between them again. Mrs. Porter must be assured that she had forgotten
his very existence.
Soon she arrived at an exact knowledge of the arrival of these
"attacks," as she called them. That month of May gave them wonderful
weather. The evenings were so beautiful that they sat always with
the windows open behind them, and the dim colour of the night-glow
softened the lamplight and brought with it scents and breezes and a
happy murmurous undertone. She received again and again in these May
evenings that earlier impression of someone's entrance into the room.
It came to her, as she sat with her back to the fireplace, with the
conviction that a pair of eyes were staring at her. Those eyes willed
her to him, and she would not; but soon she seemed to know them, cold,
hard, and separated from her, she fancied, by glasses. They seemed,
too, to bend down upon her from a height. She was desperately conscious
at these moments of Mrs. Porter. Was the old lady also aware? She could
not tell. Mrs. Porter still cast at her those odd, furtive glances, as
though to see whether she suspected anything, but she never looked at
the fireplace nor started as though the door was suddenly opened.
There were times when Miss Allen, relaxing her self-control, admitted
without hesitation that someone was in the room. He was tall, wore
spectacles behind which he scornfully peered. She challenged him to
pass her guard and even felt the stiff pride of a victorious battle.
They were fighting for the old lady, and she was winning....
At all other moments she scorned herself for this weakness. Mrs.
Porter's nerves had affected her own. She had not believed that she
could be so weak. Then, suddenly, one evening Mrs. Porter dropped her
cards, crumpled down into her chair, screamed, "No, no ... Lucy!...
Lucy! He's here!..."
She was strangely, at the moment of that cry, aware of no presence in
the room. It was only when she had gathered her friend into her arms,
persuading her that there was nothing, loving her, petting her, that
she was conscious of the dimming of the light, the stealthy withdrawal
of sound. She was facing the fireplace; before the mantelpiece there
seemed to her to hover a shadow, something so tenuous that it resembled
a film of dust against the glow of electric light. She faced it with
steady eyes and a fearless heart.
But against her will her soul admitted that confrontation. From that
moment Mrs. Porter abandoned disguise. Her terror was now so persistent
that soon, of itself, it would kill her. There was no remedy; doctors
could not help, nor change of scene. Only if Miss Allen still saw and
felt nothing could the old lady still hope. Miss Allen lied and lied
again and again.
"You saw nothing, Lucy?"
"Nothing."
"Not there by the fireplace?"
"Nothing, dear.... Of course, nothing!"
Events from then moved quickly, and they moved for Miss Allen quite
definitely in the hardening of the sinister shadow. She led now a
triple existence: one life was Mrs. Porter's, devoted to her, delivered
over to her, helping her, protecting her; the second life was her own,
her rational, practical self, scornful of shadow and of the terror of
death; the third was the struggle with Henry Porter, a struggle now as
definite and concrete as though he were a blackmailer confining her
liberty.
She could never tell when he would come, and with every visit that
he paid he seemed to advance in her realisation of him. It appeared
that he was always behind her, staring at her through those glasses
that had, she was convinced, large gold rims and thin gold wires.
She fancied that she had before her a dim outline of his face--pale,
the chin sharp and pointed, the ears large and protuberant, the head
dome-shaped and bald. It was now that, with all her life and soul in
the struggle for her friend, she realised that she did not love her
enough. The intense love of her life had been already in earlier years
given. Mrs. Porter was a sweet old lady, and Miss Allen would give her
life for her--but her soul was atrophied a little, tired a little,
exhausted perhaps in the struggle so sharp and persistent for her own
existence.
"Oh, if I were younger I could drive him away!" came back to her
again and again. She found too that her own fear impeded her own
self-sacrifice. She hated this shadow as something strong, evil,
like mildew on stone, chilling breath. "I'm not brave enough.... I'm
not good enough.... I'm not young enough!" Incessantly she tried to
determine how real her sensations were. Was she simply influenced by
Mrs. Porter's fear? Was it the blindest imagination? Was it bred simply
of the close, confined life that they were leading?
She could not tell. They had resumed their conspiracy of silence, of
false animation and ease of mind. They led their daily lives as though
there was nothing between them. But with every day Mrs. Porter's
strength was failing; the look of horrified anticipation in her eyes
was now permanent. At night they slept together, and the little frail
body trembled like a leaf in Miss Allen's arms.
The appearances were now regularised. Always when they were in the
middle of their second game of "Patience" Miss Allen felt that impulse
to turn, that singing in her ears, the force of his ironical gaze. He
was now almost complete to her, standing in front of the Japanese
screen, his thin legs apart, his hostile, conceited face bent towards
them, his pale, thin hands extended as though to catch a warmth that
was not there.
A Sunday evening came. Earlier than usual they sat down to their cards.
Through the open window shivered the jangled chimes of the bells of St.
James's.
"Well, he won't come yet ..." was Miss Allen's thought. Then with that
her nightly resolve: "When he comes I must not turn--I must not look.
She must not know that I know."
Suddenly he was with them, and with a dominant force, a cruelty, a
determination that was beyond anything that had been before.
"Four, five, six...." The cards trembled in Mrs. Porter's hand. "And
there's the spade, Lucy dear."
He came closer. He was nearer to her than he had ever been. She
summoned all that she had--her loyalty, her love, her honesty, her
self-discipline. It was not enough.
She turned. He was there as she had always known that she would see
him, his cruel, evil, supercilious face, conscious of its triumph, bent
toward them, his grey clothes hanging loosely about his thin body, his
hands spread out. He was like an animal about to spring.
"God help me! God help me!" she cried. With those words she knew that
she had failed. She stood as though she would protect with her body her
friend. She was too late.
Mrs. Porter's agonised cry, "You see him, Lucy!... You see him, Lucy!"
warned her.
"No, no," she answered. She felt something like a cold breath of
stagnant water pass her. She turned back to see the old woman tumble
across the table, scattering the little cards.
The room was emptied. They two were alone; she knew, without moving,
horror and self-shame holding her there, that her poor friend was dead.
VIII
LOIS DRAKE
Miss Lois Drake lived in one of the attics at the top of Hortons. That
sounds poverty-struck and democratic, but as a matter of fact it was
precisely the opposite.
The so-called "attics" at Hortons are amongst the very handsomest flats
in London, their windows command some of the very best views, and the
sloping roof that gives them their name does not slope enough to make
them inconvenient, only enough to make them quaint.
Miss Drake was lucky, and asked Mr. Nix whether he had any flats to
let on the very day that one of the attics was vacated. But then, Miss
Drake was always lucky, as you could see quite well if you looked at
her. She was a tall, slim girl, with dark brown hair, an imperious
brow, and what her friends called a "bossy" mouth. It was, indeed,
her character to be "bossy." Her father, that noted traveller and
big-game hunter, had encouraged her to be "bossy"; the Drakes and the
Bosanquets and the Mumpuses, all the good old county families with
whom she was connected, encouraged her to be "bossy." Finally, the war
had encouraged her to be "bossy." She had become in the early days
of 1915 an officer in the "W.A.A.C." and since then she had risen to
every kind of distinction. She had done magnificently in France; had
won medals and honours. No wonder she believed in herself. She was
born to command other women; she had just that contempt for her sex
and approval of herself necessary for command. She believed that women
were greatly inferior to men; nevertheless, she was always indignant
did men not fall down instantly and abase themselves before the women
of whom she approved. "She bore herself as a queen," so her adoring
friends said; quite frankly she considered herself one. The "W.A.A.C."
uniform suited her; she liked stiff collars and short skirts and tight
belts. She was full-breasted, had fine athletic limbs, her cheeks were
flushed with health. Then the Armistice came, and somewhere in March
she found herself demobilised. It was then that she took her attic at
Hortons. Her father had died of dysentery in Egypt in 1915, and had
left her amply provided for. Her mother, who was of no account, being
only a Chipping-Basset and retiring by nature, lived at Dolles Hall, in
Wiltshire, and troubled no one. Lois was the only child.
She could, then, spend her life as she pleased, and she soon discovered
that there was plenty to do. Her nature had never been either modest
or retiring; she had from the earliest possible age read everything
that came her way, and five years at Morton House School, one year in
Germany, and four months in East Africa with her father had left her,
as she herself said, "with nothing about men that _she_ didn't know."
The war took away her last reserves. She was a modern woman, and saw
life steadily and saw it whole. She also saw it entirely to her own
advantage. The strongest element in her nature was, perhaps, her
assured self-confidence in her management of human beings. She had, she
would boast, never been known to fail with men or women. Her success in
the war had been largely due to the fact that she had applied certain
simple rules of her own to everybody alike, refusing to believe in
individualities. "Men and women fall into two or three classes. You
can tell in five minutes the class you're dealing with; then you act
accordingly." Her chief theory about men was that "they liked to be
treated as men." "They want you to be one of themselves." She adopted
with them a masculine attitude that fitted her less naturally than she
knew. She drank with them, smoked with them, told them rather "tall"
stories, was never shocked by anything that they said, "gave them as
good as they gave her."
After her demobilisation she danced a good deal, dined alone at
restaurants with men whom she scarcely knew, went back to men's rooms
after the theatre and had a "last whiskey," walked home alone after
midnight and let herself into her "attic" with great satisfaction. She
had the most complete contempt for girls who "could not look after
themselves." "If girls got into trouble it was their own rotten fault."
She had developed during her time in France a masculine fashion of
standing, sitting, talking, laughing. Nothing made her more indignant
than that a man should offer her his seat in a Tube. How her haughty
glance scorned him as she refused him! "It's an insult to our sex,"
she would say. How she rejoiced in her freedom! "At last," she said,
"there is sex equality. We can do what we like."
She was, however, not _quite_ free. The war had left her a legacy in
the person of an adoring girl friend, Margery Scales. Margery was an
exact opposite to herself in every way--plump and soft and rosy and
appealing and entirely feminine. She had been "under" Lois in France;
from the first she had desperately adored her. It was an adoration
without qualification. Lois was perfect, a queen, a goddess. Margery
would die for her instantly if called upon; not that she wanted to die.
She loved life, being pretty and healthy, and allowed by loving parents
a great deal of freedom.
But what was life without Lois? Lois would tell you, if you asked her,
that she had _made_ Margery. "Margery owed her everything." Others, who
did not like Lois, said that she had ruined Margery. Margery herself
felt that life had simply not begun in those years before Lois had
appeared.
Lois had determined that "after the war" she would finish the Margery
affair. It unsettled her, disturbed her, refused to fall into line
with all the straightforward arrangements that were as easy to manage
as "putting your clothes on." The truth was, that Lois was fonder of
Margery than she wanted to be. She quarrelled with her, scolded her,
laughed at her, scorned her, and at the end of it all had absurdly soft
and tender feelings for her that were not at all "sensible."
Margery's very helplessness--a quality that infuriated Lois in
others--attracted and held her. She had too much to do to bother about
people's feelings; nevertheless, were Margery distressed and unhappy,
Lois was uncomfortable and ill at ease. "After the war I'll break it
off.... It's sentimental."
Nevertheless, here she was, four months, five months, six months after
the Armistice, and it was not broken off. She would dismiss Margery
with scorn, tell her that she could not be bothered with her scenes and
tears and repentances, and then five minutes after she had expelled her
she would want to know where she was, what she was doing.
She would not confess to herself the joy that she felt when Margery
suddenly reappeared. Then, as the weeks went by, she began to wonder
whether Margery were as completely under her control as she used to be.
The girl seemed at times to criticise her. She said quite frankly that
she hated some of the men whom Lois gathered round her in the attic.
"Well, you needn't come," said Lois; "I don't want you." Then, of
course, Margery cried.
There was one occasion when Mr. Nix, the manager of the flat, very
politely, and with the urbanity for which he was famous, warned her
that there must not be so much noise at her evening parties. Lois was
indignant. "I'll pack up and go. You'd think Nix was Queen Victoria."
Nevertheless she did not pack up and go. She knew when she was
comfortable. But deep down in her heart something warned her. Did she
like all the men who now surrounded her? Was there not something in
what Margery said? In France there had been work, heaps of it. Her
organising gifts, which were very real, had had full play there. The
sense of the position that she had had unsettled her. She wanted to
fill her life, to be still of importance, to be admired and sought
after and talked of. Yet the men with whom she spent her time were not
quite the right men, and sometimes that little voice of warning told
her that they went too far, said things to her that they had no right
to say, told stories....
But did she not encourage them? Was not that what she wanted? Perfect
equality now; no false prudery: the new world in which men and women
stood shoulder to shoulder with no false reserves, no silly modesties.
If Margery didn't like it, she could go....
But she did not want Margery to go.
Then "Tubby" Grenfell came and the world was changed. Grenfell was
nicknamed "Tubby" by his friends because he was round and plump and
rosy-faced. Lois did not know it, but she liked him at once because
of his resemblance to Margery. He was only a boy, twenty-one years of
age, and the apple of his mother's eye. He had done magnificently in
France, and now he had gone on to the Stock Exchange, where his uncle
was a man of importance and power. He had the same rather helpless
appealing innocence that Margery had had. He took life very seriously,
but enjoyed it too, laughing a great deal and wanting to see and do
everything. His _naïveté_ touched Lois. She told him that she was
going to be his elder brother. From the very first he had thought Lois
perfectly wonderful, just as Margery had done. He received her dicta
about life with the utmost gravity. He came and went just as she told
him. He "ate out of her hand," his friends told him.
"Well, I'm proud to," he said.
Unfortunately he and Margery disliked one another from the very
beginning. That made difficulties for Lois, and she did not like
difficulties.
"What you can see in him," said Margery, "I can't think. He's just the
sort of man you despise. Of course he's been brave; but anyone can be
brave. The other men laugh at him."
He had a good-natured contempt for Margery.
"It's jolly good of you to look after a girl like that," he said to
Lois. "It's just your kindness. I don't know how you can bother."
Lois laughed at both of them, and arranged that they should meet as
seldom as possible.
Hortons was soon haunted by "Tubby" Grenfell's presence.
"Peace Day" came and went, and Lois really felt that it was time that
she "settled her life." Here was the summer before her; there were a
number of places to which she might go and she could not make up her
mind.
Firstly, she knew that some of the time must be spent with her mother
in Wiltshire, and she was dreading this. Her mother never criticised
her, never asked her questions, never made any demands, and Lois had
rather enjoyed spending days of her "leave" in that silly old-fashioned
company. But now? Could it be that Lois was two quite different people
and that one half of her was jealous of the other half?
Moreover, there was now a complication about Scotland. "Tubby" had
begged her to go to a certain house in Northumberland; nice people;
people she knew enough to want to know them more. He begged her to
go there during the very month that she had planned to go away with
Margery. She knew quite well that if she tried to break the Scottish
holiday that would be the end--Margery would leave her and never
return. Well, was not that exactly what she had been desiring? Was
she not feeling this animosity between "Tubby" and Margery a great
nuisance? And yet--and yet---- She could not make up her mind to lose
Margery; no, not yet. Her hatred of this individual (she had never been
undecided in France; she had always known exactly what she intended
to do) flung her, precipitately, into that final quarrel with Margery
that, in reality, she wanted to avoid. It took place one morning in
"the attic." It was a short and stormy scene. Lois began by suggesting
that they should take their holiday during part of September instead
of August, and that perhaps they would not go so far as Scotland....
What about the South Coast? Margery listened, the colour coming into
her cheeks, her eyes filling with tears as they always did when she was
excited.
"But we'd arranged----" she said in a kind of awe-struck whisper.
"Months ago--we fixed----"
"I know, my dear," said Lois, with a carelessness that she by no means
felt. "But what does it matter? September's as good as August, and I
hate Scotland."
"You said you loved it before," said Margery slowly, staring as though
she were a stranger who had brought dramatic news. "I believe," she
went on, "it's because you want to stay with Mr. Grenfell."
"If you want to know," cried Lois, suddenly urged on partly by her
irritation at being judged, but still more by her anger at herself for
feeling Margery's distress, "it is. You're impossible, Margery. You're
so selfish. It can't make any difference to you, putting our holiday
off. You're selfish. That's what it is."
Then a remarkable thing occurred. Margery did not burst into tears.
Only all the colour drained from her face and her eyes fell.
"No, I don't think I'm selfish," said Margery; "I want you to enjoy
yourself. You're tired of me, and I don't blame you. But I won't hang
on to you. That _would_ be selfish if I did. I think I'll go now.
Besides," she added, "I think you're in love with Mr. Grenfell."
Suddenly, as Margery said the words, Lois knew that it was true. She
was in love, and for the first time in her life. A great exultation and
happiness filled her; for the first time for many months she was simple
and natural and good. Her masculinity fell from her, leaving her her
true self.
She came over to Margery, knelt down by her side, put her arms around
her and kissed her. Margery returned the kiss, but did not surrender
herself. Her body was stiff and unyielding. She withdrew herself from
Lois and got up.
"I'm glad," she said, her voice trembling a little. "I hope you'll be
very happy."
Lois looked at her with anxious eyes.
"But this doesn't make any difference to us," she said. "We can be the
same friends as before--more than we were. You'll like 'Tubby,' Margery
darling, when you know him. We'll have a great time--we three."
"No," said Margery, "this doesn't make any difference. That's quite
true. The difference was made before."
"What do you mean?" asked Lois, standing up, her agitation strangely
returning.
"You've been different," said Margery. "Since we came back from France,
you've been changing all the time. It seemed right out there, your
ordering everybody about. I admired it. You were fine. But now in
London--I've no right to say so. But you're trying to do all the things
men do; and it's--it's--beastly, somehow. It doesn't suit you. It isn't
natural. I don't believe the men like it either, or at any rate not the
nice men. I suppose it's silly, but I don't admire you any more, and
if I don't admire you, I can't love you." With that last word she was
gone, and Lois knew quite well that she would never come back again.
Lois stayed in the "attic" that morning in an odd confusion of mind.
Margery was jealous, of course; that was what had made her say those
things. Her discovery of her love for Grenfell filled her with joy, so
that she could scarcely realise Margery; moreover the uncertainty that
had been troubling her for months was over, but behind these feelings
was a curious new sense of loss, a sense that she refused to face. Life
without Margery--what would it be? But she turned from that and, with
joyful anticipation, thought of her new career.
She decided at once to dismiss Margery from her thoughts--not only
partially, but altogether, so that no fragment of her should be left.
That was her only way to be comfortable. She had on earlier occasions
been forced to dismiss people thus absolutely; she had not found it
difficult, and she had enjoyed in the doing of it a certain sense that
she was finishing them, and that they would be sorry now for what
they had done. But with Margery she saw that that would be difficult.
Margery had been with her so long, had given her so much praise and
encouragement, was associated in so many ways with so many places. She
would return again and again, an obstinate ghost, slipping into scenes
and thoughts where she should not be. Lois discovered herself watching
the post, listening to the telephone, her heart beating at the sudden
opening and shutting of a door ... but Margery did not return.
She centred herself then absolutely around young Grenfell. She demanded
of him twice what she had demanded before because Margery was gone.
There was something feverish now in her possession of him. She was not
contented and easy as she had been, but must have him absolutely. She
was anxious that he should propose to her soon and end this period of
doubt and discomfort. She knew, of course, that he would propose--it
was merely a question of time--but there was something old-fashioned
about him: a sort of _naïveté_ which hindered him perhaps from coming
forward too quickly.
She was not alone with him very much, because she thought it was good
for him to see how other men admired her. She gathered around her more
than before the men with whom she might be on thoroughly equal terms,
as though in defiance of Margery's final taunt to her. It was as though
she said to that perpetually interfering ghost: "Well, if you will come
back and remind me, you shall see that you were wrong in what you said.
Men do like me for the very things of which you disapproved ... and
they shall like me more and more."
She thought Grenfell understood that it was because of him that Margery
had gone.