 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 +watering-can on the other. + +"Tut! tut! Your grandpa," said grandma. She turned the handle. Not a +sound. She called, "Walter!" And immediately a deep voice that sounded +half stifled called back, "Is that you, Mary?" + +"Wait, dear," said grandma. "Go in there." She pushed Fenella gently +into a small dusky sitting-room. + +On the table a white cat, that had been folded up like a camel, rose, +stretched itself, yawned, and then sprang on to the tips of its toes. +Fenella buried one cold little hand in the white, warm fur, and smiled +timidly while she stroked and listened to grandma's gentle voice and the +rolling tones of grandpa. + +A door creaked. "Come in, dear." The old woman beckoned, Fenella +followed. There, lying to one side on an immense bed, lay grandpa. +Just his head with a white tuft and his rosy face and long silver beard +showed over the quilt. He was like a very old wide-awake bird. + +"Well, my girl!" said grandpa. "Give us a kiss!" Fenella kissed him. +"Ugh!" said grandpa. "Her little nose is as cold as a button. What's +that she's holding? Her grandma's umbrella?" + +Fenella smiled again, and crooked the swan neck over the bed-rail. Above +the bed there was a big text in a deep black frame:-- + + "Lost! One Golden Hour + Set with Sixty Diamond Minutes. + No Reward Is Offered + For It Is Gone For Ever!" + +"Yer grandma painted that," said grandpa. And he ruffled his white tuft +and looked at Fenella so merrily she almost thought he winked at her. + + + + +9. MISS BRILL. + +Although it was so brilliantly fine--the blue sky powdered with gold +and great spots of light like white wine splashed over the Jardins +Publiques--Miss Brill was glad that she had decided on her fur. The air +was motionless, but when you opened your mouth there was just a faint +chill, like a chill from a glass of iced water before you sip, and now +and again a leaf came drifting--from nowhere, from the sky. Miss Brill +put up her hand and touched her fur. Dear little thing! It was nice to +feel it again. She had taken it out of its box that afternoon, shaken +out the moth-powder, given it a good brush, and rubbed the life back +into the dim little eyes. "What has been happening to me?" said the sad +little eyes. Oh, how sweet it was to see them snap at her again from +the red eiderdown!... But the nose, which was of some black composition, +wasn't at all firm. It must have had a knock, somehow. Never mind--a +little dab of black sealing-wax when the time came--when it was +absolutely necessary... Little rogue! Yes, she really felt like that +about it. Little rogue biting its tail just by her left ear. She could +have taken it off and laid it on her lap and stroked it. She felt +a tingling in her hands and arms, but that came from walking, she +supposed. And when she breathed, something light and sad--no, not sad, +exactly--something gentle seemed to move in her bosom. + +There were a number of people out this afternoon, far more than last +Sunday. And the band sounded louder and gayer. That was because the +Season had begun. For although the band played all the year round on +Sundays, out of season it was never the same. It was like some one +playing with only the family to listen; it didn't care how it played if +there weren't any strangers present. Wasn't the conductor wearing a new +coat, too? She was sure it was new. He scraped with his foot and flapped +his arms like a rooster about to crow, and the bandsmen sitting in the +green rotunda blew out their cheeks and glared at the music. Now there +came a little "flutey" bit--very pretty!--a little chain of bright +drops. She was sure it would be repeated. It was; she lifted her head +and smiled. + +Only two people shared her "special" seat: a fine old man in a velvet +coat, his hands clasped over a huge carved walking-stick, and a big +old woman, sitting upright, with a roll of knitting on her embroidered +apron. They did not speak. This was disappointing, for Miss Brill always +looked forward to the conversation. She had become really quite expert, +she thought, at listening as though she didn't listen, at sitting in +other people's lives just for a minute while they talked round her. + +She glanced, sideways, at the old couple. Perhaps they would go soon. +Last Sunday, too, hadn't been as interesting as usual. An Englishman +and his wife, he wearing a dreadful Panama hat and she button boots. And +she'd gone on the whole time about how she ought to wear spectacles; +she knew she needed them; but that it was no good getting any; they'd be +sure to break and they'd never keep on. And he'd been so patient. He'd +suggested everything--gold rims, the kind that curved round your ears, +little pads inside the bridge. No, nothing would please her. "They'll +always be sliding down my nose!" Miss Brill had wanted to shake her. + +The old people sat on the bench, still as statues. Never mind, there was +always the crowd to watch. To and fro, in front of the flower-beds and +the band rotunda, the couples and groups paraded, stopped to talk, to +greet, to buy a handful of flowers from the old beggar who had his tray +fixed to the railings. Little children ran among them, swooping and +laughing; little boys with big white silk bows under their chins, little +girls, little French dolls, dressed up in velvet and lace. And sometimes +a tiny staggerer came suddenly rocking into the open from under the +trees, stopped, stared, as suddenly sat down "flop," until its small +high-stepping mother, like a young hen, rushed scolding to its rescue. +Other people sat on the benches and green chairs, but they were +nearly always the same, Sunday after Sunday, and--Miss Brill had often +noticed--there was something funny about nearly all of them. They were +odd, silent, nearly all old, and from the way they stared they looked as +though they'd just come from dark little rooms or even--even cupboards! + +Behind the rotunda the slender trees with yellow leaves down drooping, +and through them just a line of sea, and beyond the blue sky with +gold-veined clouds. + +Tum-tum-tum tiddle-um! tiddle-um! tum tiddley-um tum ta! blew the band. + +Two young girls in red came by and two young soldiers in blue met them, +and they laughed and paired and went off arm-in-arm. Two peasant women +with funny straw hats passed, gravely, leading beautiful smoke-coloured +donkeys. A cold, pale nun hurried by. A beautiful woman came along and +dropped her bunch of violets, and a little boy ran after to hand them to +her, and she took them and threw them away as if they'd been poisoned. +Dear me! Miss Brill didn't know whether to admire that or not! And now +an ermine toque and a gentleman in grey met just in front of her. He +was tall, stiff, dignified, and she was wearing the ermine toque she'd +bought when her hair was yellow. Now everything, her hair, her face, +even her eyes, was the same colour as the shabby ermine, and her hand, +in its cleaned glove, lifted to dab her lips, was a tiny yellowish paw. +Oh, she was so pleased to see him--delighted! She rather thought +they were going to meet that afternoon. She described where she'd +been--everywhere, here, there, along by the sea. The day was so +charming--didn't he agree? And wouldn't he, perhaps?... But he shook his +head, lighted a cigarette, slowly breathed a great deep puff into her +face, and even while she was still talking and laughing, flicked the +match away and walked on. The ermine toque was alone; she smiled more +brightly than ever. But even the band seemed to know what she was +feeling and played more softly, played tenderly, and the drum beat, "The +Brute! The Brute!" over and over. What would she do? What was going to +happen now? But as Miss Brill wondered, the ermine toque turned, raised +her hand as though she'd seen some one else, much nicer, just over +there, and pattered away. And the band changed again and played more +quickly, more gayly than ever, and the old couple on Miss Brill's seat +got up and marched away, and such a funny old man with long whiskers +hobbled along in time to the music and was nearly knocked over by four +girls walking abreast. + +Oh, how fascinating it was! How she enjoyed it! How she loved sitting +here, watching it all! It was like a play. It was exactly like a play. +Who could believe the sky at the back wasn't painted? But it wasn't till +a little brown dog trotted on solemn and then slowly trotted off, like +a little "theatre" dog, a little dog that had been drugged, that Miss +Brill discovered what it was that made it so exciting. They were all +on the stage. They weren't only the audience, not only looking on; +they were acting. Even she had a part and came every Sunday. No doubt +somebody would have noticed if she hadn't been there; she was part of +the performance after all. How strange she'd never thought of it like +that before! And yet it explained why she made such a point of starting +from home at just the same time each week--so as not to be late for +the performance--and it also explained why she had quite a queer, +shy feeling at telling her English pupils how she spent her Sunday +afternoons. No wonder! Miss Brill nearly laughed out loud. She was on +the stage. She thought of the old invalid gentleman to whom she read the +newspaper four afternoons a week while he slept in the garden. She had +got quite used to the frail head on the cotton pillow, the hollowed +eyes, the open mouth and the high pinched nose. If he'd been dead she +mightn't have noticed for weeks; she wouldn't have minded. But suddenly +he knew he was having the paper read to him by an actress! "An actress!" +The old head lifted; two points of light quivered in the old eyes. "An +actress--are ye?" And Miss Brill smoothed the newspaper as though it +were the manuscript of her part and said gently; "Yes, I have been an +actress for a long time." + +The band had been having a rest. Now they started again. And what they +played was warm, sunny, yet there was just a faint chill--a something, +what was it?--not sadness--no, not sadness--a something that made you +want to sing. The tune lifted, lifted, the light shone; and it seemed +to Miss Brill that in another moment all of them, all the whole company, +would begin singing. The young ones, the laughing ones who were moving +together, they would begin, and the men's voices, very resolute and +brave, would join them. And then she too, she too, and the others on the +benches--they would come in with a kind of accompaniment--something low, +that scarcely rose or fell, something so beautiful--moving... And Miss +Brill's eyes filled with tears and she looked smiling at all the +other members of the company. Yes, we understand, we understand, she +thought--though what they understood she didn't know. + +Just at that moment a boy and girl came and sat down where the old +couple had been. They were beautifully dressed; they were in love. The +hero and heroine, of course, just arrived from his father's yacht. And +still soundlessly singing, still with that trembling smile, Miss Brill +prepared to listen. + +"No, not now," said the girl. "Not here, I can't." + +"But why? Because of that stupid old thing at the end there?" asked the +boy. "Why does she come here at all--who wants her? Why doesn't she keep +her silly old mug at home?" + +"It's her fu-ur which is so funny," giggled the girl. "It's exactly like +a fried whiting." + +"Ah, be off with you!" said the boy in an angry whisper. Then: "Tell me, +ma petite chere--" + +"No, not here," said the girl. "Not yet." + +***** + +On her way home she usually bought a slice of honey-cake at the baker's. +It was her Sunday treat. Sometimes there was an almond in her slice, +sometimes not. It made a great difference. If there was an almond it was +like carrying home a tiny present--a surprise--something that might very +well not have been there. She hurried on the almond Sundays and struck +the match for the kettle in quite a dashing way. + +But to-day she passed the baker's by, climbed the stairs, went into +the little dark room--her room like a cupboard--and sat down on the red +eiderdown. She sat there for a long time. The box that the fur came out +of was on the bed. She unclasped the necklet quickly; quickly, without +looking, laid it inside. But when she put the lid on she thought she +heard something crying. + + + + +10. HER FIRST BALL. + +Exactly when the ball began Leila would have found it hard to say. +Perhaps her first real partner was the cab. It did not matter that she +shared the cab with the Sheridan girls and their brother. She sat back +in her own little corner of it, and the bolster on which her hand rested +felt like the sleeve of an unknown young man's dress suit; and away they +bowled, past waltzing lamp-posts and houses and fences and trees. + +"Have you really never been to a ball before, Leila? But, my child, how +too weird--" cried the Sheridan girls. + +"Our nearest neighbour was fifteen miles," said Leila softly, gently +opening and shutting her fan. + +Oh dear, how hard it was to be indifferent like the others! She tried +not to smile too much; she tried not to care. But every single thing +was so new and exciting... Meg's tuberoses, Jose's long loop of amber, +Laura's little dark head, pushing above her white fur like a flower +through snow. She would remember for ever. It even gave her a pang to +see her cousin Laurie throw away the wisps of tissue paper he pulled +from the fastenings of his new gloves. She would like to have kept those +wisps as a keepsake, as a remembrance. Laurie leaned forward and put his +hand on Laura's knee. + +"Look here, darling," he said. "The third and the ninth as usual. Twig?" + +Oh, how marvellous to have a brother! In her excitement Leila felt that +if there had been time, if it hadn't been impossible, she couldn't have +helped crying because she was an only child, and no brother had ever +said "Twig?" to her; no sister would ever say, as Meg said to Jose that +moment, "I've never known your hair go up more successfully than it has +to-night!" + +But, of course, there was no time. They were at the drill hall already; +there were cabs in front of them and cabs behind. The road was bright on +either side with moving fan-like lights, and on the pavement gay couples +seemed to float through the air; little satin shoes chased each other +like birds. + +"Hold on to me, Leila; you'll get lost," said Laura. + +"Come on, girls, let's make a dash for it," said Laurie. + +Leila put two fingers on Laura's pink velvet cloak, and they were +somehow lifted past the big golden lantern, carried along the passage, +and pushed into the little room marked "Ladies." Here the crowd was so +great there was hardly space to take off their things; the noise was +deafening. Two benches on either side were stacked high with wraps. Two +old women in white aprons ran up and down tossing fresh armfuls. +And everybody was pressing forward trying to get at the little +dressing-table and mirror at the far end. + +A great quivering jet of gas lighted the ladies' room. It couldn't wait; +it was dancing already. When the door opened again and there came a +burst of tuning from the drill hall, it leaped almost to the ceiling. + +Dark girls, fair girls were patting their hair, tying ribbons again, +tucking handkerchiefs down the fronts of their bodices, smoothing +marble-white gloves. And because they were all laughing it seemed to +Leila that they were all lovely. + +"Aren't there any invisible hair-pins?" cried a voice. "How most +extraordinary! I can't see a single invisible hair-pin." + +"Powder my back, there's a darling," cried some one else. + +"But I must have a needle and cotton. I've torn simply miles and miles +of the frill," wailed a third. + +Then, "Pass them along, pass them along!" The straw basket of programmes +was tossed from arm to arm. Darling little pink-and-silver programmes, +with pink pencils and fluffy tassels. Leila's fingers shook as she took +one out of the basket. She wanted to ask some one, "Am I meant to +have one too?" but she had just time to read: "Waltz 3. 'Two, Two in +a Canoe.' Polka 4. 'Making the Feathers Fly,'" when Meg cried, "Ready, +Leila?" and they pressed their way through the crush in the passage +towards the big double doors of the drill hall. + +Dancing had not begun yet, but the band had stopped tuning, and the +noise was so great it seemed that when it did begin to play it would +never be heard. Leila, pressing close to Meg, looking over Meg's +shoulder, felt that even the little quivering coloured flags strung +across the ceiling were talking. She quite forgot to be shy; she forgot +how in the middle of dressing she had sat down on the bed with one shoe +off and one shoe on and begged her mother to ring up her cousins and +say she couldn't go after all. And the rush of longing she had had to be +sitting on the veranda of their forsaken up-country home, listening to +the baby owls crying "More pork" in the moonlight, was changed to a rush +of joy so sweet that it was hard to bear alone. She clutched her fan, +and, gazing at the gleaming, golden floor, the azaleas, the lanterns, +the stage at one end with its red carpet and gilt chairs and the band in +a corner, she thought breathlessly, "How heavenly; how simply heavenly!" + +All the girls stood grouped together at one side of the doors, the +men at the other, and the chaperones in dark dresses, smiling rather +foolishly, walked with little careful steps over the polished floor +towards the stage. + +"This is my little country cousin Leila. Be nice to her. Find her +partners; she's under my wing," said Meg, going up to one girl after +another. + +Strange faces smiled at Leila--sweetly, vaguely. Strange voices +answered, "Of course, my dear." But Leila felt the girls didn't really +see her. They were looking towards the men. Why didn't the men begin? +What were they waiting for? There they stood, smoothing their gloves, +patting their glossy hair and smiling among themselves. Then, quite +suddenly, as if they had only just made up their minds that that was +what they had to do, the men came gliding over the parquet. There was a +joyful flutter among the girls. A tall, fair man flew up to Meg, seized +her programme, scribbled something; Meg passed him on to Leila. "May I +have the pleasure?" He ducked and smiled. There came a dark man wearing +an eyeglass, then cousin Laurie with a friend, and Laura with a little +freckled fellow whose tie was crooked. Then quite an old man--fat, with +a big bald patch on his head--took her programme and murmured, "Let me +see, let me see!" And he was a long time comparing his programme, +which looked black with names, with hers. It seemed to give him so much +trouble that Leila was ashamed. "Oh, please don't bother," she said +eagerly. But instead of replying the fat man wrote something, glanced at +her again. "Do I remember this bright little face?" he said softly. "Is +it known to me of yore?" At that moment the band began playing; the fat +man disappeared. He was tossed away on a great wave of music that came +flying over the gleaming floor, breaking the groups up into couples, +scattering them, sending them spinning... + +Leila had learned to dance at boarding school. Every Saturday afternoon +the boarders were hurried off to a little corrugated iron mission +hall where Miss Eccles (of London) held her "select" classes. But the +difference between that dusty-smelling hall--with calico texts on the +walls, the poor terrified little woman in a brown velvet toque with +rabbit's ears thumping the cold piano, Miss Eccles poking the girls' +feet with her long white wand--and this was so tremendous that Leila was +sure if her partner didn't come and she had to listen to that marvellous +music and to watch the others sliding, gliding over the golden floor, +she would die at least, or faint, or lift her arms and fly out of one of +those dark windows that showed the stars. + +"Ours, I think--" Some one bowed, smiled, and offered her his arm; she +hadn't to die after all. Some one's hand pressed her waist, and she +floated away like a flower that is tossed into a pool. + +"Quite a good floor, isn't it?" drawled a faint voice close to her ear. + +"I think it's most beautifully slippery," said Leila. + +"Pardon!" The faint voice sounded surprised. Leila said it again. And +there was a tiny pause before the voice echoed, "Oh, quite!" and she was +swung round again. + +He steered so beautifully. That was the great difference between dancing +with girls and men, Leila decided. Girls banged into each other, and +stamped on each other's feet; the girl who was gentleman always clutched +you so. + +The azaleas were separate flowers no longer; they were pink and white +flags streaming by. + +"Were you at the Bells' last week?" the voice came again. It sounded +tired. Leila wondered whether she ought to ask him if he would like to +stop. + +"No, this is my first dance," said she. + +Her partner gave a little gasping laugh. "Oh, I say," he protested. + +"Yes, it is really the first dance I've ever been to." Leila was most +fervent. It was such a relief to be able to tell somebody. "You see, +I've lived in the country all my life up till now... " + +At that moment the music stopped, and they went to sit on two chairs +against the wall. Leila tucked her pink satin feet under and fanned +herself, while she blissfully watched the other couples passing and +disappearing through the swing doors. + +"Enjoying yourself, Leila?" asked Jose, nodding her golden head. + +Laura passed and gave her the faintest little wink; it made Leila wonder +for a moment whether she was quite grown up after all. Certainly her +partner did not say very much. He coughed, tucked his handkerchief away, +pulled down his waistcoat, took a minute thread off his sleeve. But +it didn't matter. Almost immediately the band started and her second +partner seemed to spring from the ceiling. + +"Floor's not bad," said the new voice. Did one always begin with the +floor? And then, "Were you at the Neaves' on Tuesday?" And again Leila +explained. Perhaps it was a little strange that her partners were not +more interested. For it was thrilling. Her first ball! She was only at +the beginning of everything. It seemed to her that she had never known +what the night was like before. Up till now it had been dark, silent, +beautiful very often--oh yes--but mournful somehow. Solemn. And now it +would never be like that again--it had opened dazzling bright. + +"Care for an ice?" said her partner. And they went through the swing +doors, down the passage, to the supper room. Her cheeks burned, she was +fearfully thirsty. How sweet the ices looked on little glass plates and +how cold the frosted spoon was, iced too! And when they came back to +the hall there was the fat man waiting for her by the door. It gave her +quite a shock again to see how old he was; he ought to have been on the +stage with the fathers and mothers. And when Leila compared him with her +other partners he looked shabby. His waistcoat was creased, there was +a button off his glove, his coat looked as if it was dusty with French +chalk. + +"Come along, little lady," said the fat man. He scarcely troubled to +clasp her, and they moved away so gently, it was more like walking than +dancing. But he said not a word about the floor. "Your first dance, +isn't it?" he murmured. + +"How did you know?" + +"Ah," said the fat man, "that's what it is to be old!" He wheezed +faintly as he steered her past an awkward couple. "You see, I've been +doing this kind of thing for the last thirty years." + +"Thirty years?" cried Leila. Twelve years before she was born! + +"It hardly bears thinking about, does it?" said the fat man gloomily. +Leila looked at his bald head, and she felt quite sorry for him. + +"I think it's marvellous to be still going on," she said kindly. + +"Kind little lady," said the fat man, and he pressed her a little +closer, and hummed a bar of the waltz. "Of course," he said, "you can't +hope to last anything like as long as that. No-o," said the fat man, +"long before that you'll be sitting up there on the stage, looking on, +in your nice black velvet. And these pretty arms will have turned into +little short fat ones, and you'll beat time with such a different kind +of fan--a black bony one." The fat man seemed to shudder. "And you'll +smile away like the poor old dears up there, and point to your daughter, +and tell the elderly lady next to you how some dreadful man tried to +kiss her at the club ball. And your heart will ache, ache"--the fat +man squeezed her closer still, as if he really was sorry for that +poor heart--"because no one wants to kiss you now. And you'll say how +unpleasant these polished floors are to walk on, how dangerous they are. +Eh, Mademoiselle Twinkletoes?" said the fat man softly. + +Leila gave a light little laugh, but she did not feel like laughing. Was +it--could it all be true? It sounded terribly true. Was this first ball +only the beginning of her last ball, after all? At that the music seemed +to change; it sounded sad, sad; it rose upon a great sigh. Oh, how +quickly things changed! Why didn't happiness last for ever? For ever +wasn't a bit too long. + +"I want to stop," she said in a breathless voice. The fat man led her to +the door. + +"No," she said, "I won't go outside. I won't sit down. I'll just stand +here, thank you." She leaned against the wall, tapping with her foot, +pulling up her gloves and trying to smile. But deep inside her a little +girl threw her pinafore over her head and sobbed. Why had he spoiled it +all? + +"I say, you know," said the fat man, "you mustn't take me seriously, +little lady." + +"As if I should!" said Leila, tossing her small dark head and sucking +her underlip... + +Again the couples paraded. The swing doors opened and shut. Now new +music was given out by the bandmaster. But Leila didn't want to dance +any more. She wanted to be home, or sitting on the veranda listening to +those baby owls. When she looked through the dark windows at the stars, +they had long beams like wings... + +But presently a soft, melting, ravishing tune began, and a young man +with curly hair bowed before her. She would have to dance, out of +politeness, until she could find Meg. Very stiffly she walked into +the middle; very haughtily she put her hand on his sleeve. But in one +minute, in one turn, her feet glided, glided. The lights, the azaleas, +the dresses, the pink faces, the velvet chairs, all became one beautiful +flying wheel. And when her next partner bumped her into the fat man +and he said, "Pardon," she smiled at him more radiantly than ever. She +didn't even recognise him again. + + + + +11. THE SINGING LESSON. + +With despair--cold, sharp despair--buried deep in her heart like a +wicked knife, Miss Meadows, in cap and gown and carrying a little baton, +trod the cold corridors that led to the music hall. Girls of all ages, +rosy from the air, and bubbling over with that gleeful excitement that +comes from running to school on a fine autumn morning, hurried, skipped, +fluttered by; from the hollow class-rooms came a quick drumming of +voices; a bell rang; a voice like a bird cried, "Muriel." And then there +came from the staircase a tremendous knock-knock-knocking. Some one had +dropped her dumbbells. + +The Science Mistress stopped Miss Meadows. + +"Good mor-ning," she cried, in her sweet, affected drawl. "Isn't it +cold? It might be win-ter." + +Miss Meadows, hugging the knife, stared in hatred at the Science +Mistress. Everything about her was sweet, pale, like honey. You wold not +have been surprised to see a bee caught in the tangles of that yellow +hair. + +"It is rather sharp," said Miss Meadows, grimly. + +The other smiled her sugary smile. + +"You look fro-zen," said she. Her blue eyes opened wide; there came a +mocking light in them. (Had she noticed anything?) + +"Oh, not quite as bad as that," said Miss Meadows, and she gave the +Science Mistress, in exchange for her smile, a quick grimace and passed +on... + +Forms Four, Five, and Six were assembled in the music hall. The noise +was deafening. On the platform, by the piano, stood Mary Beazley, Miss +Meadows' favourite, who played accompaniments. She was turning the +music stool. When she saw Miss Meadows she gave a loud, warning "Sh-sh! +girls!" and Miss Meadows, her hands thrust in her sleeves, the baton +under her arm, strode down the centre aisle, mounted the steps, turned +sharply, seized the brass music stand, planted it in front of her, and +gave two sharp taps with her baton for silence. + +"Silence, please! Immediately!" and, looking at nobody, her glance swept +over that sea of coloured flannel blouses, with bobbing pink faces and +hands, quivering butterfly hair-bows, and music-books outspread. She +knew perfectly well what they were thinking. "Meady is in a wax." Well, +let them think it! Her eyelids quivered; she tossed her head, defying +them. What could the thoughts of those creatures matter to some one who +stood there bleeding to death, pierced to the heart, to the heart, by +such a letter-- + +... "I feel more and more strongly that our marriage would be a mistake. +Not that I do not love you. I love you as much as it is possible for +me to love any woman, but, truth to tell, I have come to the conclusion +that I am not a marrying man, and the idea of settling down fills me +with nothing but--" and the word "disgust" was scratched out lightly and +"regret" written over the top. + +Basil! Miss Meadows stalked over to the piano. And Mary Beazley, who was +waiting for this moment, bent forward; her curls fell over her cheeks +while she breathed, "Good morning, Miss Meadows," and she motioned +towards rather than handed to her mistress a beautiful yellow +chrysanthemum. This little ritual of the flower had been gone through +for ages and ages, quite a term and a half. It was as much part of the +lesson as opening the piano. But this morning, instead of taking it up, +instead of tucking it into her belt while she leant over Mary and said, +"Thank you, Mary. How very nice! Turn to page thirty-two," what was +Mary's horror when Miss Meadows totally ignored the chrysanthemum, made +no reply to her greeting, but said in a voice of ice, "Page fourteen, +please, and mark the accents well." + +Staggering moment! Mary blushed until the tears stood in her eyes, but +Miss Meadows was gone back to the music stand; her voice rang through +the music hall. + +"Page fourteen. We will begin with page fourteen. 'A Lament.' Now, +girls, you ought to know it by this time. We shall take it all together; +not in parts, all together. And without expression. Sing it, though, +quite simply, beating time with the left hand." + +She raised the baton; she tapped the music stand twice. Down came Mary +on the opening chord; down came all those left hands, beating the air, +and in chimed those young, mournful voices:-- + + "Fast! Ah, too Fast Fade the Ro-o-ses of Pleasure; + Soon Autumn yields unto Wi-i-nter Drear. + Fleetly! Ah, Fleetly Mu-u-sic's Gay Measure + Passes away from the Listening Ear." + +Good Heavens, what could be more tragic than that lament! Every note was +a sigh, a sob, a groan of awful mournfulness. Miss Meadows lifted her +arms in the wide gown and began conducting with both hands. "... I feel +more and more strongly that our marriage would be a mistake... " she +beat. And the voices cried: "Fleetly! Ah, Fleetly." What could have +possessed him to write such a letter! What could have led up to it! +It came out of nothing. His last letter had been all about a fumed-oak +bookcase he had bought for "our" books, and a "natty little hall-stand" +he had seen, "a very neat affair with a carved owl on a bracket, holding +three hat-brushes in its claws." How she had smiled at that! So like +a man to think one needed three hat-brushes! "From the Listening Ear," +sang the voices. + +"Once again," said Miss Meadows. "But this time in parts. Still without +expression." "Fast! Ah, too Fast." With the gloom of the contraltos +added, one could scarcely help shuddering. "Fade the Roses of Pleasure." +Last time he had come to see her, Basil had worn a rose in his +buttonhole. How handsome he had looked in that bright blue suit, with +that dark red rose! And he knew it, too. He couldn't help knowing it. +First he stroked his hair, then his moustache; his teeth gleamed when he +smiled. + +"The headmaster's wife keeps on asking me to dinner. It's a perfect +nuisance. I never get an evening to myself in that place." + +"But can't you refuse?" + +"Oh, well, it doesn't do for a man in my position to be unpopular." + +"Music's Gay Measure," wailed the voices. The willow trees, outside +the high, narrow windows, waved in the wind. They had lost half their +leaves. The tiny ones that clung wriggled like fishes caught on a +line. "... I am not a marrying man... " The voices were silent; the piano +waited. + +"Quite good," said Miss Meadows, but still in such a strange, stony tone +that the younger girls began to feel positively frightened. "But now +that we know it, we shall take it with expression. As much expression as +you can put into it. Think of the words, girls. Use your imaginations. +'Fast! Ah, too Fast,'" cried Miss Meadows. "That ought to break out--a +loud, strong forte--a lament. And then in the second line, 'Winter +Drear,' make that 'Drear' sound as if a cold wind were blowing through +it. 'Dre-ear!'" said she so awfully that Mary Beazley, on the music +stool, wriggled her spine. "The third line should be one crescendo. +'Fleetly! Ah, Fleetly Music's Gay Measure.' Breaking on the first word +of the last line, Passes.' And then on the word, 'Away,' you must begin +to die... to fade... until 'The Listening Ear' is nothing more than a +faint whisper... You can slow down as much as you like almost on the last +line. Now, please." + +Again the two light taps; she lifted her arms again. 'Fast! Ah, too +Fast.' "... and the idea of settling down fills me with nothing but +disgust--" Disgust was what he had written. That was as good as to +say their engagement was definitely broken off. Broken off! Their +engagement! People had been surprised enough that she had got engaged. +The Science Mistress would not believe it at first. But nobody had been +as surprised as she. She was thirty. Basil was twenty-five. It had been +a miracle, simply a miracle, to hear him say, as they walked home from +church that very dark night, "You know, somehow or other, I've got fond +of you." And he had taken hold of the end of her ostrich feather boa. +"Passes away from the Listening Ear." + +"Repeat! Repeat!" said Miss Meadows. "More expression, girls! Once +more!" + +"Fast! Ah, too Fast." The older girls were crimson; some of the younger +ones began to cry. Big spots of rain blew against the windows, and one +could hear the willows whispering, "... not that I do not love you... " + +"But, my darling, if you love me," thought Miss Meadows, "I don't mind +how much it is. Love me as little as you like." But she knew he didn't +love her. Not to have cared enough to scratch out that word "disgust," +so that she couldn't read it! "Soon Autumn yields unto Winter Drear." +She would have to leave the school, too. She could never face the +Science Mistress or the girls after it got known. She would have to +disappear somewhere. "Passes away." The voices began to die, to fade, to +whisper... to vanish... + +Suddenly the door opened. A little girl in blue walked fussily up the +aisle, hanging her head, biting her lips, and twisting the silver bangle +on her red little wrist. She came up the steps and stood before Miss +Meadows. + +"Well, Monica, what is it?" + +"Oh, if you please, Miss Meadows," said the little girl, gasping, "Miss +Wyatt wants to see you in the mistress's room." + +"Very well," said Miss Meadows. And she called to the girls, "I shall +put you on your honour to talk quietly while I am away." But they were +too subdued to do anything else. Most of them were blowing their noses. + +The corridors were silent and cold; they echoed to Miss Meadows' steps. +The head mistress sat at her desk. For a moment she did not look up. She +was as usual disentangling her eyeglasses, which had got caught in her +lace tie. "Sit down, Miss Meadows," she said very kindly. And then she +picked up a pink envelope from the blotting-pad. "I sent for you just +now because this telegram has come for you." + +"A telegram for me, Miss Wyatt?" + +Basil! He had committed suicide, decided Miss Meadows. Her hand flew +out, but Miss Wyatt held the telegram back a moment. "I hope it's not +bad news," she said, so more than kindly. And Miss Meadows tore it open. + +"Pay no attention to letter, must have been mad, bought hat-stand +to-day--Basil," she read. She couldn't take her eyes off the telegram. + +"I do hope it's nothing very serious," said Miss Wyatt, leaning forward. + +"Oh, no, thank you, Miss Wyatt," blushed Miss Meadows. "It's nothing bad +at all. It's"--and she gave an apologetic little laugh--"it's from my +fiance saying that... saying that--" There was a pause. "I see," said +Miss Wyatt. And another pause. Then--"You've fifteen minutes more of +your class, Miss Meadows, haven't you?" + +"Yes, Miss Wyatt." She got up. She half ran towards the door. + +"Oh, just one minute, Miss Meadows," said Miss Wyatt. "I must say I +don't approve of my teachers having telegrams sent to them in school +hours, unless in case of very bad news, such as death," explained Miss +Wyatt, "or a very serious accident, or something to that effect. Good +news, Miss Meadows, will always keep, you know." + +On the wings of hope, of love, of joy, Miss Meadows sped back to the +music hall, up the aisle, up the steps, over to the piano. + +"Page thirty-two, Mary," she said, "page thirty-two," and, picking up +the yellow chrysanthemum, she held it to her lips to hide her smile. +Then she turned to the girls, rapped with her baton: "Page thirty-two, +girls. Page thirty-two." + + "We come here To-day with Flowers o'erladen, + With Baskets of Fruit and Ribbons to boot, + To-oo Congratulate... + +"Stop! Stop!" cried Miss Meadows. "This is awful. This is dreadful." And +she beamed at her girls. "What's the matter with you all? Think, girls, +think of what you're singing. Use your imaginations. 'With Flowers +o'erladen. Baskets of Fruit and Ribbons to boot.' And 'Congratulate.'" +Miss Meadows broke off. "Don't look so doleful, girls. It ought to sound +warm, joyful, eager. 'Congratulate.' Once more. Quickly. All together. +Now then!" + +And this time Miss Meadows' voice sounded over all the other +voices--full, deep, glowing with expression. + + + + +12. THE STRANGER + +It seemed to the little crowd on the wharf that she was never going +to move again. There she lay, immense, motionless on the grey crinkled +water, a loop of smoke above her, an immense flock of gulls screaming +and diving after the galley droppings at the stern. You could just see +little couples parading--little flies walking up and down the dish on +the grey crinkled tablecloth. Other flies clustered and swarmed at the +edge. Now there was a gleam of white on the lower deck--the cook's apron +or the stewardess perhaps. Now a tiny black spider raced up the ladder +on to the bridge. + +In the front of the crowd a strong-looking, middle-aged man, dressed +very well, very snugly in a grey overcoat, grey silk scarf, thick gloves +and dark felt hat, marched up and down, twirling his folded umbrella. He +seemed to be the leader of the little crowd on the wharf and at the same +time to keep them together. He was something between the sheep-dog and +the shepherd. + +But what a fool--what a fool he had been not to bring any glasses! There +wasn't a pair of glasses between the whole lot of them. + +"Curious thing, Mr. Scott, that none of us thought of glasses. We might +have been able to stir 'em up a bit. We might have managed a little +signalling. 'Don't hesitate to land. Natives harmless.' Or: 'A welcome +awaits you. All is forgiven.' What? Eh?" + +Mr. Hammond's quick, eager glance, so nervous and yet so friendly and +confiding, took in everybody on the wharf, roped in even those old chaps +lounging against the gangways. They knew, every man-jack of them, that +Mrs. Hammond was on that boat, and that he was so tremendously excited +it never entered his head not to believe that this marvellous fact meant +something to them too. It warmed his heart towards them. They were, +he decided, as decent a crowd of people--Those old chaps over by the +gangways, too--fine, solid old chaps. What chests--by Jove! And he +squared his own, plunged his thick-gloved hands into his pockets, rocked +from heel to toe. + +"Yes, my wife's been in Europe for the last ten months. On a visit to +our eldest girl, who was married last year. I brought her up here, as +far as Salisbury, myself. So I thought I'd better come and fetch her +back. Yes, yes, yes." The shrewd grey eyes narrowed again and searched +anxiously, quickly, the motionless liner. Again his overcoat was +unbuttoned. Out came the thin, butter-yellow watch again, and for the +twentieth--fiftieth--hundredth time he made the calculation. + +"Let me see now. It was two fifteen when the doctor's launch went off. +Two fifteen. It is now exactly twenty-eight minutes past four. That is +to say, the doctor's been gone two hours and thirteen minutes. Two hours +and thirteen minutes! Whee-ooh!" He gave a queer little half-whistle +and snapped his watch to again. "But I think we should have been told if +there was anything up--don't you, Mr. Gaven?" + +"Oh, yes, Mr. Hammond! I don't think there's anything to--anything to +worry about," said Mr. Gaven, knocking out his pipe against the heel of +his shoe. "At the same time--" + +"Quite so! Quite so!" cried Mr. Hammond. "Dashed annoying!" He paced +quickly up and down and came back again to his stand between Mr. and +Mrs. Scott and Mr. Gaven. "It's getting quite dark, too," and he waved +his folded umbrella as though the dusk at least might have had the +decency to keep off for a bit. But the dusk came slowly, spreading like +a slow stain over the water. Little Jean Scott dragged at her mother's +hand. + +"I wan' my tea, mammy!" she wailed. + +"I expect you do," said Mr. Hammond. "I expect all these ladies want +their tea." And his kind, flushed, almost pitiful glance roped them all +in again. He wondered whether Janey was having a final cup of tea in the +saloon out there. He hoped so; he thought not. It would be just like her +not to leave the deck. In that case perhaps the deck steward would bring +her up a cup. If he'd been there he'd have got it for her--somehow. And +for a moment he was on deck, standing over her, watching her little hand +fold round the cup in the way she had, while she drank the only cup of +tea to be got on board... But now he was back here, and the Lord only +knew when that cursed Captain would stop hanging about in the stream. +He took another turn, up and down, up and down. He walked as far as the +cab-stand to make sure his driver hadn't disappeared; back he swerved +again to the little flock huddled in the shelter of the banana crates. +Little Jean Scott was still wanting her tea. Poor little beggar! He +wished he had a bit of chocolate on him. + +"Here, Jean!" he said. "Like a lift up?" And easily, gently, he swung +the little girl on to a higher barrel. The movement of holding her, +steadying her, relieved him wonderfully, lightened his heart. + +"Hold on," he said, keeping an arm round her. + +"Oh, don't worry about Jean, Mr. Hammond!" said Mrs. Scott. + +"That's all right, Mrs. Scott. No trouble. It's a pleasure. Jean's a +little pal of mine, aren't you, Jean?" + +"Yes, Mr. Hammond," said Jean, and she ran her finger down the dent of +his felt hat. + +But suddenly she caught him by the ear and gave a loud scream. "Lo-ok, +Mr. Hammond! She's moving! Look, she's coming in!" + +By Jove! So she was. At last! She was slowly, slowly turning round. A +bell sounded far over the water and a great spout of steam gushed into +the air. The gulls rose; they fluttered away like bits of white paper. +And whether that deep throbbing was her engines or his heart Mr. Hammond +couldn't say. He had to nerve himself to bear it, whatever it was. At +that moment old Captain Johnson, the harbour-master, came striding down +the wharf, a leather portfolio under his arm. + +"Jean'll be all right," said Mr. Scott. "I'll hold her." He was just in +time. Mr. Hammond had forgotten about Jean. He sprang away to greet old +Captain Johnson. + +"Well, Captain," the eager, nervous voice rang out again, "you've taken +pity on us at last." + +"It's no good blaming me, Mr. Hammond," wheezed old Captain Johnson, +staring at the liner. "You got Mrs. Hammond on board, ain't yer?" + +"Yes, yes!" said Hammond, and he kept by the harbour-master's side. +"Mrs. Hammond's there. Hul-lo! We shan't be long now!" + +With her telephone ring-ringing, the thrum of her screw filling the air, +the big liner bore down on them, cutting sharp through the dark water +so that big white shavings curled to either side. Hammond and the +harbour-master kept in front of the rest. Hammond took off his hat; he +raked the decks--they were crammed with passengers; he waved his hat and +bawled a loud, strange "Hul-lo!" across the water; and then turned +round and burst out laughing and said something--nothing--to old Captain +Johnson. + +"Seen her?" asked the harbour-master. + +"No, not yet. Steady--wait a bit!" And suddenly, between two great +clumsy idiots--"Get out of the way there!" he signed with his +umbrella--he saw a hand raised--a white glove shaking a handkerchief. +Another moment, and--thank God, thank God!--there she was. There was +Janey. There was Mrs. Hammond, yes, yes, yes--standing by the rail and +smiling and nodding and waving her handkerchief. + +"Well that's first class--first class! Well, well, well!" He positively +stamped. Like lightning he drew out his cigar-case and offered it to +old Captain Johnson. "Have a cigar, Captain! They're pretty good. Have +a couple! Here"--and he pressed all the cigars in the case on the +harbour-master--"I've a couple of boxes up at the hotel." + +"Thenks, Mr. Hammond!" wheezed old Captain Johnson. + +Hammond stuffed the cigar-case back. His hands were shaking, but he'd +got hold of himself again. He was able to face Janey. There she was, +leaning on the rail, talking to some woman and at the same time watching +him, ready for him. It struck him, as the gulf of water closed, how +small she looked on that huge ship. His heart was wrung with such a +spasm that he could have cried out. How little she looked to have come +all that long way and back by herself! Just like her, though. Just like +Janey. She had the courage of a--And now the crew had come forward and +parted the passengers; they had lowered the rails for the gangways. + +The voices on shore and the voices on board flew to greet each other. + +"All well?" + +"All well." + +"How's mother?" + +"Much better." + +"Hullo, Jean!" + +"Hillo, Aun' Emily!" + +"Had a good voyage?" + +"Splendid!" + +"Shan't be long now!" + +"Not long now." + +The engines stopped. Slowly she edged to the wharf-side. + +"Make way there--make way--make way!" And the wharf hands brought the +heavy gangways along at a sweeping run. Hammond signed to Janey to stay +where she was. The old harbour-master stepped forward; he followed. As +to "ladies first," or any rot like that, it never entered his head. + +"After you, Captain!" he cried genially. And, treading on the old man's +heels, he strode up the gangway on to the deck in a bee-line to Janey, +and Janey was clasped in his arms. + +"Well, well, well! Yes, yes! Here we are at last!" he stammered. It was +all he could say. And Janey emerged, and her cool little voice--the only +voice in the world for him--said, + +"Well, darling! Have you been waiting long?" + +No; not long. Or, at any rate, it didn't matter. It was over now. But +the point was, he had a cab waiting at the end of the wharf. Was she +ready to go off. Was her luggage ready? In that case they could cut off +sharp with her cabin luggage and let the rest go hang until to-morrow. +He bent over her and she looked up with her familiar half-smile. She +was just the same. Not a day changed. Just as he'd always known her. She +laid her small hand on his sleeve. + +"How are the children, John?" she asked. + +(Hang the children!) "Perfectly well. Never better in their lives." + +"Haven't they sent me letters?" + +"Yes, yes--of course! I've left them at the hotel for you to digest +later on." + +"We can't go quite so fast," said she. "I've got people to say good-bye +to--and then there's the Captain." As his face fell she gave his arm a +small understanding squeeze. "If the Captain comes off the bridge I +want you to thank him for having looked after your wife so beautifully." +Well, he'd got her. If she wanted another ten minutes--As he gave way +she was surrounded. The whole first-class seemed to want to say good-bye +to Janey. + +"Good-bye, dear Mrs. Hammond! And next time you're in Sydney I'll expect +you." + +"Darling Mrs. Hammond! You won't forget to write to me, will you?" + +"Well, Mrs. Hammond, what this boat would have been without you!" + +It was as plain as a pikestaff that she was by far the most popular +woman on board. And she took it all--just as usual. Absolutely composed. +Just her little self--just Janey all over; standing there with her veil +thrown back. Hammond never noticed what his wife had on. It was all the +same to him whatever she wore. But to-day he did notice that she wore a +black "costume"--didn't they call it?--with white frills, trimmings he +supposed they were, at the neck and sleeves. All this while Janey handed +him round. + +"John, dear!" And then: "I want to introduce you to--" + +Finally they did escape, and she led the way to her state-room. To +follow Janey down the passage that she knew so well--that was so strange +to him; to part the green curtains after her and to step into the cabin +that had been hers gave him exquisite happiness. But--confound it!--the +stewardess was there on the floor, strapping up the rugs. + +"That's the last, Mrs. Hammond," said the stewardess, rising and pulling +down her cuffs. + +He was introduced again, and then Janey and the stewardess disappeared +into the passage. He heard whisperings. She was getting the tipping +business over, he supposed. He sat down on the striped sofa and took his +hat off. There were the rugs she had taken with her; they looked good as +new. All her luggage looked fresh, perfect. The labels were written in +her beautiful little clear hand--"Mrs. John Hammond." + +"Mrs. John Hammond!" He gave a long sigh of content and leaned back, +crossing his arms. The strain was over. He felt he could have sat there +for ever sighing his relief--the relief at being rid of that horrible +tug, pull, grip on his heart. The danger was over. That was the feeling. +They were on dry land again. + +But at that moment Janey's head came round the corner. + +"Darling--do you mind? I just want to go and say good-bye to the +doctor." + +Hammond started up. "I'll come with you." + +"No, no!" she said. "Don't bother. I'd rather not. I'll not be a +minute." + +And before he could answer she was gone. He had half a mind to run after +her; but instead he sat down again. + +Would she really not be long? What was the time now? Out came the watch; +he stared at nothing. That was rather queer of Janey, wasn't it? Why +couldn't she have told the stewardess to say good-bye for her? Why did +she have to go chasing after the ship's doctor? She could have sent +a note from the hotel even if the affair had been urgent. Urgent? Did +it--could it mean that she had been ill on the voyage--she was keeping +something from him? That was it! He seized his hat. He was going off +to find that fellow and to wring the truth out of him at all costs. He +thought he'd noticed just something. She was just a touch too calm--too +steady. From the very first moment-- + +The curtains rang. Janey was back. He jumped to his feet. + +"Janey, have you been ill on this voyage? You have!" + +"Ill?" Her airy little voice mocked him. She stepped over the rugs, and +came up close, touched his breast, and looked up at him. + +"Darling," she said, "don't frighten me. Of course I haven't! Whatever +makes you think I have? Do I look ill?" + +But Hammond didn't see her. He only felt that she was looking at him +and that there was no need to worry about anything. She was here to look +after things. It was all right. Everything was. + +The gentle pressure of her hand was so calming that he put his over hers +to hold it there. And she said: + +"Stand still. I want to look at you. I haven't seen you yet. You've +had your beard beautifully trimmed, and you look--younger, I think, and +decidedly thinner! Bachelor life agrees with you." + +"Agrees with me!" He groaned for love and caught her close again. And +again, as always, he had the feeling that he was holding something that +never was quite his--his. Something too delicate, too precious, that +would fly away once he let go. + +"For God's sake let's get off to the hotel so that we can be by +ourselves!" And he rang the bell hard for some one to look sharp with +the luggage. + +***** + +Walking down the wharf together she took his arm. He had her on his arm +again. And the difference it made to get into the cab after Janey--to +throw the red-and-yellow striped blanket round them both--to tell the +driver to hurry because neither of them had had any tea. No more going +without his tea or pouring out his own. She was back. He turned to her, +squeezed her hand, and said gently, teasingly, in the "special" voice +he had for her: "Glad to be home again, dearie?" She smiled; she didn't +even bother to answer, but gently she drew his hand away as they came to +the brighter streets. + +"We've got the best room in the hotel," he said. "I wouldn't be put off +with another. And I asked the chambermaid to put in a bit of a fire in +case you felt chilly. She's a nice, attentive girl. And I thought now +we were here we wouldn't bother to go home to-morrow, but spend the day +looking round and leave the morning after. Does that suit you? There's +no hurry, is there? The children will have you soon enough... I thought a +day's sight-seeing might make a nice break in your journey--eh, Janey?" + +"Have you taken the tickets for the day after?" she asked. + +"I should think I have!" He unbuttoned his overcoat and took out his +bulging pocket-book. "Here we are! I reserved a first-class carriage to +Cooktown. There it is--'Mr. and Mrs. John Hammond.' I thought we might +as well do ourselves comfortably, and we don't want other people butting +in, do we? But if you'd like to stop here a bit longer--?" + +"Oh, no!" said Janey quickly. "Not for the world! The day after +to-morrow, then. And the children--" + +But they had reached the hotel. The manager was standing in the broad, +brilliantly-lighted porch. He came down to greet them. A porter ran from +the hall for their boxes. + +"Well, Mr. Arnold, here's Mrs. Hammond at last!" + +The manager led them through the hall himself and pressed the +elevator-bell. Hammond knew there were business pals of his sitting at +the little hall tables having a drink before dinner. But he wasn't going +to risk interruption; he looked neither to the right nor the left. They +could think what they pleased. If they didn't understand, the more fools +they--and he stepped out of the lift, unlocked the door of their room, +and shepherded Janey in. The door shut. Now, at last, they were alone +together. He turned up the light. The curtains were drawn; the fire +blazed. He flung his hat on to the huge bed and went towards her. + +But--would you believe it!--again they were interrupted. This time it +was the porter with the luggage. He made two journeys of it, leaving the +door open in between, taking his time, whistling through his teeth +in the corridor. Hammond paced up and down the room, tearing off his +gloves, tearing off his scarf. Finally he flung his overcoat on to the +bedside. + +At last the fool was gone. The door clicked. Now they were alone. Said +Hammond: "I feel I'll never have you to myself again. These cursed +people! Janey"--and he bent his flushed, eager gaze upon her--"let's +have dinner up here. If we go down to the restaurant we'll be +interrupted, and then there's the confounded music" (the music he'd +praised so highly, applauded so loudly last night!). "We shan't be able +to hear each other speak. Let's have something up here in front of the +fire. It's too late for tea. I'll order a little supper, shall I? How +does that idea strike you?" + +"Do, darling!" said Janey. "And while you're away--the children's +letters--" + +"Oh, later on will do!" said Hammond. + +"But then we'd get it over," said Janey. "And I'd first have time to--" + +"Oh, I needn't go down!" explained Hammond. "I'll just ring and give the +order... you don't want to send me away, do you?" + +Janey shook her head and smiled. + +"But you're thinking of something else. You're worrying about +something," said Hammond. "What is it? Come and sit here--come and sit +on my knee before the fire." + +"I'll just unpin my hat," said Janey, and she went over to the +dressing-table. "A-ah!" She gave a little cry. + +"What is it?" + +"Nothing, darling. I've just found the children's letters. That's all +right! They will keep. No hurry now!" She turned to him, clasping them. +She tucked them into her frilled blouse. She cried quickly, gaily: "Oh, +how typical this dressing-table is of you!" + +"Why? What's the matter with it?" said Hammond. + +"If it were floating in eternity I should say 'John!'" laughed +Janey, staring at the big bottle of hair tonic, the wicker bottle of +eau-de-Cologne, the two hair-brushes, and a dozen new collars tied with +pink tape. "Is this all your luggage?" + +"Hang my luggage!" said Hammond; but all the same he liked being laughed +at by Janey. "Let's talk. Let's get down to things. Tell me"--and as +Janey perched on his knees he leaned back and drew her into the deep, +ugly chair--"tell me you're really glad to be back, Janey." + +"Yes, darling, I am glad," she said. + +But just as when he embraced her he felt she would fly away, so Hammond +never knew--never knew for dead certain that she was as glad as he +was. How could he know? Would he ever know? Would he always have this +craving--this pang like hunger, somehow, to make Janey so much part +of him that there wasn't any of her to escape? He wanted to blot out +everybody, everything. He wished now he'd turned off the light. That +might have brought her nearer. And now those letters from the children +rustled in her blouse. He could have chucked them into the fire. + +"Janey," he whispered. + +"Yes, dear?" She lay on his breast, but so lightly, so remotely. Their +breathing rose and fell together. + +"Janey!" + +"What is it?" + +"Turn to me," he whispered. A slow, deep flush flowed into his forehead. +"Kiss me, Janey! You kiss me!" + +It seemed to him there was a tiny pause--but long enough for him to +suffer torture--before her lips touched his, firmly, lightly--kissing +them as she always kissed him, as though the kiss--how could he describe +it?--confirmed what they were saying, signed the contract. But that +wasn't what he wanted; that wasn't at all what he thirsted for. He felt +suddenly, horrible tired. + +"If you knew," he said, opening his eyes, "what it's been like--waiting +to-day. I thought the boat never would come in. There we were, hanging +about. What kept you so long?" + +She made no answer. She was looking away from him at the fire. The +flames hurried--hurried over the coals, flickered, fell. + +"Not asleep, are you?" said Hammond, and he jumped her up and down. + +"No," she said. And then: "Don't do that, dear. No, I was thinking. As +a matter of fact," she said, "one of the passengers died last night--a +man. That's what held us up. We brought him in--I mean, he wasn't buried +at sea. So, of course, the ship's doctor and the shore doctor--" + +"What was it?" asked Hammond uneasily. He hated to hear of death. He +hated this to have happened. It was, in some queer way, as though he and +Janey had met a funeral on their way to the hotel. + +"Oh, it wasn't anything in the least infectious!" said Janey. She was +speaking scarcely above her breath. "It was heart." A pause. "Poor +fellow!" she said. "Quite young." And she watched the fire flicker and +fall. "He died in my arms," said Janey. + +The blow was so sudden that Hammond thought he would faint. He couldn't +move; he couldn't breathe. He felt all his strength flowing--flowing +into the big dark chair, and the big dark chair held him fast, gripped +him, forced him to bear it. + +"What?" he said dully. "What's that you say?" + +"The end was quite peaceful," said the small voice. "He just"--and +Hammond saw her lift her gentle hand--"breathed his life away at the +end." And her hand fell. + +"Who--else was there?" Hammond managed to ask. + +"Nobody. I was alone with him." + +Ah, my God, what was she saying! What was she doing to him! This would +kill him! And all the while she spoke: + +"I saw the change coming and I sent the steward for the doctor, but the +doctor was too late. He couldn't have done anything, anyway." + +"But--why you, why you?" moaned Hammond. + +At that Janey turned quickly, quickly searched his face. + +"You don't mind, John, do you?" she asked. "You don't--It's nothing to +do with you and me." + +Somehow or other he managed to shake some sort of smile at her. Somehow +or other he stammered: "No--go--on, go on! I want you to tell me." + +"But, John darling--" + +"Tell me, Janey!" + +"There's nothing to tell," she said, wondering. "He was one of +the first-class passengers. I saw he was very ill when he came on +board... But he seemed to be so much better until yesterday. He had a +severe attack in the afternoon--excitement--nervousness, I think, about +arriving. And after that he never recovered." + +"But why didn't the stewardess--" + +"Oh, my dear--the stewardess!" said Janey. "What would he have felt? And +besides... he might have wanted to leave a message... to--" + +"Didn't he?" muttered Hammond. "Didn't he say anything?" + +"No, darling, not a word!" She shook her head softly. "All the time I +was with him he was too weak... he was too weak even to move a finger... " + +Janey was silent. But her words, so light, so soft, so chill, seemed to +hover in the air, to rain into his breast like snow. + +The fire had gone red. Now it fell in with a sharp sound and the +room was colder. Cold crept up his arms. The room was huge, immense, +glittering. It filled his whole world. There was the great blind bed, +with his coat flung across it like some headless man saying his prayers. +There was the luggage, ready to be carried away again, anywhere, tossed +into trains, carted on to boats. + +... "He was too weak. He was too weak to move a finger." And yet he died +in Janey's arms. She--who'd never--never once in all these years--never +on one single solitary occasion-- + +No; he mustn't think of it. Madness lay in thinking of it. No, he +wouldn't face it. He couldn't stand it. It was too much to bear! + +And now Janey touched his tie with her fingers. She pinched the edges of +the tie together. + +"You're not--sorry I told you, John darling? It hasn't made you sad? It +hasn't spoilt our evening--our being alone together?" + +But at that he had to hide his face. He put his face into her bosom and +his arms enfolded her. + +Spoilt their evening! Spoilt their being alone together! They would +never be alone together again. + + + + +13. BANK HOLIDAY. + +A stout man with a pink face wears dingy white flannel trousers, a blue +coat with a pink handkerchief showing, and a straw hat much too small +for him, perched at the back of his head. He plays the guitar. A little +chap in white canvas shoes, his face hidden under a felt hat like +a broken wing, breathes into a flute; and a tall thin fellow, with +bursting over-ripe button boots, draws ribbons--long, twisted, streaming +ribbons--of tune out of a fiddle. They stand, unsmiling, but not +serious, in the broad sunlight opposite the fruit-shop; the pink +spider of a hand beats the guitar, the little squat hand, with a +brass-and-turquoise ring, forces the reluctant flute, and the fiddler's +arm tries to saw the fiddle in two. + +A crowd collects, eating oranges and bananas, tearing off the skins, +dividing, sharing. One young girl has even a basket of strawberries, +but she does not eat them. "Aren't they dear!" She stares at the tiny +pointed fruits as if she were afraid of them. The Australian soldier +laughs. "Here, go on, there's not more than a mouthful." But he doesn't +want her to eat them, either. He likes to watch her little frightened +face, and her puzzled eyes lifted to his: "Aren't they a price!" He +pushes out his chest and grins. Old fat women in velvet bodices--old +dusty pin-cushions--lean old hags like worn umbrellas with a quivering +bonnet on top; young women, in muslins, with hats that might have grown +on hedges, and high pointed shoes; men in khaki, sailors, shabby clerks, +young Jews in fine cloth suits with padded shoulders and wide trousers, +"hospital boys" in blue--the sun discovers them--the loud, bold music +holds them together in one big knot for a moment. The young ones are +larking, pushing each other on and off the pavement, dodging, nudging; +the old ones are talking: "So I said to 'im, if you wants the doctor to +yourself, fetch 'im, says I." + +"An' by the time they was cooked there wasn't so much as you could put +in the palm of me 'and!" + +The only ones who are quiet are the ragged children. They stand, as +close up to the musicians as they can get, their hands behind their +backs, their eyes big. Occasionally a leg hops, an arm wags. A tiny +staggerer, overcome, turns round twice, sits down solemn, and then gets +up again. + +"Ain't it lovely?" whispers a small girl behind her hand. + +And the music breaks into bright pieces, and joins together again, and +again breaks, and is dissolved, and the crowd scatters, moving slowly up +the hill. + +At the corner of the road the stalls begin. + +"Ticklers! Tuppence a tickler! 'Ool 'ave a tickler? Tickle 'em up, +boys." Little soft brooms on wire handles. They are eagerly bought by +the soldiers. + +"Buy a golliwog! Tuppence a golliwog!" + +"Buy a jumping donkey! All alive-oh!" + +"Su-perior chewing gum. Buy something to do, boys." + +"Buy a rose. Give 'er a rose, boy. Roses, lady?" + +"Fevvers! Fevvers!" They are hard to resist. Lovely, streaming feathers, +emerald green, scarlet, bright blue, canary yellow. Even the babies wear +feathers threaded through their bonnets. + +And an old woman in a three-cornered paper hat cries as if it were her +final parting advice, the only way of saving yourself or of bringing him +to his senses: "Buy a three-cornered 'at, my dear, an' put it on!" + +It is a flying day, half sun, half wind. When the sun goes in a shadow +flies over; when it comes out again it is fiery. The men and women feel +it burning their backs, their breasts and their arms; they feel their +bodies expanding, coming alive... so that they make large embracing +gestures, lift up their arms, for nothing, swoop down on a girl, blurt +into laughter. + +Lemonade! A whole tank of it stands on a table covered with a cloth; +and lemons like blunted fishes blob in the yellow water. It looks solid, +like a jelly, in the thick glasses. Why can't they drink it without +spilling it? Everybody spills it, and before the glass is handed back +the last drops are thrown in a ring. + +Round the ice-cream cart, with its striped awning and bright brass +cover, the children cluster. Little tongues lick, lick round the cream +trumpets, round the squares. The cover is lifted, the wooden spoon +plunges in; one shuts one's eyes to feel it, silently scrunching. + +"Let these little birds tell you your future!" She stands beside the +cage, a shrivelled ageless Italian, clasping and unclasping her +dark claws. Her face, a treasure of delicate carving, is tied in a +green-and-gold scarf. And inside their prison the love-birds flutter +towards the papers in the seed-tray. + +"You have great strength of character. You will marry a red-haired man +and have three children. Beware of a blonde woman." Look out! Look +out! A motor-car driven by a fat chauffeur comes rushing down the hill. +Inside there a blonde woman, pouting, leaning forward--rushing through +your life--beware! beware! + +"Ladies and gentlemen, I am an auctioneer by profession, and if what I +tell you is not the truth I am liable to have my licence taken away from +me and a heavy imprisonment." He holds the licence across his chest; the +sweat pours down his face into his paper collar; his eyes look glazed. +When he takes off his hat there is a deep pucker of angry flesh on his +forehead. Nobody buys a watch. + +Look out again! A huge barouche comes swinging down the hill with two +old, old babies inside. She holds up a lace parasol; he sucks the knob +of his cane, and the fat old bodies roll together as the cradle rocks, +and the steaming horse leaves a trail of manure as it ambles down the +hill. + +Under a tree, Professor Leonard, in cap and gown, stands beside his +banner. He is here "for one day," from the London, Paris and Brussels +Exhibition, to tell your fortune from your face. And he stands, smiling +encouragement, like a clumsy dentist. When the big men, romping and +swearing a moment before, hand across their sixpence, and stand before +him, they are suddenly serious, dumb, timid, almost blushing as the +Professor's quick hand notches the printed card. They are like little +children caught playing in a forbidden garden by the owner, stepping +from behind a tree. + +The top of the hill is reached. How hot it is! How fine it is! The +public-house is open, and the crowd presses in. The mother sits on the +pavement edge with her baby, and the father brings her out a glass of +dark, brownish stuff, and then savagely elbows his way in again. A reek +of beer floats from the public-house, and a loud clatter and rattle of +voices. + +The wind has dropped, and the sun burns more fiercely than ever. Outside +the two swing-doors there is a thick mass of children like flies at the +mouth of a sweet-jar. + +And up, up the hill come the people, with ticklers and golliwogs, +and roses and feathers. Up, up they thrust into the light and heat, +shouting, laughing, squealing, as though they were being pushed by +something, far below, and by the sun, far ahead of them--drawn up into +the full, bright, dazzling radiance to... what? + + + + +14. AN IDEAL FAMILY. + +That evening for the first time in his life, as he pressed through the +swing door and descended the three broad steps to the pavement, old +Mr. Neave felt he was too old for the spring. Spring--warm, eager, +restless--was there, waiting for him in the golden light, ready in front +of everybody to run up, to blow in his white beard, to drag sweetly on +his arm. And he couldn't meet her, no; he couldn't square up once more +and stride off, jaunty as a young man. He was tired and, although the +late sun was still shining, curiously cold, with a numbed feeling all +over. Quite suddenly he hadn't the energy, he hadn't the heart to stand +this gaiety and bright movement any longer; it confused him. He wanted +to stand still, to wave it away with his stick, to say, "Be off with +you!" Suddenly it was a terrible effort to greet as usual--tipping his +wide-awake with his stick--all the people whom he knew, the friends, +acquaintances, shopkeepers, postmen, drivers. But the gay glance that +went with the gesture, the kindly twinkle that seemed to say, "I'm a +match and more for any of you"--that old Mr. Neave could not manage +at all. He stumped along, lifting his knees high as if he were walking +through air that had somehow grown heavy and solid like water. And the +homeward-looking crowd hurried by, the trams clanked, the light carts +clattered, the big swinging cabs bowled along with that reckless, +defiant indifference that one knows only in dreams... + +It had been a day like other days at the office. Nothing special had +happened. Harold hadn't come back from lunch until close on four. Where +had he been? What had he been up to? He wasn't going to let his father +know. Old Mr. Neave had happened to be in the vestibule, saying good-bye +to a caller, when Harold sauntered in, perfectly turned out as usual, +cool, suave, smiling that peculiar little half-smile that women found so +fascinating. + +Ah, Harold was too handsome, too handsome by far; that had been the +trouble all along. No man had a right to such eyes, such lashes, and +such lips; it was uncanny. As for his mother, his sisters, and the +servants, it was not too much to say they made a young god of him; they +worshipped Harold, they forgave him everything; and he had needed some +forgiving ever since the time when he was thirteen and he had stolen +his mother's purse, taken the money, and hidden the purse in the cook's +bedroom. Old Mr. Neave struck sharply with his stick upon the pavement +edge. But it wasn't only his family who spoiled Harold, he reflected, +it was everybody; he had only to look and to smile, and down they went +before him. So perhaps it wasn't to be wondered at that he expected the +office to carry on the tradition. H'm, h'm! But it couldn't be done. No +business--not even a successful, established, big paying concern--could +be played with. A man had either to put his whole heart and soul into +it, or it went all to pieces before his eyes... + +And then Charlotte and the girls were always at him to make the whole +thing over to Harold, to retire, and to spend his time enjoying himself. +Enjoying himself! Old Mr. Neave stopped dead under a group of ancient +cabbage palms outside the Government buildings! Enjoying himself! The +wind of evening shook the dark leaves to a thin airy cackle. Sitting at +home, twiddling his thumbs, conscious all the while that his life's +work was slipping away, dissolving, disappearing through Harold's fine +fingers, while Harold smiled... + +"Why will you be so unreasonable, father? There's absolutely no need +for you to go to the office. It only makes it very awkward for us when +people persist in saying how tired you're looking. Here's this huge +house and garden. Surely you could be happy in--in--appreciating it for +a change. Or you could take up some hobby." + +And Lola the baby had chimed in loftily, "All men ought to have hobbies. +It makes life impossible if they haven't." + +Well, well! He couldn't help a grim smile as painfully he began to climb +the hill that led into Harcourt Avenue. Where would Lola and her sisters +and Charlotte be if he'd gone in for hobbies, he'd like to know? Hobbies +couldn't pay for the town house and the seaside bungalow, and their +horses, and their golf, and the sixty-guinea gramophone in the +music-room for them to dance to. Not that he grudged them these things. +No, they were smart, good-looking girls, and Charlotte was a remarkable +woman; it was natural for them to be in the swim. As a matter of fact, +no other house in the town was as popular as theirs; no other family +entertained so much. And how many times old Mr. Neave, pushing the cigar +box across the smoking-room table, had listened to praises of his wife, +his girls, of himself even. + +"You're an ideal family, sir, an ideal family. It's like something one +reads about or sees on the stage." + +"That's all right, my boy," old Mr. Neave would reply. "Try one of +those; I think you'll like them. And if you care to smoke in the garden, +you'll find the girls on the lawn, I dare say." + +That was why the girls had never married, so people said. They could +have married anybody. But they had too good a time at home. They were +too happy together, the girls and Charlotte. H'm, h'm! Well, well. +Perhaps so... + +By this time he had walked the length of fashionable Harcourt Avenue; +he had reached the corner house, their house. The carriage gates were +pushed back; there were fresh marks of wheels on the drive. And then he +faced the big white-painted house, with its wide-open windows, its tulle +curtains floating outwards, its blue jars of hyacinths on the broad +sills. On either side of the carriage porch their hydrangeas--famous in +the town--were coming into flower; the pinkish, bluish masses of flower +lay like light among the spreading leaves. And somehow, it seemed to old +Mr. Neave that the house and the flowers, and even the fresh marks on +the drive, were saying, "There is young life here. There are girls--" + +The hall, as always, was dusky with wraps, parasols, gloves, piled on +the oak chests. From the music-room sounded the piano, quick, loud and +impatient. Through the drawing-room door that was ajar voices floated. + +"And were there ices?" came from Charlotte. Then the creak, creak of her +rocker. + +"Ices!" cried Ethel. "My dear mother, you never saw such ices. Only two +kinds. And one a common little strawberry shop ice, in a sopping wet +frill." + +"The food altogether was too appalling," came from Marion. + +"Still, it's rather early for ices," said Charlotte easily. + +"But why, if one has them at all... " began Ethel. + +"Oh, quite so, darling," crooned Charlotte. + +Suddenly the music-room door opened and Lola dashed out. She started, +she nearly screamed, at the sight of old Mr. Neave. + +"Gracious, father! What a fright you gave me! Have you just come home? +Why isn't Charles here to help you off with your coat?" + +Her cheeks were crimson from playing, her eyes glittered, the hair +fell over her forehead. And she breathed as though she had come running +through the dark and was frightened. Old Mr. Neave stared at his +youngest daughter; he felt he had never seen her before. So that was +Lola, was it? But she seemed to have forgotten her father; it was not +for him that she was waiting there. Now she put the tip of her crumpled +handkerchief between her teeth and tugged at it angrily. The telephone +rang. A-ah! Lola gave a cry like a sob and dashed past him. The door of +the telephone-room slammed, and at the same moment Charlotte called, "Is +that you, father?" + +"You're tired again," said Charlotte reproachfully, and she stopped the +rocker and offered her warm plum-like cheek. Bright-haired Ethel pecked +his beard, Marion's lips brushed his ear. + +"Did you walk back, father?" asked Charlotte. + +"Yes, I walked home," said old Mr. Neave, and he sank into one of the +immense drawing-room chairs. + +"But why didn't you take a cab?" said Ethel. "There are hundred of cabs +about at that time." + +"My dear Ethel," cried Marion, "if father prefers to tire himself out, I +really don't see what business of ours it is to interfere." + +"Children, children?" coaxed Charlotte. + +But Marion wouldn't be stopped. "No, mother, you spoil father, and it's +not right. You ought to be stricter with him. He's very naughty." She +laughed her hard, bright laugh and patted her hair in a mirror. Strange! +When she was a little girl she had such a soft, hesitating voice; she +had even stuttered, and now, whatever she said--even if it was only +"Jam, please, father"--it rang out as though she were on the stage. + +"Did Harold leave the office before you, dear?" asked Charlotte, +beginning to rock again. + +"I'm not sure," said Old Mr. Neave. "I'm not sure. I didn't see him +after four o'clock." + +"He said--" began Charlotte. + +But at that moment Ethel, who was twitching over the leaves of some +paper or other, ran to her mother and sank down beside her chair. + +"There, you see," she cried. "That's what I mean, mummy. Yellow, with +touches of silver. Don't you agree?" + +"Give it to me, love," said Charlotte. She fumbled for her +tortoise-shell spectacles and put them on, gave the page a little dab +with her plump small fingers, and pursed up her lips. "Very sweet!" +she crooned vaguely; she looked at Ethel over her spectacles. "But I +shouldn't have the train." + +"Not the train!" wailed Ethel tragically. "But the train's the whole +point." + +"Here, mother, let me decide." Marion snatched the paper playfully from +Charlotte. "I agree with mother," she cried triumphantly. "The train +overweights it." + +Old Mr. Neave, forgotten, sank into the broad lap of his chair, and, +dozing, heard them as though he dreamed. There was no doubt about it, he +was tired out; he had lost his hold. Even Charlotte and the girls were +too much for him to-night. They were too... too... But all his drowsing +brain could think of was--too rich for him. And somewhere at the back +of everything he was watching a little withered ancient man climbing up +endless flights of stairs. Who was he? + +"I shan't dress to-night," he muttered. + +"What do you say, father?" + +"Eh, what, what?" Old Mr. Neave woke with a start and stared across at +them. "I shan't dress to-night," he repeated. + +"But, father, we've got Lucile coming, and Henry Davenport, and Mrs. +Teddie Walker." + +"It will look so very out of the picture." + +"Don't you feel well, dear?" + +"You needn't make any effort. What is Charles for?" + +"But if you're really not up to it," Charlotte wavered. + +"Very well! Very well!" Old Mr. Neave got up and went to join that +little old climbing fellow just as far as his dressing-room... + +There young Charles was waiting for him. Carefully, as though everything +depended on it, he was tucking a towel round the hot-water can. Young +Charles had been a favourite of his ever since as a little red-faced +boy he had come into the house to look after the fires. Old Mr. Neave +lowered himself into the cane lounge by the window, stretched out his +legs, and made his little evening joke, "Dress him up, Charles!" And +Charles, breathing intensely and frowning, bent forward to take the pin +out of his tie. + +H'm, h'm! Well, well! It was pleasant by the open window, very +pleasant--a fine mild evening. They were cutting the grass on the tennis +court below; he heard the soft churr of the mower. Soon the girls would +begin their tennis parties again. And at the thought he seemed to +hear Marion's voice ring out, "Good for you, partner... Oh, played, +partner... Oh, very nice indeed." Then Charlotte calling from the +veranda, "Where is Harold?" And Ethel, "He's certainly not here, +mother." And Charlotte's vague, "He said--" + +Old Mr. Neave sighed, got up, and putting one hand under his beard, he +took the comb from young Charles, and carefully combed the white beard +over. Charles gave him a folded handkerchief, his watch and seals, and +spectacle case. + +"That will do, my lad." The door shut, he sank back, he was alone... + +And now that little ancient fellow was climbing down endless flights +that led to a glittering, gay dining-room. What legs he had! They were +like a spider's--thin, withered. + +"You're an ideal family, sir, an ideal family." + +But if that were true, why didn't Charlotte or the girls stop him? Why +was he all alone, climbing up and down? Where was Harold? Ah, it was +no good expecting anything from Harold. Down, down went the little old +spider, and then, to his horror, old Mr. Neave saw him slip past the +dining-room and make for the porch, the dark drive, the carriage gates, +the office. Stop him, stop him, somebody! + +Old Mr. Neave started up. It was dark in his dressing-room; the window +shone pale. How long had he been asleep? He listened, and through +the big, airy, darkened house there floated far-away voices, far-away +sounds. Perhaps, he thought vaguely, he had been asleep for a long time. +He'd been forgotten. What had all this to do with him--this house and +Charlotte, the girls and Harold--what did he know about them? They were +strangers to him. Life had passed him by. Charlotte was not his wife. +His wife! + +... A dark porch, half hidden by a passion-vine, that drooped sorrowful, +mournful, as though it understood. Small, warm arms were round his neck. +A face, little and pale, lifted to his, and a voice breathed, "Good-bye, +my treasure." + +My treasure! "Good-bye, my treasure!" Which of them had spoken? Why had +they said good-bye? There had been some terrible mistake. She was his +wife, that little pale girl, and all the rest of his life had been a +dream. + +Then the door opened, and young Charles, standing in the light, put his +hands by his side and shouted like a young soldier, "Dinner is on the +table, sir!" + +"I'm coming, I'm coming," said old Mr. Neave. + + + + +15. THE LADY'S MAID. + +Eleven o'clock. A knock at the door... I hope I haven't disturbed you, +madam. You weren't asleep--were you? But I've just given my lady her +tea, and there was such a nice cup over, I thought, perhaps... + +... Not at all, madam. I always make a cup of tea last thing. She drinks +it in bed after her prayers to warm her up. I put the kettle on when she +kneels down and I say to it, "Now you needn't be in too much of a hurry +to say your prayers." But it's always boiling before my lady is half +through. You see, madam, we know such a lot of people, and they've all +got to be prayed for--every one. My lady keeps a list of the names in a +little red book. Oh dear! whenever some one new has been to see us and +my lady says afterwards, "Ellen, give me my little red book," I feel +quite wild, I do. "There's another," I think, "keeping her out of her +bed in all weathers." And she won't have a cushion, you know, madam; she +kneels on the hard carpet. It fidgets me something dreadful to see +her, knowing her as I do. I've tried to cheat her; I've spread out +the eiderdown. But the first time I did it--oh, she gave me such a +look--holy it was, madam. "Did our Lord have an eiderdown, Ellen?" she +said. But--I was younger at the time--I felt inclined to say, "No, but +our Lord wasn't your age, and he didn't know what it was to have your +lumbago." Wicked--wasn't it? But she's too good, you know, madam. When +I tucked her up just now and seen--saw her lying back, her hands outside +and her head on the pillow--so pretty--I couldn't help thinking, "Now +you look just like your dear mother when I laid her out!" + +... Yes, madam, it was all left to me. Oh, she did look sweet. I did her +hair, soft-like, round her forehead, all in dainty curls, and just to +one side of her neck I put a bunch of most beautiful purple pansies. +Those pansies made a picture of her, madam! I shall never forget them. +I thought to-night, when I looked at my lady, "Now, if only the pansies +was there no one could tell the difference." + +... Only the last year, madam. Only after she'd got a +little--well--feeble as you might say. Of course, she was never +dangerous; she was the sweetest old lady. But how it took her was--she +thought she'd lost something. She couldn't keep still, she couldn't +settle. All day long she'd be up and down, up and down; you'd meet her +everywhere,--on the stairs, in the porch, making for the kitchen. And +she'd look up at you, and she'd say--just like a child, "I've lost it, +I've lost it." "Come along," I'd say, "come along, and I'll lay out your +patience for you." But she'd catch me by the hand--I was a favourite of +hers--and whisper, "Find it for me, Ellen. Find it for me." Sad, wasn't +it? + +... No, she never recovered, madam. She had a stroke at the end. Last +words she ever said was--very slow, "Look in--the--Look--in--" And then +she was gone. + +... No, madam, I can't say I noticed it. Perhaps some girls. But you +see, it's like this, I've got nobody but my lady. My mother died of +consumption when I was four, and I lived with my grandfather, who kept +a hair-dresser's shop. I used to spend all my time in the shop under a +table dressing my doll's hair--copying the assistants, I suppose. They +were ever so kind to me. Used to make me little wigs, all colours, the +latest fashions and all. And there I'd sit all day, quiet as quiet--the +customers never knew. Only now and again I'd take my peep from under the +table-cloth. + +... But one day I managed to get a pair of scissors and--would you +believe it, madam? I cut off all my hair; snipped it off all in bits, +like the little monkey I was. Grandfather was furious! He caught hold of +the tongs--I shall never forget it--grabbed me by the hand and shut my +fingers in them. "That'll teach you!" he said. It was a fearful burn. +I've got the mark of it to-day. + +... Well, you see, madam, he'd taken such pride in my hair. He used to +sit me up on the counter, before the customers came, and do it something +beautiful--big, soft curls and waved over the top. I remember the +assistants standing round, and me ever so solemn with the penny +grandfather gave me to hold while it was being done... But he always took +the penny back afterwards. Poor grandfather! Wild, he was, at the fright +I'd made of myself. But he frightened me that time. Do you know what +I did, madam? I ran away. Yes, I did, round the corners, in and out, I +don't know how far I didn't run. Oh, dear, I must have looked a sight, +with my hand rolled up in my pinny and my hair sticking out. People must +have laughed when they saw me... + +... No, madam, grandfather never got over it. He couldn't bear the sight +of me after. Couldn't eat his dinner, even, if I was there. So my aunt +took me. She was a cripple, an upholstress. Tiny! She had to stand on +the sofas when she wanted to cut out the backs. And it was helping her I +met my lady... + +... Not so very, madam. I was thirteen, turned. And I don't remember ever +feeling--well--a child, as you might say. You see there was my uniform, +and one thing and another. My lady put me into collars and cuffs from +the first. Oh yes--once I did! That was--funny! It was like this. My +lady had her two little nieces staying with her--we were at Sheldon at +the time--and there was a fair on the common. + +"Now, Ellen," she said, "I want you to take the two young ladies for a +ride on the donkeys." Off we went; solemn little loves they were; each +had a hand. But when we came to the donkeys they were too shy to go on. +So we stood and watched instead. Beautiful those donkeys were! They were +the first I'd seen out of a cart--for pleasure as you might say. They +were a lovely silver-grey, with little red saddles and blue bridles and +bells jing-a-jingling on their ears. And quite big girls--older than me, +even--were riding them, ever so gay. Not at all common, I don't mean, +madam, just enjoying themselves. And I don't know what it was, but +the way the little feet went, and the eyes--so gentle--and the soft +ears--made me want to go on a donkey more than anything in the world! + +... Of course, I couldn't. I had my young ladies. And what would I have +looked like perched up there in my uniform? But all the rest of the day +it was donkeys--donkeys on the brain with me. I felt I should have burst +if I didn't tell some one; and who was there to tell? But when I went to +bed--I was sleeping in Mrs. James's bedroom, our cook that was, at +the time--as soon as the lights was out, there they were, my donkeys, +jingling along, with their neat little feet and sad eyes... Well, madam, +would you believe it, I waited for a long time and pretended to be +asleep, and then suddenly I sat up and called out as loud as I could, "I +do want to go on a donkey. I do want a donkey-ride!" You see, I had to +say it, and I thought they wouldn't laugh at me if they knew I was only +dreaming. Artful--wasn't it? Just what a silly child would think... + +... No, madam, never now. Of course, I did think of it at one time. But +it wasn't to be. He had a little flower-shop just down the road and +across from where we was living. Funny--wasn't it? And me such a one for +flowers. We were having a lot of company at the time, and I was in and +out of the shop more often than not, as the saying is. And Harry and +I (his name was Harry) got to quarrelling about how things ought to be +arranged--and that began it. Flowers! you wouldn't believe it, +madam, the flowers he used to bring me. He'd stop at nothing. It was +lilies-of-the-valley more than once, and I'm not exaggerating! Well, of +course, we were going to be married and live over the shop, and it was +all going to be just so, and I was to have the window to arrange... Oh, +how I've done that window of a Saturday! Not really, of course, madam, +just dreaming, as you might say. I've done it for Christmas--motto in +holly, and all--and I've had my Easter lilies with a gorgeous star all +daffodils in the middle. I've hung--well, that's enough of that. The day +came he was to call for me to choose the furniture. Shall I ever forget +it? It was a Tuesday. My lady wasn't quite herself that afternoon. Not +that she'd said anything, of course; she never does or will. But I knew +by the way that she kept wrapping herself up and asking me if it was +cold--and her little nose looked... pinched. I didn't like leaving her; I +knew I'd be worrying all the time. At last I asked her if she'd rather +I put it off. "Oh no, Ellen," she said, "you mustn't mind about me. You +mustn't disappoint your young man." And so cheerful, you know, madam, +never thinking about herself. It made me feel worse than ever. I began +to wonder... then she dropped her handkerchief and began to stoop down to +pick it up herself--a thing she never did. "Whatever are you doing!" I +cried, running to stop her. "Well," she said, smiling, you know, madam, +"I shall have to begin to practise." Oh, it was all I could do not to +burst out crying. I went over to the dressing-table and made believe +to rub up the silver, and I couldn't keep myself in, and I asked her if +she'd rather I... didn't get married. "No, Ellen," she said--that was her +voice, madam, like I'm giving you--"No, Ellen, not for the wide world!" +But while she said it, madam--I was looking in her glass; of course, she +didn't know I could see her--she put her little hand on her heart just +like her dear mother used to, and lifted her eyes... Oh, madam! + +When Harry came I had his letters all ready, and the ring and a ducky +little brooch he'd given me--a silver bird it was, with a chain in +its beak, and on the end of the chain a heart with a dagger. Quite +the thing! I opened the door to him. I never gave him time for a word. +"There you are," I said. "Take them all back," I said, "it's all over. +I'm not going to marry you," I said, "I can't leave my lady." White! he +turned as white as a woman. I had to slam the door, and there I +stood, all of a tremble, till I knew he had gone. When I opened the +door--believe me or not, madam--that man was gone! I ran out into the +road just as I was, in my apron and my house-shoes, and there I stayed +in the middle of the road... staring. People must have laughed if they +saw me... + +... Goodness gracious!--What's that? It's the clock striking! And here +I've been keeping you awake. Oh, madam, you ought to have stopped +me... Can I tuck in your feet? I always tuck in my lady's feet, every +night, just the same. And she says, "Good night, Ellen. Sleep sound and +wake early!" I don't know what I should do if she didn't say that, now. + +... Oh dear, I sometimes think... whatever should I do if anything were +to... But, there, thinking's no good to any one--is it, madam? Thinking +won't help. Not that I do it often. And if ever I do I pull myself up +sharp, "Now, then, Ellen. At it again--you silly girl! If you can't find +anything better to do than to start thinking!... " + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Garden Party, by Katherine Mansfield + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GARDEN PARTY *** + +***** This file should be named 1429.txt or 1429.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/4/2/1429/ + +Produced by Sue Asscher + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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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 shock- +haired giant with his arms stretched out. It was the big gum-tree outside +Mrs. Stubbs' shop, and as they passed by there was a strong whiff of +eucalyptus. And now big spots of light gleamed in the mist. The shepherd +stopped whistling; he rubbed his red nose and wet beard on his wet sleeve +and, screwing up his eyes, glanced in the direction of the sea. The sun +was rising. It was marvellous how quickly the mist thinned, sped away, +dissolved from the shallow plain, rolled up from the bush and was gone as +if in a hurry to escape; big twists and curls jostled and shouldered each +other as the silvery beams broadened. The far-away sky--a bright, pure +blue--was reflected in the puddles, and the drops, swimming along the +telegraph poles, flashed into points of light. Now the leaping, glittering +sea was so bright it made one's eyes ache to look at it. The shepherd drew +a pipe, the bowl as small as an acorn, out of his breast pocket, fumbled +for a chunk of speckled tobacco, pared off a few shavings and stuffed the +bowl. He was a grave, fine-looking old man. As he lit up and the blue +smoke wreathed his head, the dog, watching, looked proud of him. + +"Baa! Baaa!" The sheep spread out into a fan. They were just clear of +the summer colony before the first sleeper turned over and lifted a drowsy +head; their cry sounded in the dreams of little children...who lifted their +arms to drag down, to cuddle the darling little woolly lambs of sleep. +Then the first inhabitant appeared; it was the Burnells' cat Florrie, +sitting on the gatepost, far too early as usual, looking for their milk- +girl. When she saw the old sheep-dog she sprang up quickly, arched her +back, drew in her tabby head, and seemed to give a little fastidious +shiver. "Ugh! What a coarse, revolting creature!" said Florrie. But the +old sheep-dog, not looking up, waggled past, flinging out his legs from +side to side. Only one of his ears twitched to prove that he saw, and +thought her a silly young female. + +The breeze of morning lifted in the bush and the smell of leaves and wet +black earth mingled with the sharp smell of the sea. Myriads of birds were +singing. A goldfinch flew over the shepherd's head and, perching on the +tiptop of a spray, it turned to the sun, ruffling its small breast +feathers. And now they had passed the fisherman's hut, passed the charred- +looking little whare where Leila the milk-girl lived with her old Gran. +The sheep strayed over a yellow swamp and Wag, the sheep-dog, padded after, +rounded them up and headed them for the steeper, narrower rocky pass that +led out of Crescent Bay and towards Daylight Cove. "Baa! Baa!" Faint the +cry came as they rocked along the fast-drying road. The shepherd put away +his pipe, dropping it into his breast-pocket so that the little bowl hung +over. And straightway the soft airy whistling began again. Wag ran out +along a ledge of rock after something that smelled, and ran back again +disgusted. Then pushing, nudging, hurrying, the sheep rounded the bend and +the shepherd followed after out of sight. + + +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-in- +law and leaned back. + +"Nothing wrong, is there?" he asked carelessly, fingering his collar. + +Beryl's head was bent; she turned her plate in her fingers. + +"Nothing," said her light voice. Then she too looked up, and smiled at +Stanley. "Why should there be?" + +"O-oh! No reason at all as far as I know. I thought you seemed rather--" + +At that moment the door opened and the three little girls appeared, each +carrying a porridge plate. They were dressed alike in blue jerseys and +knickers; their brown legs were bare, and each had her hair plaited and +pinned up in what was called a horse's tail. Behind them came Mrs. +Fairfield with the tray. + +"Carefully, children," she warned. But they were taking the very greatest +care. They loved being allowed to carry things. "Have you said good +morning to your father?" + +"Yes, grandma." They settled themselves on the bench opposite Stanley and +Beryl. + +"Good morning, Stanley!" Old Mrs. Fairfield gave him his plate. + +"Morning, mother! How's the boy?" + +"Splendid! He only woke up once last night. What a perfect morning!" The +old woman paused, her hand on the loaf of bread, to gaze out of the open +door into the garden. The sea sounded. Through the wide-open window +streamed the sun on to the yellow varnished walls and bare floor. +Everything on the table flashed and glittered. In the middle there was an +old salad bowl filled with yellow and red nasturtiums. She smiled, and a +look of deep content shone in her eyes. + +"You might cut me a slice of that bread, mother," said Stanley. "I've only +twelve and a half minutes before the coach passes. Has anyone given my +shoes to the servant girl?" + +"Yes, they're ready for you." Mrs. Fairfield was quite unruffled. + +"Oh, Kezia! Why are you such a messy child!" cried Beryl despairingly. + +"Me, Aunt Beryl?" Kezia stared at her. What had she done now? She had +only dug a river down the middle of her porridge, filled it, and was eating +the banks away. But she did that every single morning, and no one had said +a word up till now. + +"Why can't you eat your food properly like Isabel and Lottie?" How unfair +grown-ups are! + +"But Lottie always makes a floating island, don't you, Lottie?" + +"I don't," said Isabel smartly. "I just sprinkle mine with sugar and put +on the milk and finish it. Only babies play with their food." + +Stanley pushed back his chair and got up. + +"Would you get me those shoes, mother? And, Beryl, if you've finished, I +wish you'd cut down to the gate and stop the coach. Run in to your mother, +Isabel, and ask her where my bowler hat's been put. Wait a minute--have +you children been playing with my stick?" + +"No, father!" + +"But I put it here." Stanley began to bluster. "I remember distinctly +putting it in this corner. Now, who's had it? There's no time to lose. +Look sharp! The stick's got to be found." + +Even Alice, the servant-girl, was drawn into the chase. "You haven't been +using it to poke the kitchen fire with by any chance?" + +Stanley dashed into the bedroom where Linda was lying. "Most extraordinary +thing. I can't keep a single possession to myself. They've made away with +my stick, now!" + +"Stick, dear? What stick?" Linda's vagueness on these occasions could not +be real, Stanley decided. Would nobody sympathize with him? + +"Coach! Coach, Stanley!" Beryl's voice cried from the gate. + +Stanley waved his arm to Linda. "No time to say good-bye!" he cried. And +he meant that as a punishment to her. + +He snatched his bowler hat, dashed out of the house, and swung down the +garden path. Yes, the coach was there waiting, and Beryl, leaning over the +open gate, was laughing up at somebody or other just as if nothing had +happened. The heartlessness of women! The way they took it for granted it +was your job to slave away for them while they didn't even take the trouble +to see that your walking-stick wasn't lost. Kelly trailed his whip across +the horses. + +"Good-bye, Stanley," called Beryl, sweetly and gaily. It was easy enough +to say good-bye! And there she stood, idle, shading her eyes with her +hand. The worst of it was Stanley had to shout good-bye too, for the sake +of appearances. Then he saw her turn, give a little skip and run back to +the house. She was glad to be rid of him! + +Yes, she was thankful. Into the living-room she ran and called "He's +gone!" Linda cried from her room: "Beryl! Has Stanley gone?" Old Mrs. +Fairfield appeared, carrying the boy in his little flannel coatee. + +"Gone?" + +"Gone!" + +Oh, the relief, the difference it made to have the man out of the house. +Their very voices were changed as they called to one another; they sounded +warm and loving and as if they shared a secret. Beryl went over to the +table. "Have another cup of tea, mother. It's still hot." She wanted, +somehow, to celebrate the fact that they could do what they liked now. +There was no man to disturb them; the whole perfect day was theirs. + +"No, thank you, child," said old Mrs. Fairfield, but the way at that moment +she tossed the boy up and said "a-goos-a-goos-a-ga!" to him meant that she +felt the same. The little girls ran into the paddock like chickens let out +of a coop. + +Even Alice, the servant-girl, washing up the dishes in the kitchen, caught +the infection and used the precious tank water in a perfectly reckless +fashion. + +"Oh, these men!" said she, and she plunged the teapot into the bowl and +held it under the water even after it had stopped bubbling, as if it too +was a man and drowning was too good for them. + + +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 brown- +paper parcel. + +"I've just had some new photers taken, my dear," she shouted cheerfully to +Alice. "Tell me what you think of them." + +In a very dainty, refined way Alice wet her finger and put the tissue back +from the first one. Life! How many there were! There were three dozzing +at least. And she held it up to the light. + +Mrs. Stubbs sat in an arm-chair, leaning very much to one side. There was +a look of mild astonishment on her large face, and well there might be. +For though the arm-chair stood on a carpet, to the left of it, miraculously +skirting the carpet-border, there was a dashing water-fall. On her right +stood a Grecian pillar with a giant fern-tree on either side of it, and in +the background towered a gaunt mountain, pale with snow. + +"It is a nice style, isn't it?" shouted Mrs. Stubbs; and Alice had just +screamed "Sweetly" when the roaring of the Primus stove died down, fizzled +out, ceased, and she said "Pretty" in a silence that was frightening. + +"Draw up your chair, my dear," said Mrs. Stubbs, beginning to pour out. +"Yes," she said thoughtfully, as she handed the tea, "but I don't care +about the size. I'm having an enlargemint. All very well for Christmas +cards, but I never was the one for small photers myself. You get no +comfort out of them. To say the truth, I find them dis'eartening." + +Alice quite saw what she meant. + +"Size," said Mrs. Stubbs. "Give me size. That was what my poor dear +husband was always saying. He couldn't stand anything small. Gave him the +creeps. And, strange as it may seem, my dear"--here Mrs. Stubbs creaked +and seemed to expand herself at the memory--"it was dropsy that carried him +off at the larst. Many's the time they drawn one and a half pints from 'im +at the 'ospital...It seemed like a judgmint." + +Alice burned to know exactly what it was that was drawn from him. She +ventured, "I suppose it was water." + +But Mrs. Stubbs fixed Alice with her eyes and replied meaningly, "It was +liquid, my dear." + +Liquid! Alice jumped away from the word like a cat and came back to it, +nosing and wary. + +"That's 'im!" said Mrs. Stubbs, and she pointed dramatically to the life- +size head and shoulders of a burly man with a dead white rose in the +buttonhole of his coat that made you think of a curl of cold mutting fat. +Just below, in silver letters on a red cardboard ground, were the words, +"Be not afraid, it is I." + +"It's ever such a fine face," said Alice faintly. + +The pale-blue bow on the top of Mrs. Stubbs's fair frizzy hair quivered. +She arched her plump neck. What a neck she had! It was bright pink where +it began and then it changed to warm apricot, and that faded to the colour +of a brown egg and then to a deep creamy. + +"All the same, my dear," she said surprisingly, "freedom's best!" Her +soft, fat chuckle sounded like a purr. "Freedom's best," said Mrs. Stubbs +again. + +Freedom! Alice gave a loud, silly little titter. She felt awkward. Her +mind flew back to her own kitching. Ever so queer! She wanted to be back +in it again. + + +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 sand- +hills, up the paddock. You were frightened to look in the corners of the +washhouse, and yet you had to look with all your might. And somewhere, far +away, grandma was lighting a lamp. The blinds were being pulled down; the +kitchen fire leapt in the tins on the mantelpiece. + +"It would be awful now," said the bull, "if a spider was to fall from the +ceiling on to the table, wouldn't it?" + +"Spiders don't fall from ceilings." + +"Yes, they do. Our Min told us she'd seen a spider as big as a saucer, +with long hairs on it like a gooseberry." + +Quickly all the little heads were jerked up; all the little bodies drew +together, pressed together. + +"Why doesn't somebody come and call us?" cried the rooster. + +Oh, those grown-ups, laughing and snug, sitting in the lamp-light, drinking +out of cups! They'd forgotten about them. No, not really forgotten. That +was what their smile meant. They had decided to leave them there all by +themselves. + +Suddenly Lottie gave such a piercing scream that all of them jumped off the +forms, all of them screamed too. "A face--a face looking!" shrieked +Lottie. + +It was true, it was real. Pressed against the window was a pale face, +black eyes, a black beard. + +"Grandma! Mother! Somebody!" + +But they had not got to the door, tumbling over one another, before it +opened for Uncle Jonathan. He had come to take the little boys home. + + +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 tool- +bags slung on their backs. They looked impressive. Laura wished now that +she had not got the bread-and-butter, but there was nowhere to put it, and +she couldn't possibly throw it away. She blushed and tried to look severe +and even a little bit short-sighted as she came up to them. + +"Good morning," she said, copying her mother's voice. But that sounded so +fearfully affected that she was ashamed, and stammered like a little girl, +"Oh--er--have you come--is it about the marquee?" + +"That's right, miss," said the tallest of the men, a lanky, freckled +fellow, and he shifted his tool-bag, knocked back his straw hat and smiled +down at her. "That's about it." + +His smile was so easy, so friendly that Laura recovered. What nice eyes he +had, small, but such a dark blue! And now she looked at the others, they +were smiling too. "Cheer up, we won't bite," their smile seemed to say. +How very nice workmen were! And what a beautiful morning! She mustn't +mention the morning; she must be business-like. The marquee. + +"Well, what about the lily-lawn? Would that do?" + +And she pointed to the lily-lawn with the hand that didn't hold the bread- +and-butter. They turned, they stared in the direction. A little fat chap +thrust out his under-lip, and the tall fellow frowned. + +"I don't fancy it," said he. "Not conspicuous enough. You see, with a +thing like a marquee," and he turned to Laura in his easy way, "you want to +put it somewhere where it'll give you a bang slap in the eye, if you follow +me." + +Laura's upbringing made her wonder for a moment whether it was quite +respectful of a workman to talk to her of bangs slap in the eye. But she +did quite follow him. + +"A corner of the tennis-court," she suggested. "But the band's going to be +in one corner." + +"H'm, going to have a band, are you?" said another of the workmen. He was +pale. He had a haggard look as his dark eyes scanned the tennis-court. +What was he thinking? + +"Only a very small band," said Laura gently. Perhaps he wouldn't mind so +much if the band was quite small. But the tall fellow interrupted. + +"Look here, miss, that's the place. Against those trees. Over there. +That'll do fine." + +Against the karakas. Then the karaka-trees would be hidden. And they were +so lovely, with their broad, gleaming leaves, and their clusters of yellow +fruit. They were like trees you imagined growing on a desert island, +proud, solitary, lifting their leaves and fruits to the sun in a kind of +silent splendour. Must they be hidden by a marquee? + +They must. Already the men had shouldered their staves and were making for +the place. Only the tall fellow was left. He bent down, pinched a sprig +of lavender, put his thumb and forefinger to his nose and snuffed up the +smell. When Laura saw that gesture she forgot all about the karakas in her +wonder at him caring for things like that--caring for the smell of +lavender. How many men that she knew would have done such a thing? Oh, +how extraordinarily nice workmen were, she thought. Why couldn't she have +workmen for her friends rather than the silly boys she danced with and who +came to Sunday night supper? She would get on much better with men like +these. + +It's all the fault, she decided, as the tall fellow drew something on the +back of an envelope, something that was to be looped up or left to hang, of +these absurd class distinctions. Well, for her part, she didn't feel them. +Not a bit, not an atom...And now there came the chock-chock of wooden +hammers. Some one whistled, some one sang out, "Are you right there, +matey?" "Matey!" The friendliness of it, the--the--Just to prove how +happy she was, just to show the tall fellow how at home she felt, and how +she despised stupid conventions, Laura took a big bite of her bread-and- +butter as she stared at the little drawing. She felt just like a work- +girl. + +"Laura, Laura, where are you? Telephone, Laura!" a voice cried from the +house. + +"Coming!" Away she skimmed, over the lawn, up the path, up the steps, +across the veranda, and into the porch. In the hall her father and Laurie +were brushing their hats ready to go to the office. + +"I say, Laura," said Laurie very fast, "you might just give a squiz at my +coat before this afternoon. See if it wants pressing." + +"I will," said she. Suddenly she couldn't stop herself. She ran at Laurie +and gave him a small, quick squeeze. "Oh, I do love parties, don't you?" +gasped Laura. + +"Ra-ther," said Laurie's warm, boyish voice, and he squeezed his sister +too, and gave her a gentle push. "Dash off to the telephone, old girl." + +The telephone. "Yes, yes; oh yes. Kitty? Good morning, dear. Come to +lunch? Do, dear. Delighted of course. It will only be a very scratch +meal--just the sandwich crusts and broken meringue-shells and what's left +over. Yes, isn't it a perfect morning? Your white? Oh, I certainly +should. One moment--hold the line. Mother's calling." And Laura sat +back. "What, mother? Can't hear." + +Mrs. Sheridan's voice floated down the stairs. "Tell her to wear that +sweet hat she had on last Sunday." + +"Mother says you're to wear that sweet hat you had on last Sunday. Good. +One o'clock. Bye-bye." + +Laura put back the receiver, flung her arms over her head, took a deep +breath, stretched and let them fall. "Huh," she sighed, and the moment +after the sigh she sat up quickly. She was still, listening. All the +doors in the house seemed to be open. The house was alive with soft, quick +steps and running voices. The green baize door that led to the kitchen +regions swung open and shut with a muffled thud. And now there came a +long, chuckling absurd sound. It was the heavy piano being moved on its +stiff castors. But the air! If you stopped to notice, was the air always +like this? Little faint winds were playing chase, in at the tops of the +windows, out at the doors. And there were two tiny spots of sun, one on +the inkpot, one on a silver photograph frame, playing too. Darling little +spots. Especially the one on the inkpot lid. It was quite warm. A warm +little silver star. She could have kissed it. + +The front door bell pealed, and there sounded the rustle of Sadie's print +skirt on the stairs. A man's voice murmured; Sadie answered, careless, +"I'm sure I don't know. Wait. I'll ask Mrs Sheridan." + +"What is it, Sadie?" Laura came into the hall. + +"It's the florist, Miss Laura." + +It was, indeed. There, just inside the door, stood a wide, shallow tray +full of pots of pink lilies. No other kind. Nothing but lilies--canna +lilies, big pink flowers, wide open, radiant, almost frighteningly alive on +bright crimson stems. + +"O-oh, Sadie!" said Laura, and the sound was like a little moan. She +crouched down as if to warm herself at that blaze of lilies; she felt they +were in her fingers, on her lips, growing in her breast. + +"It's some mistake," she said faintly. "Nobody ever ordered so many. +Sadie, go and find mother." + +But at that moment Mrs. Sheridan joined them. + +"It's quite right," she said calmly. "Yes, I ordered them. Aren't they +lovely?" She pressed Laura's arm. "I was passing the shop yesterday, and +I saw them in the window. And I suddenly thought for once in my life I +shall have enough canna lilies. The garden-party will be a good excuse." + +"But I thought you said you didn't mean to interfere," said Laura. Sadie +had gone. The florist's man was still outside at his van. She put her arm +round her mother's neck and gently, very gently, she bit her mother's ear. + +"My darling child, you wouldn't like a logical mother, would you? Don't do +that. Here's the man." + +He carried more lilies still, another whole tray. + +"Bank them up, just inside the door, on both sides of the porch, please," +said Mrs. Sheridan. "Don't you agree, Laura?" + +"Oh, I do, mother." + +In the drawing-room Meg, Jose and good little Hans had at last succeeded in +moving the piano. + +"Now, if we put this chesterfield against the wall and move everything out +of the room except the chairs, don't you think?" + +"Quite." + +"Hans, move these tables into the smoking-room, and bring a sweeper to take +these marks off the carpet and--one moment, Hans--" Jose loved giving +orders to the servants, and they loved obeying her. She always made them +feel they were taking part in some drama. "Tell mother and Miss Laura to +come here at once. + +"Very good, Miss Jose." + +She turned to Meg. "I want to hear what the piano sounds like, just in +case I'm asked to sing this afternoon. Let's try over 'This life is +Weary.'" + +Pom! Ta-ta-ta Tee-ta! The piano burst out so passionately that Jose's +face changed. She clasped her hands. She looked mournfully and +enigmatically at her mother and Laura as they came in. + +"This Life is Wee-ary, + A Tear--a Sigh. + A Love that Chan-ges, + This Life is Wee-ary, + A Tear--a Sigh. + A Love that Chan-ges, + And then ...Good-bye!" + +But at the word "Good-bye," and although the piano sounded more desperate +than ever, her face broke into a brilliant, dreadfully unsympathetic smile. + +"Aren't I in good voice, mummy?" she beamed. + +"This Life is Wee-ary, + Hope comes to Die. + A Dream--a Wa-kening." + +But now Sadie interrupted them. "What is it, Sadie?" + +"If you please, m'm, cook says have you got the flags for the sandwiches?" + +"The flags for the sandwiches, Sadie?" echoed Mrs. Sheridan dreamily. And +the children knew by her face that she hadn't got them. "Let me see." And +she said to Sadie firmly, "Tell cook I'll let her have them in ten minutes. + +Sadie went. + +"Now, Laura," said her mother quickly, "come with me into the smoking-room. +I've got the names somewhere on the back of an envelope. You'll have to +write them out for me. Meg, go upstairs this minute and take that wet +thing off your head. Jose, run and finish dressing this instant. Do you +hear me, children, or shall I have to tell your father when he comes home +to-night? And--and, Jose, pacify cook if you do go into the kitchen, will +you? I'm terrified of her this morning." + +The envelope was found at last behind the dining-room clock, though how it +had got there Mrs. Sheridan could not imagine. + +"One of you children must have stolen it out of my bag, because I remember +vividly--cream cheese and lemon-curd. Have you done that?" + +"Yes." + +"Egg and--" Mrs. Sheridan held the envelope away from her. "It looks like +mice. It can't be mice, can it?" + +"Olive, pet," said Laura, looking over her shoulder. + +"Yes, of course, olive. What a horrible combination it sounds. Egg and +olive." + +They were finished at last, and Laura took them off to the kitchen. She +found Jose there pacifying the cook, who did not look at all terrifying. + +"I have never seen such exquisite sandwiches," said Jose's rapturous voice. +"How many kinds did you say there were, cook? Fifteen?" + +"Fifteen, Miss Jose." + +"Well, cook, I congratulate you." + +Cook swept up crusts with the long sandwich knife, and smiled broadly. + +"Godber's has come," announced Sadie, issuing out of the pantry. She had +seen the man pass the window. + +That meant the cream puffs had come. Godber's were famous for their cream +puffs. Nobody ever thought of making them at home. + +"Bring them in and put them on the table, my girl," ordered cook. + +Sadie brought them in and went back to the door. Of course Laura and Jose +were far too grown-up to really care about such things. All the same, they +couldn't help agreeing that the puffs looked very attractive. Very. Cook +began arranging them, shaking off the extra icing sugar. + +"Don't they carry one back to all one's parties?" said Laura. + +"I suppose they do," said practical Jose, who never liked to be carried +back. "They look beautifully light and feathery, I must say." + +"Have one each, my dears," said cook in her comfortable voice. "Yer ma +won't know." + +Oh, impossible. Fancy cream puffs so soon after breakfast. The very idea +made one shudder. All the same, two minutes later Jose and Laura were +licking their fingers with that absorbed inward look that only comes from +whipped cream. + +"Let's go into the garden, out by the back way," suggested Laura. "I want +to see how the men are getting on with the marquee. They're such awfully +nice men." + +But the back door was blocked by cook, Sadie, Godber's man and Hans. + +Something had happened. + +"Tuk-tuk-tuk," clucked cook like an agitated hen. Sadie had her hand +clapped to her cheek as though she had toothache. Hans's face was screwed +up in the effort to understand. Only Godber's man seemed to be enjoying +himself; it was his story. + +"What's the matter? What's happened?" + +"There's been a horrible accident," said Cook. "A man killed." + +"A man killed! Where? How? When?" + +But Godber's man wasn't going to have his story snatched from under his +very nose. + +"Know those little cottages just below here, miss?" Know them? Of course, +she knew them. "Well, there's a young chap living there, name of Scott, a +carter. His horse shied at a traction-engine, corner of Hawke Street this +morning, and he was thrown out on the back of his head. Killed." + +"Dead!" Laura stared at Godber's man. + +"Dead when they picked him up," said Godber's man with relish. "They were +taking the body home as I come up here." And he said to the cook, "He's +left a wife and five little ones." + +"Jose, come here." Laura caught hold of her sister's sleeve and dragged +her through the kitchen to the other side of the green baize door. There +she paused and leaned against it. "Jose!" she said, horrified, "however +are we going to stop everything?" + +"Stop everything, Laura!" cried Jose in astonishment. "What do you mean?" + +"Stop the garden-party, of course." Why did Jose pretend? + +But Jose was still more amazed. "Stop the garden-party? My dear Laura, +don't be so absurd. Of course we can't do anything of the kind. Nobody +expects us to. Don't be so extravagant." + +"But we can't possibly have a garden-party with a man dead just outside the +front gate." + +That really was extravagant, for the little cottages were in a lane to +themselves at the very bottom of a steep rise that led up to the house. A +broad road ran between. True, they were far too near. They were the +greatest possible eyesore, and they had no right to be in that +neighbourhood at all. They were little mean dwellings painted a chocolate +brown. In the garden patches there was nothing but cabbage stalks, sick +hens and tomato cans. The very smoke coming out of their chimneys was +poverty-stricken. Little rags and shreds of smoke, so unlike the great +silvery plumes that uncurled from the Sheridans' chimneys. Washerwomen +lived in the lane and sweeps and a cobbler, and a man whose house-front was +studded all over with minute bird-cages. Children swarmed. When the +Sheridans were little they were forbidden to set foot there because of the +revolting language and of what they might catch. But since they were grown +up, Laura and Laurie on their prowls sometimes walked through. It was +disgusting and sordid. They came out with a shudder. But still one must +go everywhere; one must see everything. So through they went. + +"And just think of what the band would sound like to that poor woman," said +Laura. + +"Oh, Laura!" Jose began to be seriously annoyed. "If you're going to stop +a band playing every time some one has an accident, you'll lead a very +strenuous life. I'm every bit as sorry about it as you. I feel just as +sympathetic." Her eyes hardened. She looked at her sister just as she +used to when they were little and fighting together. "You won't bring a +drunken workman back to life by being sentimental," she said softly. + +"Drunk! Who said he was drunk?" Laura turned furiously on Jose. She +said, just as they had used to say on those occasions, "I'm going straight +up to tell mother." + +"Do, dear," cooed Jose. + +"Mother, can I come into your room?" Laura turned the big glass door-knob. + +"Of course, child. Why, what's the matter? What's given you such a +colour?" And Mrs. Sheridan turned round from her dressing-table. She was +trying on a new hat. + +"Mother, a man's been killed," began Laura. + +"Not in the garden?" interrupted her mother. + +"No, no!" + +"Oh, what a fright you gave me!" Mrs. Sheridan sighed with relief, and +took off the big hat and held it on her knees. + +"But listen, mother," said Laura. Breathless, half-choking, she told the +dreadful story. "Of course, we can't have our party, can we?" she pleaded. +"The band and everybody arriving. They'd hear us, mother; they're nearly +neighbours!" + +To Laura's astonishment her mother behaved just like Jose; it was harder to +bear because she seemed amused. She refused to take Laura seriously. + +"But, my dear child, use your common sense. It's only by accident we've +heard of it. If some one had died there normally--and I can't understand +how they keep alive in those poky little holes--we should still be having +our party, shouldn't we?" + +Laura had to say "yes" to that, but she felt it was all wrong. She sat +down on her mother's sofa and pinched the cushion frill. + +"Mother, isn't it terribly heartless of us?" she asked. + +"Darling!" Mrs. Sheridan got up and came over to her, carrying the hat. +Before Laura could stop her she had popped it on. "My child!" said her +mother, "the hat is yours. It's made for you. It's much too young for me. +I have never seen you look such a picture. Look at yourself!" And she +held up her hand-mirror. + +"But, mother," Laura began again. She couldn't look at herself; she turned +aside. + +This time Mrs. Sheridan lost patience just as Jose had done. + +"You are being very absurd, Laura," she said coldly. "People like that +don't expect sacrifices from us. And it's not very sympathetic to spoil +everybody's enjoyment as you're doing now." + +"I don't understand," said Laura, and she walked quickly out of the room +into her own bedroom. There, quite by chance, the first thing she saw was +this charming girl in the mirror, in her black hat trimmed with gold +daisies, and a long black velvet ribbon. Never had she imagined she could +look like that. Is mother right? she thought. And now she hoped her +mother was right. Am I being extravagant? Perhaps it was extravagant. +Just for a moment she had another glimpse of that poor woman and those +little children, and the body being carried into the house. But it all +seemed blurred, unreal, like a picture in the newspaper. I'll remember it +again after the party's over, she decided. And somehow that seemed quite +the best plan... + +Lunch was over by half-past one. By half-past two they were all ready for +the fray. The green-coated band had arrived and was established in a +corner of the tennis-court. + +"My dear!" trilled Kitty Maitland, "aren't they too like frogs for words? +You ought to have arranged them round the pond with the conductor in the +middle on a leaf." + +Laurie arrived and hailed them on his way to dress. At the sight of him +Laura remembered the accident again. She wanted to tell him. If Laurie +agreed with the others, then it was bound to be all right. And she +followed him into the hall. + +"Laurie!" + +"Hallo!" He was half-way upstairs, but when he turned round and saw Laura +he suddenly puffed out his cheeks and goggled his eyes at her. "My word, +Laura! You do look stunning," said Laurie. "What an absolutely topping +hat!" + +Laura said faintly "Is it?" and smiled up at Laurie, and didn't tell him +after all. + +Soon after that people began coming in streams. The band struck up; the +hired waiters ran from the house to the marquee. Wherever you looked there +were couples strolling, bending to the flowers, greeting, moving on over +the lawn. They were like bright birds that had alighted in the Sheridans' +garden for this one afternoon, on their way to--where? Ah, what happiness +it is to be with people who all are happy, to press hands, press cheeks, +smile into eyes. + +"Darling Laura, how well you look!" + +"What a becoming hat, child!" + +"Laura, you look quite Spanish. I've never seen you look so striking." + +And Laura, glowing, answered softly, "Have you had tea? Won't you have an +ice? The passion-fruit ices really are rather special." She ran to her +father and begged him. "Daddy darling, can't the band have something to +drink?" + +And the perfect afternoon slowly ripened, slowly faded, slowly its petals +closed. + +"Never a more delightful garden-party ..." "The greatest success ..." +"Quite the most ..." + +Laura helped her mother with the good-byes. They stood side by side in the +porch till it was all over. + +"All over, all over, thank heaven," said Mrs. Sheridan. "Round up the +others, Laura. Let's go and have some fresh coffee. I'm exhausted. Yes, +it's been very successful. But oh, these parties, these parties! Why will +you children insist on giving parties!" And they all of them sat down in +the deserted marquee. + +"Have a sandwich, daddy dear. I wrote the flag." + +"Thanks." Mr. Sheridan took a bite and the sandwich was gone. He took +another. "I suppose you didn't hear of a beastly accident that happened +to-day?" he said. + +"My dear," said Mrs. Sheridan, holding up her hand, "we did. It nearly +ruined the party. Laura insisted we should put it off." + +"Oh, mother!" Laura didn't want to be teased about it. + +"It was a horrible affair all the same," said Mr. Sheridan. "The chap was +married too. Lived just below in the lane, and leaves a wife and half a +dozen kiddies, so they say." + +An awkward little silence fell. Mrs. Sheridan fidgeted with her cup. +Really, it was very tactless of father... + +Suddenly she looked up. There on the table were all those sandwiches, +cakes, puffs, all uneaten, all going to be wasted. She had one of her +brilliant ideas. + +"I know," she said. "Let's make up a basket. Let's send that poor +creature some of this perfectly good food. At any rate, it will be the +greatest treat for the children. Don't you agree? And she's sure to have +neighbours calling in and so on. What a point to have it all ready +prepared. Laura!" She jumped up. "Get me the big basket out of the +stairs cupboard." + +"But, mother, do you really think it's a good idea?" said Laura. + +Again, how curious, she seemed to be different from them all. To take +scraps from their party. Would the poor woman really like that? + +"Of course! What's the matter with you to-day? An hour or two ago you +were insisting on us being sympathetic, and now--" + +Oh well! Laura ran for the basket. It was filled, it was heaped by her +mother. + +"Take it yourself, darling," said she. "Run down just as you are. No, +wait, take the arum lilies too. People of that class are so impressed by +arum lilies." + +"The stems will ruin her lace frock," said practical Jose. + +So they would. Just in time. "Only the basket, then. And, Laura!"--her +mother followed her out of the marquee--"don't on any account--" + +"What mother?" + +No, better not put such ideas into the child's head! "Nothing! Run +along." + +It was just growing dusky as Laura shut their garden gates. A big dog ran +by like a shadow. The road gleamed white, and down below in the hollow the +little cottages were in deep shade. How quiet it seemed after the +afternoon. Here she was going down the hill to somewhere where a man lay +dead, and she couldn't realize it. Why couldn't she? She stopped a +minute. And it seemed to her that kisses, voices, tinkling spoons, +laughter, the smell of crushed grass were somehow inside her. She had no +room for anything else. How strange! She looked up at the pale sky, and +all she thought was, "Yes, it was the most successful party." + +Now the broad road was crossed. The lane began, smoky and dark. Women in +shawls and men's tweed caps hurried by. Men hung over the palings; the +children played in the doorways. A low hum came from the mean little +cottages. In some of them there was a flicker of light, and a shadow, +crab-like, moved across the window. Laura bent her head and hurried on. +She wished now she had put on a coat. How her frock shone! And the big +hat with the velvet streamer--if only it was another hat! Were the people +looking at her? They must be. It was a mistake to have come; she knew all +along it was a mistake. Should she go back even now? + +No, too late. This was the house. It must be. A dark knot of people +stood outside. Beside the gate an old, old woman with a crutch sat in a +chair, watching. She had her feet on a newspaper. The voices stopped as +Laura drew near. The group parted. It was as though she was expected, as +though they had known she was coming here. + +Laura was terribly nervous. Tossing the velvet ribbon over her shoulder, +she said to a woman standing by, "Is this Mrs. Scott's house?" and the +woman, smiling queerly, said, "It is, my lass." + +Oh, to be away from this! She actually said, "Help me, God," as she walked +up the tiny path and knocked. To be away from those staring eyes, or to be +covered up in anything, one of those women's shawls even. I'll just leave +the basket and go, she decided. I shan't even wait for it to be emptied. + +Then the door opened. A little woman in black showed in the gloom. + +Laura said, "Are you Mrs. Scott?" But to her horror the woman answered, +"Walk in please, miss," and she was shut in the passage. + +"No," said Laura, "I don't want to come in. I only want to leave this +basket. Mother sent--" + +The little woman in the gloomy passage seemed not to have heard her. "Step +this way, please, miss," she said in an oily voice, and Laura followed her. + +She found herself in a wretched little low kitchen, lighted by a smoky +lamp. There was a woman sitting before the fire. + +"Em," said the little creature who had let her in. "Em! It's a young +lady." She turned to Laura. She said meaningly, "I'm 'er sister, miss. +You'll excuse 'er, won't you?" + +"Oh, but of course!" said Laura. "Please, please don't disturb her. I--I +only want to leave--" + +But at that moment the woman at the fire turned round. Her face, puffed +up, red, with swollen eyes and swollen lips, looked terrible. She seemed +as though she couldn't understand why Laura was there. What did it mean? +Why was this stranger standing in the kitchen with a basket? What was it +all about? And the poor face puckered up again. + +"All right, my dear," said the other. "I'll thenk the young lady." + +And again she began, "You'll excuse her, miss, I'm sure," and her face, +swollen too, tried an oily smile. + +Laura only wanted to get out, to get away. She was back in the passage. +The door opened. She walked straight through into the bedroom, where the +dead man was lying. + +"You'd like a look at 'im, wouldn't you?" said Em's sister, and she brushed +past Laura over to the bed. "Don't be afraid, my lass,"--and now her voice +sounded fond and sly, and fondly she drew down the sheet--"'e looks a +picture. There's nothing to show. Come along, my dear." + +Laura came. + +There lay a young man, fast asleep--sleeping so soundly, so deeply, that he +was far, far away from them both. Oh, so remote, so peaceful. He was +dreaming. Never wake him up again. His head was sunk in the pillow, his +eyes were closed; they were blind under the closed eyelids. He was given +up to his dream. What did garden-parties and baskets and lace frocks +matter to him? He was far from all those things. He was wonderful, +beautiful. While they were laughing and while the band was playing, this +marvel had come to the lane. Happy...happy...All is well, said that +sleeping face. This is just as it should be. I am content. + +But all the same you had to cry, and she couldn't go out of the room +without saying something to him. Laura gave a loud childish sob. + +"Forgive my hat," she said. + +And this time she didn't wait for Em's sister. She found her way out of +the door, down the path, past all those dark people. At the corner of the +lane she met Laurie. + +He stepped out of the shadow. "Is that you, Laura?" + +"Yes." + +"Mother was getting anxious. Was it all right?" + +"Yes, quite. Oh, Laurie!" She took his arm, she pressed up against him. + +"I say, you're not crying, are you?" asked her brother. + +Laura shook her head. She was. + +Laurie put his arm round her shoulder. "Don't cry," he said in his warm, +loving voice. "Was it awful?" + +"No," sobbed Laura. "It was simply marvellous. But Laurie--" She +stopped, she looked at her brother. "Isn't life," she stammered, "isn't +life--" But what life was she couldn't explain. No matter. He quite +understood. + +"Isn't it, darling?" said Laurie. + + + +3. THE DAUGHTERS OF THE LATE COLONEL. + +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 dressing- +gown, and of Constantia's favourite indefinite green ones which went with +hers. Black! Two black dressing-gowns and two pairs of black woolly +slippers, creeping off to the bathroom like black cats. + +"I don't think it's absolutely necessary," said she. + +Silence. Then Constantia said, "We shall have to post the papers with the +notice in them to-morrow to catch the Ceylon mail...How many letters have +we had up till now?" + +"Twenty-three." + +Josephine had replied to them all, and twenty-three times when she came to +"We miss our dear father so much" she had broken down and had to use her +handkerchief, and on some of them even to soak up a very light-blue tear +with an edge of blotting-paper. Strange! She couldn't have put it on--but +twenty-three times. Even now, though, when she said over to herself sadly +"We miss our dear father so much," she could have cried if she'd wanted to. + +"Have you got enough stamps?" came from Constantia. + +"Oh, how can I tell?" said Josephine crossly. "What's the good of asking +me that now?" + +"I was just wondering," said Constantia mildly. + +Silence again. There came a little rustle, a scurry, a hop. + +"A mouse," said Constantia. + +"It can't be a mouse because there aren't any crumbs," said Josephine. + +"But it doesn't know there aren't," said Constantia. + +A spasm of pity squeezed her heart. Poor little thing! She wished she'd +left a tiny piece of biscuit on the dressing-table. It was awful to think +of it not finding anything. What would it do? + +"I can't think how they manage to live at all," she said slowly. + +"Who?" demanded Josephine. + +And Constantia said more loudly than she meant to, "Mice." + +Josephine was furious. "Oh, what nonsense, Con!" she said. "What have +mice got to do with it? You're asleep." + +"I don't think I am," said Constantia. She shut her eyes to make sure. +She was. + +Josephine arched her spine, pulled up her knees, folded her arms so that +her fists came under her ears, and pressed her cheek hard against the +pillow. + + +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 drawing- +room by themselves--with no--no altar or anything! The piano would be much +too high, thought Constantia, and Mr. Farolles could not possibly lean over +it with the chalice. And Kate would be sure to come bursting in and +interrupt them, thought Josephine. And supposing the bell rang in the +middle? It might be somebody important--about their mourning. Would they +get up reverently and go out, or would they have to wait...in torture? + +"Perhaps you will send round a note by your good Kate if you would care for +it later," said Mr. Farolles. + +"Oh yes, thank you very much!" they both said. + +Mr. Farolles got up and took his black straw hat from the round table. + +"And about the funeral," he said softly. "I may arrange that--as your dear +father's old friend and yours, Miss Pinner--and Miss Constantia?" + +Josephine and Constantia got up too. + +"I should like it to be quite simple," said Josephine firmly, "and not too +expensive. At the same time, I should like--" + +"A good one that will last," thought dreamy Constantia, as if Josephine +were buying a nightgown. But, of course, Josephine didn't say that. "One +suitable to our father's position." She was very nervous. + +"I'll run round to our good friend Mr. Knight," said Mr. Farolles +soothingly. "I will ask him to come and see you. I am sure you will find +him very helpful indeed." + + +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 labour- +saving indeed. + +Their cold lips quivered at the greenish brims. Josephine curved her small +red hands round the cup; Constantia sat up and blew on the wavy steam, +making it flutter from one side to the other. + +"Speaking of Benny," said Josephine. + +And though Benny hadn't been mentioned Constantia immediately looked as +though he had. + +"He'll expect us to send him something of father's, of course. But it's so +difficult to know what to send to Ceylon." + +"You mean things get unstuck so on the voyage," murmured Constantia. + +"No, lost," said Josephine sharply. "You know there's no post. Only +runners." + +Both paused to watch a black man in white linen drawers running through the +pale fields for dear life, with a large brown-paper parcel in his hands. +Josephine's black man was tiny; he scurried along glistening like an ant. +But there was something blind and tireless about Constantia's tall, thin +fellow, which made him, she decided, a very unpleasant person indeed...On +the veranda, dressed all in white and wearing a cork helmet, stood Benny. +His right hand shook up and down, as father's did when he was impatient. +And behind him, not in the least interested, sat Hilda, the unknown sister- +in-law. She swung in a cane rocker and flicked over the leaves of the +"Tatler." + +"I think his watch would be the most suitable present," said Josephine. + +Constantia looked up; she seemed surprised. + +"Oh, would you trust a gold watch to a native?" + +"But of course, I'd disguise it," said Josephine. "No one would know it +was a watch." She liked the idea of having to make a parcel such a curious +shape that no one could possibly guess what it was. She even thought for a +moment of hiding the watch in a narrow cardboard corset-box that she'd kept +by her for a long time, waiting for it to come in for something. It was +such beautiful, firm cardboard. But, no, it wouldn't be appropriate for +this occasion. It had lettering on it: "Medium Women's 28. Extra Firm +Busks." It would be almost too much of a surprise for Benny to open that +and find father's watch inside. + +"And of course it isn't as though it would be going--ticking, I mean," said +Constantia, who was still thinking of the native love of jewellery. "At +least," she added, "it would be very strange if after all that time it +was." + + +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 meringue- +shell over one ear. + +Josephine repeated, "Cyril says his father is still very fond of +meringues." + +"Can't hear," said old Colonel Pinner. And he waved Josephine away with +his stick, then pointed with his stick to Cyril. "Tell me what she's +trying to say," he said. + +(My God!) "Must I?" said Cyril, blushing and staring at Aunt Josephine. + +"Do, dear," she smiled. "It will please him so much." + +"Come on, out with it!" cried Colonel Pinner testily, beginning to thump +again. + +And Cyril leaned forward and yelled, "Father's still very fond of +meringues." + +At that Grandfather Pinner jumped as though he had been shot. + +"Don't shout!" he cried. "What's the matter with the boy? Meringues! +What about 'em?" + +"Oh, Aunt Josephine, must we go on?" groaned Cyril desperately. + +"It's quite all right, dear boy," said Aunt Josephine, as though he and she +were at the dentist's together. "He'll understand in a minute." And she +whispered to Cyril, "He's getting a bit deaf, you know." Then she leaned +forward and really bawled at Grandfather Pinner, "Cyril only wanted to tell +you, father dear, that his father is still very fond of meringues." + +Colonel Pinner heard that time, heard and brooded, looking Cyril up and +down. + +"What an esstrordinary thing!" said old Grandfather Pinner. "What an +esstrordinary thing to come all this way here to tell me!" + +And Cyril felt it was. + +"Yes, I shall send Cyril the watch," said Josephine. + +"That would be very nice," said Constantia. "I seem to remember last time +he came there was some little trouble about the time." + + +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 window- +ledge. "Yeep--eyeep--yeep." But Josephine felt they were not sparrows, +not on the window-ledge. It was inside her, that queer little crying +noise. "Yeep--eyeep--yeep." Ah, what was it crying, so weak and forlorn? + +If mother had lived, might they have married? But there had been nobody +for them to marry. There had been father's Anglo-Indian friends before he +quarrelled with them. But after that she and Constantia never met a single +man except clergymen. How did one meet men? Or even if they'd met them, +how could they have got to know men well enough to be more than strangers? +One read of people having adventures, being followed, and so on. But +nobody had ever followed Constantia and her. Oh yes, there had been one +year at Eastbourne a mysterious man at their boarding-house who had put a +note on the jug of hot water outside their bedroom door! But by the time +Connie had found it the steam had made the writing too faint to read; they +couldn't even make out to which of them it was addressed. And he had left +next day. And that was all. The rest had been looking after father, and +at the same time keeping out of father's way. But now? But now? The +thieving sun touched Josephine gently. She lifted her face. She was drawn +over to the window by gentle beams... + +Until the barrel-organ stopped playing Constantia stayed before the Buddha, +wondering, but not as usual, not vaguely. This time her wonder was like +longing. She remembered the times she had come in here, crept out of bed +in her nightgown when the moon was full, and lain on the floor with her +arms outstretched, as though she was crucified. Why? The big, pale moon +had made her do it. The horrible dancing figures on the carved screen had +leered at her and she hadn't minded. She remembered too how, whenever they +were at the seaside, she had gone off by herself and got as close to the +sea as she could, and sung something, something she had made up, while she +gazed all over that restless water. There had been this other life, +running out, bringing things home in bags, getting things on approval, +discussing them with Jug, and taking them back to get more things on +approval, and arranging father's trays and trying not to annoy father. But +it all seemed to have happened in a kind of tunnel. It wasn't real. It +was only when she came out of the tunnel into the moonlight or by the sea +or into a thunderstorm that she really felt herself. What did it mean? +What was it she was always wanting? What did it all lead to? Now? Now? + +She turned away from the Buddha with one of her vague gestures. She went +over to where Josephine was standing. She wanted to say something to +Josephine, something frightfully important, about--about the future and +what... + +"Don't you think perhaps--" she began. + +But Josephine interrupted her. "I was wondering if now--" she murmured. +They stopped; they waited for each other. + +"Go on, Con," said Josephine. + +"No, no, Jug; after you," said Constantia. + +"No, say what you were going to say. You began," said Josephine. + +"I...I'd rather hear what you were going to say first," said Constantia. + +"Don't be absurd, Con." + +"Really, Jug." + +"Connie!" + +"Oh, Jug!" + +A pause. Then Constantia said faintly, "I can't say what I was going to +say, Jug, because I've forgotten what it was...that I was going to say." + +Josephine was silent for a moment. She stared at a big cloud where the sun +had been. Then she replied shortly, "I've forgotten too." + + + +4. MR. AND MRS. DOVE. + +Of course he knew--no man better--that he hadn't a ghost of a chance, he +hadn't an earthly. The very idea of such a thing was preposterous. So +preposterous that he'd perfectly understand it if her father--well, +whatever her father chose to do he'd perfectly understand. In fact, +nothing short of desperation, nothing short of the fact that this was +positively his last day in England for God knows how long, would have +screwed him up to it. And even now...He chose a tie out of the chest of +drawers, a blue and cream check tie, and sat on the side of his bed. +Supposing she replied, "What impertinence!" would he be surprised? Not in +the least, he decided, turning up his soft collar and turning it down over +the tie. He expected her to say something like that. He didn't see, if he +looked at the affair dead soberly, what else she could say. + +Here he was! And nervously he tied a bow in front of the mirror, jammed +his hair down with both hands, pulled out the flaps of his jacket pockets. +Making between 500 and 600 pounds a year on a fruit farm in--of all places- +-Rhodesia. No capital. Not a penny coming to him. No chance of his +income increasing for at least four years. As for looks and all that sort +of thing, he was completely out of the running. He couldn't even boast of +top-hole health, for the East Africa business had knocked him out so +thoroughly that he'd had to take six months' leave. He was still fearfully +pale--worse even than usual this afternoon, he thought, bending forward and +peering into the mirror. Good heavens! What had happened? His hair +looked almost bright green. Dash it all, he hadn't green hair at all +events. That was a bit too steep. And then the green light trembled in +the glass; it was the shadow from the tree outside. Reggie turned away, +took out his cigarette case, but remembering how the mater hated him to +smoke in his bedroom, put it back again and drifted over to the chest of +drawers. No, he was dashed if he could think of one blessed thing in his +favour, while she...Ah!...He stopped dead, folded his arms, and leaned hard +against the chest of drawers. + +And in spite of her position, her father's wealth, the fact that she was an +only child and far and away the most popular girl in the neighbourhood; in +spite of her beauty and her cleverness--cleverness!--it was a great deal +more than that, there was really nothing she couldn't do; he fully +believed, had it been necessary, she would have been a genius at anything-- +in spite of the fact that her parents adored her, and she them, and they'd +as soon let her go all that way as...In spite of every single thing you +could think of, so terrific was his love that he couldn't help hoping. +Well, was it hope? Or was this queer, timid longing to have the chance of +looking after her, of making it his job to see that she had everything she +wanted, and that nothing came near her that wasn't perfect--just love? How +he loved her! He squeezed hard against the chest of drawers and murmured +to it, "I love her, I love her!" And just for the moment he was with her +on the way to Umtali. It was night. She sat in a corner asleep. Her soft +chin was tucked into her soft collar, her gold-brown lashes lay on her +cheeks. He doted on her delicate little nose, her perfect lips, her ear +like a baby's, and the gold-brown curl that half covered it. They were +passing through the jungle. It was warm and dark and far away. Then she +woke up and said, "Have I been asleep?" and he answered, "Yes. Are you all +right? Here, let me--" And he leaned forward to...He bent over her. This +was such bliss that he could dream no further. But it gave him the courage +to bound downstairs, to snatch his straw hat from the hall, and to say as +he closed the front door, "Well, I can only try my luck, that's all." + +But his luck gave him a nasty jar, to say the least, almost immediately. +Promenading up and down the garden path with Chinny and Biddy, the ancient +Pekes, was the mater. Of course Reginald was fond of the mater and all +that. She--she meant well, she had no end of grit, and so on. But there +was no denying it, she was rather a grim parent. And there had been +moments, many of them, in Reggie's life, before Uncle Alick died and left +him the fruit farm, when he was convinced that to be a widow's only son was +about the worst punishment a chap could have. And what made it rougher +than ever was that she was positively all that he had. She wasn't only a +combined parent, as it were, but she had quarrelled with all her own and +the governor's relations before Reggie had won his first trouser pockets. +So that whenever Reggie was homesick out there, sitting on his dark veranda +by starlight, while the gramophone cried, "Dear, what is Life but Love?" +his only vision was of the mater, tall and stout, rustling down the garden +path, with Chinny and Biddy at her heels... + +The mater, with her scissors outspread to snap the head of a dead something +or other, stopped at the sight of Reggie. + +"You are not going out, Reginald?" she asked, seeing that he was. + +"I'll be back for tea, mater," said Reggie weakly, plunging his hands into +his jacket pockets. + +Snip. Off came a head. Reggie almost jumped. + +"I should have thought you could have spared your mother your last +afternoon," said she. + +Silence. The Pekes stared. They understood every word of the mater's. +Biddy lay down with her tongue poked out; she was so fat and glossy she +looked like a lump of half-melted toffee. But Chinny's porcelain eyes +gloomed at Reginald, and he sniffed faintly, as though the whole world were +one unpleasant smell. Snip, went the scissors again. Poor little beggars; +they were getting it! + +"And where are you going, if your mother may ask?" asked the mater. + +It was over at last, but Reggie did not slow down until he was out of sight +of the house and half-way to Colonel Proctor's. Then only he noticed what +a top-hole afternoon it was. It had been raining all the morning, late +summer rain, warm, heavy, quick, and now the sky was clear, except for a +long tail of little clouds, like duckings, sailing over the forest. There +was just enough wind to shake the last drops off the trees; one warm star +splashed on his hand. Ping!--another drummed on his hat. The empty road +gleamed, the hedges smelled of briar, and how big and bright the hollyhocks +glowed in the cottage gardens. And here was Colonel Proctor's--here it was +already. His hand was on the gate, his elbow jogged the syringa bushes, +and petals and pollen scattered over his coat sleeve. But wait a bit. +This was too quick altogether. He'd meant to think the whole thing out +again. Here, steady. But he was walking up the path, with the huge rose +bushes on either side. It can't be done like this. But his hand had +grasped the bell, given it a pull, and started it pealing wildly, as if +he'd come to say the house was on fire. The housemaid must have been in +the hall, too, for the front door flashed open, and Reggie was shut in the +empty drawing-room before that confounded bell had stopped ringing. +Strangely enough, when it did, the big room, shadowy, with some one's +parasol lying on top of the grand piano, bucked him up--or rather, excited +him. It was so quiet, and yet in one moment the door would open, and his +fate be decided. The feeling was not unlike that of being at the +dentist's; he was almost reckless. But at the same time, to his immense +surprise, Reggie heard himself saying, "Lord, Thou knowest, Thou hast not +done much for me..." That pulled him up; that made him realize again how +dead serious it was. Too late. The door handle turned. Anne came in, +crossed the shadowy space between them, gave him her hand, and said, in her +small, soft voice, "I'm so sorry, father is out. And mother is having a +day in town, hat-hunting. There's only me to entertain you, Reggie." + +Reggie gasped, pressed his own hat to his jacket buttons, and stammered +out, "As a matter of fact, I've only come...to say good-bye." + +"Oh!" cried Anne softly--she stepped back from him and her grey eyes +danced--"what a very short visit!" + +Then, watching him, her chin tilted, she laughed outright, a long, soft +peal, and walked away from him over to the piano, and leaned against it, +playing with the tassel of the parasol. + +"I'm so sorry," she said, "to be laughing like this. I don't know why I +do. It's just a bad ha--habit." And suddenly she stamped her grey shoe, +and took a pocket-handkerchief out of her white woolly jacket. "I really +must conquer it, it's too absurd," said she. + +"Good heavens, Anne," cried Reggie, "I love to hear you laughing! I can't +imagine anything more--" + +But the truth was, and they both knew it, she wasn't always laughing; it +wasn't really a habit. Only ever since the day they'd met, ever since that +very first moment, for some strange reason that Reggie wished to God he +understood, Anne had laughed at him. Why? It didn't matter where they +were or what they were talking about. They might begin by being as serious +as possible, dead serious--at any rate, as far as he was concerned--but +then suddenly, in the middle of a sentence, Anne would glance at him, and a +little quick quiver passed over her face. Her lips parted, her eyes +danced, and she began laughing. + +Another queer thing about it was, Reggie had an idea she didn't herself +know why she laughed. He had seen her turn away, frown, suck in her +cheeks, press her hands together. But it was no use. The long, soft peal +sounded, even while she cried, "I don't know why I'm laughing." It was a +mystery... + +Now she tucked the handkerchief away. + +"Do sit down," said she. "And smoke, won't you? There are cigarettes in +that little box beside you. I'll have one too." He lighted a match for +her, and as she bent forward he saw the tiny flame glow in the pearl ring +she wore. "It is to-morrow that you're going, isn't it?" said Anne. + +"Yes, to-morrow as ever was," said Reggie, and he blew a little fan of +smoke. Why on earth was he so nervous? Nervous wasn't the word for it. + +"It's--it's frightfully hard to believe," he added. + +"Yes--isn't it?" said Anne softly, and she leaned forward and rolled the +point of her cigarette round the green ash-tray. How beautiful she looked +like that!--simply beautiful--and she was so small in that immense chair. +Reginald's heart swelled with tenderness, but it was her voice, her soft +voice, that made him tremble. "I feel you've been here for years," she +said. + +Reginald took a deep breath of his cigarette. "It's ghastly, this idea of +going back," 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 orange- +trees outside the doors in gold-and-black tubs. + +"Would you care to go in?" I suggested. + +She hesitated, glanced, bit her lip, and resigned herself. "Oh well, there +seems nowhere else," said she. "Get out, Hennie." + +I went first--to find the table, of course--she followed. But the worst of +it was having her little brother, who was only twelve, with us. That was +the last, final straw--having that child, trailing at her heels. + +There was one table. It had pink carnations and pink plates with little +blue tea-napkins for sails. + +"Shall we sit here?" + +She put her hand wearily on the back of a white wicker chair. + +"We may as well. Why not?" said she. + +Hennie squeezed past her and wriggled on to a stool at the end. He felt +awfully out of it. She didn't even take her gloves off. She lowered her +eyes and drummed on the table. When a faint violin sounded she winced and +bit her lip again. Silence. + +The waitress appeared. I hardly dared to ask her. "Tea--coffee? China +tea--or iced tea with lemon?" + +Really she didn't mind. It was all the same to her. She didn't really +want anything. Hennie whispered, "Chocolate!" + +But just as the waitress turned away she cried out carelessly, "Oh, you may +as well bring me a chocolate, too." + +While we waited she took out a little, gold powder-box with a mirror in the +lid, shook the poor little puff as though she loathed it, and dabbed her +lovely nose. + +"Hennie," she said, "take those flowers away." She pointed with her puff +to the carnations, and I heard her murmur, "I can't bear flowers on a +table." They had evidently been giving her intense pain, for she +positively closed her eyes as I moved them away. + +The waitress came back with the chocolate and the tea. She put the big, +frothing cups before them and pushed across my clear glass. Hennie buried +his nose, emerged, with, for one dreadful moment, a little trembling blob +of cream on the tip. But he hastily wiped it off like a little gentleman. +I wondered if I should dare draw her attention to her cup. She didn't +notice it--didn't see it--until suddenly, quite by chance, she took a sip. +I watched anxiously; she faintly shuddered. + +"Dreadfully sweet!" said she. + +A tiny boy with a head like a raisin and a chocolate body came round with a +tray of pastries--row upon row of little freaks, little inspirations, +little melting dreams. He offered them to her. "Oh, I'm not at all +hungry. Take them away." + +He offered them to Hennie. Hennie gave me a swift look--it must have been +satisfactory--for he took a chocolate cream, a coffee eclair, a meringue +stuffed with chestnut and a tiny horn filled with fresh strawberries. She +could hardly bear to watch him. But just as the boy swerved away she held +up her plate. + +"Oh well, give me one," said she. + +The silver tongs dropped one, two, three--and a cherry tartlet. "I don't +know why you're giving me all these," she said, and nearly smiled. "I +shan't eat them; I couldn't!" + +I felt much more comfortable. I sipped my tea, leaned back, and even asked +if I might smoke. At that she paused, the fork in her hand, opened her +eyes, and really did smile. "Of course," said she. "I always expect +people to." + +But at that moment a tragedy happened to Hennie. He speared his pastry +horn too hard, and it flew in two, and one half spilled on the table. +Ghastly affair! He turned crimson. Even his ears flared, and one ashamed +hand crept across the table to take what was left of the body away. + +"You utter little beast!" said she. + +Good heavens! I had to fly to the rescue. I cried hastily, "Will you be +abroad long?" + +But she had already forgotten Hennie. I was forgotten, too. She was +trying to remember something...She was miles away. + +"I--don't--know," she said slowly, from that far place. + +"I suppose you prefer it to London. It's more--more--" + +When I didn't go on she came back and looked at me, very puzzled. +"More--?" + +"Enfin--gayer," I cried, waving my cigarette. + +But that took a whole cake to consider. Even then, "Oh well, that +depends!" was all she could safely say. + +Hennie had finished. He was still very warm. + +I seized the butterfly list off the table. "I say--what about an ice, +Hennie? What about tangerine and ginger? No, something cooler. What +about a fresh pineapple cream?" + +Hennie strongly approved. The waitress had her eye on us. The order was +taken when she looked up from her crumbs. + +"Did you say tangerine and ginger? I like ginger. You can bring me one." +And then quickly, "I wish that orchestra wouldn't play things from the year +One. We were dancing to that all last Christmas. It's too sickening!" + +But it was a charming air. Now that I noticed it, it warmed me. + +"I think this is rather a nice place, don't you, Hennie?" I said. + +Hennie said: "Ripping!" He meant to say it very low, but it came out very +high in a kind of squeak. + +Nice? This place? Nice? For the first time she stared about her, trying +to see what there was...She blinked; her lovely eyes wondered. A very +good-looking elderly man stared back at her through a monocle on a black +ribbon. But him she simply couldn't see. There was a hole in the air +where he was. She looked through and through him. + +Finally the little flat spoons lay still on the glass plates. Hennie +looked rather exhausted, but she pulled on her white gloves again. She had +some trouble with her diamond wrist-watch; it got in her way. She tugged +at it--tried to break the stupid little thing--it wouldn't break. Finally, +she had to drag her glove over. I saw, after that, she couldn't stand this +place a moment longer, and, indeed, she jumped up and turned away while I +went through the vulgar act of paying for the tea. + +And then we were outside again. It had grown dusky. The sky was sprinkled +with small stars; the big lamps glowed. While we waited for the car to +come up she stood on the step, just as before, twiddling her foot, looking +down. + +Hennie bounded forward to open the door and she got in and sank back with-- +oh--such a sigh! + +"Tell him," she gasped, "to drive as fast as he can." + +Hennie grinned at his friend the chauffeur. "Allie veet!" said he. Then +he composed himself and sat on the small seat facing us. + +The gold powder-box came out again. Again the poor little puff was shaken; +again there was that swift, deadly-secret glance between her and the +mirror. + +We tore through the black-and-gold town like a pair of scissors tearing +through brocade. Hennie had great difficulty not to look as though he were +hanging on to something. + +And when we reached the Casino, of course Mrs. Raddick wasn't there. There +wasn't a sign of her on the steps--not a sign. + +"Will you stay in the car while I go and look?" + +But no--she wouldn't do that. Good heavens, no! Hennie could stay. She +couldn't bear sitting in a car. She'd wait on the steps. + +"But I scarcely like to leave you," I murmured. "I'd very much rather not +leave you here." + +At that she threw back her coat; she turned and faced me; her lips parted. +"Good heavens--why! I--I don't mind it a bit. I--I like waiting." And +suddenly her cheeks crimsoned, her eyes grew dark--for a moment I thought +she was going to cry. "L--let me, please," she stammered, in a warm, eager +voice. "I like it. I love waiting! Really--really I do! I'm always +waiting--in all kinds of places..." + +Her dark coat fell open, and her white throat--all her soft young body in +the blue dress--was like a flower that is just emerging from its dark bud. + + + +6. LIFE OF MA PARKER. + +When the literary gentleman, whose flat old Ma Parker cleaned every +Tuesday, opened the door to her that morning, he asked after her grandson. +Ma Parker stood on the doormat inside the dark little hall, and she +stretched out her hand to help her gentleman shut the door before she +replied. "We buried 'im yesterday, sir," she said quietly. + +"Oh, dear me! I'm sorry to hear that," said the literary gentleman in a +shocked tone. He was in the middle of his breakfast. He wore a very +shabby dressing-gown and carried a crumpled newspaper in one hand. But he +felt awkward. He could hardly go back to the warm sitting-room without +saying something--something more. Then because these people set such store +by funerals he said kindly, "I hope the funeral went off all right." + +"Beg parding, sir?" said old Ma Parker huskily. + +Poor old bird! She did look dashed. "I hope the funeral was a--a-- +success," said he. Ma Parker gave no answer. She bent her head and +hobbled off to the kitchen, clasping the old fish bag that held her +cleaning things and an apron and a pair of felt shoes. The literary +gentleman raised his eyebrows and went back to his breakfast. + +"Overcome, I suppose," he said aloud, helping himself to the marmalade. + +Ma Parker drew the two jetty spears out of her toque and hung it behind the +door. She unhooked her worn jacket and hung that up too. Then she tied +her apron and sat down to take off her boots. To take off her boots or to +put them on was an agony to her, but it had been an agony for years. In +fact, she was so accustomed to the pain that her face was drawn and screwed +up ready for the twinge before she'd so much as untied the laces. That +over, she sat back with a sigh and softly rubbed her knees... + +"Gran! Gran!" Her little grandson stood on her lap in his button boots. +He'd just come in from playing in the street. + +"Look what a state you've made your gran's skirt into--you wicked boy!" + +But he put his arms round her neck and rubbed his cheek against hers. + +"Gran, gi' us a penny!" he coaxed. + +"Be off with you; Gran ain't got no pennies." + +"Yes, you 'ave." + +"No, I ain't." + +"Yes, you 'ave. Gi' us one!" + +Already she was feeling for the old, squashed, black leather purse. + +"Well, what'll you give your gran?" + +He gave a shy little laugh and pressed closer. She felt his eyelid +quivering against her cheek. "I ain't got nothing," he murmured... + +The old woman sprang up, seized the iron kettle off the gas stove and took +it over to the sink. The noise of the water drumming in the kettle +deadened her pain, it seemed. She filled the pail, too, and the washing-up +bowl. + +It would take a whole book to describe the state of that kitchen. During +the week the literary gentleman "did" for himself. That is to say, he +emptied the tea leaves now and again into a jam jar set aside for that +purpose, and if he ran out of clean forks he wiped over one or two on the +roller towel. Otherwise, as he explained to his friends, his "system" was +quite simple, and he couldn't understand why people made all this fuss +about housekeeping. + +"You simply dirty everything you've got, get a hag in once a week to clean +up, and the thing's done." + +The result looked like a gigantic dustbin. Even the floor was littered +with toast crusts, envelopes, cigarette ends. But Ma Parker bore him no +grudge. She pitied the poor young gentleman for having no one to look +after him. Out of the smudgy little window you could see an immense +expanse of sad-looking sky, and whenever there were clouds they looked very +worn, old clouds, frayed at the edges, with holes in them, or dark stains +like tea. + +While the water was heating, Ma Parker began sweeping the floor. "Yes," +she thought, as the broom knocked, "what with one thing and another I've +had my share. I've had a hard life." + +Even the neighbours said that of her. Many a time, hobbling home with her +fish bag she heard them, waiting at the corner, or leaning over the area +railings, say among themselves, "She's had a hard life, has Ma Parker." +And it was so true she wasn't in the least proud of it. It was just as if +you were to say she lived in the basement-back at Number 27. A hard +life!... + +At sixteen she'd left Stratford and come up to London as kitching-maid. +Yes, she was born in Stratford-on-Avon. Shakespeare, sir? No, people were +always arsking her about him. But she'd never heard his name until she saw +it on the theatres. + +Nothing remained of Stratford except that "sitting in the fire-place of a +evening you could see the stars through the chimley," and "Mother always +'ad 'er side of bacon, 'anging from the ceiling." And there was something- +-a bush, there was--at the front door, that smelt ever so nice. But the +bush was very vague. She'd only remembered it once or twice in the +hospital, when she'd been taken bad. + +That was a dreadful place--her first place. She was never allowed out. +She never went upstairs except for prayers morning and evening. It was a +fair cellar. And the cook was a cruel woman. She used to snatch away her +letters from home before she'd read them, and throw them in the range +because they made her dreamy...And the beedles! Would you believe it?-- +until she came to London she'd never seen a black beedle. Here Ma always +gave a little laugh, as though--not to have seen a black beedle! Well! It +was as if to say you'd never seen your own feet. + +When that family was sold up she went as "help" to a doctor's house, and +after two years there, on the run from morning till night, she married her +husband. He was a baker. + +"A baker, Mrs. Parker!" the literary gentleman would say. For occasionally +he laid aside his tomes and lent an ear, at least, to this product called +Life. "It must be rather nice to be married to a baker!" + +Mrs. Parker didn't look so sure. + +"Such a clean trade," said the gentleman. + +Mrs. Parker didn't look convinced. + +"And didn't you like handing the new loaves to the customers?" + +"Well, sir," said Mrs. Parker, "I wasn't in the shop above a great deal. +We had thirteen little ones and buried seven of them. If it wasn't the +'ospital it was the infirmary, you might say!" + +"You might, indeed, Mrs. Parker!" said the gentleman, shuddering, and +taking up his pen again. + +Yes, seven had gone, and while the six were still small her husband was +taken ill with consumption. It was flour on the lungs, the doctor told her +at the time...Her husband sat up in bed with his shirt pulled over his +head, and the doctor's finger drew a circle on his back. + +"Now, if we were to cut him open here, Mrs. Parker," said the doctor, +"you'd find his lungs chock-a-block with white powder. Breathe, my good +fellow!" And Mrs. Parker never knew for certain whether she saw or whether +she fancied she saw a great fan of white dust come out of her poor dead +husband's lips... + +But the struggle she'd had to bring up those six little children and keep +herself to herself. Terrible it had been! Then, just when they were old +enough to go to school her husband's sister came to stop with them to help +things along, and she hadn't been there more than two months when she fell +down a flight of steps and hurt her spine. And for five years Ma Parker +had another baby--and such a one for crying!--to look after. Then young +Maudie went wrong and took her sister Alice with her; the two boys +emigrimated, and young Jim went to India with the army, and Ethel, the +youngest, married a good-for-nothing little waiter who died of ulcers the +year little Lennie was born. And now little Lennie--my grandson... + +The piles of dirty cups, dirty dishes, were washed and dried. The ink- +black knives were cleaned with a piece of potato and finished off with a +piece of cork. The table was scrubbed, and the dresser and the sink that +had sardine tails swimming in it... + +He'd never been a strong child--never from the first. He'd been one of +those fair babies that everybody took for a girl. Silvery fair curls he +had, blue eyes, and a little freckle like a diamond on one side of his +nose. The trouble she and Ethel had had to rear that child! The things +out of the newspapers they tried him with! Every Sunday morning Ethel +would read aloud while Ma Parker did her washing. + +"Dear Sir,--Just a line to let you know my little Myrtil was laid out for +dead...After four bottils...gained 8 lbs. in 9 weeks, and is still putting +it on." + +And then the egg-cup of ink would come off the dresser and the letter would +be written, and Ma would buy a postal order on her way to work next +morning. But it was no use. Nothing made little Lennie put it on. Taking +him to the cemetery, even, never gave him a colour; a nice shake-up in the +bus never improved his appetite. + +But he was gran's boy from the first... + +"Whose boy are you?" said old Ma Parker, straightening up from the stove +and going over to the smudgy window. And a little voice, so warm, so +close, it half stifled her--it seemed to be in her breast under her heart-- +laughed out, and said, "I'm gran's boy!" + +At that moment there was a sound of steps, and the literary gentleman +appeared, dressed for walking. + +"Oh, Mrs. Parker, I'm going out." + +"Very good, sir." + +"And you'll find your half-crown in the tray of the inkstand." + +"Thank you, sir." + +"Oh, by the way, Mrs. Parker," said the literary gentleman quickly, "you +didn't throw away any cocoa last time you were here--did you?" + +"No, sir." +"Very strange. I could have sworn I left a teaspoonful of cocoa in the +tin." He broke off. He said softly and firmly, "You'll always tell me +when you throw things away--won't you, Mrs. Parker?" And he walked off +very well pleased with himself, convinced, in fact, he'd shown Mrs. Parker +that under his apparent carelessness he was as vigilant as a woman. + +The door banged. She took her brushes and cloths into the bedroom. But +when she began to make the bed, smoothing, tucking, patting, the thought of +little Lennie was unbearable. Why did he have to suffer so? That's what +she couldn't understand. Why should a little angel child have to arsk for +his breath and fight for it? There was no sense in making a child suffer +like that. + +...From Lennie's little box of a chest there came a sound as though +something was boiling. There was a great lump of something bubbling in his +chest that he couldn't get rid of. When he coughed the sweat sprang out on +his head; his eyes bulged, his hands waved, and the great lump bubbled as a +potato knocks in a saucepan. But what was more awful than all was when he +didn't cough he sat against the pillow and never spoke or answered, or even +made as if he heard. Only he looked offended. + +"It's not your poor old gran's doing it, my lovey," said old Ma Parker, +patting back the damp hair from his little scarlet ears. But Lennie moved +his head and edged away. Dreadfully offended with her he looked--and +solemn. He bent his head and looked at her sideways as though he couldn't +have believed it of his gran. + +But at the last...Ma Parker threw the counterpane over the bed. No, she +simply couldn't think about it. It was too much--she'd had too much in her +life to bear. She'd borne it up till now, she'd kept herself to herself, +and never once had she been seen to cry. Never by a living soul. Not even +her own children had seen Ma break down. She'd kept a proud face always. +But now! Lennie gone--what had she? She had nothing. He was all she'd +got from life, and now he was took too. Why must it all have happened to +me? she wondered. "What have I done?" said old Ma Parker. "What have I +done?" + +As she said those words she suddenly let fall her brush. She found herself +in the kitchen. Her misery was so terrible that she pinned on her hat, put +on her jacket and walked out of the flat like a person in a dream. She did +not know what she was doing. She was like a person so dazed by the horror +of what has happened that he walks away--anywhere, as though by walking +away he could escape... + +It was cold in the street. There was a wind like ice. People went +flitting by, very fast; the men walked like scissors; the women trod like +cats. And nobody knew--nobody cared. Even if she broke down, if at last, +after all these years, she were to cry, she'd find herself in the lock-up +as like as not. + +But at the thought of crying it was as though little Lennie leapt in his +gran's arms. Ah, that's what she wants to do, my dove. Gran wants to cry. +If she could only cry now, cry for a long time, over everything, beginning +with her first place and the cruel cook, going on to the doctor's, and then +the seven little ones, death of her husband, the children's leaving her, +and all the years of misery that led up to Lennie. But to have a proper +cry over all these things would take a long time. All the same, the time +for it had come. She must do it. She couldn't put it off any longer; she +couldn't wait any more...Where could she go? + +"She's had a hard life, has Ma Parker." Yes, a hard life, indeed! Her +chin began to tremble; there was no time to lose. But where? Where? + +She couldn't go home; Ethel was there. It would frighten Ethel out of her +life. She couldn't sit on a bench anywhere; people would come arsking her +questions. She couldn't possibly go back to the gentleman's flat; she had +no right to cry in strangers' houses. If she sat on some steps a policeman +would speak to her. + +Oh, wasn't there anywhere where she could hide and keep herself to herself +and stay as long as she liked, not disturbing anybody, and nobody worrying +her? Wasn't there anywhere in the world where she could have her cry out-- +at last? + +Ma Parker stood, looking up and down. The icy wind blew out her apron into +a balloon. And now it began to rain. There was nowhere. + + + +7. MARRIAGE A LA MODE. + +On his way to the station William remembered with a fresh pang of +disappointment that he was taking nothing down to the kiddies. Poor little +chaps! It was hard lines on them. Their first words always were as they +ran to greet him, "What have you got for me, daddy?" and he had nothing. +He would have to buy them some sweets at the station. But that was what he +had done for the past four Saturdays; their faces had fallen last time when +they saw the same old boxes produced again. + +And Paddy had said, "I had red ribbing on mine bee-fore!" + +And Johnny had said, "It's always pink on mine. I hate pink." + +But what was William to do? The affair wasn't so easily settled. In the +old days, of course, he would have taken a taxi off to a decent toyshop and +chosen them something in five minutes. But nowadays they had Russian toys, +French toys, Serbian toys--toys from God knows where. It was over a year +since Isabel had scrapped the old donkeys and engines and so on because +they were so "dreadfully sentimental" and "so appallingly bad for the +babies' sense of form." + +"It's so important," the new Isabel had explained, "that they should like +the right things from the very beginning. It saves so much time later on. +Really, if the poor pets have to spend their infant years staring at these +horrors, one can imagine them growing up and asking to be taken to the +Royal Academy." + +And she spoke as though a visit to the Royal Academy was certain immediate +death to any one... + +"Well, I don't know," said William slowly. "When I was their age I used to +go to bed hugging an old towel with a knot in it." + +The new Isabel looked at him, her eyes narrowed, her lips apart. + +"Dear William! I'm sure you did!" She laughed in the new way. + +Sweets it would have to be, however, thought William gloomily, fishing in +his pocket for change for the taxi-man. And he saw the kiddies handing the +boxes round--they were awfully generous little chaps--while Isabel's +precious friends didn't hesitate to help themselves... + +What about fruit? William hovered before a stall just inside the station. +What about a melon each? Would they have to share that, too? Or a +pineapple, for Pad, and a melon for Johnny? Isabel's friends could hardly +go sneaking up to the nursery at the children's meal-times. All the same, +as he bought the melon William had a horrible vision of one of Isabel's +young poets lapping up a slice, for some reason, behind the nursery door. + +With his two very awkward parcels he strode off to his train. The platform +was crowded, the train was in. Doors banged open and shut. There came +such a loud hissing from the engine that people looked dazed as they +scurried to and fro. William made straight for a first-class smoker, +stowed away his suit-case and parcels, and taking a huge wad of papers out +of his inner pocket, he flung down in the corner and began to read. + +"Our client moreover is positive...We are inclined to reconsider...in the +event of--" Ah, that was better. William pressed back his flattened hair +and stretched his legs across the carriage floor. The familiar dull +gnawing in his breast quietened down. "With regard to our decision--" He +took out a blue pencil and scored a paragraph slowly. + +Two men came in, stepped across him, and made for the farther corner. A +young fellow swung his golf clubs into the rack and sat down opposite. The +train gave a gentle lurch, they were off. William glanced up and saw the +hot, bright station slipping away. A red-faced girl raced along by the +carriages, there was something strained and almost desperate in the way she +waved and called. "Hysterical!" thought William dully. Then a greasy, +black-faced workman at the end of the platform grinned at the passing +train. And William thought, "A filthy life!" and went back to his papers. + +When he looked up again there were fields, and beasts standing for shelter +under the dark trees. A wide river, with naked children splashing in the +shallows, glided into sight and was gone again. The sky shone pale, and +one bird drifted high like a dark fleck in a jewel. + +"We have examined our client's correspondence files..." The last sentence +he had read echoed in his mind. "We have examined ..." William hung on to +that sentence, but it was no good; it snapped in the middle, and the +fields, the sky, the sailing bird, the water, all said, "Isabel." The same +thing happened every Saturday afternoon. When he was on his way to meet +Isabel there began those countless imaginary meetings. She was at the +station, standing just a little apart from everybody else; she was sitting +in the open taxi outside; she was at the garden gate; walking across the +parched grass; at the door, or just inside the hall. + +And her clear, light voice said, "It's William," or "Hillo, William!" or +"So William has come!" He touched her cool hand, her cool cheek. + +The exquisite freshness of Isabel! When he had been a little boy, it was +his delight to run into the garden after a shower of rain and shake the +rose-bush over him. Isabel was that rose-bush, petal-soft, sparkling and +cool. And he was still that little boy. But there was no running into the +garden now, no laughing and shaking. The dull, persistent gnawing in his +breast started again. He drew up his legs, tossed the papers aside, and +shut his eyes. + +"What is it, Isabel? What is it?" he said tenderly. They were in their +bedroom in the new house. Isabel sat on a painted stool before the +dressing-table that was strewn with little black and green boxes. + +"What is what, William?" And she bent forward, and her fine light hair +fell over her cheeks. + +"Ah, you know!" He stood in the middle of the room and he felt a stranger. +At that Isabel wheeled round quickly and faced him. + +"Oh, William!" she cried imploringly, and she held up the hair-brush: +"Please! Please don't be so dreadfully stuffy and--tragic. You're always +saying or looking or hinting that I've changed. Just because I've got to +know really congenial people, and go about more, and am frightfully keen +on--on everything, you behave as though I'd--" Isabel tossed back her hair +and laughed--"killed our love or something. It's so awfully absurd"--she +bit her lip--"and it's so maddening, William. Even this new house and the +servants you grudge me." + +"Isabel!" + +"Yes, yes, it's true in a way," said Isabel quickly. "You think they are +another bad sign. Oh, I know you do. I feel it," she said softly, "every +time you come up the stairs. But we couldn't have gone on living in that +other poky little hole, William. Be practical, at least! Why, there +wasn't enough room for the babies even." + +No, it was true. Every morning when he came back from chambers it was to +find the babies with Isabel in the back drawing-room. They were having +rides on the leopard skin thrown over the sofa back, or they were playing +shops with Isabel's desk for a counter, or Pad was sitting on the hearthrug +rowing away for dear life with a little brass fire shovel, while Johnny +shot at pirates with the tongs. Every evening they each had a pick-a-back +up the narrow stairs to their fat old Nanny. + +Yes, he supposed it was a poky little house. A little white house with +blue curtains and a window-box of petunias. William met their friends at +the door with "Seen our petunias? Pretty terrific for London, don't you +think?" + +But the imbecile thing, the absolutely extraordinary thing was that he +hadn't the slightest idea that Isabel wasn't as happy as he. God, what +blindness! He hadn't the remotest notion in those days that she really +hated that inconvenient little house, that she thought the fat Nanny was +ruining the babies, that she was desperately lonely, pining for new people +and new music and pictures and so on. If they hadn't gone to that studio +party at Moira Morrison's--if Moira Morrison hadn't said as they were +leaving, "I'm going to rescue your wife, selfish man. She's like an +exquisite little Titania"--if Isabel hadn't gone with Moira to Paris--if-- +if... + +The train stopped at another station. Bettingford. Good heavens! They'd +be there in ten minutes. William stuffed that papers back into his +pockets; the young man opposite had long since disappeared. Now the other +two got out. The late afternoon sun shone on women in cotton frocks and +little sunburnt, barefoot children. It blazed on a silky yellow flower +with coarse leaves which sprawled over a bank of rock. The air ruffling +through the window smelled of the sea. Had Isabel the same crowd with her +this week-end, wondered William? + +And he remembered the holidays they used to have, the four of them, with a +little farm girl, Rose, to look after the babies. Isabel wore a jersey and +her hair in a plait; she looked about fourteen. Lord! how his nose used to +peel! And the amount they ate, and the amount they slept in that immense +feather bed with their feet locked together...William couldn't help a grim +smile as he thought of Isabel's horror if she knew the full extent of his +sentimentality. + +... + +"Hillo, William!" She was at the station after all, standing just as he +had imagined, apart from the others, and--William's heart leapt--she was +alone. + +"Hallo, Isabel!" William stared. He thought she looked so beautiful that +he had to say something, "You look very cool." + +"Do I?" said Isabel. "I don't feel very cool. Come along, your horrid old +train is late. The taxi's outside." She put her hand lightly on his arm +as they passed the ticket collector. "We've all come to meet you," she +said. "But we've left Bobby Kane at the sweet shop, to be called for." + +"Oh!" said William. It was all he could say for the moment. + +There in the glare waited the taxi, with Bill Hunt and Dennis Green +sprawling on one side, their hats tilted over their faces, while on the +other, Moira Morrison, in a bonnet like a huge strawberry, jumped up and +down. + +"No ice! No ice! No ice!" she shouted gaily. + +And Dennis chimed in from under his hat. "Only to be had from the +fishmonger's." + +And Bill Hunt, emerging, added, "With whole fish in it." + +"Oh, what a bore!" wailed Isabel. And she explained to William how they +had been chasing round the town for ice while she waited for him. "Simply +everything is running down the steep cliffs into the sea, beginning with +the butter." + +"We shall have to anoint ourselves with butter," said Dennis. "May thy +head, William, lack not ointment." + +"Look here," said William, "how are we going to sit? I'd better get up by +the driver." + +"No, Bobby Kane's by the driver," said Isabel. "You're to sit between +Moira and me." The taxi started. "What have you got in those mysterious +parcels?" + +"De-cap-it-ated heads!" said Bill Hunt, shuddering beneath his hat. + +"Oh, fruit!" Isabel sounded very pleased. "Wise William! A melon and a +pineapple. How too nice!" + +"No, wait a bit," said William, smiling. But he really was anxious. "I +brought them down for the kiddies." + +"Oh, my dear!" Isabel laughed, and slipped her hand through his arm. +"They'd be rolling in agonies if they were to eat them. No"--she patted +his hand--"you must bring them something next time. I refuse to part with +my pineapple." + +"Cruel Isabel! Do let me smell it!" said Moira. She flung her arms across +William appealingly. "Oh!" The strawberry bonnet fell forward: she +sounded quite faint. + +"A Lady in Love with a Pineapple," said Dennis, as the taxi drew up before +a little shop with a striped blind. Out came Bobby Kane, his arms full of +little packets. + +"I do hope they'll be good. I've chosen them because of the colours. +There are some round things which really look too divine. And just look at +this nougat," he cried ecstatically, "just look at it! It's a perfect +little ballet." + +But at that moment the shopman appeared. "Oh, I forgot. They're none of +them paid for," said Bobby, looking frightened. Isabel gave the shopman a +note, and Bobby was radiant again. "Hallo, William! I'm sitting by the +driver." And bareheaded, all in white, with his sleeves rolled up to the +shoulders, he leapt into his place. "Avanti!" he cried... + +After tea the others went off to bathe, while William stayed and made his +peace with the kiddies. But Johnny and Paddy were asleep, the rose-red +glow had paled, bats were flying, and still the bathers had not returned. +As William wandered downstairs, the maid crossed the hall carrying a lamp. +He followed her into the sitting-room. It was a long room, coloured +yellow. On the wall opposite William some one had painted a young man, +over life-size, with very wobbly legs, offering a wide-eyed daisy to a +young woman who had one very short arm and one very long, thin one. Over +the chairs and sofa there hung strips of black material, covered with big +splashes like broken eggs, and everywhere one looked there seemed to be an +ash-tray full of cigarette ends. William sat down in one of the arm- +chairs. Nowadays, when one felt with one hand down the sides, it wasn't to +come upon a sheep with three legs or a cow that had lost one horn, or a +very fat dove out of the Noah's Ark. One fished up yet another little +paper-covered book of smudged-looking poems...He thought of the wad of +papers in his pocket, but he was too hungry and tired to read. The door +was open; sounds came from the kitchen. The servants were talking as if +they were alone in the house. Suddenly there came a loud screech of +laughter and an equally loud "Sh!" They had remembered him. William got +up and went through the French windows into the garden, and as he stood +there in the shadow he heard the bathers coming up the sandy road; their +voices rang through the quiet. + +"I think its up to Moira to use her little arts and wiles." + +A tragic moan from Moira. + +"We ought to have a gramophone for the weekends that played 'The Maid of +the Mountains.'" + +"Oh no! Oh no!" cried Isabel's voice. "That's not fair to William. Be +nice to him, my children! He's only staying until to-morrow evening." + +"Leave him to me," cried Bobby Kane. "I'm awfully good at looking after +people." + +The gate swung open and shut. William moved on the terrace; they had seen +him. "Hallo, William!" And Bobby Kane, flapping his towel, began to leap +and pirouette on the parched lawn. "Pity you didn't come, William. The +water was divine. And we all went to a little pub afterwards and had sloe +gin." + +The others had reached the house. "I say, Isabel," called Bobby, "would +you like me to wear my Nijinsky dress to-night?" + +"No," said Isabel, "nobody's going to dress. We're all starving. +William's starving, too. Come along, mes amis, let's begin with sardines." + +"I've found the sardines," said Moira, and she ran into the hall, holding a +box high in the air. + +"A Lady with a Box of Sardines," said Dennis gravely. + +"Well, William, and how's London?" asked Bill Hunt, drawing the cork out of +a bottle of whisky. + +"Oh, London's not much changed," answered William. + +"Good old London," said Bobby, very hearty, spearing a sardine. + +But a moment later William was forgotten. Moira Morrison began wondering +what colour one's legs really were under water. + +"Mine are the palest, palest mushroom colour." + +Bill and Dennis ate enormously. And Isabel filled glasses, and changed +plates, and found matches, smiling blissfully. At one moment, she said, "I +do wish, Bill, you'd paint it." + +"Paint what?" said Bill loudly, stuffing his mouth with bread. + +"Us," said Isabel, "round the table. It would be so fascinating in twenty +years' time." + +Bill screwed up his eyes and chewed. "Light's wrong," he said rudely, "far +too much yellow"; and went on eating. And that seemed to charm Isabel, +too. + +But after supper they were all so tired they could do nothing but yawn +until it was late enough to go to bed... + +It was not until William was waiting for his taxi the next afternoon that +he found himself alone with Isabel. When he brought his suit-case down +into the hall, Isabel left the others and went over to him. She stooped +down and picked up the suit-case. "What a weight!" she said, and she gave +a little awkward laugh. "Let me carry it! To the gate." + +"No, why should you?" said William. "Of course, not. Give it to me." + +"Oh, please, do let me," said Isabel. "I want to, really." They walked +together silently. William felt there was nothing to say now. + +"There," said Isabel triumphantly, setting the suit-case down, and she +looked anxiously along the sandy road. "I hardly seem to have seen you +this time," she said breathlessly. "It's so short, isn't it? I feel +you've only just come. Next time--" The taxi came into sight. "I hope +they look after you properly in London. I'm so sorry the babies have been +out all day, but Miss Neil had arranged it. They'll hate missing you. +Poor William, going back to London." The taxi turned. "Good-bye!" She +gave him a little hurried kiss; she was gone. + +Fields, trees, hedges streamed by. They shook through the empty, blind- +looking little town, ground up the steep pull to the station. + +The train was in. William made straight for a first-class smoker, flung +back into the corner, but this time he let the papers alone. He folded his +arms against the dull, persistent gnawing, and began in his mind to write a +letter to Isabel. + +... + +The post was late as usual. They sat outside the house in long chairs +under coloured parasols. Only Bobby Kane lay on the turf at Isabel's feet. +It was dull, stifling; the day drooped like a flag. + +"Do you think there will be Mondays in Heaven?" asked Bobby childishly. + +And Dennis murmured, "Heaven will be one long Monday." + +But Isabel couldn't help wondering what had happened to the salmon they had +for supper last night. She had meant to have fish mayonnaise for lunch and +now... + +Moira was asleep. Sleeping was her latest discovery. "It's so wonderful. +One simply shuts one's eyes, that's all. It's so delicious." + +When the old ruddy postman came beating along the sandy road on his +tricycle one felt the handle-bars ought to have been oars. + +Bill Hunt put down his book. "Letters," he said complacently, and they all +waited. But, heartless postman--O malignant world! There was only one, a +fat one for Isabel. Not even a paper. + +"And mine's only from William," said Isabel mournfully. + +"From William--already?" + +"He's sending you back your marriage lines as a gentle reminder." + +"Does everybody have marriage lines? I thought they were only for +servants." + +"Pages and pages! Look at her! A Lady reading a Letter," said Dennis. + +"My darling, precious Isabel." Pages and pages there were. As Isabel read +on her feeling of astonishment changed to a stifled feeling. What on earth +had induced William ...? How extraordinary it was...What could have made +him ...? She felt confused, more and more excited, even frightened. It +was just like William. Was it? It was absurd, of course, it must be +absurd, ridiculous. "Ha, ha, ha! Oh dear!" What was she to do? Isabel +flung back in her chair and laughed till she couldn't stop laughing. + +"Do, do tell us," said the others. "You must tell us." + +"I'm longing to," gurgled Isabel. She sat up, gathered the letter, and +waved it at them. "Gather round," she said. "Listen, it's too marvellous. +A love-letter!" + +"A love-letter! But how divine!" "Darling, precious Isabel." But she had +hardly begun before their laughter interrupted her. + +"Go on, Isabel, it's perfect." + +"It's the most marvellous find." + +"Oh, do go on, Isabel!" + +"God forbid, my darling, that I should be a drag on your happiness." + +"Oh! oh! oh!" + +"Sh! sh! sh!" + +And Isabel went on. When she reached the end they were hysterical: Bobby +rolled on the turf and almost sobbed. + +"You must let me have it just as it is, entire, for my new book," said +Dennis firmly. "I shall give it a whole chapter." + +"Oh, Isabel," moaned Moira, "that wonderful bit about holding you in his +arms!" + +"I always thought those letters in divorce cases were made up. But they +pale before this." + +"Let me hold it. Let me read it, mine own self," said Bobby Kane. + +But, to their surprise, Isabel crushed the letter in her hand. She was +laughing no longer. She glanced quickly at them all; she looked exhausted. +"No, not just now. Not just now," she stammered. + +And before they could recover she had run into the house, through the hall, +up the stairs into her bedroom. Down she sat on the side of the bed. "How +vile, odious, abominable, vulgar," muttered Isabel. She pressed her eyes +with her knuckles and rocked to and fro. And again she saw them, but not +four, more like forty, laughing, sneering, jeering, stretching out their +hands while she read them William's letter. Oh, what a loathsome thing to +have done. How could she have done it! "God forbid, my darling, that I +should be a drag on your happiness." William! Isabel pressed her face +into the pillow. But she felt that even the grave bedroom knew her for +what she was, shallow, tinkling, vain... + +Presently from the garden below there came voices. + +"Isabel, we're all going for a bathe. Do come!" + +"Come, thou wife of William!" + +"Call her once before you go, call once yet!" + +Isabel sat up. Now was the moment, now she must decide. Would she go with +them, or stay here and write to William. Which, which should it be? "I +must make up my mind." Oh, but how could there be any question? Of course +she would stay here and write. + +"Titania!" piped Moira. + +"Isa-bel?" + +No, it was too difficult. "I'll--I'll go with them, and write to William +later. Some other time. Later. Not now. But I shall certainly write," +thought Isabel hurriedly. + +And, laughing, in the new way, she ran down the stairs. + + + +8. THE VOYAGE. + +The Picton boat was due to leave at half-past eleven. It was a beautiful +night, mild, starry, only when they got out of the cab and started to walk +down the Old Wharf that jutted out into the harbour, a faint wind blowing +off the water ruffled under Fenella's hat, and she put up her hand to keep +it on. It was dark on the Old Wharf, very dark; the wool sheds, the cattle +trucks, the cranes standing up so high, the little squat railway engine, +all seemed carved out of solid darkness. Here and there on a rounded wood- +pile, that was like the stalk of a huge black mushroom, there hung a +lantern, but it seemed afraid to unfurl its timid, quivering light in all +that blackness; it burned softly, as if for itself. + +Fenella's father pushed on with quick, nervous strides. Beside him her +grandma bustled along in her crackling black ulster; they went so fast that +she had now and again to give an undignified little skip to keep up with +them. As well as her luggage strapped into a neat sausage, Fenella carried +clasped to her her grandma's umbrella, and the handle, which was a swan's +head, kept giving her shoulder a sharp little peck as if it too wanted her +to hurry...Men, their caps pulled down, their collars turned up, swung by; +a few women all muffled scurried along; and one tiny boy, only his little +black arms and legs showing out of a white woolly shawl, was jerked along +angrily between his father and mother; he looked like a baby fly that had +fallen into the cream. + +Then suddenly, so suddenly that Fenella and her grandma both leapt, there +sounded from behind the largest wool shed, that had a trail of smoke +hanging over it, "Mia-oo-oo-O-O!" + +"First whistle," said her father briefly, and at that moment they came in +sight of the Picton boat. Lying beside the dark wharf, all strung, all +beaded with round golden lights, the Picton boat looked as if she was more +ready to sail among stars than out into the cold sea. People pressed along +the gangway. First went her grandma, then her father, then Fenella. There +was a high step down on to the deck, and an old sailor in a jersey standing +by gave her his dry, hard hand. They were there; they stepped out of the +way of the hurrying people, and standing under a little iron stairway that +led to the upper deck they began to say good-bye. + +"There, mother, there's your luggage!" said Fenella's father, giving +grandma another strapped-up sausage. + +"Thank you, Frank." + +"And you've got your cabin tickets safe?" + +"Yes, dear." + +"And your other tickets?" + +Grandma felt for them inside her glove and showed him the tips. + +"That's right." + +He sounded stern, but Fenella, eagerly watching him, saw that he looked +tired and sad. "Mia-oo-oo-O-O!" The second whistle blared just above +their heads, and a voice like a cry shouted, "Any more for the gangway?" + +"You'll give my love to father," Fenella saw her father's lips say. And +her grandma, very agitated, answered, "Of course I will, dear. Go now. +You'll be left. Go now, Frank. Go now." + +"It's all right, mother. I've got another three minutes." To her surprise +Fenella saw her father take off his hat. He clasped grandma in his arms +and pressed her to him. "God bless you, mother!" she heard him say. + +And grandma put her hand, with the black thread glove that was worn through +on her ring finger, against his cheek, and she sobbed, "God bless you, my +own brave son!" + +This was so awful that Fenella quickly turned her back on them, swallowed +once, twice, and frowned terribly at a little green star on a mast head. +But she had to turn round again; her father was going. + +"Good-bye, Fenella. Be a good girl." His cold, wet moustache brushed her +cheek. But Fenella caught hold of the lapels of his coat. + +"How long am I going to stay?" she whispered anxiously. He wouldn't look +at her. He shook her off gently, and gently said, "We'll see about that. +Here! Where's your hand?" He pressed something into her palm. "Here's a +shilling in case you should need it." + +A shilling! She must be going away for ever! "Father!" cried Fenella. +But he was gone. He was the last off the ship. The sailors put their +shoulders to the gangway. A huge coil of dark rope went flying through the +air and fell "thump" on the wharf. A bell rang; a whistle shrilled. +Silently the dark wharf began to slip, to slide, to edge away from them. +Now there was a rush of water between. Fenella strained to see with all +her might. "Was that father turning round?"--or waving?--or standing +alone?--or walking off by himself? The strip of water grew broader, +darker. Now the Picton boat began to swing round steady, pointing out to +sea. It was no good looking any longer. There was nothing to be seen but +a few lights, the face of the town clock hanging in the air, and more +lights, little patches of them, on the dark hills. + +The freshening wind tugged at Fenella's skirts; she went back to her +grandma. To her relief grandma seemed no longer sad. She had put the two +sausages of luggage one on top of the other, and she was sitting on them, +her hands folded, her head a little on one side. There was an intent, +bright look on her face. Then Fenella saw that her lips were moving and +guessed that she was praying. But the old woman gave her a bright nod as +if to say the prayer was nearly over. She unclasped her hands, sighed, +clasped them again, bent forward, and at last gave herself a soft shake. + +"And now, child," she said, fingering the bow of her bonnet-strings, "I +think we ought to see about our cabins. Keep close to me, and mind you +don't slip." + +"Yes, grandma!" + +"And be careful the umbrellas aren't caught in the stair rail. I saw a +beautiful umbrella broken in half like that on my way over." + +"Yes, grandma." + +Dark figures of men lounged against the rails. In the glow of their pipes +a nose shone out, or the peak of a cap, or a pair of surprised-looking +eyebrows. Fenella glanced up. High in the air, a little figure, his hands +thrust in his short jacket pockets, stood staring out to sea. The ship +rocked ever so little, and she thought the stars rocked too. And now a +pale steward in a linen coat, holding a tray high in the palm of his hand, +stepped out of a lighted doorway and skimmed past them. They went through +that doorway. Carefully over the high brass-bound step on to the rubber +mat and then down such a terribly steep flight of stairs that grandma had +to put both feet on each step, and Fenella clutched the clammy brass rail +and forgot all about the swan-necked umbrella. + +At the bottom grandma stopped; Fenella was rather afraid she was going to +pray again. But no, it was only to get out the cabin tickets. They were +in the saloon. It was glaring bright and stifling; the air smelled of +paint and burnt chop-bones and 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 watering- +can on the other. + +"Tut! tut! Your grandpa," said grandma. She turned the handle. Not a +sound. She called, "Walter!" And immediately a deep voice that sounded +half stifled called back, "Is that you, Mary?" + +"Wait, dear," said grandma. "Go in there." She pushed Fenella gently into +a small dusky sitting-room. + +On the table a white cat, that had been folded up like a camel, rose, +stretched itself, yawned, and then sprang on to the tips of its toes. +Fenella buried one cold little hand in the white, warm fur, and smiled +timidly while she stroked and listened to grandma's gentle voice and the +rolling tones of grandpa. + +A door creaked. "Come in, dear." The old woman beckoned, Fenella +followed. There, lying to one side on an immense bed, lay grandpa. Just +his head with a white tuft and his rosy face and long silver beard showed +over the quilt. He was like a very old wide-awake bird. + +"Well, my girl!" said grandpa. "Give us a kiss!" Fenella kissed him. +"Ugh!" said grandpa. "Her little nose is as cold as a button. What's that +she's holding? Her grandma's umbrella?" + +Fenella smiled again, and crooked the swan neck over the bed-rail. Above +the bed there was a big text in a deep black frame:-- + +"Lost! One Golden Hour + Set with Sixty Diamond Minutes. + No Reward Is Offered + For It Is Gone For Ever!" + +"Yer grandma painted that," said grandpa. And he ruffled his white tuft +and looked at Fenella so merrily she almost thought he winked at her. + + + +9. MISS BRILL. + +Although it was so brilliantly fine--the blue sky powdered with gold and +great spots of light like white wine splashed over the Jardins Publiques-- +Miss Brill was glad that she had decided on her fur. The air was +motionless, but when you opened your mouth there was just a faint chill, +like a chill from a glass of iced water before you sip, and now and again a +leaf came drifting--from nowhere, from the sky. Miss Brill put up her hand +and touched her fur. Dear little thing! It was nice to feel it again. +She had taken it out of its box that afternoon, shaken out the moth-powder, +given it a good brush, and rubbed the life back into the dim little eyes. +"What has been happening to me?" said the sad little eyes. Oh, how sweet +it was to see them snap at her again from the red eiderdown!...But the +nose, which was of some black composition, wasn't at all firm. It must +have had a knock, somehow. Never mind--a little dab of black sealing-wax +when the time came--when it was absolutely necessary...Little rogue! Yes, +she really felt like that about it. Little rogue biting its tail just by +her left ear. She could have taken it off and laid it on her lap and +stroked it. She felt a tingling in her hands and arms, but that came from +walking, she supposed. And when she breathed, something light and sad--no, +not sad, exactly--something gentle seemed to move in her bosom. + +There were a number of people out this afternoon, far more than last +Sunday. And the band sounded louder and gayer. That was because the +Season had begun. For although the band played all the year round on +Sundays, out of season it was never the same. It was like some one playing +with only the family to listen; it didn't care how it played if there +weren't any strangers present. Wasn't the conductor wearing a new coat, +too? She was sure it was new. He scraped with his foot and flapped his +arms like a rooster about to crow, and the bandsmen sitting in the green +rotunda blew out their cheeks and glared at the music. Now there came a +little "flutey" bit--very pretty!--a little chain of bright drops. She was +sure it would be repeated. It was; she lifted her head and smiled. + +Only two people shared her "special" seat: a fine old man in a velvet +coat, his hands clasped over a huge carved walking-stick, and a big old +woman, sitting upright, with a roll of knitting on her embroidered apron. +They did not speak. This was disappointing, for Miss Brill always looked +forward to the conversation. She had become really quite expert, she +thought, at listening as though she didn't listen, at sitting in other +people's lives just for a minute while they talked round her. + +She glanced, sideways, at the old couple. Perhaps they would go soon. +Last Sunday, too, hadn't been as interesting as usual. An Englishman and +his wife, he wearing a dreadful Panama hat and she button boots. And she'd +gone on the whole time about how she ought to wear spectacles; she knew she +needed them; but that it was no good getting any; they'd be sure to break +and they'd never keep on. And he'd been so patient. He'd suggested +everything--gold rims, the kind that curved round your ears, little pads +inside the bridge. No, nothing would please her. "They'll always be +sliding down my nose!" Miss Brill had wanted to shake her. + +The old people sat on the bench, still as statues. Never mind, there was +always the crowd to watch. To and fro, in front of the flower-beds and the +band rotunda, the couples and groups paraded, stopped to talk, to greet, to +buy a handful of flowers from the old beggar who had his tray fixed to the +railings. Little children ran among them, swooping and laughing; little +boys with big white silk bows under their chins, little girls, little +French dolls, dressed up in velvet and lace. And sometimes a tiny +staggerer came suddenly rocking into the open from under the trees, +stopped, stared, as suddenly sat down "flop," until its small high-stepping +mother, like a young hen, rushed scolding to its rescue. Other people sat +on the benches and green chairs, but they were nearly always the same, +Sunday after Sunday, and--Miss Brill had often noticed--there was something +funny about nearly all of them. They were odd, silent, nearly all old, and +from the way they stared they looked as though they'd just come from dark +little rooms or even--even cupboards! + +Behind the rotunda the slender trees with yellow leaves down drooping, and +through them just a line of sea, and beyond the blue sky with gold-veined +clouds. + +Tum-tum-tum tiddle-um! tiddle-um! tum tiddley-um tum ta! blew the band. + +Two young girls in red came by and two young soldiers in blue met them, and +they laughed and paired and went off arm-in-arm. Two peasant women with +funny straw hats passed, gravely, leading beautiful smoke-coloured donkeys. +A cold, pale nun hurried by. A beautiful woman came along and dropped her +bunch of violets, and a little boy ran after to hand them to her, and she +took them and threw them away as if they'd been poisoned. Dear me! Miss +Brill didn't know whether to admire that or not! And now an ermine toque +and a gentleman in grey met just in front of her. He was tall, stiff, +dignified, and she was wearing the ermine toque she'd bought when her hair +was yellow. Now everything, her hair, her face, even her eyes, was the +same colour as the shabby ermine, and her hand, in its cleaned glove, +lifted to dab her lips, was a tiny yellowish paw. Oh, she was so pleased +to see him--delighted! She rather thought they were going to meet that +afternoon. She described where she'd been--everywhere, here, there, along +by the sea. The day was so charming--didn't he agree? And wouldn't he, +perhaps?...But he shook his head, lighted a cigarette, slowly breathed a +great deep puff into her face, and even while she was still talking and +laughing, flicked the match away and walked on. The ermine toque was +alone; she smiled more brightly than ever. But even the band seemed to +know what she was feeling and played more softly, played tenderly, and the +drum beat, "The Brute! The Brute!" over and over. What would she do? +What was going to happen now? But as Miss Brill wondered, the ermine toque +turned, raised her hand as though she'd seen some one else, much nicer, +just over there, and pattered away. And the band changed again and played +more quickly, more gayly than ever, and the old couple on Miss Brill's seat +got up and marched away, and such a funny old man with long whiskers +hobbled along in time to the music and was nearly knocked over by four +girls walking abreast. + +Oh, how fascinating it was! How she enjoyed it! How she loved sitting +here, watching it all! It was like a play. It was exactly like a play. +Who could believe the sky at the back wasn't painted? But it wasn't till a +little brown dog trotted on solemn and then slowly trotted off, like a +little "theatre" dog, a little dog that had been drugged, that Miss Brill +discovered what it was that made it so exciting. They were all on the +stage. They weren't only the audience, not only looking on; they were +acting. Even she had a part and came every Sunday. No doubt somebody +would have noticed if she hadn't been there; she was part of the +performance after all. How strange she'd never thought of it like that +before! And yet it explained why she made such a point of starting from +home at just the same time each week--so as not to be late for the +performance--and it also explained why she had quite a queer, shy feeling +at telling her English pupils how she spent her Sunday afternoons. No +wonder! Miss Brill nearly laughed out loud. She was on the stage. She +thought of the old invalid gentleman to whom she read the newspaper four +afternoons a week while he slept in the garden. She had got quite used to +the frail head on the cotton pillow, the hollowed eyes, the open mouth and +the high pinched nose. If he'd been dead she mightn't have noticed for +weeks; she wouldn't have minded. But suddenly he knew he was having the +paper read to him by an actress! "An actress!" The old head lifted; two +points of light quivered in the old eyes. "An actress--are ye?" And Miss +Brill smoothed the newspaper as though it were the manuscript of her part +and said gently; "Yes, I have been an actress for a long time." + +The band had been having a rest. Now they started again. And what they +played was warm, sunny, yet there was just a faint chill--a something, what +was it?--not sadness--no, not sadness--a something that made you want to +sing. The tune lifted, lifted, the light shone; and it seemed to Miss +Brill that in another moment all of them, all the whole company, would +begin singing. The young ones, the laughing ones who were moving together, +they would begin, and the men's voices, very resolute and brave, would join +them. And then she too, she too, and the others on the benches--they would +come in with a kind of accompaniment--something low, that scarcely rose or +fell, something so beautiful--moving...And Miss Brill's eyes filled with +tears and she looked smiling at all the other members of the company. Yes, +we understand, we understand, she thought--though what they understood she +didn't know. + +Just at that moment a boy and girl came and sat down where the old couple +had been. They were beautifully dressed; they were in love. The hero and +heroine, of course, just arrived from his father's yacht. And still +soundlessly singing, still with that trembling smile, Miss Brill prepared +to listen. + +"No, not now," said the girl. "Not here, I can't." + +"But why? Because of that stupid old thing at the end there?" asked the +boy. "Why does she come here at all--who wants her? Why doesn't she keep +her silly old mug at home?" + +"It's her fu-ur which is so funny," giggled the girl. "It's exactly like a +fried whiting." + +"Ah, be off with you!" said the boy in an angry whisper. Then: "Tell me, +ma petite chere--" + +"No, not here," said the girl. "Not yet." + +... + +On her way home she usually bought a slice of honey-cake at the baker's. +It was her Sunday treat. Sometimes there was an almond in her slice, +sometimes not. It made a great difference. If there was an almond it was +like carrying home a tiny present--a surprise--something that might very +well not have been there. She hurried on the almond Sundays and struck the +match for the kettle in quite a dashing way. + +But to-day she passed the baker's by, climbed the stairs, went into the +little dark room--her room like a cupboard--and sat down on the red +eiderdown. She sat there for a long time. The box that the fur came out +of was on the bed. She unclasped the necklet quickly; quickly, without +looking, laid it inside. But when she put the lid on she thought she heard +something crying. + + + +10. HER FIRST BALL. + +Exactly when the ball began Leila would have found it hard to say. Perhaps +her first real partner was the cab. It did not matter that she shared the +cab with the Sheridan girls and their brother. She sat back in her own +little corner of it, and the bolster on which her hand rested felt like the +sleeve of an unknown young man's dress suit; and away they bowled, past +waltzing lamp-posts and houses and fences and trees. + +"Have you really never been to a ball before, Leila? But, my child, how +too weird--" cried the Sheridan girls. + +"Our nearest neighbour was fifteen miles," said Leila softly, gently +opening and shutting her fan. + +Oh dear, how hard it was to be indifferent like the others! She tried not +to smile too much; she tried not to care. But every single thing was so +new and exciting ...Meg's tuberoses, Jose's long loop of amber, Laura's +little dark head, pushing above her white fur like a flower through snow. +She would remember for ever. It even gave her a pang to see her cousin +Laurie throw away the wisps of tissue paper he pulled from the fastenings +of his new gloves. She would like to have kept those wisps as a keepsake, +as a remembrance. Laurie leaned forward and put his hand on Laura's knee. + +"Look here, darling," he said. "The third and the ninth as usual. Twig?" + +Oh, how marvellous to have a brother! In her excitement Leila felt that if +there had been time, if it hadn't been impossible, she couldn't have helped +crying because she was an only child, and no brother had ever said "Twig?" +to her; no sister would ever say, as Meg said to Jose that moment, "I've +never known your hair go up more successfully than it has to-night!" + +But, of course, there was no time. They were at the drill hall already; +there were cabs in front of them and cabs behind. The road was bright on +either side with moving fan-like lights, and on the pavement gay couples +seemed to float through the air; little satin shoes chased each other like +birds. + +"Hold on to me, Leila; you'll get lost," said Laura. + +"Come on, girls, let's make a dash for it," said Laurie. + +Leila put two fingers on Laura's pink velvet cloak, and they were somehow +lifted past the big golden lantern, carried along the passage, and pushed +into the little room marked "Ladies." Here the crowd was so great there +was hardly space to take off their things; the noise was deafening. Two +benches on either side were stacked high with wraps. Two old women in +white aprons ran up and down tossing fresh armfuls. And everybody was +pressing forward trying to get at the little dressing-table and mirror at +the far end. + +A great quivering jet of gas lighted the ladies' room. It couldn't wait; +it was dancing already. When the door opened again and there came a burst +of tuning from the drill hall, it leaped almost to the ceiling. + +Dark girls, fair girls were patting their hair, tying ribbons again, +tucking handkerchiefs down the fronts of their bodices, smoothing marble- +white gloves. And because they were all laughing it seemed to Leila that +they were all lovely. + +"Aren't there any invisible hair-pins?" cried a voice. "How most +extraordinary! I can't see a single invisible hair-pin." + +"Powder my back, there's a darling," cried some one else. + +"But I must have a needle and cotton. I've torn simply miles and miles of +the frill," wailed a third. + +Then, "Pass them along, pass them along!" The straw basket of programmes +was tossed from arm to arm. Darling little pink-and-silver programmes, +with pink pencils and fluffy tassels. Leila's fingers shook as she took +one out of the basket. She wanted to ask some one, "Am I meant to have one +too?" but she had just time to read: "Waltz 3. 'Two, Two in a Canoe.' +Polka 4. 'Making the Feathers Fly,'" when Meg cried, "Ready, Leila?" and +they pressed their way through the crush in the passage towards the big +double doors of the drill hall. + +Dancing had not begun yet, but the band had stopped tuning, and the noise +was so great it seemed that when it did begin to play it would never be +heard. Leila, pressing close to Meg, looking over Meg's shoulder, felt +that even the little quivering coloured flags strung across the ceiling +were talking. She quite forgot to be shy; she forgot how in the middle of +dressing she had sat down on the bed with one shoe off and one shoe on and +begged her mother to ring up her cousins and say she couldn't go after all. +And the rush of longing she had had to be sitting on the veranda of their +forsaken up-country home, listening to the baby owls crying "More pork" in +the moonlight, was changed to a rush of joy so sweet that it was hard to +bear alone. She clutched her fan, and, gazing at the gleaming, golden +floor, the azaleas, the lanterns, the stage at one end with its red carpet +and gilt chairs and the band in a corner, she thought breathlessly, "How +heavenly; how simply heavenly!" + +All the girls stood grouped together at one side of the doors, the men at +the other, and the chaperones in dark dresses, smiling rather foolishly, +walked with little careful steps over the polished floor towards the stage. + +"This is my little country cousin Leila. Be nice to her. Find her +partners; she's under my wing," said Meg, going up to one girl after +another. + +Strange faces smiled at Leila--sweetly, vaguely. Strange voices answered, +"Of course, my dear." But Leila felt the girls didn't really see her. +They were looking towards the men. Why didn't the men begin? What were +they waiting for? There they stood, smoothing their gloves, patting their +glossy hair and smiling among themselves. Then, quite suddenly, as if they +had only just made up their minds that that was what they had to do, the +men came gliding over the parquet. There was a joyful flutter among the +girls. A tall, fair man flew up to Meg, seized her programme, scribbled +something; Meg passed him on to Leila. "May I have the pleasure?" He +ducked and smiled. There came a dark man wearing an eyeglass, then cousin +Laurie with a friend, and Laura with a little freckled fellow whose tie was +crooked. Then quite an old man--fat, with a big bald patch on his head-- +took her programme and murmured, "Let me see, let me see!" And he was a +long time comparing his programme, which looked black with names, with +hers. It seemed to give him so much trouble that Leila was ashamed. "Oh, +please don't bother," she said eagerly. But instead of replying the fat +man wrote something, glanced at her again. "Do I remember this bright +little face?" he said softly. "Is it known to me of yore?" At that moment +the band began playing; the fat man disappeared. He was tossed away on a +great wave of music that came flying over the gleaming floor, breaking the +groups up into couples, scattering them, sending them spinning... + +Leila had learned to dance at boarding school. Every Saturday afternoon +the boarders were hurried off to a little corrugated iron mission hall +where Miss Eccles (of London) held her "select" classes. But the +difference between that dusty-smelling hall--with calico texts on the +walls, the poor terrified little woman in a brown velvet toque with +rabbit's ears thumping the cold piano, Miss Eccles poking the girls' feet +with her long white wand--and this was so tremendous that Leila was sure if +her partner didn't come and she had to listen to that marvellous music and +to watch the others sliding, gliding over the golden floor, she would die +at least, or faint, or lift her arms and fly out of one of those dark +windows that showed the stars. + +"Ours, I think--" Some one bowed, smiled, and offered her his arm; she +hadn't to die after all. Some one's hand pressed her waist, and she +floated away like a flower that is tossed into a pool. + +"Quite a good floor, isn't it?" drawled a faint voice close to her ear. + +"I think it's most beautifully slippery," said Leila. + +"Pardon!" The faint voice sounded surprised. Leila said it again. And +there was a tiny pause before the voice echoed, "Oh, quite!" and she was +swung round again. + +He steered so beautifully. That was the great difference between dancing +with girls and men, Leila decided. Girls banged into each other, and +stamped on each other's feet; the girl who was gentleman always clutched +you so. + +The azaleas were separate flowers no longer; they were pink and white flags +streaming by. + +"Were you at the Bells' last week?" the voice came again. It sounded +tired. Leila wondered whether she ought to ask him if he would like to +stop. + +"No, this is my first dance," said she. + +Her partner gave a little gasping laugh. "Oh, I say," he protested. + +"Yes, it is really the first dance I've ever been to." Leila was most +fervent. It was such a relief to be able to tell somebody. "You see, I've +lived in the country all my life up till now..." + +At that moment the music stopped, and they went to sit on two chairs +against the wall. Leila tucked her pink satin feet under and fanned +herself, while she blissfully watched the other couples passing and +disappearing through the swing doors. + +"Enjoying yourself, Leila?" asked Jose, nodding her golden head. + +Laura passed and gave her the faintest little wink; it made Leila wonder +for a moment whether she was quite grown up after all. Certainly her +partner did not say very much. He coughed, tucked his handkerchief away, +pulled down his waistcoat, took a minute thread off his sleeve. But it +didn't matter. Almost immediately the band started and her second partner +seemed to spring from the ceiling. + +"Floor's not bad," said the new voice. Did one always begin with the +floor? And then, "Were you at the Neaves' on Tuesday?" And again Leila +explained. Perhaps it was a little strange that her partners were not more +interested. For it was thrilling. Her first ball! She was only at the +beginning of everything. It seemed to her that she had never known what +the night was like before. Up till now it had been dark, silent, beautiful +very often--oh yes--but mournful somehow. Solemn. And now it would never +be like that again--it had opened dazzling bright. + +"Care for an ice?" said her partner. And they went through the swing +doors, down the passage, to the supper room. Her cheeks burned, she was +fearfully thirsty. How sweet the ices looked on little glass plates and +how cold the frosted spoon was, iced too! And when they came back to the +hall there was the fat man waiting for her by the door. It gave her quite +a shock again to see how old he was; he ought to have been on the stage +with the fathers and mothers. And when Leila compared him with her other +partners he looked shabby. His waistcoat was creased, there was a button +off his glove, his coat looked as if it was dusty with French chalk. + +"Come along, little lady," said the fat man. He scarcely troubled to clasp +her, and they moved away so gently, it was more like walking than dancing. +But he said not a word about the floor. "Your first dance, isn't it?" he +murmured. + +"How did you know?" + +"Ah," said the fat man, "that's what it is to be old!" He wheezed faintly +as he steered her past an awkward couple. "You see, I've been doing this +kind of thing for the last thirty years." + +"Thirty years?" cried Leila. Twelve years before she was born! + +"It hardly bears thinking about, does it?" said the fat man gloomily. +Leila looked at his bald head, and she felt quite sorry for him. + +"I think it's marvellous to be still going on," she said kindly. + +"Kind little lady," said the fat man, and he pressed her a little closer, +and hummed a bar of the waltz. "Of course," he said, "you can't hope to +last anything like as long as that. No-o," said the fat man, "long before +that you'll be sitting up there on the stage, looking on, in your nice +black velvet. And these pretty arms will have turned into little short fat +ones, and you'll beat time with such a different kind of fan--a black bony +one." The fat man seemed to shudder. "And you'll smile away like the poor +old dears up there, and point to your daughter, and tell the elderly lady +next to you how some dreadful man tried to kiss her at the club ball. And +your heart will ache, ache"--the fat man squeezed her closer still, as if +he really was sorry for that poor heart--"because no one wants to kiss you +now. And you'll say how unpleasant these polished floors are to walk on, +how dangerous they are. Eh, Mademoiselle Twinkletoes?" said the fat man +softly. + +Leila gave a light little laugh, but she did not feel like laughing. Was +it--could it all be true? It sounded terribly true. Was this first ball +only the beginning of her last ball, after all? At that the music seemed +to change; it sounded sad, sad; it rose upon a great sigh. Oh, how quickly +things changed! Why didn't happiness last for ever? For ever wasn't a bit +too long. + +"I want to stop," she said in a breathless voice. The fat man led her to +the door. + +"No," she said, "I won't go outside. I won't sit down. I'll just stand +here, thank you." She leaned against the wall, tapping with her foot, +pulling up her gloves and trying to smile. But deep inside her a little +girl threw her pinafore over her head and sobbed. Why had he spoiled it +all? + +"I say, you know," said the fat man, "you mustn't take me seriously, little +lady." + +"As if I should!" said Leila, tossing her small dark head and sucking her +underlip... + +Again the couples paraded. The swing doors opened and shut. Now new music +was given out by the bandmaster. But Leila didn't want to dance any more. +She wanted to be home, or sitting on the veranda listening to those baby +owls. When she looked through the dark windows at the stars, they had long +beams like wings... + +But presently a soft, melting, ravishing tune began, and a young man with +curly hair bowed before her. She would have to dance, out of politeness, +until she could find Meg. Very stiffly she walked into the middle; very +haughtily she put her hand on his sleeve. But in one minute, in one turn, +her feet glided, glided. The lights, the azaleas, the dresses, the pink +faces, the velvet chairs, all became one beautiful flying wheel. And when +her next partner bumped her into the fat man and he said, "Pardon," she +smiled at him more radiantly than ever. She didn't even recognise him +again. + + + +11. THE SINGING LESSON. + +With despair--cold, sharp despair--buried deep in her heart like a wicked +knife, Miss Meadows, in cap and gown and carrying a little baton, trod the +cold corridors that led to the music hall. Girls of all ages, rosy from +the air, and bubbling over with that gleeful excitement that comes from +running to school on a fine autumn morning, hurried, skipped, fluttered by; +from the hollow class-rooms came a quick drumming of voices; a bell rang; a +voice like a bird cried, "Muriel." And then there came from the staircase +a tremendous knock-knock-knocking. Some one had dropped her dumbbells. + +The Science Mistress stopped Miss Meadows. + +"Good mor-ning," she cried, in her sweet, affected drawl. "Isn't it cold? +It might be win-ter." + +Miss Meadows, hugging the knife, stared in hatred at the Science Mistress. +Everything about her was sweet, pale, like honey. You wold not have been +surprised to see a bee caught in the tangles of that yellow hair. + +"It is rather sharp," said Miss Meadows, grimly. + +The other smiled her sugary smile. + +"You look fro-zen," said she. Her blue eyes opened wide; there came a +mocking light in them. (Had she noticed anything?) + +"Oh, not quite as bad as that," said Miss Meadows, and she gave the Science +Mistress, in exchange for her smile, a quick grimace and passed on... + +Forms Four, Five, and Six were assembled in the music hall. The noise was +deafening. On the platform, by the piano, stood Mary Beazley, Miss +Meadows' favourite, who played accompaniments. She was turning the music +stool. When she saw Miss Meadows she gave a loud, warning "Sh-sh! girls!" +and Miss Meadows, her hands thrust in her sleeves, the baton under her arm, +strode down the centre aisle, mounted the steps, turned sharply, seized the +brass music stand, planted it in front of her, and gave two sharp taps with +her baton for silence. + +"Silence, please! Immediately!" and, looking at nobody, her glance swept +over that sea of coloured flannel blouses, with bobbing pink faces and +hands, quivering butterfly hair-bows, and music-books outspread. She knew +perfectly well what they were thinking. "Meady is in a wax." Well, let +them think it! Her eyelids quivered; she tossed her head, defying them. +What could the thoughts of those creatures matter to some one who stood +there bleeding to death, pierced to the heart, to the heart, by such a +letter-- + +..."I feel more and more strongly that our marriage would be a mistake. +Not that I do not love you. I love you as much as it is possible for me to +love any woman, but, truth to tell, I have come to the conclusion that I am +not a marrying man, and the idea of settling down fills me with nothing +but--" and the word "disgust" was scratched out lightly and "regret" +written over the top. + +Basil! Miss Meadows stalked over to the piano. And Mary Beazley, who was +waiting for this moment, bent forward; her curls fell over her cheeks while +she breathed, "Good morning, Miss Meadows," and she motioned towards rather +than handed to her mistress a beautiful yellow chrysanthemum. This little +ritual of the flower had been gone through for ages and ages, quite a term +and a half. It was as much part of the lesson as opening the piano. But +this morning, instead of taking it up, instead of tucking it into her belt +while she leant over Mary and said, "Thank you, Mary. How very nice! Turn +to page thirty-two," what was Mary's horror when Miss Meadows totally +ignored the chrysanthemum, made no reply to her greeting, but said in a +voice of ice, "Page fourteen, please, and mark the accents well." + +Staggering moment! Mary blushed until the tears stood in her eyes, but +Miss Meadows was gone back to the music stand; her voice rang through the +music hall. + +"Page fourteen. We will begin with page fourteen. 'A Lament.' Now, +girls, you ought to know it by this time. We shall take it all together; +not in parts, all together. And without expression. Sing it, though, +quite simply, beating time with the left hand." + +She raised the baton; she tapped the music stand twice. Down came Mary on +the opening chord; down came all those left hands, beating the air, and in +chimed those young, mournful voices:-- + +"Fast! Ah, too Fast Fade the Ro-o-ses of Pleasure; + Soon Autumn yields unto Wi-i-nter Drear. + Fleetly! Ah, Fleetly Mu-u-sic's Gay Measure + Passes away from the Listening Ear." + +Good Heavens, what could be more tragic than that lament! Every note was a +sigh, a sob, a groan of awful mournfulness. Miss Meadows lifted her arms +in the wide gown and began conducting with both hands. "...I feel more and +more strongly that our marriage would be a mistake..." she beat. And the +voices cried: "Fleetly! Ah, Fleetly." What could have possessed him to +write such a letter! What could have led up to it! It came out of +nothing. His last letter had been all about a fumed-oak bookcase he had +bought for "our" books, and a "natty little hall-stand" he had seen, "a +very neat affair with a carved owl on a bracket, holding three hat-brushes +in its claws." How she had smiled at that! So like a man to think one +needed three hat-brushes! "From the Listening Ear," sang the voices. + +"Once again," said Miss Meadows. "But this time in parts. Still without +expression." "Fast! Ah, too Fast." With the gloom of the contraltos +added, one could scarcely help shuddering. "Fade the Roses of Pleasure." +Last time he had come to see her, Basil had worn a rose in his buttonhole. +How handsome he had looked in that bright blue suit, with that dark red +rose! And he knew it, too. He couldn't help knowing it. First he stroked +his hair, then his moustache; his teeth gleamed when he smiled. + +"The headmaster's wife keeps on asking me to dinner. It's a perfect +nuisance. I never get an evening to myself in that place." + +"But can't you refuse?" + +"Oh, well, it doesn't do for a man in my position to be unpopular." + +"Music's Gay Measure," wailed the voices. The willow trees, outside the +high, narrow windows, waved in the wind. They had lost half their leaves. +The tiny ones that clung wriggled like fishes caught on a line. "...I am +not a marrying man..." The voices were silent; the piano waited. + +"Quite good," said Miss Meadows, but still in such a strange, stony tone +that the younger girls began to feel positively frightened. "But now that +we know it, we shall take it with expression. As much expression as you +can put into it. Think of the words, girls. Use your imaginations. +'Fast! Ah, too Fast,'" cried Miss Meadows. "That ought to break out--a +loud, strong forte--a lament. And then in the second line, 'Winter Drear,' +make that 'Drear' sound as if a cold wind were blowing through it. 'Dre- +ear!'" said she so awfully that Mary Beazley, on the music stool, wriggled +her spine. "The third line should be one crescendo. 'Fleetly! Ah, +Fleetly Music's Gay Measure.' Breaking on the first word of the last line, +Passes.' And then on the word, 'Away,' you must begin to die...to +fade...until 'The Listening Ear' is nothing more than a faint whisper...You +can slow down as much as you like almost on the last line. Now, please." + +Again the two light taps; she lifted her arms again. 'Fast! Ah, too +Fast.' "...and the idea of settling down fills me with nothing but +disgust--" Disgust was what he had written. That was as good as to say +their engagement was definitely broken off. Broken off! Their engagement! +People had been surprised enough that she had got engaged. The Science +Mistress would not believe it at first. But nobody had been as surprised +as she. She was thirty. Basil was twenty-five. It had been a miracle, +simply a miracle, to hear him say, as they walked home from church that +very dark night, "You know, somehow or other, I've got fond of you." And +he had taken hold of the end of her ostrich feather boa. "Passes away from +the Listening Ear." + +"Repeat! Repeat!" said Miss Meadows. "More expression, girls! Once +more!" + +"Fast! Ah, too Fast." The older girls were crimson; some of the younger +ones began to cry. Big spots of rain blew against the windows, and one +could hear the willows whispering, "...not that I do not love you..." + +"But, my darling, if you love me," thought Miss Meadows, "I don't mind how +much it is. Love me as little as you like." But she knew he didn't love +her. Not to have cared enough to scratch out that word "disgust," so that +she couldn't read it! "Soon Autumn yields unto Winter Drear." She would +have to leave the school, too. She could never face the Science Mistress +or the girls after it got known. She would have to disappear somewhere. +"Passes away." The voices began to die, to fade, to whisper...to vanish... + +Suddenly the door opened. A little girl in blue walked fussily up the +aisle, hanging her head, biting her lips, and twisting the silver bangle on +her red little wrist. She came up the steps and stood before Miss Meadows. + +"Well, Monica, what is it?" + +"Oh, if you please, Miss Meadows," said the little girl, gasping, "Miss +Wyatt wants to see you in the mistress's room." + +"Very well," said Miss Meadows. And she called to the girls, "I shall put +you on your honour to talk quietly while I am away." But they were too +subdued to do anything else. Most of them were blowing their noses. + +The corridors were silent and cold; they echoed to Miss Meadows' steps. +The head mistress sat at her desk. For a moment she did not look up. She +was as usual disentangling her eyeglasses, which had got caught in her lace +tie. "Sit down, Miss Meadows," she said very kindly. And then she picked +up a pink envelope from the blotting-pad. "I sent for you just now because +this telegram has come for you." + +"A telegram for me, Miss Wyatt?" + +Basil! He had committed suicide, decided Miss Meadows. Her hand flew out, +but Miss Wyatt held the telegram back a moment. "I hope it's not bad +news," she said, so more than kindly. And Miss Meadows tore it open. + +"Pay no attention to letter, must have been mad, bought hat-stand to-day-- +Basil," she read. She couldn't take her eyes off the telegram. + +"I do hope it's nothing very serious," said Miss Wyatt, leaning forward. + +"Oh, no, thank you, Miss Wyatt," blushed Miss Meadows. "It's nothing bad +at all. It's"--and she gave an apologetic little laugh--"it's from my +fiance saying that...saying that--" There was a pause. "I see," said Miss +Wyatt. And another pause. Then--"You've fifteen minutes more of your +class, Miss Meadows, haven't you?" + +"Yes, Miss Wyatt." She got up. She half ran towards the door. + +"Oh, just one minute, Miss Meadows," said Miss Wyatt. "I must say I don't +approve of my teachers having telegrams sent to them in school hours, +unless in case of very bad news, such as death," explained Miss Wyatt, "or +a very serious accident, or something to that effect. Good news, Miss +Meadows, will always keep, you know." + +On the wings of hope, of love, of joy, Miss Meadows sped back to the music +hall, up the aisle, up the steps, over to the piano. + +"Page thirty-two, Mary," she said, "page thirty-two," and, picking up the +yellow chrysanthemum, she held it to her lips to hide her smile. Then she +turned to the girls, rapped with her baton: "Page thirty-two, girls. Page +thirty-two." + +"We come here To-day with Flowers o'erladen, + With Baskets of Fruit and Ribbons to boot, + To-oo Congratulate... + +"Stop! Stop!" cried Miss Meadows. "This is awful. This is dreadful." +And she beamed at her girls. "What's the matter with you all? Think, +girls, think of what you're singing. Use your imaginations. 'With Flowers +o'erladen. Baskets of Fruit and Ribbons to boot.' And 'Congratulate.'" +Miss Meadows broke off. "Don't look so doleful, girls. It ought to sound +warm, joyful, eager. 'Congratulate.' Once more. Quickly. All together. +Now then!" + +And this time Miss Meadows' voice sounded over all the other voices--full, +deep, glowing with expression. + + + +12. THE STRANGER + +It seemed to the little crowd on the wharf that she was never going to move +again. There she lay, immense, motionless on the grey crinkled water, a +loop of smoke above her, an immense flock of gulls screaming and diving +after the galley droppings at the stern. You could just see little couples +parading--little flies walking up and down the dish on the grey crinkled +tablecloth. Other flies clustered and swarmed at the edge. Now there was +a gleam of white on the lower deck--the cook's apron or the stewardess +perhaps. Now a tiny black spider raced up the ladder on to the bridge. + +In the front of the crowd a strong-looking, middle-aged man, dressed very +well, very snugly in a grey overcoat, grey silk scarf, thick gloves and +dark felt hat, marched up and down, twirling his folded umbrella. He +seemed to be the leader of the little crowd on the wharf and at the same +time to keep them together. He was something between the sheep-dog and the +shepherd. + +But what a fool--what a fool he had been not to bring any glasses! There +wasn't a pair of glasses between the whole lot of them. + +"Curious thing, Mr. Scott, that none of us thought of glasses. We might +have been able to stir 'em up a bit. We might have managed a little +signalling. 'Don't hesitate to land. Natives harmless.' Or: 'A welcome +awaits you. All is forgiven.' What? Eh?" + +Mr. Hammond's quick, eager glance, so nervous and yet so friendly and +confiding, took in everybody on the wharf, roped in even those old chaps +lounging against the gangways. They knew, every man-jack of them, that +Mrs. Hammond was on that boat, and that he was so tremendously excited it +never entered his head not to believe that this marvellous fact meant +something to them too. It warmed his heart towards them. They were, he +decided, as decent a crowd of people--Those old chaps over by the gangways, +too--fine, solid old chaps. What chests--by Jove! And he squared his own, +plunged his thick-gloved hands into his pockets, rocked from heel to toe. + +"Yes, my wife's been in Europe for the last ten months. On a visit to our +eldest girl, who was married last year. I brought her up here, as far as +Salisbury, myself. So I thought I'd better come and fetch her back. Yes, +yes, yes." The shrewd grey eyes narrowed again and searched anxiously, +quickly, the motionless liner. Again his overcoat was unbuttoned. Out +came the thin, butter-yellow watch again, and for the twentieth--fiftieth-- +hundredth time he made the calculation. + +"Let me see now. It was two fifteen when the doctor's launch went off. +Two fifteen. It is now exactly twenty-eight minutes past four. That is to +say, the doctor's been gone two hours and thirteen minutes. Two hours and +thirteen minutes! Whee-ooh!" He gave a queer little half-whistle and +snapped his watch to again. "But I think we should have been told if there +was anything up--don't you, Mr. Gaven?" + +"Oh, yes, Mr. Hammond! I don't think there's anything to--anything to +worry about," said Mr. Gaven, knocking out his pipe against the heel of his +shoe. "At the same time--" + +"Quite so! Quite so!" cried Mr. Hammond. "Dashed annoying!" He paced +quickly up and down and came back again to his stand between Mr. and Mrs. +Scott and Mr. Gaven. "It's getting quite dark, too," and he waved his +folded umbrella as though the dusk at least might have had the decency to +keep off for a bit. But the dusk came slowly, spreading like a slow stain +over the water. Little Jean Scott dragged at her mother's hand. + +"I wan' my tea, mammy!" she wailed. + +"I expect you do," said Mr. Hammond. "I expect all these ladies want their +tea." And his kind, flushed, almost pitiful glance roped them all in +again. He wondered whether Janey was having a final cup of tea in the +saloon out there. He hoped so; he thought not. It would be just like her +not to leave the deck. In that case perhaps the deck steward would bring +her up a cup. If he'd been there he'd have got it for her--somehow. And +for a moment he was on deck, standing over her, watching her little hand +fold round the cup in the way she had, while she drank the only cup of tea +to be got on board...But now he was back here, and the Lord only knew when +that cursed Captain would stop hanging about in the stream. He took +another turn, up and down, up and down. He walked as far as the cab-stand +to make sure his driver hadn't disappeared; back he swerved again to the +little flock huddled in the shelter of the banana crates. Little Jean +Scott was still wanting her tea. Poor little beggar! He wished he had a +bit of chocolate on him. + +"Here, Jean!" he said. "Like a lift up?" And easily, gently, he swung +the little girl on to a higher barrel. The movement of holding her, +steadying her, relieved him wonderfully, lightened his heart. + +"Hold on," he said, keeping an arm round her. + +"Oh, don't worry about Jean, Mr. Hammond!" said Mrs. Scott. + +"That's all right, Mrs. Scott. No trouble. It's a pleasure. Jean's a +little pal of mine, aren't you, Jean?" + +"Yes, Mr. Hammond," said Jean, and she ran her finger down the dent of his +felt hat. + +But suddenly she caught him by the ear and gave a loud scream. "Lo-ok, Mr. +Hammond! She's moving! Look, she's coming in!" + +By Jove! So she was. At last! She was slowly, slowly turning round. A +bell sounded far over the water and a great spout of steam gushed into the +air. The gulls rose; they fluttered away like bits of white paper. And +whether that deep throbbing was her engines or his heart Mr. Hammond +couldn't say. He had to nerve himself to bear it, whatever it was. At +that moment old Captain Johnson, the harbour-master, came striding down the +wharf, a leather portfolio under his arm. + +"Jean'll be all right," said Mr. Scott. "I'll hold her." He was just in +time. Mr. Hammond had forgotten about Jean. He sprang away to greet old +Captain Johnson. + +"Well, Captain," the eager, nervous voice rang out again, "you've taken +pity on us at last." + +"It's no good blaming me, Mr. Hammond," wheezed old Captain Johnson, +staring at the liner. "You got Mrs. Hammond on board, ain't yer?" + +"Yes, yes!" said Hammond, and he kept by the harbour-master's side. "Mrs. +Hammond's there. Hul-lo! We shan't be long now!" + +With her telephone ring-ringing, the thrum of her screw filling the air, +the big liner bore down on them, cutting sharp through the dark water so +that big white shavings curled to either side. Hammond and the harbour- +master kept in front of the rest. Hammond took off his hat; he raked the +decks--they were crammed with passengers; he waved his hat and bawled a +loud, strange "Hul-lo!" across the water; and then turned round and burst +out laughing and said something--nothing--to old Captain Johnson. + +"Seen her?" asked the harbour-master. + +"No, not yet. Steady--wait a bit!" And suddenly, between two great clumsy +idiots--"Get out of the way there!" he signed with his umbrella--he saw a +hand raised--a white glove shaking a handkerchief. Another moment, and-- +thank God, thank God!--there she was. There was Janey. There was Mrs. +Hammond, yes, yes, yes--standing by the rail and smiling and nodding and +waving her handkerchief. + +"Well that's first class--first class! Well, well, well!" He positively +stamped. Like lightning he drew out his cigar-case and offered it to old +Captain Johnson. "Have a cigar, Captain! They're pretty good. Have a +couple! Here"--and he pressed all the cigars in the case on the harbour- +master--"I've a couple of boxes up at the hotel." + +"Thenks, Mr. Hammond!" wheezed old Captain Johnson. + +Hammond stuffed the cigar-case back. His hands were shaking, but he'd got +hold of himself again. He was able to face Janey. There she was, leaning +on the rail, talking to some woman and at the same time watching him, ready +for him. It struck him, as the gulf of water closed, how small she looked +on that huge ship. His heart was wrung with such a spasm that he could +have cried out. How little she looked to have come all that long way and +back by herself! Just like her, though. Just like Janey. She had the +courage of a--And now the crew had come forward and parted the passengers; +they had lowered the rails for the gangways. + +The voices on shore and the voices on board flew to greet each other. + +"All well?" + +"All well." + +"How's mother?" + +"Much better." + +"Hullo, Jean!" + +"Hillo, Aun' Emily!" + +"Had a good voyage?" + +"Splendid!" + +"Shan't be long now!" + +"Not long now." + +The engines stopped. Slowly she edged to the wharf-side. + +"Make way there--make way--make way!" And the wharf hands brought the +heavy gangways along at a sweeping run. Hammond signed to Janey to stay +where she was. The old harbour-master stepped forward; he followed. As to +"ladies first," or any rot like that, it never entered his head. + +"After you, Captain!" he cried genially. And, treading on the old man's +heels, he strode up the gangway on to the deck in a bee-line to Janey, and +Janey was clasped in his arms. + +"Well, well, well! Yes, yes! Here we are at last!" he stammered. It was +all he could say. And Janey emerged, and her cool little voice--the only +voice in the world for him--said, + +"Well, darling! Have you been waiting long?" + +No; not long. Or, at any rate, it didn't matter. It was over now. But +the point was, he had a cab waiting at the end of the wharf. Was she ready +to go off. Was her luggage ready? In that case they could cut off sharp +with her cabin luggage and let the rest go hang until to-morrow. He bent +over her and she looked up with her familiar half-smile. She was just the +same. Not a day changed. Just as he'd always known her. She laid her +small hand on his sleeve. + +"How are the children, John?" she asked. + +(Hang the children!) "Perfectly well. Never better in their lives." + +"Haven't they sent me letters?" + +"Yes, yes--of course! I've left them at the hotel for you to digest later +on." + +"We can't go quite so fast," said she. "I've got people to say good-bye +to--and then there's the Captain." As his face fell she gave his arm a +small understanding squeeze. "If the Captain comes off the bridge I want +you to thank him for having looked after your wife so beautifully." Well, +he'd got her. If she wanted another ten minutes--As he gave way she was +surrounded. The whole first-class seemed to want to say good-bye to Janey. + +"Good-bye, dear Mrs. Hammond! And next time you're in Sydney I'll expect +you." + +"Darling Mrs. Hammond! You won't forget to write to me, will you?" + +"Well, Mrs. Hammond, what this boat would have been without you!" + +It was as plain as a pikestaff that she was by far the most popular woman +on board. And she took it all--just as usual. Absolutely composed. Just +her little self--just Janey all over; standing there with her veil thrown +back. Hammond never noticed what his wife had on. It was all the same to +him whatever she wore. But to-day he did notice that she wore a black +"costume"--didn't they call it?--with white frills, trimmings he supposed +they were, at the neck and sleeves. All this while Janey handed him round. + +"John, dear!" And then: "I want to introduce you to--" + +Finally they did escape, and she led the way to her state-room. To follow +Janey down the passage that she knew so well--that was so strange to him; +to part the green curtains after her and to step into the cabin that had +been hers gave him exquisite happiness. But--confound it!--the stewardess +was there on the floor, strapping up the rugs. + +"That's the last, Mrs. Hammond," said the stewardess, rising and pulling +down her cuffs. + +He was introduced again, and then Janey and the stewardess disappeared into +the passage. He heard whisperings. She was getting the tipping business +over, he supposed. He sat down on the striped sofa and took his hat off. +There were the rugs she had taken with her; they looked good as new. All +her luggage looked fresh, perfect. The labels were written in her +beautiful little clear hand--"Mrs. John Hammond." + +"Mrs. John Hammond!" He gave a long sigh of content and leaned back, +crossing his arms. The strain was over. He felt he could have sat there +for ever sighing his relief--the relief at being rid of that horrible tug, +pull, grip on his heart. The danger was over. That was the feeling. They +were on dry land again. + +But at that moment Janey's head came round the corner. + +"Darling--do you mind? I just want to go and say good-bye to the doctor." + +Hammond started up. "I'll come with you." + +"No, no!" she said. "Don't bother. I'd rather not. I'll not be a +minute." + +And before he could answer she was gone. He had half a mind to run after +her; but instead he sat down again. + +Would she really not be long? What was the time now? Out came the watch; +he stared at nothing. That was rather queer of Janey, wasn't it? Why +couldn't she have told the stewardess to say good-bye for her? Why did she +have to go chasing after the ship's doctor? She could have sent a note +from the hotel even if the affair had been urgent. Urgent? Did it--could +it mean that she had been ill on the voyage--she was keeping something from +him? That was it! He seized his hat. He was going off to find that +fellow and to wring the truth out of him at all costs. He thought he'd +noticed just something. She was just a touch too calm--too steady. From +the very first moment-- + +The curtains rang. Janey was back. He jumped to his feet. + +"Janey, have you been ill on this voyage? You have!" + +"Ill?" Her airy little voice mocked him. She stepped over the rugs, and +came up close, touched his breast, and looked up at him. + +"Darling," she said, "don't frighten me. Of course I haven't! Whatever +makes you think I have? Do I look ill?" + +But Hammond didn't see her. He only felt that she was looking at him and +that there was no need to worry about anything. She was here to look after +things. It was all right. Everything was. + +The gentle pressure of her hand was so calming that he put his over hers to +hold it there. And she said: + +"Stand still. I want to look at you. I haven't seen you yet. You've had +your beard beautifully trimmed, and you look--younger, I think, and +decidedly thinner! Bachelor life agrees with you." + +"Agrees with me!" He groaned for love and caught her close again. And +again, as always, he had the feeling that he was holding something that +never was quite his--his. Something too delicate, too precious, that would +fly away once he let go. + +"For God's sake let's get off to the hotel so that we can be by ourselves!" +And he rang the bell hard for some one to look sharp with the luggage. + +... + +Walking down the wharf together she took his arm. He had her on his arm +again. And the difference it made to get into the cab after Janey--to +throw the red-and-yellow striped blanket round them both--to tell the +driver to hurry because neither of them had had any tea. No more going +without his tea or pouring out his own. She was back. He turned to her, +squeezed her hand, and said gently, teasingly, in the "special" voice he +had for her: "Glad to be home again, dearie?" She smiled; she didn't even +bother to answer, but gently she drew his hand away as they came to the +brighter streets. + +"We've got the best room in the hotel," he said. "I wouldn't be put off +with another. And I asked the chambermaid to put in a bit of a fire in +case you felt chilly. She's a nice, attentive girl. And I thought now we +were here we wouldn't bother to go home to-morrow, but spend the day +looking round and leave the morning after. Does that suit you? There's no +hurry, is there? The children will have you soon enough...I thought a +day's sight-seeing might make a nice break in your journey--eh, Janey?" + +"Have you taken the tickets for the day after?" she asked. + +"I should think I have!" He unbuttoned his overcoat and took out his +bulging pocket-book. "Here we are! I reserved a first-class carriage to +Cooktown. There it is--'Mr. and Mrs. John Hammond.' I thought we might as +well do ourselves comfortably, and we don't want other people butting in, +do we? But if you'd like to stop here a bit longer--?" + +"Oh, no!" said Janey quickly. "Not for the world! The day after to- +morrow, then. And the children--" + +But they had reached the hotel. The manager was standing in the broad, +brilliantly-lighted porch. He came down to greet them. A porter ran from +the hall for their boxes. + +"Well, Mr. Arnold, here's Mrs. Hammond at last!" + +The manager led them through the hall himself and pressed the elevator- +bell. Hammond knew there were business pals of his sitting at the little +hall tables having a drink before dinner. But he wasn't going to risk +interruption; he looked neither to the right nor the left. They could +think what they pleased. If they didn't understand, the more fools they-- +and he stepped out of the lift, unlocked the door of their room, and +shepherded Janey in. The door shut. Now, at last, they were alone +together. He turned up the light. The curtains were drawn; the fire +blazed. He flung his hat on to the huge bed and went towards her. + +But--would you believe it!--again they were interrupted. This time it was +the porter with the luggage. He made two journeys of it, leaving the door +open in between, taking his time, whistling through his teeth in the +corridor. Hammond paced up and down the room, tearing off his gloves, +tearing off his scarf. Finally he flung his overcoat on to the bedside. + +At last the fool was gone. The door clicked. Now they were alone. Said +Hammond: "I feel I'll never have you to myself again. These cursed +people! Janey"--and he bent his flushed, eager gaze upon her--"let's have +dinner up here. If we go down to the restaurant we'll be interrupted, and +then there's the confounded music" (the music he'd praised so highly, +applauded so loudly last night!). "We shan't be able to hear each other +speak. Let's have something up here in front of the fire. It's too late +for tea. I'll order a little supper, shall I? How does that idea strike +you?" + +"Do, darling!" said Janey. "And while you're away--the children's +letters--" + +"Oh, later on will do!" said Hammond. + +"But then we'd get it over," said Janey. "And I'd first have time to--" + +"Oh, I needn't go down!" explained Hammond. "I'll just ring and give the +order...you don't want to send me away, do you?" + +Janey shook her head and smiled. + +"But you're thinking of something else. You're worrying about something," +said Hammond. "What is it? Come and sit here--come and sit on my knee +before the fire." + +"I'll just unpin my hat," said Janey, and she went over to the dressing- +table. "A-ah!" She gave a little cry. + +"What is it?" + +"Nothing, darling. I've just found the children's letters. That's all +right! They will keep. No hurry now!" She turned to him, clasping them. +She tucked them into her frilled blouse. She cried quickly, gaily: "Oh, +how typical this dressing-table is of you!" + +"Why? What's the matter with it?" said Hammond. + +"If it were floating in eternity I should say 'John!'" laughed Janey, +staring at the big bottle of hair tonic, the wicker bottle of eau-de- +Cologne, the two hair-brushes, and a dozen new collars tied with pink tape. +"Is this all your luggage?" + +"Hang my luggage!" said Hammond; but all the same he liked being laughed at +by Janey. "Let's talk. Let's get down to things. Tell me"--and as Janey +perched on his knees he leaned back and drew her into the deep, ugly chair- +-"tell me you're really glad to be back, Janey." + +"Yes, darling, I am glad," she said. + +But just as when he embraced her he felt she would fly away, so Hammond +never knew--never knew for dead certain that she was as glad as he was. +How could he know? Would he ever know? Would he always have this craving- +-this pang like hunger, somehow, to make Janey so much part of him that +there wasn't any of her to escape? He wanted to blot out everybody, +everything. He wished now he'd turned off the light. That might have +brought her nearer. And now those letters from the children rustled in her +blouse. He could have chucked them into the fire. + +"Janey," he whispered. + +"Yes, dear?" She lay on his breast, but so lightly, so remotely. Their +breathing rose and fell together. + +"Janey!" + +"What is it?" + +"Turn to me," he whispered. A slow, deep flush flowed into his forehead. +"Kiss me, Janey! You kiss me!" + +It seemed to him there was a tiny pause--but long enough for him to suffer +torture--before her lips touched his, firmly, lightly--kissing them as she +always kissed him, as though the kiss--how could he describe it?--confirmed +what they were saying, signed the contract. But that wasn't what he +wanted; that wasn't at all what he thirsted for. He felt suddenly, +horrible tired. + +"If you knew," he said, opening his eyes, "what it's been like--waiting to- +day. I thought the boat never would come in. There we were, hanging +about. What kept you so long?" + +She made no answer. She was looking away from him at the fire. The flames +hurried--hurried over the coals, flickered, fell. + +"Not asleep, are you?" said Hammond, and he jumped her up and down. + +"No," she said. And then: "Don't do that, dear. No, I was thinking. As +a matter of fact," she said, "one of the passengers died last night--a man. +That's what held us up. We brought him in--I mean, he wasn't buried at +sea. So, of course, the ship's doctor and the shore doctor--" + +"What was it?" asked Hammond uneasily. He hated to hear of death. He +hated this to have happened. It was, in some queer way, as though he and +Janey had met a funeral on their way to the hotel. + +"Oh, it wasn't anything in the least infectious!" said Janey. She was +speaking scarcely above her breath. "It was heart." A pause. "Poor +fellow!" she said. "Quite young." And she watched the fire flicker and +fall. "He died in my arms," said Janey. + +The blow was so sudden that Hammond thought he would faint. He couldn't +move; he couldn't breathe. He felt all his strength flowing--flowing into +the big dark chair, and the big dark chair held him fast, gripped him, +forced him to bear it. + +"What?" he said dully. "What's that you say?" + +"The end was quite peaceful," said the small voice. "He just"--and Hammond +saw her lift her gentle hand--"breathed his life away at the end." And her +hand fell. + +"Who--else was there?" Hammond managed to ask. + +"Nobody. I was alone with him." + +Ah, my God, what was she saying! What was she doing to him! This would +kill him! And all the while she spoke: + +"I saw the change coming and I sent the steward for the doctor, but the +doctor was too late. He couldn't have done anything, anyway." + +"But--why you, why you?" moaned Hammond. + +At that Janey turned quickly, quickly searched his face. + +"You don't mind, John, do you?" she asked. "You don't--It's nothing to do +with you and me." + +Somehow or other he managed to shake some sort of smile at her. Somehow or +other he stammered: "No--go--on, go on! I want you to tell me." + +"But, John darling--" + +"Tell me, Janey!" + +"There's nothing to tell," she said, wondering. "He was one of the first- +class passengers. I saw he was very ill when he came on board...But he +seemed to be so much better until yesterday. He had a severe attack in the +afternoon--excitement--nervousness, I think, about arriving. And after +that he never recovered." + +"But why didn't the stewardess--" + +"Oh, my dear--the stewardess!" said Janey. "What would he have felt? And +besides...he might have wanted to leave a message...to--" + +"Didn't he?" muttered Hammond. "Didn't he say anything?" + +"No, darling, not a word!" She shook her head softly. "All the time I was +with him he was too weak...he was too weak even to move a finger..." + +Janey was silent. But her words, so light, so soft, so chill, seemed to +hover in the air, to rain into his breast like snow. + +The fire had gone red. Now it fell in with a sharp sound and the room was +colder. Cold crept up his arms. The room was huge, immense, glittering. +It filled his whole world. There was the great blind bed, with his coat +flung across it like some headless man saying his prayers. There was the +luggage, ready to be carried away again, anywhere, tossed into trains, +carted on to boats. + +..."He was too weak. He was too weak to move a finger." And yet he died +in Janey's arms. She--who'd never--never once in all these years--never on +one single solitary occasion-- + +No; he mustn't think of it. Madness lay in thinking of it. No, he +wouldn't face it. He couldn't stand it. It was too much to bear! + +And now Janey touched his tie with her fingers. She pinched the edges of +the tie together. + +"You're not--sorry I told you, John darling? It hasn't made you sad? It +hasn't spoilt our evening--our being alone together?" + +But at that he had to hide his face. He put his face into her bosom and +his arms enfolded her. + +Spoilt their evening! Spoilt their being alone together! They would never +be alone together again. + + + +13. BANK HOLIDAY. + +A stout man with a pink face wears dingy white flannel trousers, a blue +coat with a pink handkerchief showing, and a straw hat much too small for +him, perched at the back of his head. He plays the guitar. A little chap +in white canvas shoes, his face hidden under a felt hat like a broken wing, +breathes into a flute; and a tall thin fellow, with bursting over-ripe +button boots, draws ribbons--long, twisted, streaming ribbons--of tune out +of a fiddle. They stand, unsmiling, but not serious, in the broad sunlight +opposite the fruit-shop; the pink spider of a hand beats the guitar, the +little squat hand, with a brass-and-turquoise ring, forces the reluctant +flute, and the fiddler's arm tries to saw the fiddle in two. + +A crowd collects, eating oranges and bananas, tearing off the skins, +dividing, sharing. One young girl has even a basket of strawberries, but +she does not eat them. "Aren't they dear!" She stares at the tiny pointed +fruits as if she were afraid of them. The Australian soldier laughs. +"Here, go on, there's not more than a mouthful." But he doesn't want her +to eat them, either. He likes to watch her little frightened face, and her +puzzled eyes lifted to his: "Aren't they a price!" He pushes out his +chest and grins. Old fat women in velvet bodices--old dusty pin-cushions-- +lean old hags like worn umbrellas with a quivering bonnet on top; young +women, in muslins, with hats that might have grown on hedges, and high +pointed shoes; men in khaki, sailors, shabby clerks, young Jews in fine +cloth suits with padded shoulders and wide trousers, "hospital boys" in +blue--the sun discovers them--the loud, bold music holds them together in +one big knot for a moment. The young ones are larking, pushing each other +on and off the pavement, dodging, nudging; the old ones are talking: "So I +said to 'im, if you wants the doctor to yourself, fetch 'im, says I." + +"An' by the time they was cooked there wasn't so much as you could put in +the palm of me 'and!" + +The only ones who are quiet are the ragged children. They stand, as close +up to the musicians as they can get, their hands behind their backs, their +eyes big. Occasionally a leg hops, an arm wags. A tiny staggerer, +overcome, turns round twice, sits down solemn, and then gets up again. + +"Ain't it lovely?" whispers a small girl behind her hand. + +And the music breaks into bright pieces, and joins together again, and +again breaks, and is dissolved, and the crowd scatters, moving slowly up +the hill. + +At the corner of the road the stalls begin. + +"Ticklers! Tuppence a tickler! 'Ool 'ave a tickler? Tickle 'em up, +boys." Little soft brooms on wire handles. They are eagerly bought by the +soldiers. + +"Buy a golliwog! Tuppence a golliwog!" + +"Buy a jumping donkey! All alive-oh!" + +"Su-perior chewing gum. Buy something to do, boys." + +"Buy a rose. Give 'er a rose, boy. Roses, lady?" + +"Fevvers! Fevvers!" They are hard to resist. Lovely, streaming feathers, +emerald green, scarlet, bright blue, canary yellow. Even the babies wear +feathers threaded through their bonnets. + +And an old woman in a three-cornered paper hat cries as if it were her +final parting advice, the only way of saving yourself or of bringing him to +his senses: "Buy a three-cornered 'at, my dear, an' put it on!" + +It is a flying day, half sun, half wind. When the sun goes in a shadow +flies over; when it comes out again it is fiery. The men and women feel it +burning their backs, their breasts and their arms; they feel their bodies +expanding, coming alive...so that they make large embracing gestures, lift +up their arms, for nothing, swoop down on a girl, blurt into laughter. + +Lemonade! A whole tank of it stands on a table covered with a cloth; and +lemons like blunted fishes blob in the yellow water. It looks solid, like +a jelly, in the thick glasses. Why can't they drink it without spilling +it? Everybody spills it, and before the glass is handed back the last +drops are thrown in a ring. + +Round the ice-cream cart, with its striped awning and bright brass cover, +the children cluster. Little tongues lick, lick round the cream trumpets, +round the squares. The cover is lifted, the wooden spoon plunges in; one +shuts one's eyes to feel it, silently scrunching. + +"Let these little birds tell you your future!" She stands beside the cage, +a shrivelled ageless Italian, clasping and unclasping her dark claws. Her +face, a treasure of delicate carving, is tied in a green-and-gold scarf. +And inside their prison the love-birds flutter towards the papers in the +seed-tray. + +"You have great strength of character. You will marry a red-haired man and +have three children. Beware of a blonde woman." Look out! Look out! A +motor-car driven by a fat chauffeur comes rushing down the hill. Inside +there a blonde woman, pouting, leaning forward--rushing through your life-- +beware! beware! + +"Ladies and gentlemen, I am an auctioneer by profession, and if what I tell +you is not the truth I am liable to have my licence taken away from me and +a heavy imprisonment." He holds the licence across his chest; the sweat +pours down his face into his paper collar; his eyes look glazed. When he +takes off his hat there is a deep pucker of angry flesh on his forehead. +Nobody buys a watch. + +Look out again! A huge barouche comes swinging down the hill with two old, +old babies inside. She holds up a lace parasol; he sucks the knob of his +cane, and the fat old bodies roll together as the cradle rocks, and the +steaming horse leaves a trail of manure as it ambles down the hill. + +Under a tree, Professor Leonard, in cap and gown, stands beside his banner. +He is here "for one day," from the London, Paris and Brussels Exhibition, +to tell your fortune from your face. And he stands, smiling encouragement, +like a clumsy dentist. When the big men, romping and swearing a moment +before, hand across their sixpence, and stand before him, they are suddenly +serious, dumb, timid, almost blushing as the Professor's quick hand notches +the printed card. They are like little children caught playing in a +forbidden garden by the owner, stepping from behind a tree. + +The top of the hill is reached. How hot it is! How fine it is! The +public-house is open, and the crowd presses in. The mother sits on the +pavement edge with her baby, and the father brings her out a glass of dark, +brownish stuff, and then savagely elbows his way in again. A reek of beer +floats from the public-house, and a loud clatter and rattle of voices. + +The wind has dropped, and the sun burns more fiercely than ever. Outside +the two swing-doors there is a thick mass of children like flies at the +mouth of a sweet-jar. + +And up, up the hill come the people, with ticklers and golliwogs, and roses +and feathers. Up, up they thrust into the light and heat, shouting, +laughing, squealing, as though they were being pushed by something, far +below, and by the sun, far ahead of them--drawn up into the full, bright, +dazzling radiance to...what? + + + +14. AN IDEAL FAMILY. + +That evening for the first time in his life, as he pressed through the +swing door and descended the three broad steps to the pavement, old Mr. +Neave felt he was too old for the spring. Spring--warm, eager, restless-- +was there, waiting for him in the golden light, ready in front of everybody +to run up, to blow in his white beard, to drag sweetly on his arm. And he +couldn't meet her, no; he couldn't square up once more and stride off, +jaunty as a young man. He was tired and, although the late sun was still +shining, curiously cold, with a numbed feeling all over. Quite suddenly he +hadn't the energy, he hadn't the heart to stand this gaiety and bright +movement any longer; it confused him. He wanted to stand still, to wave it +away with his stick, to say, "Be off with you!" Suddenly it was a terrible +effort to greet as usual--tipping his wide-awake with his stick--all the +people whom he knew, the friends, acquaintances, shopkeepers, postmen, +drivers. But the gay glance that went with the gesture, the kindly twinkle +that seemed to say, "I'm a match and more for any of you"--that old Mr. +Neave could not manage at all. He stumped along, lifting his knees high as +if he were walking through air that had somehow grown heavy and solid like +water. And the homeward-looking crowd hurried by, the trams clanked, the +light carts clattered, the big swinging cabs bowled along with that +reckless, defiant indifference that one knows only in dreams... + +It had been a day like other days at the office. Nothing special had +happened. Harold hadn't come back from lunch until close on four. Where +had he been? What had he been up to? He wasn't going to let his father +know. Old Mr. Neave had happened to be in the vestibule, saying good-bye +to a caller, when Harold sauntered in, perfectly turned out as usual, cool, +suave, smiling that peculiar little half-smile that women found so +fascinating. + +Ah, Harold was too handsome, too handsome by far; that had been the trouble +all along. No man had a right to such eyes, such lashes, and such lips; it +was uncanny. As for his mother, his sisters, and the servants, it was not +too much to say they made a young god of him; they worshipped Harold, they +forgave him everything; and he had needed some forgiving ever since the +time when he was thirteen and he had stolen his mother's purse, taken the +money, and hidden the purse in the cook's bedroom. Old Mr. Neave struck +sharply with his stick upon the pavement edge. But it wasn't only his +family who spoiled Harold, he reflected, it was everybody; he had only to +look and to smile, and down they went before him. So perhaps it wasn't to +be wondered at that he expected the office to carry on the tradition. H'm, +h'm! But it couldn't be done. No business--not even a successful, +established, big paying concern--could be played with. A man had either to +put his whole heart and soul into it, or it went all to pieces before his +eyes... + +And then Charlotte and the girls were always at him to make the whole thing +over to Harold, to retire, and to spend his time enjoying himself. +Enjoying himself! Old Mr. Neave stopped dead under a group of ancient +cabbage palms outside the Government buildings! Enjoying himself! The +wind of evening shook the dark leaves to a thin airy cackle. Sitting at +home, twiddling his thumbs, conscious all the while that his life's work +was slipping away, dissolving, disappearing through Harold's fine fingers, +while Harold smiled... + +"Why will you be so unreasonable, father? There's absolutely no need for +you to go to the office. It only makes it very awkward for us when people +persist in saying how tired you're looking. Here's this huge house and +garden. Surely you could be happy in--in--appreciating it for a change. +Or you could take up some hobby." + +And Lola the baby had chimed in loftily, "All men ought to have hobbies. +It makes life impossible if they haven't." + +Well, well! He couldn't help a grim smile as painfully he began to climb +the hill that led into Harcourt Avenue. Where would Lola and her sisters +and Charlotte be if he'd gone in for hobbies, he'd like to know? Hobbies +couldn't pay for the town house and the seaside bungalow, and their horses, +and their golf, and the sixty-guinea gramophone in the music-room for them +to dance to. Not that he grudged them these things. No, they were smart, +good-looking girls, and Charlotte was a remarkable woman; it was natural +for them to be in the swim. As a matter of fact, no other house in the +town was as popular as theirs; no other family entertained so much. And +how many times old Mr. Neave, pushing the cigar box across the smoking-room +table, had listened to praises of his wife, his girls, of himself even. + +"You're an ideal family, sir, an ideal family. It's like something one +reads about or sees on the stage." + +"That's all right, my boy," old Mr. Neave would reply. "Try one of those; +I think you'll like them. And if you care to smoke in the garden, you'll +find the girls on the lawn, I dare say." + +That was why the girls had never married, so people said. They could have +married anybody. But they had too good a time at home. They were too +happy together, the girls and Charlotte. H'm, h'm! Well, well. Perhaps +so... + +By this time he had walked the length of fashionable Harcourt Avenue; he +had reached the corner house, their house. The carriage gates were pushed +back; there were fresh marks of wheels on the drive. And then he faced the +big white-painted house, with its wide-open windows, its tulle curtains +floating outwards, its blue jars of hyacinths on the broad sills. On +either side of the carriage porch their hydrangeas--famous in the town-- +were coming into flower; the pinkish, bluish masses of flower lay like +light among the spreading leaves. And somehow, it seemed to old Mr. Neave +that the house and the flowers, and even the fresh marks on the drive, were +saying, "There is young life here. There are girls--" + +The hall, as always, was dusky with wraps, parasols, gloves, piled on the +oak chests. From the music-room sounded the piano, quick, loud and +impatient. Through the drawing-room door that was ajar voices floated. + +"And were there ices?" came from Charlotte. Then the creak, creak of her +rocker. + +"Ices!" cried Ethel. "My dear mother, you never saw such ices. Only two +kinds. And one a common little strawberry shop ice, in a sopping wet +frill." + +"The food altogether was too appalling," came from Marion. + +"Still, it's rather early for ices," said Charlotte easily. + +"But why, if one has them at all ..." began Ethel. + +"Oh, quite so, darling," crooned Charlotte. + +Suddenly the music-room door opened and Lola dashed out. She started, she +nearly screamed, at the sight of old Mr. Neave. + +"Gracious, father! What a fright you gave me! Have you just come home? +Why isn't Charles here to help you off with your coat?" + +Her cheeks were crimson from playing, her eyes glittered, the hair fell +over her forehead. And she breathed as though she had come running through +the dark and was frightened. Old Mr. Neave stared at his youngest +daughter; he felt he had never seen her before. So that was Lola, was it? +But she seemed to have forgotten her father; it was not for him that she +was waiting there. Now she put the tip of her crumpled handkerchief +between her teeth and tugged at it angrily. The telephone rang. A-ah! +Lola gave a cry like a sob and dashed past him. The door of the telephone- +room slammed, and at the same moment Charlotte called, "Is that you, +father?" + +"You're tired again," said Charlotte reproachfully, and she stopped the +rocker and offered her warm plum-like cheek. Bright-haired Ethel pecked +his beard, Marion's lips brushed his ear. + +"Did you walk back, father?" asked Charlotte. + +"Yes, I walked home," said old Mr. Neave, and he sank into one of the +immense drawing-room chairs. + +"But why didn't you take a cab?" said Ethel. "There are hundred of cabs +about at that time." + +"My dear Ethel," cried Marion, "if father prefers to tire himself out, I +really don't see what business of ours it is to interfere." + +"Children, children?" coaxed Charlotte. + +But Marion wouldn't be stopped. "No, mother, you spoil father, and it's +not right. You ought to be stricter with him. He's very naughty." She +laughed her hard, bright laugh and patted her hair in a mirror. Strange! +When she was a little girl she had such a soft, hesitating voice; she had +even stuttered, and now, whatever she said--even if it was only "Jam, +please, father"--it rang out as though she were on the stage. + +"Did Harold leave the office before you, dear?" asked Charlotte, beginning +to rock again. + +"I'm not sure," said Old Mr. Neave. "I'm not sure. I didn't see him after +four o'clock." + +"He said--" began Charlotte. + +But at that moment Ethel, who was twitching over the leaves of some paper +or other, ran to her mother and sank down beside her chair. + +"There, you see," she cried. "That's what I mean, mummy. Yellow, with +touches of silver. Don't you agree?" + +"Give it to me, love," said Charlotte. She fumbled for her tortoise-shell +spectacles and put them on, gave the page a little dab with her plump small +fingers, and pursed up her lips. "Very sweet!" she crooned vaguely; she +looked at Ethel over her spectacles. "But I shouldn't have the train." + +"Not the train!" wailed Ethel tragically. "But the train's the whole +point." + +"Here, mother, let me decide." Marion snatched the paper playfully from +Charlotte. "I agree with mother," she cried triumphantly. "The train +overweights it." + +Old Mr. Neave, forgotten, sank into the broad lap of his chair, and, +dozing, heard them as though he dreamed. There was no doubt about it, he +was tired out; he had lost his hold. Even Charlotte and the girls were too +much for him to-night. They were too...too...But all his drowsing brain +could think of was--too rich for him. And somewhere at the back of +everything he was watching a little withered ancient man climbing up +endless flights of stairs. Who was he? + +"I shan't dress to-night," he muttered. + +"What do you say, father?" + +"Eh, what, what?" Old Mr. Neave woke with a start and stared across at +them. "I shan't dress to-night," he repeated. + +"But, father, we've got Lucile coming, and Henry Davenport, and Mrs. Teddie +Walker." + +"It will look so very out of the picture." + +"Don't you feel well, dear?" + +"You needn't make any effort. What is Charles for?" + +"But if you're really not up to it," Charlotte wavered. + +"Very well! Very well!" Old Mr. Neave got up and went to join that little +old climbing fellow just as far as his dressing-room... + +There young Charles was waiting for him. Carefully, as though everything +depended on it, he was tucking a towel round the hot-water can. Young +Charles had been a favourite of his ever since as a little red-faced boy he +had come into the house to look after the fires. Old Mr. Neave lowered +himself into the cane lounge by the window, stretched out his legs, and +made his little evening joke, "Dress him up, Charles!" And Charles, +breathing intensely and frowning, bent forward to take the pin out of his +tie. + +H'm, h'm! Well, well! It was pleasant by the open window, very pleasant-- +a fine mild evening. They were cutting the grass on the tennis court +below; he heard the soft churr of the mower. Soon the girls would begin +their tennis parties again. And at the thought he seemed to hear Marion's +voice ring out, "Good for you, partner...Oh, played, partner...Oh, very +nice indeed." Then Charlotte calling from the veranda, "Where is Harold?" +And Ethel, "He's certainly not here, mother." And Charlotte's vague, "He +said--" + +Old Mr. Neave sighed, got up, and putting one hand under his beard, he took +the comb from young Charles, and carefully combed the white beard over. +Charles gave him a folded handkerchief, his watch and seals, and spectacle +case. + +"That will do, my lad." The door shut, he sank back, he was alone... + +And now that little ancient fellow was climbing down endless flights that +led to a glittering, gay dining-room. What legs he had! They were like a +spider's--thin, withered. + +"You're an ideal family, sir, an ideal family." + +But if that were true, why didn't Charlotte or the girls stop him? Why was +he all alone, climbing up and down? Where was Harold? Ah, it was no good +expecting anything from Harold. Down, down went the little old spider, and +then, to his horror, old Mr. Neave saw him slip past the dining-room and +make for the porch, the dark drive, the carriage gates, the office. Stop +him, stop him, somebody! + +Old Mr. Neave started up. It was dark in his dressing-room; the window +shone pale. How long had he been asleep? He listened, and through the +big, airy, darkened house there floated far-away voices, far-away sounds. +Perhaps, he thought vaguely, he had been asleep for a long time. He'd been +forgotten. What had all this to do with him--this house and Charlotte, the +girls and Harold--what did he know about them? They were strangers to him. +Life had passed him by. Charlotte was not his wife. His wife! + +...A dark porch, half hidden by a passion-vine, that drooped sorrowful, +mournful, as though it understood. Small, warm arms were round his neck. +A face, little and pale, lifted to his, and a voice breathed, "Good-bye, my +treasure." + +My treasure! "Good-bye, my treasure!" Which of them had spoken? Why had +they said good-bye? There had been some terrible mistake. She was his +wife, that little pale girl, and all the rest of his life had been a dream. + +Then the door opened, and young Charles, standing in the light, put his +hands by his side and shouted like a young soldier, "Dinner is on the +table, sir!" + +"I'm coming, I'm coming," said old Mr. Neave. + + + +15. THE LADY'S MAID. + +Eleven o'clock. A knock at the door...I hope I haven't disturbed you, +madam. You weren't asleep--were you? But I've just given my lady her tea, +and there was such a nice cup over, I thought, perhaps... + +...Not at all, madam. I always make a cup of tea last thing. She drinks +it in bed after her prayers to warm her up. I put the kettle on when she +kneels down and I say to it, "Now you needn't be in too much of a hurry to +say your prayers." But it's always boiling before my lady is half through. +You see, madam, we know such a lot of people, and they've all got to be +prayed for--every one. My lady keeps a list of the names in a little red +book. Oh dear! whenever some one new has been to see us and my lady says +afterwards, "Ellen, give me my little red book," I feel quite wild, I do. +"There's another," I think, "keeping her out of her bed in all weathers." +And she won't have a cushion, you know, madam; she kneels on the hard +carpet. It fidgets me something dreadful to see her, knowing her as I do. +I've tried to cheat her; I've spread out the eiderdown. But the first time +I did it--oh, she gave me such a look--holy it was, madam. "Did our Lord +have an eiderdown, Ellen?" she said. But--I was younger at the time--I +felt inclined to say, "No, but our Lord wasn't your age, and he didn't know +what it was to have your lumbago." Wicked--wasn't it? But she's too good, +you know, madam. When I tucked her up just now and seen--saw her lying +back, her hands outside and her head on the pillow--so pretty--I couldn't +help thinking, "Now you look just like your dear mother when I laid her +out!" + +...Yes, madam, it was all left to me. Oh, she did look sweet. I did her +hair, soft-like, round her forehead, all in dainty curls, and just to one +side of her neck I put a bunch of most beautiful purple pansies. Those +pansies made a picture of her, madam! I shall never forget them. I +thought to-night, when I looked at my lady, "Now, if only the pansies was +there no one could tell the difference." + +...Only the last year, madam. Only after she'd got a little--well--feeble +as you might say. Of course, she was never dangerous; she was the sweetest +old lady. But how it took her was--she thought she'd lost something. She +couldn't keep still, she couldn't settle. All day long she'd be up and +down, up and down; you'd meet her everywhere,--on the stairs, in the porch, +making for the kitchen. And she'd look up at you, and she'd say--just like +a child, "I've lost it, I've lost it." "Come along," I'd say, "come along, +and I'll lay out your patience for you." But she'd catch me by the hand--I +was a favourite of hers--and whisper, "Find it for me, Ellen. Find it for +me." Sad, wasn't it? + +...No, she never recovered, madam. She had a stroke at the end. Last +words she ever said was--very slow, "Look in--the--Look--in--" And then +she was gone. + +...No, madam, I can't say I noticed it. Perhaps some girls. But you see, +it's like this, I've got nobody but my lady. My mother died of consumption +when I was four, and I lived with my grandfather, who kept a hair-dresser's +shop. I used to spend all my time in the shop under a table dressing my +doll's hair--copying the assistants, I suppose. They were ever so kind to +me. Used to make me little wigs, all colours, the latest fashions and all. +And there I'd sit all day, quiet as quiet--the customers never knew. Only +now and again I'd take my peep from under the table-cloth. + +...But one day I managed to get a pair of scissors and--would you believe +it, madam? I cut off all my hair; snipped it off all in bits, like the +little monkey I was. Grandfather was furious! He caught hold of the +tongs--I shall never forget it--grabbed me by the hand and shut my fingers +in them. "That'll teach you!" he said. It was a fearful burn. I've got +the mark of it to-day. + +...Well, you see, madam, he'd taken such pride in my hair. He used to sit +me up on the counter, before the customers came, and do it something +beautiful--big, soft curls and waved over the top. I remember the +assistants standing round, and me ever so solemn with the penny grandfather +gave me to hold while it was being done...But he always took the penny back +afterwards. Poor grandfather! Wild, he was, at the fright I'd made of +myself. But he frightened me that time. Do you know what I did, madam? I +ran away. Yes, I did, round the corners, in and out, I don't know how far +I didn't run. Oh, dear, I must have looked a sight, with my hand rolled up +in my pinny and my hair sticking out. People must have laughed when they +saw me... + +...No, madam, grandfather never got over it. He couldn't bear the sight of +me after. Couldn't eat his dinner, even, if I was there. So my aunt took +me. She was a cripple, an upholstress. Tiny! She had to stand on the +sofas when she wanted to cut out the backs. And it was helping her I met +my lady... + +...Not so very, madam. I was thirteen, turned. And I don't remember ever +feeling--well--a child, as you might say. You see there was my uniform, +and one thing and another. My lady put me into collars and cuffs from the +first. Oh yes--once I did! That was--funny! It was like this. My lady +had her two little nieces staying with her--we were at Sheldon at the time- +-and there was a fair on the common. + +"Now, Ellen," she said, "I want you to take the two young ladies for a ride +on the donkeys." Off we went; solemn little loves they were; each had a +hand. But when we came to the donkeys they were too shy to go on. So we +stood and watched instead. Beautiful those donkeys were! They were the +first I'd seen out of a cart--for pleasure as you might say. They were a +lovely silver-grey, with little red saddles and blue bridles and bells +jing-a-jingling on their ears. And quite big girls--older than me, even-- +were riding them, ever so gay. Not at all common, I don't mean, madam, +just enjoying themselves. And I don't know what it was, but the way the +little feet went, and the eyes--so gentle--and the soft ears--made me want +to go on a donkey more than anything in the world! + +...Of course, I couldn't. I had my young ladies. And what would I have +looked like perched up there in my uniform? But all the rest of the day it +was donkeys--donkeys on the brain with me. I felt I should have burst if I +didn't tell some one; and who was there to tell? But when I went to bed--I +was sleeping in Mrs. James's bedroom, our cook that was, at the time--as +soon as the lights was out, there they were, my donkeys, jingling along, +with their neat little feet and sad eyes...Well, madam, would you believe +it, I waited for a long time and pretended to be asleep, and then suddenly +I sat up and called out as loud as I could, "I do want to go on a donkey. +I do want a donkey-ride!" You see, I had to say it, and I thought they +wouldn't laugh at me if they knew I was only dreaming. Artful--wasn't it? +Just what a silly child would think... + +...No, madam, never now. Of course, I did think of it at one time. But it +wasn't to be. He had a little flower-shop just down the road and across +from where we was living. Funny--wasn't it? And me such a one for +flowers. We were having a lot of company at the time, and I was in and out +of the shop more often than not, as the saying is. And Harry and I (his +name was Harry) got to quarrelling about how things ought to be arranged-- +and that began it. Flowers! you wouldn't believe it, madam, the flowers he +used to bring me. He'd stop at nothing. It was lilies-of-the-valley more +than once, and I'm not exaggerating! Well, of course, we were going to be +married and live over the shop, and it was all going to be just so, and I +was to have the window to arrange...Oh, how I've done that window of a +Saturday! Not really, of course, madam, just dreaming, as you might say. +I've done it for Christmas--motto in holly, and all--and I've had my Easter +lilies with a gorgeous star all daffodils in the middle. I've hung--well, +that's enough of that. The day came he was to call for me to choose the +furniture. Shall I ever forget it? It was a Tuesday. My lady wasn't +quite herself that afternoon. Not that she'd said anything, of course; she +never does or will. But I knew by the way that she kept wrapping herself +up and asking me if it was cold--and her little nose looked...pinched. I +didn't like leaving her; I knew I'd be worrying all the time. At last I +asked her if she'd rather I put it off. "Oh no, Ellen," she said, "you +mustn't mind about me. You mustn't disappoint your young man." And so +cheerful, you know, madam, never thinking about herself. It made me feel +worse than ever. I began to wonder...then she dropped her handkerchief and +began to stoop down to pick it up herself--a thing she never did. +"Whatever are you doing!" I cried, running to stop her. "Well," she said, +smiling, you know, madam, "I shall have to begin to practise." Oh, it was +all I could do not to burst out crying. I went over to the dressing-table +and made believe to rub up the silver, and I couldn't keep myself in, and I +asked her if she'd rather I...didn't get married. "No, Ellen," she said-- +that was her voice, madam, like I'm giving you--"No, Ellen, not for the +wide world!" But while she said it, madam--I was looking in her glass; of +course, she didn't know I could see her--she put her little hand on her +heart just like her dear mother used to, and lifted her eyes...Oh, madam! + +When Harry came I had his letters all ready, and the ring and a ducky +little brooch he'd given me--a silver bird it was, with a chain in its +beak, and on the end of the chain a heart with a dagger. Quite the thing! +I opened the door to him. I never gave him time for a word. "There you +are," I said. "Take them all back," I said, "it's all over. I'm not going +to marry you," I said, "I can't leave my lady." White! he turned as white +as a woman. I had to slam the door, and there I stood, all of a tremble, +till I knew he had gone. When I opened the door--believe me or not, madam- +-that man was gone! I ran out into the road just as I was, in my apron and +my house-shoes, and there I stayed in the middle of the road...staring. +People must have laughed if they saw me... + +...Goodness gracious!--What's that? It's the clock striking! And here +I've been keeping you awake. Oh, madam, you ought to have stopped me...Can +I tuck in your feet? I always tuck in my lady's feet, every night, just +the same. And she says, "Good night, Ellen. Sleep sound and wake early!" +I don't know what I should do if she didn't say that, now. + +...Oh dear, I sometimes think...whatever should I do if anything were +to...But, there, thinking's no good to any one--is it, madam? Thinking +won't help. Not that I do it often. And if ever I do I pull myself up +sharp, "Now, then, Ellen. At it again--you silly girl! If you can't find +anything better to do than to start thinking!..." + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg Etext The Garden Party, by Katherine Mansfield + diff --git a/old/old/gprty10.zip b/old/old/gprty10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..88178ce --- /dev/null +++ b/old/old/gprty10.zip |
