Patricia, on an impulse. She went to the washstand, and the carafe
was empty. The water-jug was empty. Lucy had forgotten to fill it.
Even here the catastrophe was a futility, a humiliation, a further
exasperation. She was maddened. She was shaken and jangled. Rage swept
her. "Oh, damn!" she cried. "Everything! It's _awful_!"
With her hands in her mouth, Patricia turned back towards the bed, and
leant against the foot of it; and sobs shook her body, so bitterly that
she was afraid her crying would be overheard, and crept back to bed to
cover herself and stifle the noise. It was the great strong dreadful
crying of a little girl who had been disappointed of some dearest wish.
It was not a woman's crying at all. It was the result of shock and
self-contempt; but it was not the heartbreaking sorrow of the hopeless
woman. Patricia would yet laugh again--would laugh, perhaps even at
herself. But now she could see only her own cowardice, and she was in
despair.
Presently the crying ceased, and Patricia began to talk to herself,
very softly, as a little girl who has been desperately unhappy will
sometimes do; and because there was nobody in the world to comfort her
she began to try and comfort herself, speaking between small spasmodic
sobs, and explaining and cheering, as the mother she could not remember
might have done. It was poor cheer; but it gradually began to soothe
her. And at last, lingeringly, in pity for herself at having nobody to
console her for ignorance and uncertainty, Patricia began refreshingly
to cry. Long afterwards, while it was still dark, she fell asleep.
ii
When Lucy banged into the room in the morning Patricia still slept,
her little pale face deep in the pillow, and her hair tumbled; and
she would have continued to sleep if Lucy, in stumping across to the
window, had not been reminded of her failure to fill the carafe and
water-jug.
"Gawd love a duck!" exclaimed Lucy, at which Patricia awoke.
She could vaguely see a pink dress, very soiled, and a big dirty apron
surrounding a stumpy body, and a little cap, and the dirty red smudge
which she knew to be Lucy's face.
"Good morning," said Patricia drowsily, still hardly conscious of the
day.
"I've said it once," cried Lucy, emphasising the sibilants until she
appeared to hiss. "I said it as I come in. And now I've got to traipse
all the way downstairs again to get you some cole water! What a life!"
"Well, Lucy," said Patricia, putting her head out of bed. "I don't
think you can blame me for that. In fact I was very annoyed last night,
when I was thirsty, to find there wasn't any. I might have parched to
death."
"You didden brush your teeth larce night, I can see," retorted Lucy.
"Got 'ome too late, I s'pose, and frightened of the beetles." She
clucked her tongue in reproof. "Your young man wouldn' like to know
_that_ about you!"
"Don't be coarse, Lucy. I _did_ forget to brush my teeth. But it's the
first time for months."
"Gawd. Some people wants a nursie always after them! I got no time for
it. Not myself, I 'aven't. I s'pose I got to get your water now. Don't
want to scald yourself. 'E wouldn' like that, neither!"
An idea shot into Patricia's head. She had a sudden cowardice about
getting up. What if Harry had written? She felt she simply could not
face all the possible sequels to last night's scene. It was terrifying!
As she lay there she definitely feared the day, and its outcome. All
the time Lucy was away, Patricia was trembling with apprehensiveness.
She would run away--she would burn a letter--she would.... Ghastly
possibilities flew through her mind. Lucy had hardly re-entered,
panting and noisy, before the inquiry was launched alarmingly at her.
"Lucy, is there a letter for me?" demanded Patricia, in a betrayingly
self-conscious and unsteady voice.
"No!" said the smudge, rather severely. "There ain't! But there's some
nice cole kipper, if you 'urry."
She disappeared, while Patricia, half-relieved and half tearful, with
a sinking heart, put her head back under the clothes, feeling ill and
doleful and heavy with trepidation.
iii
There was a long silence. It was not that Patricia was asleep, although
she was so tired. She was malingering. A fond mother would have been
misled. She almost, in that rôle, convinced herself. But she knew that
Lucy would never be a willing dupe, and something about Lucy's wholly
unsentimental attitude towards ill-health alarmed Patricia. It was not,
however, until she was stung by a bitter thought that she rolled back
the bedclothes and paddled her bare feet upon the floor.
"I'm just like Amy, with Jack Penton!" was the thought. "How
_horrible_!"
That thought stayed with Patricia during the whole of her bathing and
washing. She was appalled by it. No criticism could have been more
withering.
"But Harry would never be like Jack!" she exclaimed, with certainty.
"He'd never stay on the chance that I'd change my mind. With him it's
one thing or the other. I _wonder_...."
It was a possibility. Perhaps it was the solution. Patricia felt
brighter. Of course! Why had she not thought of it before? She would
say to Harry, and it would be an extremely reasonable speech: "Harry,
I do think I love you. But I want to make sure. Can we go on as we
are--just being friends--for the present?" "Of course, old girl," Harry
would say. "I don't want to hurry you, if you're not sure. Just try me
for a little while." Patricia laughed, as she imagined him saying that.
Harry would laugh, too. She would.... Her eyes sparkled. She became
demure.
Suddenly, in her imagining, Harry turned sharply to her. "By the way,"
he said. "How long am I to wait?" Patricia answered very quickly.
"Well, I couldn't marry you until I got a trousseau, could I?"
She had awakened in a very different state of mind from that in which
she had slept. Far from the danger, she had become quite bold. It
seemed at this moment as though she had almost made up her mind.
"But I haven't ... really," said Patricia. "I'm only brave in the
morning, because the danger isn't urgent." It was true. She had
floated back into her dream of love. The reality no longer disturbed
her. Slowly her mind returned to the bitter thought which had driven
her out of bed. Supposing Harry said: "Now or never!" What then?
Immediately her courage oozed away. She shook her head, and became
very grave. Even in her drowsy state of unreality she still knew that
she must play the game. "I can't give him up!" she thought. Then she
laughed without glee. "I'm like Amy. I know it. Why am I like her? Are
all girls like her? Impossible! I shall go and see Amy. It'll be good
for me. I'll go this very afternoon!"
iv
Over breakfast, the nature and temperature of which was as Lucy had
prophesied, and of which she could therefore eat little, Patricia had
a cunning insight. Harry was not in the habit of accepting refusals.
If he wanted a thing he went for it. Therefore, supposing his work did
not prevent, he might call for her at any time during the day. He would
come.... She was seized with panic. No message would send him away, and
she was not in a state to see him.
"You silly!" cried Patricia.
All the same, she could not see Harry until she was more composed. It
would be impossible. Consent won from her in such circumstances, she
knew, would be disastrous. Instinct was sound there! She knew herself
well enough to realise that coercion of her impulses would result--not
in submission, as it might do in the case of girls less neurotic, but
in inhibitions. Therefore she must not see Harry until she was calmer,
until she could freely give him the love he demanded. To know this, and
to foresee his possible arrival, was to take instant action. She looked
out of the window. Last night's storm had been appropriately followed
by morning calm. The few clouds in the sky immediately visible from
her room were white, and they were racing ferociously to the east.
That meant more rain. She would go prepared; but she could not stay at
home another minute without increasing her danger.
Quick! Her mackintosh, her waterproof cap! Her handbag, gloves.... In
fresh panic, Patricia gathered these necessary things and hurried down
the stairs.
"Lucy!" she called to the kitchen. "I'm going out. All day. If anybody
comes, say you don't know _when_ I'll be back."
"Righto, miss!" came a faint call in response.
The gusty wind slammed the front door behind her. A hasty glance along
the street showed that the path was still clear. With lowered head and
beating heart Patricia made her escape, laughing a little at her own
fears. Some exultation showed itself also in her inner consciousness--a
vanity, a something of the heart. After all, it was something to have a
lover of whose determination one could be happily afraid! Panic had its
core of delight!
v
An omnibus carried Patricia to Charing Cross, and she walked over to
the National Gallery. It was not open yet. The beginning of her day
was inauspicious. It became necessary that she should wander about the
streets, looking in shops, unless she could think of some alternative
to her first improvised plan. She glanced up at the sky, and the rapid
movement of the clouds gave her inspiration. The sky was brilliantly
blue, and a draughty day in London might well be delightful in the
country. But where, cheaply, could she go? The nearest open space would
be the best. It required but a moment's reflection to decide what to
do. Another omnibus would take her to Hampstead. And so she was once
again in movement, and, looking over the side of the vehicle with a
curled lip of distaste and a sharp wonder at the people who could bear
to live in such districts, she passed through the dinginess of Camden
Town and Gospel Oak. From the point of arrival, where the omnibuses
rested awhile before they returned once again on their unsteady
journey, she quickly reached the Heath.
It was very windy, and the ground beneath her feet was soggy with
the rain; but Patricia trudged on valiantly, looking back from the
height over that grey fog of rising smoke which marked the daily life
of nearer London. All about her was a wide stretch of green, rising
and falling from one round height to a lowland where several large
ponds spread their black waters. The Heath, and the Parliament Hill
Fields, were deserted. It was not the time of year, nor the day of
the week, for this enormous and house-bound green to be peopled. Even
children were at school. Only an occasional old gentleman or loitering
out-of-work passed her, with hastily averted eyes of resentment and
fear, and occasionally a girl or nurse with young children in a
perambulator ambled by, munching fruit or studying a novelette as she
trusted to the rim of grass to keep her path true. The paths yielded
to Patricia's feet; the grass concealed mud, and was treacherous. But
the fresh air was most sweet, and the exercise improved her _morale_,
and every trouble in the world seemed to have drifted to a convenient
distance. Patricia was breathing deeply with relief.
She walked upon the Heath for a couple of hours, and sat awhile upon
a seat, exposed to every wind, until the cold began to make her
uncomfortable; and then, with a plunge, she returned to the point from
which the omnibuses start. Within half-an-hour Patricia was back in the
West End, very much better, very much more able to enjoy the crowds in
Regent Street and Oxford Street. A short tour brought her to the end of
the shops, and she found it was lunchtime. Still further refreshed by
a light meal at a neighbouring teashop, she returned to the National
Gallery; and stared at pictures until the extremely tiring pastime made
her begin to yawn. Patricia knew that it was now--if she was going to
keep to the schedule of her planned day--her duty to call upon Amy, and
to Amy's studio in Fitzroy Street she accordingly went on foot.
Arrival at Amy's found her weary and depressed. She had begun once
more to take a pessimistic view of her own affairs. When she had rung
the bell Patricia had a momentary inclination to run away. To endure a
talk here was the last thing for which she was prepared. It had been a
ridiculous proposal. She wavered, feeling demoralised. The impulse to
flight, however, was frustrated by the appearance at the door of Amy
herself, very white and very puffy about the eyes, with a cigarette
between her discoloured fingers, and her dress crumpled as though she
had been lying down. Her short light-coloured hair was also rough,
which strengthened the first quick impression. She looked ill and
discontented.
"Oh, it's you," said Amy, not very agreeably. "I thought you'd
forgotten I existed."
"Oh, how unkind, Amy. When I've come to see you!" cried Patricia, in
rebuke.
"It's about time." Amy, after this laconic protest against neglect,
led the way to the studio, and closed the door. Her gas-fire was fully
alight, and a book lay face downwards upon a table which bore the
remains of a meagre lunch. The bed had been made, and the brilliantly
coloured spread was over it, but the studio was untidy and unswept. The
early dusk was darkening it, and the whole place had a dispirited air
which chilled the visitor to the heart.
"I'm not going to excuse myself," continued Patricia, briskly, to cover
her shrinking. "I'm a beast, and I know it, and I'm sorry. Don't be
hard on me. I've been having a rushing time. How are you?"
Amy looked at her sourly, and Patricia was shocked to see how
thoroughly ill she seemed. There was increased discontent in her
expression, and the unkempt air she wore showed that Amy was taking no
care of herself or of her person.
"I've seen you; and I've heard about you," Amy said.
"I hope I looked nice." Patricia was being painfully cheeky, because
she was afraid. She had never been so afraid as she had been since her
parting with Harry. "Are you all right?" The question was not merely
perfunctory: it was drawn from her by real pity.
"No. I'm not. Patricia, I feel perfectly awful. Not with
you--everything. I can't work, I can't do anything. I don't know what I
shall do. I feel desperate."
"What's been happening?" Full of concern, Patricia turned from throwing
her mackintosh over a chair, and regarded Amy with eyes in which
contempt and dread mingled with her sympathy.
"Nothing's been happening. That's just it. _I_ can't paint. I never
_could_ paint. It's all ridiculous. Ridiculous!" The words were blurted
out in a breathless voice of pain. "I'm in hell!"
And with that Amy began to cry. Patricia put an arm round her, and felt
the poor creature sobbing. But no tears came; the sobs were long drawn
and agonised; and Amy could not weep.
"And nobody's come near you!" murmured Patricia, stricken with
conscience. "Oh, you _poor_ thing. You _poor_ thing!" Amy jerked
herself free, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief that had been
soiled with paint. She stood there all puckered, terribly hostile to
consolation.
"Don't!" she choked. "I can't stand being pawed! All the damned fools
in the world have come. Damn them! Grinning and ... Damn!" She began
to blow her nose and to wipe her eyes, looking inexpressibly forlorn
in her little linen dress without a waist. It was a piteous sight. An
old woman stood there, facing bitter knowledge. Patricia could see that
Amy's face was swollen with crying. She was evidently in a state of
wretched misery, and yet what could be done? Nothing! Desiring pity,
comfort, sympathy, Amy could yield herself to none of these, and her
hysterical scorn for them was devastating. There was a long silence,
awkward and increasingly embarrassed. Patricia stared downward, biting
her lip, oppressed with the knowledge of her helplessness. When she
spoke she could hear her own words, and her false voice, and the
emptiness of her emotion.
"You'd better go away for a holiday," she suggested. "Go down to
Cornwall."
"No." Amy jerked with impatient unhappiness. She was like a desperate
animal that snarls at a rescuer. "I don't want to do anything. I don't
want to see anybody." She controlled herself with a fierce effort,
moving a few steps this way and that, and smoking furiously, until the
cigarette was glowing and burning her lips. For a time during this
paroxysm of fury there was silence; and then Amy went on in a curious
dry disinterested voice: "Sit down, Patricia. Tell me what you've
been doing. No, I'm all right. I'll stand up. I can't bear to keep
still. Got a cigarette?" She lighted the fresh one from her burning
stump, in the same grievous way leaning against the mantelpiece and
again starting erect with nervous lack of self-control; and every
now and then she was shaken by a sob. Without waiting for Patricia's
narrative, Amy went on viciously: "That brute Felix has been spiteful
about me--and I don't care. I don't _care_! I'd like to kill him--all
of them. All these grinning apes.... I _know_ I can't paint. I'm no
good at it. I never shall be any good. Well? What's it to do with
them? They're all as glad ... because I'm a woman. That's what it is.
What it comes down to is naked sex jealousy. I _know_. I've known it
all the time. And I've gone on, pretending to believe it, pretending
I was taken in. I wasn't. They thought I didn't know they laughed at
me. Well, I _did_. And it's I who laugh at _them_. I despise them. I'm
no good; but they're no good, either! And I've told them so. There's
_that_...."
Her voice had grown louder and more hysterical as she progressed.
Patricia stood rooted, quite overcome by this torrential violence of
anger and chagrin and revelation. But Amy's voice changed again. Almost
beseechingly, she turned to her friend.
"But what am I to do, Patricia? I've spent all this money--pounds and
pounds of it--and worked and worked and worked; and kept on and on,
hoping ... refusing to see." Then, suddenly again out of all control,
she shouted. "And it's _no good_! D'you see? It's _no good_!" The
suppressed rage in her voice was as if saturated with the bitter tears
which she could not shed. The tears started to Patricia's eyes in
sympathy. She was suffused with conscience-stricken loyalty.
"Where's Jack?" she demanded, fiercely. "What's _he_ doing?"
"Jack!" It was almost a scream. "God! I hate the sight of him. Hate the
sound of his rusty voice."
"D'you see him?"
"Do I not!" Amy was concentrated scorn. "Every evening! He comes to
cheer me up; and I could kill him, I'm so bored! He's driving me mad!"
Patricia made a little sound with her tongue. Here, if ever, was
the occasion for Jack to be strong, to control matters. He must be
stupid--stupid! She shook her head, frowning.
"Amy, dear; it's such a pity for you to be making yourself ill like
this. Couldn't you...."
"I'm gloating in it!" came Amy's shrill interruption. "I'm enjoying
it. It's not often a woman comes up against the sex war as clearly as
this. If it had been a man--oh, very different. They'd have stopped me.
They'd have criticised me sick. They'd have had no more consideration
for my feelings than for a dog's feelings. But I'm a woman--to be
teased and lured and flattered and laughed at. What d'you suppose all
the praise of woman is? You see us praised. Yes, and why? To keep us
quiet. Like giving sweets to a baby. Praise is our comforter. It's not
meant. A man's given a chance to _learn_ that he's a fool. We're not.
We're up against honeyed lies. It's cotton-wool everywhere, for us,
until we're broken by it. And all the time they're laughing--sniggering
at us behind our backs. They don't care. They fool us to the top of
our bent. They praise our daubs and our abortions of books; and to
themselves they're doubled up with laughter. That's what woman's
freedom means. That's what equality of the sexes means. It means broken
hearts for women. Broken hearts for bloody failures! Oh, my God, my
God, my heart will break!"
vi
She began once more convulsively to sob; and Patricia, who was now
herself white and shaken as the result of this tirade, was stricken
with fear for her reason. These ghastly, tearing sobs were unbearable.
They echoed in the lofty studio, rising, sometimes almost to the pitch
of screams. For ten minutes they lasted, and then, gradually, with
returns and relaxations of violence, Amy became quiet, and lay on her
bed, drying her eyes. Long afterwards she began to talk in what was
very nearly her ordinary voice.
"There, that's enough," she said. "I'm a fool. You're bad for me,
Patricia. You make me lose my head. You look so kind and pretty, and
as if you understood, which of course you don't in the least. No, if
Jack was any good to me, I'd marry him at once just to get out of
it. But a man who bores you is no good. I should leave him on the
train somewhere, poor fool that he is. It's no good. We're all alone,
Patricia. Each of us. You think you're not----"
"I know I _am_," swiftly corrected Patricia.
"Oho! So _you're_ getting it, too. We all do, sooner or later; and
you're the sort of pretty little fool who gets caught by her vanity.
I've done it. You'll have a bad time before you're done. Yes, now I
look at you I see you're a bit peaky. I suppose it's Harry Greenlees.
Harry Greenlees, Good God!" Amy laughed with a strained satirical note.
"Well, I warned you. I could have told you about all sorts of girls
he's treated the same----"
Patricia's heart stopped beating for an instant.
"All sorts of girls?" she cried. "What d'you mean?"
Amy looked at her sharply, her face transformed, almost venomous.
"Well, little Jean Cowley went away with him. It was all over in a
month. They hardly notice each other now. She's through it. He's been
the lover of half-a-dozen girls I know----"
"I don't believe you!" cried Patricia, perfectly white with anger.
Amy looked back with a superciliousness as great as her own.
"Jean Cowley told me all about it herself. I'm not a liar. Penelope
Gorran ... Phyllis Mickle...."
"Amy!"
"I know what I'm talking about."
"Not whom you're talking to, though!" cried Patricia.
Amy became for the first time really intense. She rose from the bed and
came across the studio, and Patricia could see her red eyes and the
terrible white face all disfigured with angry grief.
"You're not his mistress, are you?" demanded Amy. "You poor fool!"
How far Patricia had travelled since their previous talk about girls
and their lovers. She was not now stricken with shame at such a
suggestion. She was merely indignant.
"Be quiet, Amy!" she cried. "You _can't_ talk like that!"
Amy gave a short laugh, raising her arms in the air in a gesture of
offensive marvel.
"Beautiful!" she said. "Beautiful!"
As they faced each other, both desperately angry, with opposed glances
of hostility, breathing quickly in their common agitation, there came a
ringing at the bell of Amy's studio. Slowly the blood rose and flooded
Patricia's cheeks. She knew who was without. All her anger died. Its
place was taken by fear. She was paralysed, knowing that the moment she
had dreaded was upon her.
vii
Harry entered the studio with impetuosity, and his height and energy
made it a normal-sized room. He made no pretence of having come to see
Amy, but as soon as he caught sight of Patricia he addressed her.
"I thought I might find you here," he said, and stopped. His eyes
embraced her, and Patricia's heart leapt. Then, uncontrollably, she
turned away while Harry looked at Amy. "Sorry to be unceremonious; but
I'd been to Patricia's," he said cheerfully. "Found she was out. How
are you, Amy? I hear you've been having a fracas with old Felix. Poor
old Felix! I wonder how he's feeling now, eh? Jolly rough on him--what?
Now I want to get hold of Patricia, because we're going to a football
match on Saturday, and didn't fix up a time of meeting. You don't mind,
do you?"
"Not at all!" said Amy, sarcastically. "Ignore me. Use my studio as
your own. Interrupt a conversation with the greatest assurance----"
"Thanks," answered Harry, not troubling to be polite. "I will." His
blue eyes had their steel; and his cheerful face its grimness. "Now,
Patricia...."