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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 |
