[Illustration: 9125]
HAT evening at the theatre was the first conscious step in their
experiment of being happy together. She received word from him at
lunch-time that the doctor's permission had been granted and that he
would call for her at seven. The news made her as excited as if she
had never been to a theatre before in her life. She spent the afternoon
before the mirror, brushing and re-brushing her hair, and in laying
out all the pretty clothes which she knew men liked. It was three years
since she had dressed with the deliberate intent that a man should
admire her. Once to do that had been two-thirds of her life. To find
herself doing it again seemed like waking from a long illness; she could
hardly bring herself to believe that the monotony of sorrow was ended
and that she was actually going to be happy again. She had been made to
feel so long that to be happy would be disloyalty to past affections.
She locked her bedroom door, for fear any of the servants should guess
how she was occupied. She was filled with an exultant shame that she
should still be capable of valuing so highly a man's opinion of her
appearance. “But I will be happy,” she kept telling herself; “I have
the right.” And then, in a whisper, “Oh, little house, you have been so
kind. Wish me luck and say that he'll think me nice.”
[Illustration: 0127]
Outside in the bare black cradle of the trees the November afternoon
faded. Sparrows twittered of how winter was almost come. Against the
cold melancholy of the London sky, like silhouettes crayoned on a wall
of ice, roofs and chimneys stood smudged. In flickering pin-points of
incandescence street-lamps wakened; night came drifting like a ship into
harbour under shrouded sails.
She had been sitting listening for a long time, haunted by childish
fears that he would not come. At seven promptly a taxi panted into
the square and drew up wheezing and coughing before the little house.
Seizing her evening-wrap, she ran down the stairs and had her hand
on the door before his knock had sounded. “I didn't want to keep you
waiting,” she explained.
He handed her into the cab. With a groan and a thump the engine pulled
itself together and they made good their escape. As she settled back
into her corner, pulling on her gloves, she watched him. So he also had
regarded it as a gala-night! He was wearing a brand-new uniform and had
been at extra pains to make his boots and belt splendid and shiny.
She did her best not to be observed too closely, for her eyes were
overbright and her color was high. She felt annoyed at herself for being
so girlish.
“It's tremendous fun. I haven't been to the theatre in the evening
since... for years and years,” she whispered. “The war is really ended.
I'm believing it for the first time.”
They dined together at Prince's to the fierce discords of Jazz music.
It suited her mood; it was primitive and reckless. Diners kept rising
between courses and slipping out in pairs to where dancing was in
progress. The whole world went in pairs tonight. And she had her man;
no one could make her lonely for just this one night. It was exciting to
her to notice how much more they seemed to belong to each other now that
they were in public. He felt it also, for he showed his sense of pride
and ownership in a hundred little ways. It was good to be owned after
having been left so long discarded. As he faced her across the table, he
had the air of believing that everybody was admiring her and envying him
his luck. She was immensely grateful that he should think so. It was as
though he could hear them saying, “How on earth did a one-armed fellow
do it?” Had they asked him, he could only have told them, “The house was
empty, so I entered.” Yes, and even he had not guessed how empty! But
what had changed her? Knowing nothing about the locked door and how her
afternoon had been spent, he was puzzled. All he knew was that the woman
whom he had thought perfect, had revealed herself as more perfect. She
had become radiantly beautiful in a way quite new and unexpected.
Of the play to which they went she saw but little; all she realised was
that it was merry--a fairy-tale of life. One does not notice much when
the heart is swollen with gladness. People sang, and looked pretty, and
fell in love. Everyone was paired and married before the curtain was
rung down. Something, however, she did remember: two lilting lines which
had been sung:
And, while the sun is shining,
Make hay, little girl, make hay.
They kept repeating themselves inside her head. Unconsciously in the
darkness as they were driving home, she started humming them.
“What did you say?” he questioned.
“I didn't say anything. It was just a snatch from a tune we heard.”
“Was it? Won't you hum it again?”
So in the intermittent gloom of the passing lights she tried; but
for some reason, inexplicable to herself, it made her feel choky. She
couldn't reach the end. Gathering her wrap closer about her, she drew
the fur collar higher to hide the stupid tears which had forced their
way into her eyes.
“I believe you're crying!” he exclaimed with concern. “Do tell me what's
the matter.”
“I'm too happy,” she whispered brokenly. The taxi drew up against the
pavement with a jerk. There was no knowing what he might say next to
comfort her. She both yearned to learn and dreaded. Flight was the safer
choice. Before he could assist her, she had jumped out. “Come tomorrow
and I'll thank you properly. I can't now. And... I'm sorry for having
been a baby.” Catching at her skirts, she fled up the steps and let
herself into the darkened house.
Not until his wheels had moved reluctantly away, did she climb the
narrow stairs to the room from which she had departed so gaily. Her
solitariness had returned. She had had her own man for a handful of
hours. They were ended.
As she threw off her finery, she could still hear that voice
persistently advising,
And, while the sun is shining,
Make hay, little girl, make hay.
In the darkness she flung herself down on the bed, burying her face in
the pillow. “I want to; oh, I want to,” she muttered.