'SILLY ass,' remarked Victoria angrily. She threw Edward's letter on the
table. Unconsciously she spoke the 'Rosebud' language, for contact had
had its effect upon her; she no longer awoke with a start to the fact
that she was speaking an alien tongue, a tongue she would once have
despised.
Edward had expressed his interest in her welfare in a letter of four
pages covered with his thin writing, every letter of which was legible
and sloped at the proper angle. He 'considered it exceedingly
undesirable for her to adopt a profession such as that of waitress.' It
was comforting to know that 'he was relieved to see that she had the
common decency to change her name, and he trusted. . . .' Here Victoria
had stopped.
'I can't bear it,' she said. 'I can't, can't, can't. Twopenny little
schoolmaster lecturing me, me who've got to earn every penny I get by
fighting for it in the dirt, so to say.' Every one of Edward's features
came up before her eyes, his straggling fair hair, his bloodless face,
his fumbling ineffective hands. This pedagogue who had stepped from
scholardom to teacherdom dared to blame or eulogise the steps she took
to earn her living, to be free to live or die as she chose. It was
preposterous. What did he know of life?
Victoria seized a pen and feverishly scribbled on a crumpled sheet of
paper.
'My dear Edward,--What I do's my business. I've got to live and I
can't choose. And you can be sure that so long as I can keep myself
I shan't come to you for help or advice. Perhaps you don't know what
freedom is, never having had any. But I do and I'm going to keep it
even if it costs me the approval of you people who sit at home
comfortably and judge people like me who want to be strong and free.
But what's the good of talking about freedom to you.--
Your affectionate sister,
VICTORIA'.
She addressed the envelope and ran out hatless to post it at the pillar
box in Edgware Road. As she crossed the road homewards a horse bus
rumbled by. It carried an enormous advertisement of the new musical
comedy _The Teapot Girl_. 'A fine comedy indeed,' she thought, suddenly
a little weary.
As she entered her room, where a small oil lamp diffused a sphere of
graduated light, she was seized as by the throat by the oppression of
the silent summer night. The wind had fallen; not even a whirl of dust
stirred in the air. Alone and far away a piano organ in a square droned
and clanked Italian melody. She thought of Edward and of her letter.
Perhaps she had been too sharp. Once upon a time she would not have
written like that: she was getting common.
Victoria sat down on a little chair, her hands clasped together in her
lap, her eyes looking out at the blank wall opposite. This, nine
o'clock, was the fatal hour when the ghosts of her dead past paced like
caged beasts up and down in her small room, and the wraith of the day's
work rattled its chains. There had been earlier times when, in the first
flush of independence, she had sat down to gloat over what was almost
success, her liberty, her living earned by her own efforts. The rosiness
of freedom then wrapped around the dinge with wreaths of fancy, wreaths
that curled incessantly into harmonious shapes. But Victoria had soon
plumbed the depths of speculation and found that the fire of imagination
needs shadowy fuel for its shadowy combustion. Day by day her brain had
become less lissome. Then, instead of thinking for the joy of thought,
she had read some fourpenny-halfpenny novel, a paper even, picked up in
the Tube. Her mind was waking up, visualising, realising, and in its
troublous surgings made for something to cling to to steady itself. But
months rolled on and on, inharmonious in their sameness, unrelieved by
anything from the monotony of work and sleep. Certain facts meant
certain things and recurred eternally with their unchanging meaning; the
knock that awoke her, a knock so individual and habitual that her sleepy
brain was conscious on Sundays that she need not respond; the smell of
food which began to assail her faintly as she entered the 'Rosebud,'
then grew to pungency and reek at midday, blended with tobacco, then
slowly ebbed almost into nothingness: the dying day that was grateful to
her eyes when she left to go home, when things looked kindly round her.
When Victoria realised all of a sudden her loneliness in her island in
Star Street, something like the fear of the hunted had driven her out
into the streets. She was afraid to be alone, for not even books could
save her from her thoughts, those hounds in full cry. In such moods she
had walked the streets quickly, looking at nothing, maintaining her pace
over hills. Now and then she had suddenly landed on a slum, caught sight
of, all beery and bloody, through the chink of a black lane. But she
shunned the flares, the wet pavement, the orange peel that squelched
beneath her boots, afraid of the sight of too vigorous life.
Unconsciously she had sought the drug of weariness, and the cunning bred
of her dipsomania told her that the living were poor companions for her
soul. And, when at times a man had followed her, his eye arrested by
the lines of her face lit up by a gas lamp, he had soon tired of her
quick walk and turned away towards weaker vessels.
But even weariness, when abused, loses its power as a sedative. The
body, at once hardened and satiated, demands more every day as it craves
for increasing doses of morphia, for more food, more drink, more kisses,
more, ever more. Thus Victoria had reached her last stage when, sitting
alone in her room, she once more faced the emptiness where the ghosts of
her dead past paced like caged beasts and the wraith of the day's work
rattled its chains.
From this, now a state of mental instead of physical exhaustion, she was
seldom roused; and it needed an Edward come to judgment to stir her
sleepy brain into quick passion. Again and again the events of the day
would chase round and round maddeningly with every one of their little
details sharp as crystals. Victoria could almost mechanically repeat
some conversations, all trifling, similar, confined to half a dozen
topics; she could feel, too, but casually as an odalisque, the hot wave
of desire which surrounded her all day, evidenced by eyes that
glittered, fastened on her hands as she served, on her face, the curve
of her neck, her breast, her hips; eyes that devoured and divested her
of her meretricious livery. And, worse perhaps than that big primitive
surge which left her cold but unangered, the futility of others who
bandied with her the daily threadbare joke, who wearied her mind with
questions as to food, compelled her to sympathise with the vagaries of
the weather or were arch, flirtatious and dragged out of her tired mind
the necessary response. Even Butty and the moist warmth of him, even
Stein with his flaccid surly face, were better in their grossness than
these vapid youths, thoughtless, incapable of thought, incapable of
imagining thought, who set her down as an inferior, as a toy for games
that were not even those of men.
'Beauty' had been a disappointment. She had met him two or three times
since their first evening out. That night Neville, who was a young man
of the world, had pressed his suit so delicately, preserving in so
cat-like a manner his lines of retreat, that she had not been able to
snub him when inclined to. He had a small private income and knew how to
make the best of his good looks by means of gentle manners and smart
clothes. In the insurance office where he was one of those clerks who
have lately evolved from the junior stage, he was nothing in particular
and earned ten pounds a month. He had furnished two rooms on the Chelsea
edge of Kensington, belonged to an inexpensive club in St James's, had
been twice to Brussels and once to Paris; he smoked Turkish cigarettes,
deeming Virginia common; he subscribed to a library in connection with
Mudie's, and knew enough of the middle classes to exaggerate his
impression of them into the smart set. Perhaps he tried a little too
much to be a gentleman.
Neville Brown was strongly attracted to Victoria. He had vainly tried to
draw her out, and scented the lie in her carefully concocted story. He
knew enough to feel that she was at heart one of those women he met 'in
society,' perhaps a little better. Thus she puzzled him extremely, for
she was not even facile; he could hold her hand; she had not refused him
kisses, but he was afraid to secure his grip on her as a man carrying a
butterfly stirs not a finger for fear it should escape.
Victoria turned all this over lazily. Her instinct told her what manner
of man was Neville, for he hardly concealed his desires. Indeed their
relations had something of the charm of a masqued ball. She saw well
enough that Neville was not likely to remain content with kisses, and
viewed the inevitable battle with mixed feelings. She liked him;
indeed, in certain moods and when his blue eyes were at their bluest, he
attracted her magnetically. The reminiscent scent of Turkish tobacco on
her lips always drew her back towards him; and yet she was of her class,
shy of love, of all that is illicit because unacknowledged. She knew
very well that Neville would hardly ask her to marry him and that she
would refuse if he did; she knew less well what she would do if he asked
her to love him. When she analysed their relation she always found that
all lay on the lap of the gods.
In the loneliness of night her thoughts would fasten on him more
intently. He was youth and warmth and friendliness, words for the
silent, a hand to touch; better still he was a figment of Love itself,
with all its tenderness and crudity, its heat, all the quivers of its
body; he was soft scented as the mysterious giver of passionate gifts.
So, when Victoria lay down to try and sleep she rocked in the trough of
the waves of doubt. She could not tell into what hands she would give,
if she gave, her freedom, her independence of thought and deed, all that
security which is dear to the sheltered class from which she came. So,
far into the night she would struggle for sight, tossing from right to
left and left to right, thrusting away and then recalling the brown
face, the blue eyes and their promise.