MILLIE RECOVERS HER BREATH
On the next afternoon about four of the clock Millie was writing
letters with a sort of vindictive fury at Victoria's desk. Beppo had
just brought her a cup of tea; there it stood at her side with the
bread and butter badly cut as usual. But she did not care. She must
WORK, WORK, WORK.
Like quicksilver were her fingers, her eyes flashed fire, the rain beat
upon the windows and the loneliness and desolation were held at bay.
The door opened and in came Major Mereward; he looked as usual,
untidy, with his hair towselled, his moustache ragged and his trousers
baggy--not a military major at all--but now a light shone in his eyes
and his eyebrows gleamed with the reflection of it. He knew that Millie
was his friend, and coming close to her and stammering, he said:
"Miss Trenchard. It's all right. It's all right. Victoria will marry
me."
Her heart leaped up. She was astonished at the keenness of her
pleasure. She could then still care for other people's happiness.
"Oh, I am glad! I am _glad_!" she cried, jumping up and shaking him
warmly by the hand. "I never was more pleased about anything."
"Well, now, that _is_ nice--that's very nice of you. It will be all
right, won't it? You know I'll do my best to make her happy."
"Why, of course you will," cried Millie. "You know that I've wanted her
to marry you from ever so long ago. It's just what I wanted."
He set back his shoulders, looking so suddenly a man of strength and
character that Millie was astonished.
"I know that I'm not very clever," he said. "Not in your sort of way,
but cleverness isn't everything when you come to my time of life and
Victoria's."
"No, indeed it isn't," said Millie with conviction.
"I'm glad you think so," he said, sighing so hastily that quite a
little breeze sprang up. "I thought you'd feel otherwise. But I know
Victoria better than she thinks. I'm sure I shall make her happy."
"I'm sure you will," said Millie. They shook hands again. Mereward
looked about him confusedly.
"Well, I mustn't keep you from your work. Hard at it, I see. Hum,
yes . . . Hard at it, I see," and went.
Millie sat at her desk, her head propped on her hands. She wasn't dead
then? She drank her tea and smoked a cigarette. Not dead as far as
others were concerned. For herself, of course, life was entirely over.
She must drag herself along, like a wounded bird, until death chose
to come and take her. The tea was delicious. She got up and looked at
herself in the glass. She was wearing an old orange jumper to-day;
she'd put it on just because it was old and it didn't matter what she
wore. Yes, it _was_ old. Time to buy another one. There was one--a
kind of purple--in Debenham & Freebody's window. . . . But why think
of jumpers when her life was over? Only five days ago she had died,
and here she was thinking of jumpers. Well, that was because she was
so glad about Victoria. However finished your own personal life might
be that did not mean that you could not be interested in the lives of
others. She loved Victoria, and it would have been horrible had she
married that terrible Bennett. Now Victoria was safe and Millie was
_glad_. She must find her and tell her so.
She found her, as she expected, in her bedroom. Victoria had been
wonderful to her during those three days, using a tact that you never
would have expected. She must have known what had occurred but she had
made no allusion to it, had not asked where He was, had watched over
Millie with a tenderness and solicitude that, even though a little
irritating, was very touching.
Now she sat in her bedroom armchair, still wearing her gay hat with
peacocks' feathers; she was near laughter, nearer tears and altogether
in a considerable confusion. Millie flung her arms around her and
kissed her.
"Well, now, you've got your way," said Victoria, "and I hope you're
glad. If the marriage is a terrible failure it will be all your fault;
I hope you realize your responsibility. It was simply because I
couldn't go on being nagged by you any longer. Poor man. He did look so
funny when he proposed to me, and when I said yes he just ran out of
the room. He didn't kiss me or anything."
"He's just mad with delight," said Millie.
"Is he? Well, it's settled." She sat up, pushing her hat straight. "All
my adventures are over, my Millie. It's a very sad thing, when you come
to think of it. A quiet life for me now. It certainly wouldn't have
been quiet with Mr. Bennett."
"Now don't you go sighing over him," said Millie. "Make the most of
your Major."
"Oh, I shan't sigh after him," said Victoria, sighing nevertheless.
"But it would be lovely to feel wildly in love. I don't feel wildly in
love at all. Do you know, Millie mine, it's exactly what I feel if I
want to buy a dress that's too expensive for me. Excited for days and
days as to whether I will or I won't. And then I decide that I will and
the excitement's all over. Of course I have the dress. But it isn't as
nice as the excitement."
"Perhaps the excitement will come with marriage," said Millie, feeling
infinitely old. "It often does."
"Now how ridiculous," cried Victoria, jumping up, "to talk of
excitement at my age. I ought to be thankful that I can be married at
all. I'm sure he's a good man. Perhaps I wish that he weren't quite so
good as he is."
"You wait," said Millie, "he may develop terribly after marriage. They
often do. He may beat you and spend your money riotously and leave you
for weeks at a time."
"Oh, do you think so?" said Victoria, her cheeks flushing. "That would
be splendid. Just the risk of it, I mean. But I'm afraid there isn't
much hope. . . ."
"You never know," Millie replied. "And now, dear, if you'll let me I'll
be off. You'll find all the letters answered in a pile on the desk
waiting for you to sign. The one from Mr. Block I've left you to answer
for yourself." She paused. "After your marriage you won't be wanting me
any more, I suppose?"
"Want you! I shall want you more than ever. You darling! I'm never
going to let you go unless you----" Here she felt on dangerous ground
and ended, "unless you want to go yourself, I mean."
"No, you didn't mean that," said Millie. "What you meant was unless I
marry. Well, you can make your mind easy--I'm never going to marry.
Never! I'm going to die an old maid."
"And you so beautiful!" cried Victoria. "I don't think so," and she
threw her arms round Millie's neck and gave her one of those soft and
soapy kisses that Millie so especially detested.
But on her way home she forgot the newly-engaged. The full tide of
her own personal wretchedness swept up and swallowed her in dark and
blinding waters. She had noticed that it was always like that. She
seemed free--coldly, indifferently free--independent of the world,
standing and watching with scorn humanity, and then of a sudden the
waters caught, at her feet, the tide drew her, the foam was in her eyes
and with agony she drowned in the flood of recollection, of vanished
tenderness, of frustrated hope.
It was so now: she did not see the people with her in the Tube nor hear
their voices. Only she saw Bunny and heard his voice and felt his cheek
against hers.
Then there followed, as there always followed, the fight to return to
him, not now reasoning nor recalling any definite fact or argument,
but only, as it had been that first night, the impulse to return, to
find him again, to be with him and near him at all possible cost or
sacrifice.
She was fighting her own misery, staring in front of her, her hands
clenched on her lap, when she heard her name called. At first the voice
seemed to call from far away: "Millie! Millie!" Then quite close to
her. Some one, sitting almost opposite to her was leaning forward and
speaking to her. She raised her head out of her own troubles and looked
and saw that it was Peter.
Peter! The very sight of his square shoulders and thick, resolute
figure reassured her. Peter! Strangely she had not actually thought
of him in all this recent trouble, but the consciousness of him had
nevertheless been there behind her. She smiled, her face breaking into
light, and then, with that swift sympathy that trouble gives, she
realized that he himself was unhappy. Something had happened to him,
and how tired he was! His eyes were pinched with grey lines, his head
hung forward a little as though it was tumbling to sleep.
Just then Baker Street Station arrived and they got out together. He
caught her arm and they went up in the lift together. They came out
to a lovely autumn evening, the sky dotted with silver stars and the
wall of Tussaud's pearl-grey against the faint jade of the fading
light. "What's the matter, Millie?" he asked. "I haven't seen you for
a fortnight. I was watching you before I spoke to you. You looked too
tragic before I spoke to you. What's up?"
"I was going to ask you the same question," she said.
"Oh, I'm only tired. Here, I'll walk with you as far as your rooms. I
want to get an evening paper anyway."
"Only tired? What's made you?"
"I'll tell you in a minute. But tell me your trouble first. That is, if
you want to."
"Oh, my trouble!" she shrugged her shoulders. "Ordinary enough, Peter.
But I don't think I can talk about it, if you don't mind--at least not
yet. Only this. That I'm not engaged and I'm never going to be again.
I'm a free woman Peter."
She felt then his whole body tremble against hers. For an instant his
hand pressed against her side with such force that it hurt. Then he
took his hand from her arm and walked apart. He walked in silence,
rolling a little from leg to leg as was his way. And he said nothing.
She waited. She expected him to ask some question. He said nothing.
Then, when at last they were turning down into Baker Street, his voice
husky, he said:
"My trouble is that my wife's come back."
It took her some little while to realize that--then she said:
"Your wife?"
"Yes, after nearly twenty years. Of course I don't mean that _that's_ a
trouble. But she's ill--very ill indeed. She's very unhappy. She's had
a terrible time."
"Oh, Peter, I _am_ sorry!"
"Yes, it's difficult after all this time--difficult to find the
joining-points. And I'm not very good at that--clumsy and slow."
"Is her illness serious? What is it?"
"Everything! Everything's the matter with her--heart and all. But that
isn't her chief trouble. She's so lonely. Can't get near to anybody.
It's so difficult to help her. I'm stupid," he repeated. They had come
to Millie's door. They stood there facing one another in the dusk.
"Oh, I _am_ sorry," she repeated.
"Well, you must help me," he suddenly jerked out, almost roughly. "Only
you can."
"Help you? How?"
"Come and see her."
"I? . . . Oh no!" Millie shrank back.
"Yes, you must. Perhaps you can talk to her. Make her laugh a little.
Make her a little less unhappy."
"I make any one laugh?"
"Yes. Just to look at you will do her good. Something beautiful.
Something to take her out of herself----"
"Oh no, Peter, I can't. Please, please don't ask me."
"Yes, yes, you must." He was glaring at her as though he would strike
her. "Do you remember when we three were in Henry's room alone and we
swore friendship? We swore to help one another. Well, this is a way you
can help me. And you've got to do it."
"Peter, don't ask me--just now----"
"Yes, now--at once. You have got to."
Suddenly she submitted.
"Very well, then. But I'll be no good. I'm no use to any one just now."
"When will you come?"
"Soon. . . ."
"No, definitely. To-morrow. What time?"
"Not to-morrow, Peter. The day after."
"Yes, to-morrow. To-morrow afternoon. About five."
"Very well."
"I'll expect you." He strode off. It was not until she was in her room
that she realized that he had said no single word about her broken
engagement.