the boot is on the other shoe. That is to say—come, Milly, come, dear.”
And she led the way to the dining-room.
Well, there they were. The cold, fresh napkins were shaken out of their
charming shapes and Marie handed the omelette. Mr. Prodger sat on
Mother’s right, facing Milly, and Miss Anderson had her back to the long
windows. But after all—why should the fact of their having a man with
them make such a difference? It did; it made all the difference. Why
should they feel so stirred at the sight of that large hand outspread,
moving among the wine glasses? Why should the sound of that loud,
confident “Ah-hm!” change the very look of the dining-room? It was not
a favourite room of theirs as a rule; it was overpowering. They bobbed
uncertainly at the pale table with a curious feeling of exposure. They
were like those meek guests who arrive unexpectedly at the fashionable
hotel, and are served with whatever may be ready, while the real
luncheon, the real guests lurk important and contemptuous in the
background. And although it was impossible for Marie to be other than
deft, nimble and silent, what heart could she have in ministering to that
most uninspiring of spectacles—three ladies dining alone?
Now all was changed. Marie filled their glasses to the brim as if to
reward them for some marvellous feat of courage. These timid English
ladies had captured a live lion, a real one, smelling faintly of eau de
cologne, and with a tip of handkerchief showing, white as a flake of snow.
“He is worthy of it,” decided Marie, eyeing her orchids and palms.
Mr. Prodger touched his hot plate with appreciative fingers.
“You’ll hardly believe it, Mrs. Fawcett,” he remarked, turning to Mother,
“but this is the first hot plate I’ve happened on since I left the
States. I had begun to believe there were two things that just weren’t to
be had in Europe. One was a hot plate and the other was a glass of cold
water. Well, the cold water one can do without; but a hot plate is more
difficult. I’d got so discouraged with the cold wet ones I encountered
everywhere that when I was arranging with Cook’s Agency about my room
here I explained to them ‘I don’t care what the expense may be. But for
mercy’s sake find me an hotel where I can get a hot plate by ringing for
it.’”
Mother, though outwardly all sympathy, found this a little bewildering.
She had a momentary vision of Mr. Prodger ringing for hot plates to be
brought to him at all hours. Such strange things to want in any numbers.
“I have always heard the American hotels are so very well equipped,” said
Miss Anderson. “Telephones in all the rooms and even tape machines.”
Milly could see Miss Anderson reading that tape machine.
“I should like to go to America awfully,” she cried, as Marie brought in
the lamb and set it before Mother.
“There’s certainly nothing wrong with America,” said Mr. Prodger,
soberly. “America’s a great country. What are they? Peas? Well, I’ll just
take a few. I don’t eat peas as a rule. No, no salad, thank you. Not with
the hot meat.”
“But what makes you want to go to America?” Miss Anderson ducked forward,
smiling at Milly, and her eyeglasses fell into her plate, just escaping
the gravy.
Because one wants to go everywhere, was the real answer. But Milly’s
flower-blue gaze rested thoughtfully on Miss Anderson as she said, “The
ice-cream. I adore ice-cream.”
“Do you?” said Mr. Prodger, and he put down his fork; he seemed moved.
“So you’re fond of ice-cream, are you, Miss Fawcett?”
Milly transferred her dazzling gaze to him. It said she was.
“Well,” said Mr. Prodger quite playfully, and he began eating again, “I’d
like to see you get it. I’m sorry we can’t manage to ship some across.
I like to see young people have just what they want. It seems right,
somehow.”
Kind man! Would he have any more lamb?
Lunch passed so pleasantly, so quickly, that the famous piece of
gorgonzola was on the table in all its fatness and richness before there
had been an awkward moment. The truth was that Mr. Prodger proved most
easy to entertain, most ready to chat. As a rule men were not fond of
chat as Mother understood it. They did not seem to understand that it
does not matter very much what one says; the important thing is not to
let the conversation drop. Strange! Even the best men ignored that
simple rule. They refused to realize that conversation is like a dear
little baby that is brought in to be handed round. You must rock it,
nurse it, keep it on the move if you want it to keep smiling. What could
be simpler? But even Father.... Mother winced away from memories that
were not as sweet as memories ought to be.
All the same she could not help hoping that Father saw what a successful
little lunch party it was. He did so love to see Milly happy, and the
child looked more animated than she had done for weeks. She had lost that
dreamy expression, which, though very sweet, did not seem natural at her
age. Perhaps what she wanted was not so much Easton’s Syrup as taking out
of herself.
“I have been very selfish,” thought Mother, blaming herself as usual.
She put her hand on Milly’s arm; she pressed it gently as they rose from
the table. And Marie held the door open for the white and grey figure;
for Miss Anderson, who peered shortsightedly, as though looking for
something; for Mr. Prodger who brought up the rear, walking stately, with
the benign air of a Monsieur who had eaten well.
§
Beyond the balcony, the garden, the palms and the sea lay bathed in
quivering brightness. Not a leaf moved; the oranges were little worlds
of burning light. There was the sound of grasshoppers ringing their tiny
tambourines, and the hum of bees as they hovered, as though to taste
their joy in advance, before burrowing close into the warm wide-open
stocks and roses. The sound of the sea was like a breath, was like a sigh.
Did the little group on the balcony hear it? Mother’s fingers moved
among the black and gold coffee-cups; Miss Anderson brought the most
uncomfortable chair out of the salon and sat down. Mr. Prodger put his
large hand on to the yellow stone ledge of the balcony and remarked
gravely, “This balcony rail is just as hot as it can be.”
“They say,” said Mother, “that the greatest heat of the day is at about
half-past two. We have certainly noticed it is very hot then.”
“Yes, it’s lovely then,” murmured Milly, and she stretched out her hand
to the sun. “It’s simply baking!”
“Then you’re not afraid of the sunshine?” said Mr. Prodger, taking his
coffee from Mother. “No, thank you. I won’t take any cream. Just one lump
of sugar.” And he sat down balancing the little, chattering cup on his
broad knee.
“No, I adore it,” answered Milly, and she began to nibble the lump of
sugar....
SIX YEARS AFTER
It was not the afternoon to be on deck—on the contrary. It was exactly
the afternoon when there is no snugger place than a warm cabin, a warm
bunk. Tucked up with a rug, a hot-water bottle and a piping hot cup of
tea she would not have minded the weather in the least. But he—hated
cabins, hated to be inside anywhere more than was absolutely necessary.
He had a passion for keeping, as he called it, above board, especially
when he was travelling. And it wasn’t surprising, considering the
enormous amount of time he spent cooped up in the office. So, when he
rushed away from her as soon as they got on board and came back five
minutes later to say he had secured two deck chairs on the lee side and
the steward was undoing the rugs, her voice through the high sealskin
collar murmured “Good”; and because he was looking at her, she smiled
with bright eyes and blinked quickly, as if to say, “Yes, perfectly all
right—absolutely,” and she meant it.
“Then we’d better——” said he, and he tucked her hand inside his arm and
began to rush her off to where the two chairs stood. But she just had
time to breathe, “Not so fast, Daddy, please,” when he remembered too and
slowed down.
Strange! They had been married twenty-eight years, and it was still an
effort to him, each time, to adapt his pace to hers.
“Not cold, are you?” he asked, glancing sideways at her. Her little nose,
geranium pink above the dark fur, was answer enough. But she thrust her
free hand into the velvet pocket of her jacket and murmured gaily, “I
shall be glad of my rug.”
He pressed her tighter to his side—a quick, nervous pressure. He knew,
of course, that she ought to be down in the cabin; he knew that it was
no afternoon for her to be sitting on deck, in this cold and raw mist,
lee side or no lee side, rugs or no rugs, and he realized how she must be
hating it. But he had come to believe that it really was easier for her
to make these sacrifices than it was for him. Take their present case,
for instance. If he had gone down to the cabin with her, he would have
been miserable the whole time, and he couldn’t have helped showing it.
At any rate, she would have found him out. Whereas, having made up her
mind to fall in with his ideas, he would have betted anybody she would
even go so far as to enjoy the experience. Not because she was without
personality of her own. Good Lord! She was absolutely brimming with it.
But because ... but here his thoughts always stopped. Here they always
felt the need of a cigar, as it were. And, looking at the cigar-tip, his
fine blue eyes narrowed. It was a law of marriage, he supposed.... All
the same, he always felt guilty when he asked these sacrifices of her.
That was what the quick pressure meant. His being said to her being:
“You do understand, don’t you?” and there was an answering tremor of her
fingers, “I _understand_.”
Certainly, the steward—good little chap—had done all in his power to make
them comfortable. He had put up their chairs in whatever warmth there
was and out of the smell. She did hope he would be tipped adequately.
It was on occasions like these (and her life seemed to be full of such
occasions) that she wished it was the woman who controlled the purse.
“Thank you, steward. That will do beautifully.”
“Why are stewards so often delicate-looking?” she wondered, as her feet
were tucked under. “This poor little chap looks as though he’d got a
chest, and yet one would have thought ... the sea air....”
The button of the pigskin purse was undone. The tray was tilted. She saw
sixpences, shillings, half-crowns.
“I should give him five shillings,” she decided, “and tell him to buy
himself a good nourishing——”
He was given a shilling, and he touched his cap and seemed genuinely
grateful.
Well, it might have been worse. It might have been sixpence. It
might, indeed. For at that moment Father turned towards her and said,
half-apologetically, stuffing the purse back, “I gave him a shilling. I
think it was worth it, don’t you?”
“Oh, quite! Every bit!” said she.
It is extraordinary how peaceful it feels on a little steamer once the
bustle of leaving port is over. In a quarter of an hour one might have
been at sea for days. There is something almost touching, childish, in
the way people submit themselves to the new conditions. They go to bed in
the early afternoon, they shut their eyes and “it’s night” like little
children who turn the table upside down and cover themselves with the
table-cloth. And those who remain on deck—they seem to be always the
same, those few hardened men travellers—pause, light their pipes, stamp
softly, gaze out to sea, and their voices are subdued as they walk up
and down. The long-legged little girl chases after the red-cheeked boy,
but soon both are captured; and the old sailor, swinging an unlighted
lantern, passes and disappears....
He lay back, the rug up to his chin and she saw he was breathing deeply.
Sea air! If anyone believed in sea air, it was he. He had the strongest
faith in its tonic qualities. But the great thing was, according to him,
to fill the lungs with it the moment you came on board. Otherwise, the
sheer strength of it was enough to give you a chill....
She gave a small chuckle, and he turned to her quickly. “What is it?”
“It’s your cap,” she said. “I never can get used to you in a cap. You
look such a thorough burglar.”
“Well, what the deuce am I to wear?” He shot up one grey eyebrow and
wrinkled his nose. “It’s a very good cap, too. Very fine specimen of its
kind. It’s got a very rich white satin lining.” He paused. He declaimed,
as he had hundreds of times before at this stage. “Rich and rare were
the gems she wore.”
But she was thinking he really was childishly proud of the white satin
lining. He would like to have taken off his cap and made her feel it.
“Feel the quality!” How often had she rubbed between finger and thumb his
coat, his shirt cuff, tie, sock, linen handkerchief, while he said that.
She slipped down more deeply into her chair.
And the little steamer pressed on, pitching gently, over the grey,
unbroken, gently-moving water, that was veiled with slanting rain.
Far out, as though idly, listlessly, gulls were flying. Now they settled
on the waves, now they beat up into the rainy air, and shone against the
pale sky like the lights within a pearl. They looked cold and lonely.
How lonely it will be when we have passed by, she thought. There will be
nothing but the waves and those birds and rain falling.
She gazed through the rust-spotted railing along which big drops
trembled, until suddenly she shut her lips. It was as if a warning voice
inside her had said, “Don’t look!”
“No, I won’t,” she decided. “It’s too depressing, much too depressing.”
But immediately, she opened her eyes and looked again. Lonely birds,
water lifting, white pale sky—how were they changed?
And it seemed to her there was a presence far out there, between the sky
and the water; someone very desolate and longing watched them pass and
cried as if to stop them—but cried to her alone.
“Mother!”
“Don’t leave me,” sounded the cry. “Don’t forget me! You are forgetting
me, you know you are!” And it was as though from her own breast there
came the sound of childish weeping.
“My son—my precious child—it isn’t true!”
_Sh!_ How was it possible that she was sitting there on that quiet
steamer beside Father and at the same time she was hushing and holding a
little slender boy—so pale—who had just waked out of a dreadful dream?
“I dreamed I was in a wood—somewhere far away from everybody,—and I was
lying down and a great blackberry vine grew over me. And I called and
called to you—and you wouldn’t come—you wouldn’t come—so I had to lie
there for ever.”
What a terrible dream! He had always had terrible dreams. How often,
years ago, when he was small, she had made some excuse and escaped from
their friends in the dining-room or the drawing-room to come to the foot
of the stairs and listen. “Mother!” And when he was asleep, his dream had
journeyed with her back into the circle of lamplight; it had taken its
place there like a ghost. And now——
Far more often—at all times—in all places—like now, for instance—she
never settled down, she was never off her guard for a moment but she
heard him. He wanted her. “I am coming as fast as I can! As fast as I
can!” But the dark stairs have no ending, and the worst dream of all—the
one that is always the same—goes for ever and ever uncomforted.
This is anguish! How is it to be borne? Still, it is not the idea of her
suffering which is unbearable—it is his. Can one do nothing for the dead?
And for a long time the answer had been—Nothing!
* * * * *
... But softly without a sound the dark curtain has rolled down. There
is no more to come. That is the end of the play. But it can’t end like
that—so suddenly. There must be more. No, it’s cold, it’s still. There is
nothing to be gained by waiting.
But—did he go back again? Or, when the war was over, did he come home
for good? Surely, he will marry—later on—not for several years. Surely,
one day I shall remember his wedding and my first grandchild—a beautiful
dark-haired boy born in the early morning—a lovely morning—spring!
“Oh, Mother, it’s not fair to me to put these ideas into my head! Stop,
Mother, stop! When I think of all I have missed, I can’t bear it.”
* * * * *
“I can’t bear it!” She sits up breathing the words and tosses the dark
rug away. It is colder than ever, and now the dusk is falling, falling
like ash upon the pallid water.
And the little steamer, growing determined, throbbed on, pressed on, as
if at the end of the journey there waited....
DAPHNE
I had been in Port Willin six months when I decided to give a one-man
show. Not that I was particularly keen, but little Field, the
picture-shop man, had just started a gallery and he wanted me—begged me,
rather—to kick off for him. He was a decent little chap; I hadn’t the
heart to refuse. And besides, as it happened, I had a good deal of stuff
that I felt it would be rather fun to palm off on any one who was fool
enough to buy it. So with these high aims I had the cards printed, the
pictures framed in plain white frames, and God knows how many cups and
saucers ordered for the Private View.
What was I doing in Port Willin? Oh well—why not? I’ll own it does sound
an unlikely spot, but when you are an impermanent movable, as I am, it’s
just those unlikely spots that have a trick of holding you. I arrived,
intending to stay a week and go on to Fiji. But I had letters to one or
two people, and the morning of my arrival, hanging over the side of the
ship while we were waiting in the stream, with nothing on earth to do
but stare, I took an extraordinary fancy to the shape—to the look of the
place.
It’s a small town, you know, planted at the edge of a fine deep harbour
like a lake. Behind it, on either side there are hills. The houses are
built of light painted wood. They have iron roofs coloured red. And there
are big dark plumy trees massed together, breaking up those light shapes,
giving a depth—warmth—making a composition of it well worth looking
at.... Well, we needn’t go into that— But it had me that fine morning.
And the first days after my arrival, walking, or driving out in one of
the big swinging, rocking cabs, I took an equal fancy to the people.
Not quite all of them. The men left me cold. Yes, I must say, colonial
men are not the brightest specimens. But I never struck a place where the
average of female attractiveness was so high. You can’t help noticing
it, for a peculiarity of Port Willin is the number of its teashops
and the vast quantity of tea absorbed by its inhabitants. Not tea
only—sandwiches, cream cakes, ices, fruit salad with fresh pineapples.
From eleven o’clock in the morning you meet with couples, and groups of
girls and young married women hurrying off to their first tea. It was a
real eleven o’clock function. Even the business men knocked off and went
to a café. And the same thing happened in the afternoon. From four until
half-past six the streets were gay as a garden. Which reminds me, it was
early spring when I arrived and the town smelled of moist earth and the
first flowers. In fact, wherever one went one got a strong whiff, like
the whiff of violets in a wood, which was enough in itself to make one
feel like lingering....
There was a theatre too, a big bare building plastered over with red
and blue bills which gave it an oriental look in that blue air, and a
touring company was playing “San Toy.” I went my first evening. I found
it, for some reason, fearfully exciting. The inside smelled of gas, of
glue and burnt paper. Whistling draughts cut along the corridors—a strong
wind among the orchestra kept the palms trembling, and now and again
the curtain blew out and there was a glimpse of a pair of large feet
walking rapidly away. But what women! What girls in muslin dresses with
velvet sashes and little caps edged with swansdown! In the intervals
long ripples of laughter sounded from the stalls, from the dress-circle.
And I leaned against a pillar that looked as though it was made of
wedding-cake icing—and fell in love with whole rows at a time....
Then I presented my letters, I was asked out to dine, and I met these
charmers in their own homes. That decided it. They were something I
had never known before—so gay, so friendly, so impressed with the idea
of one’s being an artist! It was rather like finding oneself in the
playground of an extremely attractive girls’ school.
I painted the Premier’s daughter, a dark beauty, against a tree hung with
long bell-like flowers, as white as wax. I painted a girl with a pig-tail
curled up on a white sofa playing with a pale-red fan ... and a little
blonde in a black jacket with pearl-grey gloves.... I painted like fury.
I’m fond of women. As a matter of fact I’m a great deal more at ease
with women than I am with men. Because I’ve cultivated them, I suppose.
You see, it’s like this with me. I’ve always had enough money to live on
and the consequence is I have never had to mix with people more than I
wished. And I’ve equally always had—well, I suppose you might call it a
passion—for painting. Painting is far and away the most important thing
in life—as I see it. But—my work’s my own affair. It’s the separate
compartment which is me. No strangers allowed in. I haven’t the smallest
desire to explain what it is I’m after—or to hear other men. If people
like my work I’m pleased. If they don’t—well, if I was a shrugging
person, I’d shrug. This sounds arrogant. It isn’t; I know my limitations.
But the truth about oneself always sounds arrogant, as no doubt you’ve
observed.
But women—well, I can only speak for myself—I find the presence of women,
the consciousness of women, an absolute necessity. I know they are
considered a distraction, that the very Big Pots seal themselves in their
hives to keep away. All I can say is work without women would be to me
like dancing without music or food without wine or a sailing boat without
a breeze. They just give me that ... what is it? Stimulus is not enough;
inspiration is far too much. That—well, if I knew what it is, I should
have solved a bigger problem than my own! And problems aren’t in my line.
I expected a mob at my Private View, and I got it, too.... What I hadn’t
reckoned on was that there would be no men. It was one thing to ask a
painter fellow to knock you up something to the tune of fifty guineas or
so, but it was quite another to make an ass of yourself staring. The
Port Willin men would as soon have gazed into shops. True, when you came
to Europe, you visited the galleries, but then you shop-gazed too. It
didn’t matter what you did in Europe. You could walk about for a week
without being recognized.
So there were little Field and I absolutely alone among all that
loveliness; it frightened him out of his life, but I didn’t mind, I
thought it rather fun, especially as the sightseers didn’t hesitate to
find my pictures amusing. I’m by no means an out-and-out modern, as they
say; people like violins and landscapes of telegraph poles leave me cold.
But Port Willin is still trying to swallow Rossetti, and Hope by Watts is
looked upon as very advanced. It was natural my pictures should surprise
them. The fat old Lady Mayoress became quite hysterical. She drew me over
to one drawing, she patted my arm with her fan.
“I don’t wonder you drew her slipping out,” she gurgled. “And how
depressed she looks! The poor dear never could have sat down in it. It’s
much too small. There ought to be a little cake of Pear’s Soap on the
floor.” And overcome by her own joke, she flopped on the little double
bench that ran down the middle of the room, and even her fan seemed to
laugh.
At that moment two girls passed in front of us. One I knew, a big fair
girl called May Pollock, pulled her companion by the sleeve. “Daphne!”
she said. “Daphne!” And the other turned towards her, then towards us,
smiled and was born, christened part of my world from that moment.
“Daphne!” Her quick beautiful smile answered....
* * * * *
Saturday morning was gloriously fine. When I woke up and saw the sun
streaming over the polished floor I felt like a little boy who has been
promised a picnic. It was all I could do not to telephone to Daphne. Was
she feeling the same? It seemed somehow such a terrific lark that we
should be going off together like this, just with a couple of rucksacks
and our bathing suits. I thought of other week-ends, the preparation, the
emotional tension, the amount of managing they’d needed. But I couldn’t
really think of them; I couldn’t be bothered, they belonged to another
life....
* * * * *