THE days rolled on, and on every one, as their scroll revealed itself,
Victoria inscribed doings which never varied. The routine grew heavier
as she found that the events of a Monday were so similar to those of
another Monday that after a month she could not locate happenings. She
no longer read newspapers. There was nothing in them for her; not even
the mock tragedy of the death of an heir presumptive or the truer
grimness of a shipwreck could rouse in her an emotion. She did not care
for adventure: not because she thought that adventure was beneath her
notice, but because it could not affect her. A revolution could have
happened, but she would have served boiled cod and coffees to the
groundlings, wings of chicken to the luxurious, without a thought for
the upheaval, provided it did not flutter the pink curtains beyond which
hummed the world.
At times, for the holiday season was not over and work was rather slack,
Victoria had time to sit on her 'attendant' chair and to think awhile.
Reading nothing and seeing no one save Beauty and Mrs Smith, she was
thinking once more and thinking dangerously much. Often she would watch
Lottie, negligently serving, returning the ball of futility with a
carelessness that was almost grace, or Cora talking smart slang in young
lady-like tones.
'To what end?' thought Victoria. 'What are we doing here, wasting our
lives, I suppose, to feed these boys. For what's the good of feeding
them so that they may scrawl figures in books and catch trains and
perhaps one day, unless they've got too old, marry some dull girl and
have more children than they can keep? We girls, we're wasted too.' So
strongly did she feel this that, one day, she prospected the unexplored
ground of Cora's mind.
'What are you worrying about?' remarked Cora, after Victoria had tried
to inflame her with noble discontent. 'I don't say it's all honey, this
job of ours, but you can have a good time pretty well every night, can't
you, let alone Sundays?'
'But I don't want a good time,' said Victoria, suddenly inspired. 'I
want to feel I'm alive, do something.'
'Do what?' said Cora.
'Live, see things, travel.'
'Oh, we don't get a chance, of course,' said Cora. 'I'll tell you how it
is, Vic, you want too much. If you want anything in life you've got to
want nothing, then whatever you get good seems jolly good.'
'You're a pessimist, Cora,' said Victoria smiling.
'Meaning I see the sad side? Don't you believe it. Every cloud has a
silver lining, you know.'
'And every silver lining has a cloud,' said Victoria, sadly.
'Now, Vic,' answered Cora crossly, 'don't you go on like that. You'll
only mope and mope. And what's the good of that, I'd like to know.'
'Oh, I don't know,' said Victoria, 'I like thinking of things. Sometimes
I wish I could make an end of it. Don't you?'
'Lord, no,' said Cora, 'I make the best of it. You take my tip and don't
think too much.'
Victoria bent down in her chair, her chin upon her open palm. Cora
slapped her on the back.
'Cheer up,' she said, 'we'll soon be dead.'
Victoria had also attempted Gladys, but had discovered without surprise
that her association with Cora had equalised their minds as well as the
copper of their hair. Lottie never said much when attacked on a general
subject, while Bella never said anything at all. Since the day when
Victoria had attempted to draw her out on the fateful question 'What's
the good of anything?' Bella Prodgitt had looked upon Victoria as a
dangerous revolutionary. At times she would follow the firebrand round
the shop with frightened and admiring eyes. For her Victoria was
something like the brilliant relation of whom the family is proud
without daring to acknowledge him.
It fell to Gertie's lot to enlighten Victoria further on the current
outlook of life. It came about in this way. One Saturday afternoon
Victoria and Bella were alone on duty upstairs, for the serving of lunch
is then at a low ebb; the City makes a desperate effort to reach the
edge of the world to lunch peacefully and cheaply in its homes and
lodgings. Lottie and Gertie were taking the smoking room below.
It was nearly three o'clock. At one of the larger tables sat two men,
both almost through with their lunch. The elder of the two, a stout,
cheery-looking man, pushed away his cup, slipped two pennies under the
saucer and, taking up his bill, which Victoria had made out when she
gave him his coffee, went up to the cash desk. The other man, a
pale-faced youth in a blue suit, sat before his half emptied cup. His
hand passed nervously round his chin as he surveyed the room; his was
rather the face of a ferret, with a long upper lip, watery blue eyes,
and a weak chin. His forehead sloped a little and was decorated with
many pimples.
Victoria passed him quickly, caught up the stout man, entered the cash
desk and took his bill. He turned in the doorway.
'Well, Vic,' he said, 'when are we going to be married?'
'29th of February, if it's not a leap year,' she laughed.
'Too bad, too bad,' said the stout man, looking back from the open door
out of which he had already passed, 'you're the third girl who's said
that to me in a fortnight.'
'Serve you right,' said Victoria, looking into the mirror opposite,
'you're as bad as Henry the . . . .'
The door closed. Victoria did not finish her sentence. Her eyes were
glued to the mirror. In it she could only see a young man with a thin
face, decorated with many pimples, hurriedly gulping down the remains of
his cup of coffee. But a second before then she had seen something which
made her fetch a quick breath. The young man had looked round, marked
that her head was turned away; he had thrown a quick glance to the right
and the left, to the counter which Bella had left for a moment to go
into the kitchen; then his hand had shot out and, with a quick movement,
he had seized the stout man's pennies and slipped them under his own
saucer.
The young man got up. Victoria came up to him and made out his bill. He
took it without a word and paid it at the desk, Victoria taking his
money.
'Well, he didn't steal it, did he?' said Gertie, when Victoria told her
of the incident.
'No, not exactly. Unless he stole it from the first man.'
''Ow could he steal it if he didn't take it?' snapped Gertie.
'Well, he made believe to tip me when he didn't, and he made believe
that the first man was mean when it was he who was,' said Victoria. 'So
he stole it from the first man to give it me.'
'Lord, I don't see what yer after,' said Gertie. 'You ain't lost
nothing. And the first fellow he ain't lost nothing either. He'd _left_
his money.'
Victoria struggled for a few sentences. The little Cockney brain could
not take in her view. Gertie could only see that Victoria had had
twopence from somebody instead of from somebody else, so what was her
trouble?
'Tell yer wot,' said Gertie summing up the case, 'seems ter me the
fellow knew wot he was after. Dodgy sort of thing to do. Oughter 'ave
thought of the looking-glass though.'
Victoria turned away from Gertie's crafty little smile. There was
something in the girl that she could not understand; nor could Gertie
understand her scruple. Gertie helped her a little though to solve the
problem of waste; this girl could hardly be wasted, thought Victoria,
for of what use could she be? She had neither the fine physique that
enables a woman to bear big stupid sons, nor the intelligence which
breeds a cleverer generation; she was sunk in the worship of easy
pleasure, and ever bade the fleeting joy to tarry yet awhile.
'She isn't alive at all,' said Victoria to Lottie. 'She merely grows
older.'
'Well, so do we,' replied Lottie in matter of fact tones.
Victoria was compelled to admit the truth of this, but she did not see
her point clearly enough to state it. Lottie, besides, did nothing to
draw her out. In some ways she was Victoria's oasis in the desert, for
she was simple and gentle, but her status lymphaticus was permanent. She
did not even dream.
Victoria's psychological enquiries did not tend to make her popular. The
verdict of the 'Rosebud' was that she was a 'rum one,' perhaps a 'deep
one.' The staff were confirmed in their suspicions that she was a 'deep
one' by the obvious attentions that Mr Burton paid her. They were not
prudish, except Bella, who objected to 'goings on'; to be distinguished
by Butty was rather disgusting, but it was flattering too.
'He could have anybody he liked, the dirty old tyke,' remarked Cora. 'Of
course I'm not taking any,' she added in response to a black look from
Bella Prodgitt.
Victoria was not 'taking any' either, but she every day found greater
difficulty in repelling him. Burton would stand behind the counter near
the kitchen door during the lunch hour, and whenever Victoria had to
come up to it, he would draw closer, so close that she could see over
the whites of his little eyes a fine web of blood vessels. Every time
she came and went her skirts brushed against his legs; on her neck
sometimes she felt the rush of his bitter scented breath.
One afternoon, in the change room, as she was dressing alone to leave at
four, the door opened. She had taken off her blouse and turned with a
little cry. Burton had come in suddenly. He walked straight up to her,
his eyes not fixed on hers but on her bare arms. A faintness came over
her. She hardly had the strength to repel him, as without a word he
threw one arm round her waist, seizing her above the elbow with his
other hand. As he tried to draw her towards him she saw a few inches
from her face, just the man's mouth, red and wet, like the sucker of a
leech, the lips parted over the yellow teeth.
'Let me go!' she hissed, throwing her head back.
Burton ground her against him, craning his neck to touch her lips with
his.
'Don't be silly,' he whispered, 'I love you. You be my little girl.'
'Let me go.' Victoria shook him savagely.
'None of that.' Burton's eyes were glittering. The corners had pulled
upwards with rage.
'Let me go, I say.'
Burton did not answer. For a minute they wrestled. Victoria thrust him
back against the wall. She almost turned sick as his hand, slipping
round her, flattened itself on her bare shoulder. In that moment of
weakness Burton won, and, bending her over, kissed her on the mouth. She
struggled, but Burton had gripped her behind the neck. Three times he
kissed her on the lips. A convulsion of disgust and she lay motionless
in his embrace. There was a step on the stairs. A few seconds later
Burton had slipped out by the side door.
'What's up?' said Gladys suspiciously.
Victoria had sunk upon a chair, breathless, dishevelled, her face in her
hands.
'Nothing . . . I . . . I feel sick,' she faltered. Then she savagely
wiped her mouth with her feather boa.
Victoria was getting a grip of things. The brute, the currish brute. The
words rang in her head like a chorus. For days, the memory of the affray
did not leave her. She guarded, too, against any recurrence of the
scene.
Her hatred for Burton seemed to increase the fascination of Neville. She
did not think of them together, but it always seemed to happen that,
immediately after thrusting away the toad-like picture of the chairman,
she thought of the blue-eyed boy. Yet her relations with Neville were
ill-fated. Some days after the foul incident in the change room, Neville
took her for one of his little 'busts.' As it was one of her late nights
he called for her at a quarter past nine. They walked towards the west
and, on the stroke of ten, Neville escorted her into one of the enormous
restaurants that the Refreshment Rendezvous, known to London as the
Ah-Ah, runs as anonymously as it may.
Victoria was amused. The R. R. was the owner of a palace, built, if not
for the classes, certainly not for the masses. Its facing was of
tortured Portland stone, where Greek columns, Italian, Louis XIV and
Tudor mouldings blended with rich Byzantine gildings and pre-Raphaelite
frescoes. Inside too, it was all plush, mainly red; gold again; palms,
fountains, with goldfish and tin ducks. The restaurant was quite a fair
imitation of the Carlton, but a table d'hote supper was provided for
eighteen pence, including finger bowls in which floated a rose petal.
Neville and Victoria sat at a small table made for two. She surrendered
her feet to the clasp of his. Around her were about two hundred couples
and a hundred family parties. Most of the young men were elaborately
casual; they wore blue or tweed suits, a few, frock coats marred by
double collars; they had a tendency to loll and to puff the insolent
tobacco smoke of virginias towards the distant roof. Their young ladies
talked a great deal and looked about. There was much wriggling of
chairs, much giggling, much pulling up of long gloves over bare arms. In
a corner, all alone, a young man in well-fitting evening clothes was
consuming in melancholy some chocolate and a sandwich.
Neville plied Victoria with the major part of a half bottle of claret.
'Burgundy's the thing,' he said. 'More body in it.'
'Yes, it is good, isn't it? I mustn't have any more, though.'
'Oh, you're all right,' said Neville indulgently. 'Let's have some
coffee and a liqueur.'
'No, no liqueur for me.'
'Well, coffee then. Here, waiter.'
Neville struggled for some minutes. He utterly failed to gain the ear of
the waiters.
'Let's go, Beauty,' said Victoria. 'I don't want any coffee. No, really,
I'd rather not. I can't sleep if I take it.'
The couple walked up Regent Street, then along Piccadilly. Neville held
Victoria's arm. He had slipped his fingers under the long glove. She did
not withdraw her arm. His touch tickled her senses to quiescence if not
to satisfaction. They turned into the Park. Just behind the statue of
Achilles they stepped upon the grass and at once Neville threw his arm
round Victoria. It was a little chilly; mist was rising from the grass.
The trees stood blackly out of it, as if sawn off a few feet from the
ground. Neville stopped. A little smile was on his lips.
'Beauty boy,' said Victoria.
He drew her towards him and kissed her. He kissed her on the forehead,
then on the cheek, for he was a sybarite, in matters of love something
of an artist, just behind the ear, then passionately on the lips.
Victoria closed her eyes and threw one arm round his neck. She felt
exhilarated, as if gently warmed. They walked further westwards, and
with every step the fog thickened.
'Let's stop, Beauty,' said Victoria, after they had rather suddenly
walked up to a thicket. 'We'll get lost in the wilderness.'
'And wilderness were paradise enow,' murmured Neville in her ear.
Victoria did not know the hackneyed line. It sounded beautiful to her.
She laughed nervously and let Neville draw her down by his side on the
grass.
'Oh, let me go, Beauty,' she whispered. 'Suppose someone should come.'
Neville did not answer. He had clasped her to him. His lips were more
insistent on hers. She felt his hand on her breast.
'Oh, no, no, Beauty, don't, please don't,' she said weakly.
For some minutes she lay passive in his grasp. He had undone the back of
her blouse. His hand, cold and dry, had slipped along her shoulder,
seeking warmth.
Slowly his clasp grew harder; he used his weight. Victoria bent under
it. Something like faintness came over her.
'Victoria, Victoria, my darling.' The voice seemed far away. She was
giving way more and more. Not a blade of grass shuddered under its
shroud of mist. From the road came the roar of a motorbus, like a
muffled drum. Then she felt the damp of the grass on her back through
the opening of her blouse.
A second later she was sitting up. She had thrust Neville away with a
savage push under the chin. He seized her once more. She fought him,
seeing nothing to struggle with but a silent dark shadow.
'No, Beauty, no, you mustn't,' she panted.
They were standing then, both of them.
'Vic, darling, why not?' pleaded Neville gently, still holding her hand.
'I don't know. Oh, no, really I can't, Beauty.'
She did not know it, but generations of clean living were fighting
behind her, driving back and crushing out the forces of nature. She did
not know that, like most women, she was not a free being but the
great-granddaughter of a woman whose forbears had taught her that
illegal surrender is evil.
'I'm sorry, Beauty, . . . it's my fault,' she said.
'Oh, don't mention it,' said Neville icily, dropping her hand. 'You're
playing with me, that's all.'
'I'm not,' said Victoria, tears of excitement in her eyes. 'Oh, Beauty,
don't you understand. We women, we can't do what we like. It's so hard.
We're poor, and life is so dull and we wish we were dead. And then a man
comes like you and the only thing he can offer, we mustn't take it.'
'But why, why?' asked Beauty.
'I don't know,' said Victoria. 'We mustn't. At any rate I mustn't. My
freedom is all I've got and I can't give it up to you like that. I like
you, you know that, don't you, Beauty?'
Neville did not answer.
'I do, Beauty. But I can't, don't you see. If I were a rich woman it
would be different. I'd owe nobody anything. But I'm poor; it'd pull me
down and . . . when a woman's down, men either kick or kiss her.'
Neville shrugged his shoulders.
'Let's go,' he said.
Silently, side by side, they walked out of the park.