If you look into life, you will find that the key-note of every
woman's existence is love--the broad, the great, the grand passion.
She may take up a million causes, champion a thousand aims; but the
end that she reaches--is love. To fail in such an end--to lose the
grasp of it when once it might have been hers--this is the most bitter
of aloes; gall that eats into her blood and corrodes her clearest
vision. A man, forging destinies, is a king, to be mated only with
a woman who loves.
There are exceptions; but these are not needed to prove the rule;
for there hangs even some doubt, like a fly in the amber, in the
history of Jeanne D'Arc, the most patent an example of them all. Yet
whether, as some chronicles would say, she was never burnt as a witch,
but smuggled into the country, and there mated in love--and it would
seem a shame unpardonable to rob history of a great martyr and the
Church of Rome of a saint--it makes no odds in the counting. Great
women have loved greatly--lesser women have loved less--but all who
are of the sex have made the heart their master, and obeyed it
whenever it has truly called.
So it had come to Sally. Beyond all doubt, she loved; beyond all
question, she was prepared to obey the faintest call that her heart
prompted. Janet, tender to her that night, fondling her and caressing
her, answering to her with the very heart that she had tried to stifle
within herself, was Janet herself again the next morning. But Sally
was unchanged.
She dressed herself silently before the mirror, looking out through
the window at the grey river-fog that fell gloomily across the water
and Janet lay in bed, her hands crossed behind her head, a cigarette
hanging between her lips and the smoke curling up past her eyes. The
school of Art did not open until eleven o'clock that morning. Sally
had to be at the office at nine.
"There'll be a fog up in Town," said Janet. She did not take the
cigarette out of her mouth. It jerked up and down with the words.
"Sure to be," Sally replied.
"Suppose Mr. Traill will come and take you out to lunch?"
Sally turned quickly. "I told you last night," she said bitterly.
"We shan't see each--"
"Oh yes, I know that. But do you think he means it?"
"I'm sure he does."
"I'm not."
Sally unpinned a coil of her hair and re-arranged it more carefully,
unconscious that she did it because Janet had suggested the vague
hope in her mind that he might come.
"Why are you so different this morning?" she asked.
Janet brushed away a piece of glowing ash that had fallen like a cloud
of dust into one of the hollows below her neck.
"Didn't know I was very different."
"You are."
"Well, I've been thinking--" She threw the end of her cigarette away
and jumped out of bed, walking on her heels over the cold, linoleumed
floor to the washstand. "I've been thinking," she repeated as she
poured out the cold water into the basin--"and as far as I can
see"--she dipped her face with a rush into the icy water, and her
words became a gurgle of speeding bubbles--"there was really no need
for all your crying and misery--heavens! this water'd nip a tenderer
bud than I am. Ain't I a bud, Sally?" She laughed and shivered her
shoulders as she struggled to work the soap into a lather.
"I never can understand you when you talk like that," said Sally.
"I never know whether you really mean what you say."
"Well, I mean every word of it. It's the only time I do mean things,
when I talk like that. Where'd you put the towel? We want a clean
towel, Sally. I sopped up some tea I spilt with this last night.
No--but can't you see, there's no need for you to be so miserable
as you think. Men only make a sacrifice when they really love a woman.
He'll come back to you, like a duck to the water. You know he will.
Do you think if he'd cared for you at all, he'd have given tuppence
whether he taught you what most men teach most women. The only woman
a man thinks he has no real claim to, is the woman he loves; he
believes he has a proprietary right to nearly every other blessed
one he meets, and has only got to assert it."
"How do you know these things, Janet? What makes you say them?"
"You mean who's taught me them--eh? What man has ever taken a
sufficient interest in me to show me so much of his sex? Isn't that
what you mean?"
"No!"
"Oh, I know I'm ugly enough. That glass has a habit of reminding me
of it every morning. I could smash that glass sometimes with the back
of a hair-brush, only it might break the hair-brush."
"Janet, you're cruel sometimes! Things like that never enter my
dreams!" Sally exclaimed passionately.
"Bless your heart," said Janet, "facts never do. You take facts as
they come; you act on them instinctively, but you don't realize them.
I _am_ ugly. There's no doubt about it. You don't think I'm ugly,
but you see I am. That prompts your question without knowing it. But
men have made fools of themselves--even over me. There was one man
at the school last year--took a fancy to me, I believe because I was
so ugly. Just like James II. and the ugly maids-of-honour. I was going
to live with him. Can you believe that? And one night at one of the
dances, we were kicking up a row a bit--dancing about as if we were
lunatics--and my hair fell down--there's not much for a pin to stick
into at the best of times. I remember laughing and looking across
the room at him. Well, I saw an expression in his eyes that settled
it. He looked as if he could see me--just like I know I am--in the
mornings when I first wake up--all frowsy and fuddled, with this
little bit of a mat I've got, sticking out in tails, about as long
as your hand, on the pillow. It takes a bit of courage for a man to
even go and live with a woman after he's seen her like that. I assure
you it didn't take me much courage to tell him I'd changed my mind."
Sally watched her and the pain that she felt as she listened furrowed
her brow into frowns. She knew that there was more than this, more
than the bare statement behind this little story. That was Janet's
way of putting it, the way Janet made herself look on at life, the
apparently heartless aspect in which she viewed everything. To
sympathize would only sting her to still more bitter sarcasm. Sally
said nothing, the pity was in her eyes.
"I've never told you that before, have I?" said Janet.
"No."
"And I suppose you're terribly shocked because I even ever thought
of living with a man?"
"No, I'm not. If you loved him and--and he couldn't marry you."
Out of the corner of her eyes Janet watched her, rubbing her face
vigorously with the towel to conceal her observation. In that moment
then, she saw the end of Sally, drew the matter out in her mind, as,
with hurried strokes, she might have sketched a passing face upon
the slip of paper.
"Well, you run on down to breakfast," she said. "You'll be late; it's
five minutes to eight."
A whole week passed by, and Sally heard no more of Traill. Every day,
when she went out to lunch, or left the office after work was over,
she looked up and down King Street in the hope, almost the expectation,
of seeing him waiting for her to come. Then the expectation died away;
the hope grew fainter and fainter, like a shadow that the sun casts
upon the sundial until, at an hour before setting, it is scarcely
discernible.
Another week sped its days through. It was as the unwinding of a reel
of silk, each day a round, each round and the body of the reel grew
thinner and thinner, and the coils of silk lay wasted--entangled on
the floor.
Deep shadows settled under Sally's eyes. The disease of
love-sickness has its common symptoms, the whole world knows them;
the hungry self-interest that wears itself out into a hypochondriacal
morbidity; the perverted power of vision, the hopeless want of
philosophy; not to mention the hundred ailments of the body that beset
every single one who suffers from the complaint.
Janet watched Sally closely through it all until, as the time passed
by, even she began to think that her calculations had been at fault.
At last, one morning, there lay on the breakfast-table in the kitchen,
a little brown-paper parcel addressed to Sally. She picked it up
eagerly and the flame flickered up into her cheeks as she laid it
down again, unopened, in her lap. Janet smiled across at her, but
said nothing. When breakfast was over, she let Sally go away by
herself up to her bedroom, while she remained behind and talked to
Mrs. Hewson. Ten minutes, she gave her; then she mounted the stairs
as well. She did not knock. She walked straight into the bedroom and
there she found Sally, seated near the window, the tears coursing
down her cheeks, while she held out her wrist and stared at a woven
gold bangle that bore on it her name in diamond letters. By the side
of the empty box was a letter, well-folded, so that it could fit
within, and on the floor lay the string and the brown paper, just
as it had been torn off.
Janet stood in front of her, hands on hips, warmed with the sense
of being a prophet in her own country.
"Are you satisfied now?" she asked.
Sally looked up; the pride of the woman in the bauble blent in her
eyes with the disappointment of the woman in love.
"Isn't it lovely?" she said pathetically. "Oh, it is lovely. I've
never had anything so beautiful before. But I can't keep it. How can
I keep it?"
"Can't keep it!" exclaimed Janet. "What are you talking about? Do
you think it was given to you to look at and then return? Why shouldn't
you keep it? It's got your name on. He can't give it to anybody else,
unless there's more than one Sally down his alley, which I should
think is very doubtful. What do you mean--you can't keep it? You make
me feel like Job's wife."
Sally unclasped the bangle and laid it back in the little velvet box
with lingering fingers. Then she picked up the letter.
"Read that," she said.
Janet swept her eyes to it. To her, as she read, it seemed to be the
condensation of more than one letter that had been written before.
A man, she argued, who gives such a present, is more than probably
in love; and a man who is in love, cannot write so directly to the
point in his first attempt.
This was the letter:--
"DEAR MISS BISHOP--"
(To call her "Sally" in diamonds and "Miss Bishop" in ink, was
ridiculous. Ink was infinitely cheaper; and if he could afford the
one, then why not the other?)
"I make it a habit to discharge debts. With this to you, I wipe out
my debit sheet and stand clear. You remember my bet on the Hammersmith
'bus. I hope you were none the worse for my foolishness of our last
evening. I have regretted my thoughtlessness many times since.
"Yours sincerely,
"J. HEWITT TRAILL."
"What foolishness?" asked Janet, looking up quickly at the end. "What
did he do?"
Of the fight and her fainting, Sally had told her nothing. She told
her nothing now. The fear that Traill might be thought selfish--a
thought which love had refused to give entrance to in her own
mind--had led her to defend him with silence. Now she told the
deliberate lie, unblushingly, unfearingly.
"He did nothing," she replied; "that's only a joke of his. But you
see, I can't keep the bangle," she went on quickly, covering the lie
with words, as Eugene Aram hid the body of his victim with dead leaves.
"I must send it back to him. I never knew he really meant it when
he made that bet. I never even thought he meant it when he reminded
me of it that day after lunch."
"No more he did mean it," said Janet, sharply. "If he'd seen you again
and again--he'd never have paid it--not as he's pretending to pay
it now."
"Pretending?"
"Yes."
Sally took up the bangle in her fingers.
"You don't call this pretence, do you?" she asked. "Why, it's worth
even much more than he said in his bet. He paid more than ten pounds
for this."
"Exactly," said Janet, shrewdly; "doesn't that prove it? If he was
only paying his bet, you can make pretty sure that he'd have sent
the money and not a penny more than he owed."
"Yes; but do you think he'd do a thing like that?" said Sally, with
pride. "He'd know I wouldn't accept it that way."
"Well, perhaps not," Janet agreed; "but then he wouldn't have bought
a thing that cost a penny more than ten pounds, if so much. You don't
know men when they're parting with money that they've had to whip
some one else to get. You say he's not so very well off. At any rate,
he wouldn't have given you a thing that cost fifteen or twenty
pounds--those diamonds aren't so small--when he only owed you ten."
"But he didn't owe it to me!" Sally interrupted.
"Very well, he didn't. Then why do you think he's sent you this?"
"Because he thinks he does."
"Very well, again; then why does he send you something that's worth
so much more?"
Janet folded her arms in a triumph of silence. For a long time Sally
could frame no reply. It had seemed, only an hour before, that she
would have been so willing to seize at any straw which the tide of
affairs should bring her, and now that the solid branch had floated
to her reach, she could not find the confidence to throw her whole
weight upon it. It was the letter that thwarted her; the letter that
warned her from too great a hope.
"But read the letter," she said at last. "Read the letter again. Would
he ever have written as abruptly as that if--if what you suggest is
right? He might have asked me to--to think sometimes when I wore it--"
"Why? Is he a sentimentalist?"
"My goodness! No!"
"Well, then, he wouldn't. That's a stock phrase of the sentimentalist.
The sentimentalist is always thinking, that's all he does, and he
breaks his heart over it if other people don't act what he thinks."
"Well, he's not a sentimentalist, certainly."
She even smiled when she thought of his exclamations during the
fight.
"What are you smiling at?" asked Janet, quickly. "Something he said?"
"Yes."
"That wasn't sentimental?"
"Yes."
"Well, he certainly wouldn't have told you to think about him when
you wore it. I imagine I can guess exactly what sort he is."
"How can you guess?"
"Well, because I know what sort you are, and I fancy I know just the
type of man whom you'd fall in love with as rapidly as you've fallen
in love with this Mr. Traill. He's hard--he can bend you--he can break
you--he can crush you to dust, and there'll still be some wind or
other that'ud blow your ashes to his feet. He's all man--man that's
got the brute in him, too--and you're all woman, woman that's got
the mating instinct in her, and will go like the lioness across the
miles of desert, without food and without water, when once she hears
the song of sex in the hungry throat of her mate. Oh, it's a pretty
little story, too strong for a drawing-room; but Darwin'll tell it
you, Huxley'll tell it you. But you'll never read Darwin, and you'll
never read Huxley--except in a man's eyes. Oh, I know you think I'm
a beast, I know you think I've got no sense of refinement at all,
that I might have been a man just as well as a woman. Lord! how your
friend Traill would hate me, 'cause he's got all I've got and more--in
himself. But I don't care what you say about that letter--the
letter's nothing. It's the gift that's the thing. That's the song
of sex if you like; and whether you return it, or whether you don't,
you'll answer it, as he meant you to. You'll go creeping across the
desert, and you won't touch water, and you won't touch food, till
you've reached him."
She stood there, shaking the words out of her, the revolutionary in
her eyes and God's truth fearlessly in her breath. Then she lit a
Virginian cigarette and walked out of the room.