my things. I would rather not part with them than sell them to someone
who does not appreciate them, who has not that fine feeling which is so
rare....” And, breathing deeply he unrolled a tiny square of blue velvet
and pressed it on the glass counter with his pale finger-tips.
Today it was a little box. He had been keeping it for her. He had shown
it to nobody as yet. An exquisite little enamel box with a glaze so fine
it looked as though it had been baked in cream. On the lid a minute
creature stood under a flowery tree, and a more minute creature still
had her arms around his neck. Her hat, really no bigger than a geranium
petal, hung from a branch; it had green ribbons. And there was a pink
cloud like a watchful cherub floating above their heads. Rosemary took
her hands out of her long gloves. She always took off her gloves to
examine such things. Yes, she liked it very much. She loved it; it was
a great duck. She must have it. And, turning the creamy box, opening
and shutting it, she couldn’t help noticing how charming her hands were
against the blue velvet. The shopman, in some dim cavern of his mind, may
have dared to think so too. For he took a pencil, leant over the counter,
and his pale bloodless fingers crept timidly towards those rosy, flashing
ones, as he murmured gently: “If I may venture to point out to madam, the
flowers on the little lady’s bodice.”
“Charming!” Rosemary admired the flowers. But what was the price? For
a moment the shopman did not seem to hear. Then a murmur reached her.
“Twenty-eight guineas, madame.”
“Twenty-eight guineas.” Rosemary gave no sign. She laid the little box
down; she buttoned her gloves again. Twenty-eight guineas. Even if one is
rich.... She looked vague. She stared at a plump tea-kettle like a plump
hen above the shopman’s head, and her voice was dreamy as she answered:
“Well, keep it for me—will you? I’ll....”
But the shopman had already bowed as though keeping it for her was all
any human being could ask. He would be willing, of course, to keep it for
her for ever.
The discreet door shut with a click. She was outside on the step,
gazing at the winter afternoon. Rain was falling, and with the rain it
seemed the dark came too, spinning down like ashes. There was a cold
bitter taste in the air, and the new-lighted lamps looked sad. Sad were
the lights in the houses opposite. Dimly they burned as if regretting
something. And people hurried by, hidden under their hateful umbrellas.
Rosemary felt a strange pang. She pressed her muff to her breast; she
wished she had the little box, too, to cling to. Of course, the car was
there. She’d only to cross the pavement. But still she waited. There
are moments, horrible moments in life, when one emerges from shelter
and looks out, and it’s awful. One oughtn’t to give way to them. One
ought to go home and have an extra-special tea. But at the very instant
of thinking that, a young girl, thin, dark, shadowy—where had she come
from?—was standing at Rosemary’s elbow and a voice like a sigh, almost
like a sob, breathed: “Madame, may I speak to you a moment?”
“Speak to me?” Rosemary turned. She saw a little battered creature with
enormous eyes, someone quite young, no older than herself, who clutched
at her coat-collar with reddened hands, and shivered as though she had
just come out of the water.
“M-madame,” stammered the voice. “Would you let me have the price of a
cup of tea?”
“A cup of tea?” There was something simple, sincere in that voice; it
wasn’t in the least the voice of a beggar. “Then have you no money at
all?” asked Rosemary.
“None, madam,” came the answer.
“How extraordinary!” Rosemary peered through the dusk, and the girl
gazed back at her. How more than extraordinary! And suddenly it seemed
to Rosemary such an adventure. It was like something out of a novel by
Dostoevsky, this meeting in the dusk. Supposing she took the girl home?
Supposing she did do one of those things she was always reading about
or seeing on the stage, what would happen? It would be thrilling. And
she heard herself saying afterwards to the amazement of her friends: “I
simply took her home with me,” as she stepped forward and said to that
dim person beside her: “Come home to tea with me.”
The girl drew back startled. She even stopped shivering for a moment.
Rosemary put out a hand and touched her arm. “I mean it,” she said,
smiling. And she felt how simple and kind her smile was. “Why won’t you?
Do. Come home with me now in my car and have tea.”
“You—you don’t mean it, madam,” said the girl, and there was pain in her
voice.
“But I do,” cried Rosemary. “I want you to. To please me. Come along.”
The girl put her fingers to her lips and her eyes devoured Rosemary.
“You’re—you’re not taking me to the police station?” she stammered.
“The police station!” Rosemary laughed out. “Why should I be so cruel?
No, I only want to make you warm and to hear—anything you care to tell
me.”
Hungry people are easily led. The footman held the door of the car open,
and a moment later they were skimming through the dusk.
“There!” said Rosemary. She had a feeling of triumph as she slipped her
hand through the velvet strap. She could have said, “Now I’ve got you,”
as she gazed at the little captive she had netted. But of course she
meant it kindly. Oh, more than kindly. She was going to prove to this
girl that—wonderful things did happen in life, that—fairy godmothers
were real, that—rich people had hearts, and that women _were_ sisters.
She turned impulsively, saying: “Don’t be frightened. After all, why
shouldn’t you come back with me? We’re both women. If I’m the more
fortunate, you ought to expect....”
But happily at that moment, for she didn’t know how the sentence was
going to end, the car stopped. The bell was rung, the door opened, and
with a charming, protecting, almost embracing movement, Rosemary drew the
other into the hall. Warmth, softness, light, a sweet scent, all those
things so familiar to her she never even thought about them, she watched
that other receive. It was fascinating. She was like the little rich
girl in her nursery with all the cupboards to open, all the boxes to
unpack.
“Come, come upstairs,” said Rosemary, longing to begin to be generous.
“Come up to my room.” And, besides, she wanted to spare this poor little
thing from being stared at by the servants; she decided as they mounted
the stairs she would not even ring for Jeanne, but take off her things by
herself. The great thing was to be natural!
And “There!” cried Rosemary again, as they reached her beautiful big
bedroom with the curtains drawn, the fire leaping on her wonderful
lacquer furniture, her gold cushions and the primrose and blue rugs.
The girl stood just inside the door; she seemed dazed. But Rosemary
didn’t mind that.
“Come and sit down,” she cried, dragging her big chair up to the fire,
“in this comfy chair. Come and get warm. You look so dreadfully cold.”
“I daren’t, madam,” said the girl, and she edged backwards.
“Oh, please,”—Rosemary ran forward—“you mustn’t be frightened, you
mustn’t, really. Sit down, and when I’ve taken off my things we shall
go into the next room and have tea and be cosy. Why are you afraid?” And
gently she half pushed the thin figure into its deep cradle.
But there was no answer. The girl stayed just as she had been put, with
her hands by her sides and her mouth slightly open. To be quite sincere,
she looked rather stupid. But Rosemary wouldn’t acknowledge it. She leant
over her, saying: “Won’t you take off your hat? Your pretty hair is all
wet. And one is so much more comfortable without a hat, isn’t one?”
There was a whisper that sounded like “Very good, madam,” and the crushed
hat was taken off.
“Let me help you off with your coat, too,” said Rosemary.
The girl stood up. But she held on to the chair with one hand and let
Rosemary pull. It was quite an effort. The other scarcely helped her at
all. She seemed to stagger like a child, and the thought came and went
through Rosemary’s mind, that if people wanted helping they must respond
a little, just a little, otherwise it became very difficult indeed. And
what was she to do with the coat now? She left it on the floor, and the
hat too. She was just going to take a cigarette off the mantelpiece when
the girl said quickly, but so lightly and strangely: “I’m very sorry,
madam, but I’m going to faint. I shall go off, madam, if I don’t have
something.”
“Good heavens, how thoughtless I am!” Rosemary rushed to the bell.
“Tea! Tea at once! And some brandy immediately!”
The maid was gone again, but the girl almost cried out. “No, I don’t want
no brandy. I never drink brandy. It’s a cup of tea I want, madam.” And
she burst into tears.
It was a terrible and fascinating moment. Rosemary knelt beside her chair.
“Don’t cry, poor little thing,” she said. “Don’t cry.” And she gave the
other her lace handkerchief. She really was touched beyond words. She put
her arm round those thin, bird-like shoulders.
Now at last the other forgot to be shy, forgot everything except that
they were both women, and gasped out: “I can’t go on no longer like this.
I can’t bear it. I shall do away with myself. I can’t bear no more.”
“You shan’t have to. I’ll look after you. Don’t cry any more. Don’t you
see what a good thing it was that you met me? We’ll have tea and you’ll
tell me everything. And I shall arrange something. I promise. _Do_ stop
crying. It’s so exhausting. Please!”
The other did stop just in time for Rosemary to get up before the tea
came. She had the table placed between them. She plied the poor little
creature with everything, all the sandwiches, all the bread and butter,
and every time her cup was empty she filled it with tea, cream and sugar.
People always said sugar was so nourishing. As for herself she didn’t
eat; she smoked and looked away tactfully so that the other should not be
shy.
And really the effect of that slight meal was marvellous. When the
tea-table was carried away a new being, a light, frail creature with
tangled hair, dark lips, deep, lighted eyes, lay back in the big chair
in a kind of sweet langour, looking at the blaze. Rosemary lit a fresh
cigarette; it was time to begin.
“And when did you have your last meal?” she asked softly.
But at that moment the door-handle turned.
“Rosemary, may I come in?” It was Philip.
“Of course.”
He came in. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” he said, and stopped and stared.
“It’s quite all right,” said Rosemary smiling. “This is my friend, Miss——”
“Smith, madam,” said the languid figure, who was strangely still and
unafraid.
“Smith,” said Rosemary. “We are going to have a little talk.”
“Oh, yes,” said Philip. “Quite,” and his eye caught sight of the coat
and hat on the floor. He came over to the fire and turned his back to
it. “It’s a beastly afternoon,” he said curiously, still looking at that
listless figure, looking at its hands and boots, and then at Rosemary
again.
“Yes, isn’t it?” said Rosemary enthusiastically. “Vile.”
Philip smiled his charming smile. “As a matter of fact,” said he, “I
wanted you to come into the library for a moment. Would you? Will Miss
Smith excuse us?”
The big eyes were raised to him, but Rosemary answered for her. “Of
course she will.” And they went out of the room together.
“I say,” said Philip, when they were alone. “Explain. Who is she? What
does it all mean?”
Rosemary, laughing, leaned against the door and said: “I picked her up in
Curzon Street. Really. She’s a real pick-up. She asked me for the price
of a cup of tea, and I brought her home with me.”
“But what on earth are you going to do with her?” cried Philip.
“Be nice to her,” said Rosemary quickly. “Be frightfully nice to her.
Look after her. I don’t know how. We haven’t talked yet. But show
her—treat her—make her feel——”
“My darling girl,” said Philip, “you’re quite mad, you know. It simply
can’t be done.”
“I knew you’d say that,” retorted Rosemary. “Why not? I want to. Isn’t
that a reason? And besides, one’s always reading about these things. I
decided——”
“But,” said Philip slowly, and he cut the end of a cigar, “she’s so
astonishingly pretty.”
“Pretty?” Rosemary was so surprised that she blushed. “Do you think so?
I—I hadn’t thought about it.”
“Good Lord!” Philip struck a match. “She’s absolutely lovely. Look again,
my child. I was bowled over when I came into your room just now. However
... I think you’re making a ghastly mistake. Sorry, darling, if I’m crude
and all that. But let me know if Miss Smith is going to dine with us in
time for me to look up _The Milliner’s Gazette_.”
“You absurd creature!” said Rosemary, and she went out of the library,
but not back to her bedroom. She went to her writing-room and sat down at
her desk. Pretty! Absolutely lovely! Bowled over! Her heart beat like a
heavy bell. Pretty! Lovely! She drew her cheque book towards her. But no,
cheques would be no use, of course. She opened a drawer and took out five
pound notes, looked at them, put two back, and holding the three squeezed
in her hand, she went back to her bedroom.
Half an hour later Philip was still in the library, when Rosemary came in.
“I only wanted to tell you,” said she, and she leaned against the door
again and looked at him with her dazzled exotic gaze, “Miss Smith won’t
dine with us tonight.”
Philip put down the paper. “Oh, what’s happened? Previous engagement?”
Rosemary came over and sat down on his knee. “She insisted on going,”
said she, “so I gave the poor little thing a present of money. I couldn’t
keep her against her will, could I?” she added softly.
Rosemary had just done her hair, darkened her eyes a little, and put on
her pearls. She put up her hands and touched Philip’s cheeks.
“Do you like me?” said she, and her tone, sweet, husky, troubled him.
“I like you awfully,” he said, and he held her tighter. “Kiss me.”
There was a pause.
Then Rosemary said dreamily, “I saw a fascinating little box today. It
cost twenty-eight guineas. May I have it?”
Philip jumped her on his knee. “You may, little wasteful one,” said he.
But that was not really what Rosemary wanted to say.
“Philip,” she whispered, and she pressed his head against her bosom, “am
I _pretty_?”
TAKING THE VEIL
It seemed impossible that anyone should be unhappy on such a beautiful
morning. Nobody was, decided Edna, except herself. The windows were flung
wide in the houses. From within there came the sound of pianos, little
hands chased after each other and ran away from each other, practising
scales. The trees fluttered in the sunny gardens, all bright with spring
flowers. Street boys whistled, a little dog barked; people passed by,
walking so lightly, so swiftly, they looked as though they wanted to
break into a run. Now she actually saw in the distance a parasol,
peach-coloured, the first parasol of the year.
Perhaps even Edna did not look quite as unhappy as she felt. It is not
easy to look tragic at eighteen, when you are extremely pretty, with the
cheeks and lips and shining eyes of perfect health. Above all, when you
are wearing a French blue frock and your new spring hat trimmed with
cornflowers. True, she carried under her arm a book bound in horrid
black leather. Perhaps the book provided a gloomy note, but only by
accident; it was the ordinary Library binding. For Edna had made going to
the Library an excuse for getting out of the house to think, to realise
what had happened, to decide somehow what was to be done now.
An awful thing had happened. Quite suddenly, at the theatre last night,
when she and Jimmy were seated side by side in the dress-circle, without
a moment’s warning—in fact, she had just finished a chocolate almond
and passed the box to him again—she had fallen in love with an actor.
But—fallen—in—love....
The feeling was unlike anything she had ever imagined before. It wasn’t
in the least pleasant. It was hardly thrilling. Unless you can call
the most dreadful sensation of hopeless misery, despair, agony and
wretchedness, thrilling. Combined with the certainty that if that actor
met her on the pavement after, while Jimmy was fetching their cab, she
would follow him to the ends of the earth, at a nod, at a sign, without
giving another thought to Jimmy or her father and mother or her happy
home and countless friends again....
The play had begun fairly cheerfully. That was at the chocolate almond
stage. Then the hero had gone blind. Terrible moment! Edna had cried
so much she had to borrow Jimmy’s folded, smooth-feeling handkerchief
as well. Not that crying mattered. Whole rows were in tears. Even the
men blew their noses with a loud trumpeting noise and tried to peer at
the program instead of looking at the stage. Jimmy, most mercifully
dry-eyed—for what would she have done without his handkerchief?—squeezed
her free hand, and whispered “Cheer up, darling girl!” And it was then
she had taken a last chocolate almond to please him and passed the box
again. Then, there had been that ghastly scene with the hero alone on the
stage in a deserted room at twilight, with a band playing outside and the
sound of cheering coming from the street. He had tried—ah! how painfully,
how pitifully—to grope his way to the window. He had succeeded at last.
There he stood holding the curtain while one beam of light, just one
beam, shone full on his raised sightless face, and the band faded away
into the distance....
It was—really, it was absolutely—oh, the most—it was simply—in fact, from
that moment Edna knew that life could never be the same. She drew her
hand away from Jimmy’s, leaned back, and shut the chocolate box for ever.
This at last was love!
Edna and Jimmy were engaged. She had had her hair up for a year and a
half; they had been publicly engaged for a year. But they had known
they were going to marry each other ever since they walked in the
Botanical Gardens with their nurses, and sat on the grass with a wine
biscuit and a piece of barley-sugar each for their tea. It was so much
an accepted thing that Edna had worn a wonderfully good imitation of an
engagement-ring out of a cracker all the time she was at school. And up
till now they had been devoted to each other.
But now it was over. It was so completely over that Edna found it
difficult to believe that Jimmy did not realize it too. She smiled
wisely, sadly, as she turned into the gardens of the Convent of the
Sacred Heart and mounted the path that led through them to Hill Street.
How much better to know it now than to wait until after they were
married! Now it was possible that Jimmy would get over it. No, it was no
use deceiving herself; he would never get over it! His life was wrecked,
was ruined; that was inevitable. But he was young.... Time, people said,
Time might make a little, just a little difference. In forty years when
he was an old man, he might be able to think of her calmly—perhaps. But
she,—what did the future hold for her?
Edna had reached the top of the path. There under a new-leafed tree,
hung with little bunches of white flowers, she sat down on a green bench
and looked over the Convent flower-beds. In the one nearest to her there
grew tender stocks, with a border of blue, shell-like pansies, with
at one corner a clump of creamy freezias, their light spears of green
criss-crossed over the flowers. The Convent pigeons were tumbling high in
the air, and she could hear the voice of Sister Agnes who was giving a
singing lesson. _Ah-me_, sounded the deep tones of the nun, and _Ah-me_,
they were echoed....
If she did not marry Jimmy, of course she would marry nobody. The man she
was in love with, the famous actor—Edna had far too much common-sense not
to realize that would never be. It was very odd. She didn’t even want it
to be. Her love was too intense for that. It had to be endured, silently;
it had to torment her. It was, she supposed, simply that kind of love.
“But, Edna!” cried Jimmy. “Can you never change? Can I never hope again?”
Oh, what sorrow to have to say it, but it must be said. “No, Jimmy, I
will never change.”
Edna bowed her head; and a little flower fell on her lap, and the voice
of Sister Agnes cried suddenly _Ah-no_, and the echo came, _Ah-no_....
At that moment the future was revealed. Edna saw it all. She was
astonished; it took her breath away at first. But, after all, what could
be more natural? She would go into a convent.... Her father and mother
do everything to dissuade her, in vain. As for Jimmy, his state of mind
hardly bears thinking about. Why can’t they understand? How can they add
to her suffering like this? The world is cruel, terribly cruel! After
a last scene when she gives away her jewellery and so on to her best
friends—she so calm, they so broken-hearted—into a convent she goes. No,
one moment. The very evening of her going is the actor’s last evening
at Port Willin. He receives by a strange messenger a box. It is full of
white flowers. But there is no name, no card. Nothing? Yes, under the
roses, wrapped in a white handkerchief, Edna’s last photograph with,
written underneath,
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Edna sat very still under the trees; she clasped the black book in
her fingers as though it were her missal. She takes the name of Sister
Angela. Snip! Snip! All her lovely hair is cut off. Will she be allowed
to send one curl to Jimmy? It is contrived somehow. And in a blue gown
with a white head-band Sister Angela goes from the convent to the chapel,
from the chapel to the convent with something unearthly in her look, in
her sorrowful eyes, and in the gentle smile with which they greet the
little children who run to her. A saint! She hears it whispered as she
paces the chill, wax-smelling corridors. A saint! And visitors to the
chapel are told of the nun whose voice is heard above the other voices,
of her youth, her beauty, of her tragic, tragic love. “There is a man in
this town whose life is ruined....”
A big bee, a golden furry fellow, crept into a freezia, and the delicate
flower leaned over, swung, shook; and when the bee flew away it fluttered
still as though it were laughing. Happy, careless flower!
Sister Angela looked at it and said, “Now it is winter.” One night,
lying in her icy cell she hears a cry. Some stray animal is out there in
the garden, a kitten or a lamb or—well, whatever little animal might be
there. Up rises the sleepless nun. All in white, shivering but fearless,
she goes and brings it in. But next morning, when the bell rings for
matins, she is found tossing in high fever ... in delirium ... and she
never recovers. In three days all is over. The service has been said in
the chapel, and she is buried in the corner of the cemetery reserved for
the nuns, where there are plain little crosses of wood. Rest in Peace,
Sister Angela....
Now it is evening. Two old people leaning on each other come slowly to
the grave and kneel down sobbing, “Our daughter! Our only daughter!”
Now there comes another. He is all in black; he comes slowly. But when
he is there and lifts his black hat, Edna sees to her horror his hair
is snow-white. Jimmy! Too late, too late! The tears are running down
his face; he is crying _now_. Too late, too late! The wind shakes the
leafless trees in the churchyard. He gives one awful bitter cry.
Edna’s black book fell with a thud to the garden path. She jumped up,
her heart beating. My darling! No, it’s not too late. It’s all been a
mistake, a terrible dream. Oh, that white hair! How could she have done
it? She has not done it. Oh, heavens! Oh, what happiness! She is free,
young, and nobody knows her secret. Everything is still possible for
her and Jimmy. The house they have planned may still be built, the
little solemn boy with his hands behind his back watching them plant
the standard roses may still be born. His baby sister.... But when Edna
got as far as his baby sister, she stretched out her arms as though the
little love came flying through the air to her, and gazing at the garden,
at the white sprays on the tree, at those darling pigeons blue against
the blue, and the Convent with its narrow windows, she realized that now
at last for the first time in her life—she had never imagined any feeling
like it before—she knew what it was to be in love, but—in—love!
THE FLY