HAVEN

[_To CLARENCE DAY, JR._]

"You should only," we are told, "wear white in early youth and old age.

It is very becoming with a fresh complexion or white hair. When you no

longer feel as young as you were, other colours are more flattering.

Also, you should avoid bright lights and worry."

Here, the beauty specialist reminds you of the specialist who says in

winter, "Avoid wet feet and germs." In spite of both, we are still

subjected to sunshine and anxiety and rain and microbes.

But there are risks which the would-be young can and should avoid.

Surely Miss Wilcox ought to have known better than to flop down on the

grass with an effort and a bump, clasping (with some difficulty) her

knees because Vera, who is sixteen, slim and lithe, with the gawky grace

of a young colt, had made such an obvious success of the operation!

It is better not to sit on the grass after thirty when sprawling at all

is difficult, let alone sprawling gracefully.

Poor Miss Wilcox! At seventeen she had been a pretty, bouncing girl with

bright blue eyes, bright pink cheeks and brighter yellow hair. All the

young men of the neighbourhood had kissed her in conservatories or

bushes and to each in turn, she had answered, "Well, I never!"

Then an era of intellectual indifference to the world set in. She read

Milton in a garret and ate very little. When addressed, she gave the

impression of being suddenly dragged down from some sublime pinnacle of

thought. This was the period of absent-mindedness, of untidiness, of

unpunctuality, for she was convinced that these three ingredients

compose the spiritual life. But it was not a success. True, her cheeks

lost their roses, but without attaining an interesting transparent

whiteness and her figure became angular, rather than thin. Cold food,

ugly clothes and enforced isolation began to lose their charms and Miss

Wilcox abandoned the intellectual life.

She discovered that men were her only interest--probably she had always

known it. Even the curate, who was like a curate on the stage, was

glorified into an adventurous possibility from the mere fact that he

belonged to that strange, tropical species--the other sex.

Unfortunately, Miss Wilcox, who was practical and orderly, knew just

"what men liked in a woman." It was, it appeared, necessary to be

bright--relentlessly bright, with a determined, irrelevant cheerfulness

which no considerations of appropriateness could check and it was

necessary to have "something to say for yourself" which in Miss Wilcox's

hands, meant a series of pert tu quoques of the "you're another"

variety. Her two other axioms, "Don't let them see that you care for

them" and "feed the beasts," were alas! never put to the test as no man

had ever considered the possibility of being loved by Miss Wilcox and

the feeding stage had, in consequence, never been reached.

Nevertheless, in defence of her theses, Miss Wilcox was rough-toughed in

public, while in private, she studied recipes and articles on cooking.

As hope gradually began to give way to experience, Miss Wilcox came to

the conclusion that she frightened men off. They regarded her, she

imagined, as cold and indifferent and unapproachable. "I don't cheapen

myself," she would say, forgetting her conservatory days. In her heart

of hearts, she imagined herself in humble surrender, laying her strong

personality at the feet of a still stronger one and being gently lifted

up on to a pedestal. It was curious, she thought, that her wonderful,

unique gift of tenderness should go unperceived. But how is one to show

that one is tender? It is so difficult for a maiden lady, living alone.

She saw visions of a huge man with whimsical, smiling eyes, who after

seeing her two or three times would call at her cottage. He would stand

in the door and simply say, "Ellen," and she would put her head on his

shoulder and cry gently while he stroked her hair. "Does my loving you

make you sad, little one?" he would say, and she would answer, "No, no,

they are tears of happiness."

Miss Wilcox thought it would be delightful to be called "little one."

And then, rather nervously and tremulously, she would murmur, "I am

afraid I am not very beautiful," and he would laugh a deep, joyous laugh

and say, "To me, you are the most beautiful woman in the world."

But it never happened. Even the chinless curate, whose voice without

consonants gave the effect of an intoning bumble-bee, never took

advantage of her suggestions (frequently repeated) that he should drop

in to tea.

She tried to learn lawn-tennis and chess, but driving a ball into a net

and studying problems in the Sunday papers becomes very monotonous. It

was extraordinary how little provision life seemed to have made for

superior people with fastidious tastes, whereas an empty head and a

pretty face conquers the world! Miss Wilcox was very proud of the

epigram, "empty heads and pretty faces." She used it frequently, more

in sorrow than in anger. Vera was an excellent example. She was

incapable of "conducting a conversation," she never read a book, but

simply because her eyes sparkled and somehow or other, she always

reminded you of a Shepperson drawing, she was invariably surrounded by a

host of adorers. She was indifferent to the axioms, "boys will be boys"

and "gentlemen are different." In her philosophy, "girls would be boys"

and the difference between the sexes was simply one of what you might

and might not do.

"A positive savage," Miss Wilcox would explain and then, "You should be

more womanly, dear; men like a womanly woman." And Vera's eyes would

sparkle maliciously, for men undoubtedly did like Vera.

I do not know at what moment in life, if ever, we realise that we are

neither George Sands nor Juliets. Of course, if we are not beautiful, we

recognise early that beauty is nothing. What are features? The only

thing that matters is to have charm and expression. Then comes that

horrible gnawing doubt of our own magnetism. Is it possible that, though

we are not lovely, we are not irresistible either? That we will have to

go through life belonging neither to the triumphantly beautiful nor to

the triumphantly ugly? Miss Wilcox knew that she was not exactly

clever. But after all, what is prettiness and "men don't like clever

women." So she consoled herself with the thought that though her manner

"permitted no liberties," the warm tenderness of her true nature must be

apparent to the really discerning.

Poor Miss Wilcox! She had tried brightness and common-sense, Milton and

lawn-tennis, the arch and the aloof. She would have liked to have been

seductive and a little wicked, but she had found it easier to be

dignified and very good. Easier but no more satisfactory. Evidently

charm was a strange, mysterious thing, for which there was no recipe. A

dangerous force governing many things and subject to no law.

Every one was kind to Miss Wilcox. Lady Mary (Vera's mother) was always

asking her to picnics and lawn-tennis, parties and festivities of all

sorts. On these occasions, Sir Harry invariably chaffed her about the

curate, little knowing that his foolish jokes were a source of exquisite

and almost guilty pleasure to her. Was it, she wondered, altogether fair

to let him think that Mr. Simpson loved her? But she did enjoy it so

much, the nervous agonising sense of expectancy and then the sudden hot

blush. "Their little secret," Sir Harry called it and though, of course,

it was very wicked of her to let him continue under a misapprehension,

it was so difficult to clear the matter up, as, the more she protested,

the more confused she became, the more he was bound to think that there

was something in it.

Poor Miss Wilcox, battling with her conscience when Mr. Simpson's

passion was an invention of Vera's to whom old maids and curates were

simply stage properties. Vera with her long legs and her laughing eyes

and her happy, unimaginative youth--how was she to know that the

Simpsons of life stand for romance and mystery and longings unachieved?

To some people the impossible is impossible. One fine day they wake up

in the morning knowing that they will never hold the moon in their hands

and with the certainty, perfect peace descends on them.

Miss Wilcox was not like that. She couldn't settle down to decorating

the church and organising village entertainments. She woke up every

morning sure that something was going to happen and went to bed every

night dissatisfied in proportion to her confidence.

And then, quite close together, two things did happen. Miss Wilcox was

left a small fortune and Vera became engaged to be married.

The wedding, of course, was a great dramatic event. The preparations

engulfed everybody. What flowers should the triumphal arches be made of

and were the fair or the dark bridesmaids to be considered in the

bridesmaids' dresses? Miss Wilcox gave her advice freely and tied cards

on to presents but she felt unaccountably depressed. This, of course,

was because dear little Vera whom she had known since a child, whom she

had loved as a child, was leaving them and plunging into this strange,

unknown adventure. What an uncertain thing marriage, what an elusive

thing happiness! At nights she would dream of white satin figures

shrouded in white tulle veils, of shy, passionate bridegrooms and shy,

radiant brides. Sometimes she would see Vera's face and sometimes her

own and often in the morning, she would find her pillow wet. "It will be

you and Simpson next," Sir Harry teased her. But somehow the remark no

longer pleased her and she no longer blushed.

And then, one day she couldn't bear it any more. Without saying a word

to any one she went to London. A thick orange fog greeted her, a

wonderful, mysterious fog, creating immense prehistoric silhouettes, a

fog which freed you from old accustomed sights and sounds so that your

individuality seemed at last to be released and to belong exclusively to

you.

Gratefully Miss Wilcox accepted this gift of privacy. London belonged to

her, there were no prying eyes. Slowly she walked along the pavement

peering into shop windows. It was difficult to see anything. At last

she distinguished a blur of gold and jewels. She walked on and then back

again. She stood still. Her heart was in her mouth. Resolutely she

pushed the door open. The brightness blinded her, the sudden warmth made

her feel dizzy. Weakly she sat on a chair. A sympathetic salesman asked

her if he could do anything for her. "No, thank you," she murmured

faintly, "if I might sit here a moment."

Gradually she recovered and walked out again. The fog was thicker than

ever. The traffic had stopped. People bumped into her with muttered

apologies. Hesitatingly, wearily, she walked along. At last, she reached

another jeweller's. Firmly, quickly she walked in. How was she to ask

for what she wanted?

"What can I do for you, Madam?"

She looked up like a frightened animal.

"I've lost my wedding ring," she stammered. "It was a broad gold one.

I--I don't want my husband to discover it."

How easy it was after all.

The salesman was very sympathetic. She looked at a great number of

rings, toying with them in voluptuous hesitation. She enjoyed fingering

them. At last she chose one. The gold band on her finger frightened her.

It made her feel a strange, different person, rather disreputable and

quite unlike herself.

Miss Wilcox went to the Ritz. It was, she felt, a place where married

ladies without husbands would be neither noticed nor commented on. There

is, after all, nothing so very unusual in a wedding ring and Miss

Wilcox's appearance did not arouse idle and libelous speculations. But

still, she felt safer at the Ritz--there is something so conspicuous

about a quiet hotel.

The next day the fog had been cleared away and the sun, emerging after a

day's rest, sparkled with refreshed gaiety. Miss Wilcox, in deep

mourning, went out to buy new black clothes--lovely they were,

intentionally, not accidentally black, filmy chiffons, rippling

crêpe-de-chines, demure cashmeres, severe, perfect tailleurs. Here and

there touches of snowy crepe gave a relief suitable to deep unhappiness

and her widow's cap, low on the forehead, was the softest and most

nun-like frame to her face. Seeing herself in the glass, Miss Wilcox

blushed with pleasure.

"My husband was so fond of clothes," she murmured to the vendeuse with a

break in her voice, "and he always said that nothing became a woman like

black."

* * * * *

There is a little village on the Seine. An old grey church nestles among

the huddling houses. A platoon of poplars guards the river, and little

pink almond bushes spring out of patches of violets. Miss Wilcox,

calling herself Mrs. Demarest, lives in a charming old house surrounded

by box hedges, paved paths lead through beds of old-fashioned

sweet-scented flowers, stocks and wall flowers and mignonette and moss

roses, lavender, myrtle, thyme and sweet geranium. Mr. Demarest, it

appears, could not bear the wonderful new varieties of huge, smell-less

blooms.

Miss Wilcox has never gone out of mourning, though she sometimes wears

grey and mauve. Her gracious sweetness has made her much beloved in the

village where her gentle presence is loved and honoured. She can often

be seen bringing soup to some old invalid, or taking flowers to the

church she loves to decorate. Her charity and her piety are revered by

all. Sometimes in the evening she plays a game of cards with her

neighbours or chess with the curé. It is known that a rich man from the

adjoining town proposed marriage to her, but she continues to mourn her

late husband with profound devoted fidelity. She is too unselfish to

force her grief on to others, but every one knows that her heart is

broken. Sometimes she talks of her sorrow--very gently, very

uncomplainingly, and there are always flowers in front of the photograph

of her husband on her writing table. He must have been a magnificent

man--huge, with whimsical smiling eyes. Every one in the village feels

as if they had known him. They have heard so much about him. He had only

seen Miss Wilcox three times when he walked into her cottage. Standing

in the doorway--"Ellen," he said, and she went to him--

"I suppose I knew it was for always," she explains gently. "It has been

a short always on earth--but so happy, so very happy."

All the girls of the village go to Mrs. Demarest before they marry. Her

wise counsel and the radiant memory of her happiness lights them on

their way.

"I have had everything," she says, "and now I have found peace."

It is the severity of suffering bravely borne. She has called her house

"Haven."