THE general feeling was that Jane would be more convenient, that Mary
made less demand on the brain, that Ellen had the advantage of having
been the title of her immediate predecessor, but she proved stern and
adamant in regard to the detail, and the graceful thing to do was to give
in for the moment with a secret promise to make an alteration later on.
When the time came for revision, it was found that no other title but
that of Irene could possibly be given. The name fitted as though she had
been measured for it. An impression that it could only belong to stately
and slightly offended young women on the pages of sixpenny fashion
journals, vanished.
“Previous to me coming here,” Irene sometimes explained in the minute and
a half given to conversation whilst clearing breakfast, “I was in a
business establishment. Two year I put in there, I did, and then my
’ealth give way. Otherwise I should never have dreamt of going into
domestic service. I’ve been used to ’aving my evenings to myself!”
By chance, it was ascertained that the time which elapsed after leaving
school had been devoted to a mineral water manufactory: this discovery
reflected no credit upon any of the boarders, being indeed the result of
a chance remark made by her on seeing a two-horse cart belonging to the
firm go through the square. A closer reticence was shown in regard to
her family; Irene did, however, convey, at times, a hint that the members
had seen better and more prosperous days, and that distinguished
ancestors would betray signs of restlessness did they become aware that
she occupied a position that brought in but £12 a year, giving freedom
only on Thursday evening and alternate Sunday afternoons. “But we never
know what’s in store for us,” she remarked, with a touch of fatalism.
“It’s all ordained, I suppose. What I mean to say is, everything’s
planned out, only that we don’t know it. Just as well, perhaps.”
Her appearance in the earlier days gave no signal of noble birth. She
wore the corkscrew curls fashionable in her neighbourhood, and her
efforts in hairdressing ceased at about half-way to the back of her head;
the rest being a casual knot insecurely tied. Many things go awry in
this world, but few were so unlucky as Irene’s apron, which appeared to
be the sport and play of chance, going to various points of the compass,
sometimes becoming fixed due west. She seemed to have a prejudice
against safety pins. With her, hooks and eyes lived indiscriminately,
and never as precise, well-ordered couples. On first assuming the white
cap (against the use of which she made desperate opposition), she wore it
rakishly over one eye, and being reproved, answered lightly that this was
one of those matters which would be forgotten a hundred years hence. A
girl more completely furnished with the easy platitudes that turn away
wrath surely never existed. In generous mood, she gave them away by the
dozen.
“One ’alf of the world doesn’t know how the other ’alf lives; it’s a poor
’eart that never rejoices; there’s none so blind as them that won’t see;
a bird in the ’and’s worth two in the bush; and that’s all about it!”
You must not assume that Irene gave up a large amount of her time to
conversation. She started work at twenty to seven in the morning, and if
half-past four in the afternoon found her ready (in her own phrase) to
pop upstairs and change, she counted she had scored a victory. After tea
came duties of a more leisurely nature such as ironing, and later
still—if luck favoured—a brief opportunity for the study of literature,
from which she came in such a dazed, confused state of mind, that for the
subsequent twenty minutes she could only give answers that possessed a
conspicuous amount of incoherence. Those who have seen her with a number
of “The Belgravia Novelette” report that her lips moved silently as she
read the lines, that her features indicated, unconsciously, the emotions
affecting each character: when a lady had to reject the advances of some
unwelcome suitor (a frequent occurrence in the world of fiction where Mr.
A., liking Miss B., finds this converted into ardent love when she
announces she hates him with a hate that can never die), then Irene’s
face showed stern and uncompromising decision: when a landscape artist
proclaimed an affection he had hitherto concealed, her eyes half closed,
and her head went gently to and fro.
It is likely the pictures which accompanied these agreeable stories had
some influence, although the fact that the people always wore evening
dress prevented Irene from imitating every detail. The corkscrew curls,
brought forward at each side of the face from a definite and decided
parting, were brushed back. Irene was observed one night at about eight,
on her return from commissariat duties in connection with next morning’s
breakfast, staring earnestly at the head which, in a window, revolved
slowly, vanishing and re-appearing with a fixed, haughty smile. A youth
came up and made some remarks.
“Don’t you address conversation to any one what you haven’t been
introduced to,” she ordered, warmly.
“Carry your parcel for you?”
“Thanks,” replied Irene, “but I don’t want to lose it.”
The youth, declining to take this as a repulse, followed, and Irene’s
mistress reproved her for entering the house at the front door when the
area gate was open. The very next day a fresh and daring experiment was
made by fixing a white collar around the neck, and this was succeeded in
the evening by a pair of cuffs. She seemed pleased with the general
effect, and hastened to answer some knocks and rings at the front door
instead of compelling every caller to repeat the summons. One of these
she received with great curtness.
“No, the name don’t live here.”
“Beg pardon!” said a youth’s deep voice. “Perhaps I’ve got it wrong.”
“Quite likely. Judging from your appearance.”
“Doing any shopping to-night, miss?”
Her mistress appealed to her by name, and she closed the door, explaining
a few minutes later that she could not help feeling sorry for the poor
fellows who had to sell combs and hair-brushes; at the same time, they
had no right to annoy people who had work to do beside answering knocks.
Later, her mistress asked her to refrain from singing. Irene’s voice
would never have taken her to the concert platform, but her theory of
music was so excellent that it may be worth while to give some
particulars here. When affairs of the world went crooked, with her
mistress temporarily short in temper, streets becoming muddy directly
that the front step had been whitened, disaster on the stairs with a
breakfast tray, then Irene selected airs of the cheeriest description,
bursting into:
“When Jones, my friend, came round to me,
He said, ‘Will you go on the spree?’
I answered ‘Yes, of course I will,
That is, if you will pay the bill.’”
and other songs of a rollicking nature. On the other hand, when the
world went smoothly and nothing happened of a contrary nature and her
mistress had given her an egg with her tea, then Irene’s voice came
lugubriously up from the basement:
“Oh I ne’er shall see my loved one any mower,
For I’m leaving her and Britain’s gallant shower,
Though my tears are gently falling, yet I hear her voice a-calling,
But I ne’er shall see my loved one any mower.”
Changes had, as mentioned, been coming over the girl, but they proved
more obvious at the period when the young man referred to adopted the
procedure of waiting outside the house of an evening, sometimes offering
three stamps with the foot, sometimes giving a whistle, sometimes playing
on the railings a mandoline solo, sometimes, after a wait of
three-quarters of an hour, affecting in an ostentatious way to leave—when
all other plans had failed—and bringing Irene up the steps of the area at
a run, and with a call of “Hi!”
The interesting detail about the acquaintance was the perfect and
complete decision arrived at without delay, by Irene. Other girls, in
like case, would probably have assumed an attitude of indifference in
speaking of their young man; might have suggested that they would require
much persuasion before consenting to give their hand; would certainly
have conveyed the impression that the capture of their heart was a task
not easily effected. Irene, from a fortnight after the meeting outside
the hairdresser’s shop, made no attempt to hide the fact that she fully
intended to marry Mr. Easter. I have often wondered whether he made a
formal proposal, or whether it was assumed on both sides that this could
be taken for granted: there are some matters on which one cannot
interrogate a lady, and, if she does not give the information
spontaneously, the particulars have to be guessed. In other respects,
there seemed no reason to complain of want of candour. Irene chaffed
herself quite openly. If she forgot to furnish a cup and saucer with a
spoon:
“That’s the worst of being in love!”
If she omitted to place the toast-rack on the breakfast table:
“Sooner I get married and settled down the better for all parties!”
Irene, on the Sunday afternoon when he proposed to take her for the first
time to see his people, started out looking like a composite photograph,
for every lady in the boarding-house, from her mistress in the basement
upward, had made some loan or gift, and many of the adornments had a
familiar appearance. No one could blame her for opening the striped
parasol, although the sun was absent; a muff carried by the other hand
and wrist showed that no weather would find her unprepared. Young Easter
stood at the corner of the first turning, and, in his case, a necktie
showed a vivacious spirit of adventure. A row of white caps watched from
area railings as they met, noted that a bowler hat was lifted, polite
offer to carry the muff, consultation regarding the method of conveyance.
They went off arm-in-arm, Irene tripping in the effort to keep step, and
any one, starting out five minutes later, could have followed the scent,
and tracked both to the destination by the combined odour of
lavender-water and eau de cologne.
“Oh yes,” reported Irene, the next day, “I can always make myself at ’ome
with strangers. The old lady—his mother—seemed inclined to be a bit
stand-offish at the start, but I said something pleasant about the jam
and after that—well, you can generally get over ’em with a little
artfulness. Tact is everything in this world. Besides, civility costs
nothing. At any, rate, he seemed satisfied.”
A new independence of manner appeared, but only on Friday mornings, and
this was probably due to the increased conceit effected by young Easter’s
compliments of the night before. Her curtness towards messengers from
shops on these occasions was painful to regard: postmen offering remarks
as she knelt at the steps in the early hours went on with the abashed air
of those who have incurred severe reproof.
A dramatic shock came when the month’s notice had nearly expired, that
must have reinforced the girl’s confidence in “The Belgravia Novelette,”
and its amazing habit of altering the situation by the wave of a fairy
wand. She made a slight blunder by reading the letter without any
exhibition of an agonised mind, but a moment’s consideration remedied
this, and, if all I heard was true, she eventually overdid the tragic
intensity required.
“Oh heavens!” she murmured brokenly. “Oh my! Oh dear! Has it come to
this? What is there to live for now? Oh! I think I shall go out of my
mind!”
“Be quiet, child!” ordered her mistress, sharply. “You’ll make yourself
ill if you go on like this.”
“Oh, go away and leave me to die. Oh, only leave me alone! Frank,
Frank!”
“If you carry on in this fashion,” declared her mistress, “I shall simply
take you by the shoulders and give you a thorough good shaking. That’s
what I shall give to you, miss!”
“Read it, ma’am, read it, read it!”
Her mistress, having complied with this request, assured her that, so far
as she could understand, the letter contained important news, but nothing
to justify the hysterical outburst. Irene, recovering partial serenity
of manner, explained, and the other, reading the letter again, admitted
there was something in the girl’s view, and that the fact of young Easter
being taken into partnership by an uncle whose health was failing, might
well result in the breaking off of the engagement; the two found common
ground in condemning the variability of man, and the pernicious influence
of success upon some minds. The girl gave a brief rehearsal of her share
in the interview that was to take place that evening, from which it
appeared that young Easter would have little to do but listen, to mumble
ineffective excuses, to retire finally carrying the knowledge that Irene
would not now consent to marry him, though he should come to her on hands
and knees.
“Let him ’ave it straight, I will!” cried Irene. “They can’t play about
and make a fool of me. May think they can, but I’ll jolly soon let ’em
know they’ve made a mistake. Shan’t talk much, mind you, but what I do
say will go right ’ome. Least said, soonest mended!”
It was expected she would return within twenty minutes after leaving the
house; instead, ten o’clock struck as her knock came, and this was not
her usual single knock, but represented the music of a triumphant dance.
The fault for imagining disaster she imputed to her mistress, who seemed
to lack the gift of comprehending a well and clearly expressed letter.
Mr. Easter had no idea of backing out of the engagement; on the contrary,
he wished her, in the new circumstances, to make some more elaborate
investments at certain of the best shops in the neighbourhood, and this
represented his uncle’s desire as well as his own.
Irene’s mistress tells me she had given up all thoughts and hopes of
seeing her again when, being away in the north of London, and desiring to
return with all despatch, she managed by standing in front of a
conveyance to stop it. Passengers on the left reluctantly made room: the
young woman next to whom she sat begged pardon coldly, and carefully
shielded skirts. Recognition came.
“What a very small world it is!” said Irene, in a high voice. “How most
extraordinary you and I should run across each other again! And tell
me,” condescendingly, “you are getting on pretty well? So glad! What a
great convenience these motor omnibuses must be to poor people; I suppose
you often travel in them. Do you know, I couldn’t get a taxi when I
wanted one just now, couldn’t get one for love or money. My husband will
be so annoyed when I tell him about it. I get out here. Three At Homes
to go to. Goodbye!”