WHAT IS HIDDEN BY A CAMISOLE
Add but the flavour of secrecy to the making of Romance; allow that
every meeting be clandestine and every letter written sealed, and
matters will so thrive apace that, before you can, with the children in
the nursery, say Jack Robinson, the fire will be kindled and the flames
of it leaping through your every pulse.
When, with tacit consent, Jill asked no further questions as to where
John lived, and yet continued clandestinely to meet him, listening to
the work he read aloud to her, offering her opinion, giving her
approval, she was unconsciously, unwillingly, too, perhaps, had she
known, hastening towards the ultimate and the inevitable end.
It must not be supposed that after this second interview in Kensington
Gardens, when John had plainly said that he could not tell her where he
lived, she had wilfully disobeyed the unyielding commands of her mother
not to see him again. The fulfilment of destiny does not ask for
disobedience. With the shuttles of circumstance and coincidence to its
fingers, Destiny can weave a pattern in defiance of every law but that
of Nature.
Jill had said that morning:
"Then we mustn't meet again."
"You mean that?" said John.
"I can't help it," she replied distressfully. "After all, I'm living
with my people; I must respect their wishes to a certain degree. If you
would only tell me----"
"But I can't," John had interposed. "It's no good. It's much better
that I leave you in ignorance. Why won't the Martyrs' Club satisfy you?
There are men at the Martyrs' Club who live on Carlton House Terrace.
That is a part of their martyrdom. Is it beyond the stretch of your
imagination for you to suppose that I might have an abode
in--in--Bedford Park or Shepherd's Bush?"
She laughed, and then, as that stiff social figure of her mother rose
before her eyes and she recalled to her mind remarks about a dressmaker
who happened to live in Shepherd's Bush--"Poor thing--she lives at
Shepherd's Bush--Life treats some people in a shameful way--" an
expression of charity that went no further, for the dressmaker's work
was not considered good enough or cheap enough, and she was given
nothing more to do--when she remembered that, the laugh vanished from
her eyes.
"Isn't it as good as Shepherd's Bush?" she had asked quite simply.
Well, when, in your more opulent moments, you have thought of such a
thing as a better address at Shepherd's Bush, and have a question such
as this put to you, you have little desire left to reveal the locality
of the abode you do occupy. It takes the pride out of you. It silenced
John. He recalled to his mind a remark of Mrs. Meakin's when, having
invited him to take a rosy-cheeked apple from that little partition
where the rosy-cheeked apples lay, she had thought by this subtle bribe
to draw him into conversation about himself.
"Don't you find it very dull livin' 'ere all alone by yourself?" she had
asked.
"Wherever you live," said John evasively, "you're by yourself. You're
as much alone in a crowd as in an empty church."
She had nodded her head, picked up a large Spanish onion, and peeled off
the outer skin to make it look more fresh.
"But I should have thought," she had added pensively--"I should have
thought as 'ow you'd have found this such a very low-cality."
And so, perhaps it was--very low. And if Mrs. Meakin had thought so,
and Jill herself could talk thus deprecatingly of Shepherd's Bush, where
he had hoped to better his address, then it were as well to leave Fetter
Lane alone.
"So you have made up your mind," he had said quietly. "You've made up
your mind not to see me again?"
"It's not I who have made it up," she answered.
"But you're going to obey?"
"I must."
"You won't be here to-morrow morning, at this hour?"
"No--I can't--I mustn't."
"Not to tell me how you liked my short story?"
"You know I liked it--awfully."
"And you won't come and hear another that's better than that?"
"How can I? You don't understand. If you came and lived at Prince of
Wales' Terrace, you'd understand then."
"Then it's no good my coming to-morrow?"
"Not if you want to see me."
"Then good-bye."
John stood up and held out his hand.
If you know the full value of coercion in renunciation; if you realise
the full power of persuasion in the saying of good-bye, you have command
of that weapon which is the surest and the most subtle in all the
armament of Destiny. It is only when they have said good-bye that two
people really come together.
"But why must you go now?" Jill had said regretfully.
John smiled.
"Well--first, because you said you couldn't come this morning, and we've
been here for an hour and a half; and secondly, because if, as you say,
we are to see no more of each other, then hadn't I better go now? I
think it's better. Good-bye."
He held out his hand again. She took it reluctantly, and he was gone.
The next morning, Jill had wakened an hour earlier--an hour earlier than
was her wont--an hour earlier, with the weight of a sense of loss
pressing on her mind. It is that hour in bed before rising that a woman
thinks all the truest things in her day; is most honest with herself,
and least subtle in the expression of her thoughts. Then she gets
up--bathes--does her hair and, by the time a dainty camisole is
concealing those garments that prove her to be a true woman--all honesty
is gone; she assumes the mystery of her sex.
In that hour earlier before her rising, Jill honestly admitted her
disgust with life. Romance is well-nigh everything to a woman--for
Romance is the Prelude, full of the most sonorous of chords, breathing
with the most wonderful of cadences--a Prelude to the great Duty which
she must inevitably perform. And this had been Romance. She had just
touched it, just set in motion the unseen fingers that play with such
divine inspiration upon the whole gamut of the strings, and now, it had
been put away.
Mind you, she knew nothing of the evolution of the Prelude; she knew
little of the history of the Duty to perform. It was not the conscious
loss of these that brought the disgust of life into the complaining
heart of her; for Romance, when first it comes to a woman, is like the
peak of a mountain whose head is lifted above the clouds. It has
nothing of this earth; means no such mundane phrase as--falling in love.
To the girl of twenty-one, Romance is the spirit of things beautiful,
and, therefore, the spirit of all things good. And Jill had lost it.
They were not to meet again. She was never to hear another of his
stories. He was not coming to Kensington Gardens any more.
But suppose he did come! Suppose there were the sense of regret in the
heart of him, as it was with her, and suppose he came to see the place
where they had sat together! If she could only know that he cared
enough to do that! It would make the renunciation more bearable if she
could only know that. How could she find out? Send Ronald to the
Gardens at about that hour? He would say if he had seen him. But if
Ronald went to the Gardens, he would be voyaging on the good ship
_Albatross_, far away out at sea, out of sight of land, in the dim
distance of make-belief. But if she went herself--just casually--just
for a walk--just to see, only to see. And, if he were there, she could
easily escape; she could easily creep away unnoticed. Well--not quite
unnoticed, perhaps. He might see her in the distance, just before she
passed out of sight.
She got up quickly from her bed. She bathed; she did her hair; she
dressed; she put on that dainty camisole with its pale blue ribbon
twined through intricate meshes and concealed those little garments
which proved her to be a true woman--concealed them with the camisole
and the mystery of her sex.
At breakfast, she talked of having her hair washed that morning. There
was no gloss in it, she said. Ronald cast a glance at it, sniffed and
then went on with his hasty mouthfuls of porridge. What fools were
girls! As if it mattered! As if anyone noticed whether there were
gloss or not! The good ship _Albatross_ wanted a new spinnaker, and from
whose under-linen that was to be stolen without detection was a far more
delicate matter. He had petitioned for white linen shirts for himself
for the last six months--white linen shirts are always valuable to a
sailor--but he had not got them as yet. This deprivation naturally led
to nefarious dealings with the tails of his father's old white shirts.
It was impossible to use his own. You cannot have flannel sails to your
ship, if she sails on the Round Pond. On the other waters--the
Atlantic, for example--it doesn't matter so much. There were one or two
things he had begun to fancy he would never be able to get.
Quite simply, quite pensively, he had said one day at dinner:
"I wonder if I shall ever eat the wing of a chicken."
They permitted him to wonder--he and his drumstick. One cannot be
surprised, then, that he sniggered when Jill talked about the gloss of
her hair.
"Well, don't go to this place in the High Street," said her mother.
"They're terribly exorbitant."
"I shall go up to town," said Jill. And, up to town she started.
There are various ways of going up to town. She chose to cross the Broad
Walk with the intention of going by Bayswater. She even made a detour
of the Round Pond. It was nicer to walk on the grass--more comfortable
under foot. It was not even an uncomfortable sensation to feel her
heart beating as a lark's wings beat the air when it soars.
Then the rushing of the wings subsided. He was not there. From that
mighty altitude to which it had risen, her heart began to
descend--slowly, slowly, slowly to earth. He was not there!
But oh! you would never know, until you yourself had played there, the
games of hide-and-seek that the big elms afford in Kensington Gardens.
On the far side of a huge tree-trunk, she came suddenly upon him, and
the slowly fluttering wings of her heart were struck to stillness.
There he was, seated upon his chair with a smile upon his lips, in his
eyes--spreading and spreading till it soon must be a laugh.
And--"Oh!" said she.
Then it was that the smile became a laugh.
"What are you doing here at this time in the morning?" he asked.
"I--I was just going up to town. I--I wanted to go to Bayswater first."
How much had he guessed? How long had he seen her looking here and
there, and all about her?
"What are _you_ doing?" She had as much a right to ask him.
"I've been waiting to see you go by," said he.
"But----"
"I knew you were coming."
"How?"
"We've been thinking just exactly the same things ever since I said
good-bye yesterday. I woke up early this morning wondering what had
happened."
"So did I," she whispered in an awed voice.
"Then--before I'd got my coat on, I came to the conclusion that I had to
live somewhere, and that the only thing that mattered was whether I did
it honestly--not where I did it. Then, I sort of felt you might come to
the Gardens this morning."
She set her lips. Once that camisole is on, every woman has her
dignity. It is a thing to play with, much as a child plays with its box
of bricks. She makes wonderful patterns with it--noble
ladies--imperious dames, who put dignity before humanity as you put the
cart before the horse.
"Why should you think I would come to the Gardens?" she asked.
John steadied his eyes.
"Well, I presume you go up to town sometimes," he said.
"Yes--but one can get up to town by Knightsbridge."
"Of--course. I forgot that. But when you might be wanting to go to
Bayswater first."
She looked very steadily into his eyes. How long had he seen her before
she had seen him?
"Perhaps you're under the impression that I came to see you," she said,
and she began walking towards the Bayswater Road.
He followed quietly by her side. This needed careful treatment. She
was incensed. He ought not to have thought that, of course.
"I never said so," he replied quietly.
Then they fought--all the way over to the Bayswater side. Each little
stroke was like velvet, but beneath it all was the passion of the claw.
"I expect it's as well we're not going to see each other any more," she
said one moment and, when he agreed, repented it bitterly the next. He
cursed himself for agreeing. But you must agree. Dignity, you know.
Dignity before humanity.
And then he called her a hansom--helped her within.
"Are you going back to the Gardens?" she asked from inside, not shutting
the doors.
"No--I'm going up to town."
"Well----" She pushed the bricks away. "Can't--can't I drive you up?"
He stepped inside, and the cab rolled off.
"Were you going to have walked?" she asked presently, after a long, long
silence.
"No," said John. "I was going to drive--with you."