Teresa's attack of bronchitis kept her on the sick list for several
weeks, and it was not until she was able to go about the house as usual,
that Mary found an opportunity for escape.
Every morning when Mrs Mallison was fresh and vigorous after a night of
uninterrupted sleep, she informed the wearied night nurse that no money
in the world could be so sweet as the privilege of ministering to a dear
one in the hour of suffering: every evening when she was fatigued by the
day's fussings to and fro, she prophesied her own imminent decease, and
put it to Mary, as a Christian woman, how she would feel if she took her
hand from the yoke! Out of her husband's hearing also she sang constant
laments on the price of patent foods and fresh eggs, and gave
instructions that on the first moment of sickening, she herself was to
be despatched to the district hospital. Teresa, tossing restlessly on
her pillows, would interpose an impatient, "Oh, mother, don't be silly!"
but Mary had relapsed into her old silence, and automatically continued
the work in hand, vouchsafing no reply. But in her bedroom the big new
box was packed ready for flight, and every evening before she went to
bed, she took her cheque-book from her desk, and fingered it with
reverent touches.
Everything was ready. Quietly and steadily she had made her
preparations, and on the morning when Teresa made her first reappearance
at breakfast, the last barrier was withdrawn.
"_So_ nice to be all together again!" Mrs Mallison cried gushingly.
"Plenty of fresh air, and you will soon look quite yourself, dear child.
The Captain would be sad if you lost your pretty colour. Mary shall
take you a nice walk this morning. Elm Road, and round by the larches.
That will be sunny and sheltered. You can start at eleven."
"I shall not be able to take Teresa a walk. I am going to London this
morning by the 10:50," said Mary quietly.
There was a moment's silence. Teresa bit her lip to repress a laugh,
Mrs Mallison, crimson-cheeked, checked herself on the verge of angry
words, and cast a glance at her husband.
"My dear," said the Major courteously, "I wish you a very pleasant time.
I will order a fly to take your luggage."
No one accompanied Mary to the station. Mrs Mallison detained Teresa
on the score of draughts. Everybody knew that stations were the most
draughty places in the world; since there was now no one to help, she
herself must take Teresa a walk. They could go round by the fish shop,
and order a sole. Since she was to be left alone to cope with the
household, she must get into the habit of fitting things in. The Major
retired to his study, obviously ill at ease, and reappeared only at the
last moment, to peck at his daughter's cheek with chilly lips, and
reiterate, "My dear, I wish you a pleasant time," but Mary caught a
glimpse of his bald head at the window as the fly crawled down the lane,
and it did not raise her spirits to remember that she had wounded her
father's heart. That morning, for the first time in her life, Mary
travelled in a first-class carriage, an experience far from exciting,
since it meant remaining in solitary splendour for the whole of the
journey. She found little improvement in comfort, but so far from
regretting the expenditure of extra shillings, dwelt on it as the only
satisfying part of the proceeding. It was a real joy to her to have
disbursed eighteen shillings, when only six were necessary, for to a
woman who has escaped the miser taint, the mere action of spending has a
lure, and Mary had counted pennies all her life. She sat staring out of
the dusty windows, wondering even at this eleventh hour where she should
go when she reached her destination. The question was not solved, when
she found herself seated in a taxi, with the driver's head peering
through the window, awaiting instructions.
"Could you--I want to go to an hotel, a _good_ hotel. It must be very
good, but not--not too fashionable," said Mary, with a blush, and the
kindly Cockney ran a twinkling glance over her attire, and took in the
position in a trice.
"You leave it to me, ma'am. I'll fix you up," he said genially, and
sprang to his wheel. "Northumberland Avenue's _her_ touch," he said to
himself with a grin, and presently Mary was alighting before a great,
gloomy-looking building, and entering a hall which to her inexperienced
eyes seemed alarmingly large and luxurious. There were groups of people
sitting here and there, who had apparently no other occupation but to
stare at new-comers; but after the most cursory glance no one stared at
Mary. The fashionably attired women averted their eyes with an air of
having wasted trouble for nothing.
At the office, the clerk gave the same quick scrutiny, and saw a chance
of letting an unpopular room. He rang a bell, gave instructions to an
underling, and Mary mounted in a lift to inspect a grim, box-like
apartment, papered in yellow, from which the nearness of a neighbouring
building excluded every ray of sun. The smart chambermaid played her
part with skill, throwing open the wardrobe, and arranging towels on the
stand with a confidence which froze Mary's objections unsaid. Perhaps,
after all, there was nothing to say; perhaps all hotel bedrooms were
alike!
Mary washed her hands, smoothed her already smooth hair, and betook
herself to the great dining-hall where luncheon was in process. The
room was more than half filled, and the waiter led the way to a table
some distance from the door, a dreaded ordeal on which Mary wasted much
unnecessary nervousness. Despite her experience in the hall, she still
dreaded the scrutiny of strange eyes, and in imagination felt herself
the observed of all observers. A strange figure in Chumley High Street
attracted general curiosity; to walk up the church aisle in a new dress,
was to hear every pew creak behind one. At the private hotels which she
had visited at the seaside, the arrival of a new inmate roused the whole
establishment to animation; to a lesser extent Mary was prepared to be
of importance in London also. But no one looked at her. Not a single
head turned as she trotted with short, nervous steps in the wake of the
foreign waiter; when, tentatively, she lifted her eyes from her plate,
diners to right and left were consuming their food with an utter
disregard of her presence. Mary took courage, and began to look about
on her own account; presently she realised that no courage was required.
Seated in the midst of a crowd she was virtually as much alone as on a
desert island. After lunch she dressed herself, and went out into the
street. On the broad outer step of the hotel she hesitated, uncertain
in which direction to turn, and the porter enquired if she wished a
taxi. It seemed easier to assent than refuse, so she allowed herself to
be assisted into the tonneau of a passing car, and for the second time
that day faced the problem of deciding where to go. The reflection of
her own hat in a strip of mirror settled the question,--the hat which
had aged unaccountably since morning! She directed the man to drive to
a good milliner's, and was set down before the door of a noted robber in
head-gear.
The next half-hour was a nightmare of discomfort. It began with the
opening of the swing door, and the view into the luxurious, the
terrifying luxurious _salon_ within. The floor was covered with the
softest of carpets, cushioned lounges were set round the walls,
reflected in mirrors were the figures of nymph-like forms, with
wonderful coiffures of gold and auburn. The same mirrors reflected the
small, navy-blue figure standing in the doorway, and the contrast was
not encouraging.
One of the nymphs floated forward, bowed Mary to a chair, and took off
her hat and veil, the which she placed in horrible conspicuousness on a
marble-topped table. This done she floated away, leaving Mary to face
her own reflection, and give surreptitious touches to her flattened
locks. Never had she harboured any delusions about her own appearance,
but it had remained for that moment to show her the extent of her
limitations. When the nymph came back she bore in her hand a helmet
erection, from which two brush-like feathers protruded at unexpected
angles. Mary's exclamation expressed unmitigated distaste, but the
nymph was plainly accustomed to such manifestations, and not to be
discouraged thereby. She merely proceeded to drop it in place, like a
basin covering a mould, remarking in airy tones that "it looked
different on the head."
It did. Sheer horror at her own appearance gave Mary strength to tear
it off, and declare that nothing would induce her to be seen in such a
monstrosity, whereupon the nymph smiled with an ineffable forbearance,
and produced another model more exaggerated than the first. It was
during the sixth sortie for fresh supplies that Mary seized her own hat,
and thrust in the pins with feverish haste. Not another moment would
she remain to be tortured. Was not her mind already stored with six
nightmare portraits of her own visage, staring horror-stricken beneath
preposterous erections? She would say that she was pressed for time;
that she would call again; that she was sorry that she cared for
nothing... but the nymph on returning allowed no time for explanations.
She exhibited no surprise at the visible signs of the customer's revolt;
it appeared indeed that she was prepared for their appearance, and for
her own counter-movement. She wheeled round, sent a Marconi signal
towards the far end of the room, and from behind the shelter of a screen
stepped a new and formidable apparition, that of a woman of middle age,
of more than middle age, for beneath the elaborate coiffure of golden
hair, the large, chalk-white face was deeply lined and furrowed. It was
a horrible face, hiding beneath a stereotyped smile the marks of a
cruel, unprincipled soul. To Mary's country-bred eyes there was
something inhuman not only in the face, but also in the figure. The
enormous bust was moulded into a sheath of black satin, and thence to
the hips the body presented a straight, unbending line. The effect was
like the trunk of a tree, rather than that of a woman,--solid,
shapeless, unyielding, and the tightness about the lower limbs, the
smallness of the silk-shod feet, added to the unnaturalness of the
effect.
Mary realised at once that she was in the presence of the august head of
the establishment, and felt courage ooze from every pore, and in truth
she was helpless as a fly in the hands of this woman, whose work in life
consisted in bullying her customers into buying what they did not
desire.
Madame approached, took up her position by Mary's side, and began to
speak. Her tone was honey, and her words were soft, but the meaning
thereof was plain. "You don't find a hat that suits you, don't you?...
Did you imagine that you would?... Look in that glass, and see yourself
as you are!--I have here the best selection of models in town, and if
you are not satisfied, it is your taste that is to blame, not mine. I
do not employ a staff of assistants to have their time wasted by the
like of you. Out of this shop you do not go until you have paid the
price! Make your choice, and be quick about it."
Mary made no attempt to rebel; she knew too well that she was beaten.
She bought the least exaggerated of the models, paid down a cool four
guineas, and emerged into the freshness of the outer air with the
feeling of one escaping from a noisome animal. Never in her life had
she beheld a woman so repellent, so terrible. She thought of the fate
of the young girls who were caged up with her all day long, and
shivered. She wondered of what fibre were those other women, through
whose patronage such a harpy lived and prospered. She hoped, for the
credit of the sex, that the majority of customers were casuals, like
herself!
For the next hour Mary wandered to and fro, finding interest in the
study of shop windows. At first she made her pauses in tentative
fashion, for she had heard lurid stories of the dangers of London
streets, and went in fear of a tall, gentlemanly-looking individual who
would suddenly appear out of space, and whisper in her ear, requesting
to be allowed to buy her a dress, or a blouse. Such incidents had
happened to girls of her acquaintance; she distinctly remembered the
horror and perturbation with which they had related the details, but it
appeared that there was no such molestation to be expected in her case.
She remained as unnoticed as in the dining-room of the hotel.
At four o'clock she retired into a confectioner's shop, and refreshed
herself by a daintily served tea. The room was empty, but as time went
on the scattered tables filled up one by one, mostly with young couples,
the men tall and immaculately groomed, but far from manly in expression;
the girls attractive, despite their handicap of fashionable garments, in
an age when grace is a forgotten joy. They looked a different race from
the girls who paced daily up and down the Chumley High Street, and Mary,
beholding them, felt a dawning of interest in her four-guinea hat. It
was at least a becoming colour, and the feather was a beauty,--so thick
and long and gracefully curved. Reduced in height, pressed into a less
noticeable shape, the hat might turn out not a discreditable purchase
after all. She felt a distinct relief at the thought that after to-day
she would see the reflection of that blue feather in the innumerable
mirrors which lined the streets.
After tea Mary went into the Park and sat on a chair, watching the
stream of fashionable life flow to and fro. She wished she had someone
with her to explain who was who, and was on the whole disappointed with
the appearance of the crowd, but the flowers were beautiful. She
determined to come again in the morning, and enjoy the flowers
undisturbed by the bustling crowd. All the chairs were occupied; the
moment that they were vacated they were instantly seized by other
loiterers, who appeared to have been waiting for the chance. A man and
woman seated themselves by Mary's side, and fell into conversation with
an absolute disregard of her presence. A few moments sufficed to prove
that they were husband and wife, but they belonged to widely different
types. The woman had a worn, handsome face, and a figure fashionably
attenuated. She was faultlessly attired, and with a royal disregard of
cost, but both voice and manner betrayed a ceaseless discontent. Every
word was a grumble in disguise, reference to events past and to come
were invariably supplemented by protestations of being "bored to death,"
and all the time the big, jovial-looking husband smiled, and soothed,
and skilfully steered the way on to subjects new. There was no effort
in his air; if there had been a time when his wife's grumblings had
power to distress him, that time was past, now the tricklings of the
thin voice flowed off him, like water from a duck's back. He listened,
laughed, and began again. Mary realised with a thrill of surprise that
this man actually loved the bundle of nerves whom he called his wife.
There was no mistaking the fact. There was love in his voice, in his
face, in the sound of the deep, kindly laugh. He loved her, was proud
of her, found pleasure in her society. She watched the couple move away
at the end of a quarter of an hour, the wife languidly leading the way
through the crowd, the man following, his eyes bent on her in proud
approval, and afterwards for long minutes she sat pondering on the
nature of the tie which held a man's heart faithful to such a mate. Was
it the remembrance of a past, before years and gold had left their
mark,--a past so sweet that it lived in undying memory? Was it that
beneath an outer querulousness of manner there still lingered
recurrences of tenderness, of passion, which kept alight old fires,--was
it simply that the man did not feel?
"If _I_ had a husband--If he had cared for _me_!" Mary repeated to
herself for the thousandth time. The sentence never reached a
conclusion, it was simply an exclamation of amazement that a woman
should be blessed with love, and yet know discontent.
She sat on until the crowd began to diminish, and the rows of chairs to
show empty spaces. There was nothing else to do, and the hotel bedroom
made no appeal. Already it seemed days since she had left Chumley; she
calculated how much money she had already spent, multiplied it, to
discover what rate of expenditure per annum was represented, and was
startled by the result. Perhaps it would be wise not to take a regular
dinner to-night. After such an extensive lunch she was not hungry. She
decided on a cutlet in the restaurant.
Later on, on rising from her chair Mary received a severe shock. Her
sunshade had disappeared. It was a new one, a birthday present from the
family; navy-blue silk, with a handle topped with gold. She had rested
it in all confidence against the back of her seat, and now... With
flushing cheeks she recalled the different people who had occupied the
chair next to her own. The jovial husband, an elderly woman in black,
with a rope of pearls to match large solitaire earrings; a pretty
flapper in white; a young girl, fashionably attired, with cheeks
suspiciously pink; one or two young men. It was not possible, it was
not conceivable, that one of the number could have stolen a modest
sunshade! But the sunshade had disappeared--no trace of it was to be
seen. Mary told herself that there had been a mistake. Some woman had
picked it up without thinking. How sorry she would be!
When she reached the hotel the hat box was waiting in her bedroom. She
opened it, and took the hat to the window to examine. The first feeling
was disappointment. She had believed the feather to be much
handsomer,--softer, longer, of a more delicate shade. She held it up,
regarding it with puzzled eyes. How had she come by so mistaken an
impression? Finally she decided that it was a question of light. She
sighed patiently, and returned the hat to its box.