Monty say with equal quietness, in his thick sweet voice:
"By no means, Harry. I wouldn't deprive you of your partner for the
world. How entirely charming she looks, with that ivory skin...."
"Patricia," said Harry, at her side, his lips to her ear. "Dance this
once with me. Dear, I want you to. This once."
She looked up at him with something of the old insolent laughter in her
eyes.
"What nonsense!" she said, rather breathlessly. "I'm with Monty."
She was quite cold to Harry now; but she would have died rather than
dance with him.
x
When once more she was dancing, Patricia felt that the encounter,
the blow, the opportunity, had caused her spirits to mount. And her
gratitude to Monty was vehement. She yielded herself completely to
the sensuous enjoyment of the dance, to Monty's immaculate skill, to
the secret enchantment that bound her. She could feel Monty's soft,
wine-laden breath upon her cheek, and the occasional contact of his
body with her own; and she did not in any smallest degree shrink
from him. But the emotion which she experienced was tinged with
recklessness. She was being sustained by fierce resistance to the
shadow of desperation, which now, as the evening neared its end, grew
ever nearer.
"I'm sorry. I ought to have been able to avoid that encounter. I didn't
see Harry until they were there," Patricia heard Monty saying in her
ear. She laughed back.
"It didn't matter in the least," she said. "It was fun. I enjoyed it."
And having heard herself laugh, she laughed again, each moment more
elated by the wine she had drunk and the blatant noise with which the
room was filled to echoing and the excitement which accompanied the
noise and gave it significance. She could see the smouldering light
leap again into Monty's eyes, and she was thrilled anew with revived
consciousness of power. It intoxicated her. That sweeping sense of
invincibility came back and settled upon Patricia like a golden
cloud which had strayed. She was extraordinarily lovely. The glitter
of her fair hair in the bright light, and the pure beauty of her
clear eyes, and the life in all her features, were enhanced and made
wonderful. Monty's attraction to her was so manifest that she could
not but respond to it. The little darting spice of mischief was in her
expression; but he could see that her nostrils were pinched above the
parted lips, as though she were trying to restrain the betrayal of her
inclination towards him. Never had Patricia shaken herself so free from
care; never had she been so aware of the secret jubilation which she
felt at being admired. She was excitedly happy, but with a new feeling
that was not zest, that was, instead, a knowledge of peril--even a
deliberate and wanton encouragement of it.
Patricia chose to go home by omnibus. She knew that if they went
otherwise Monty must inevitably make love to her; and although she
was warmed and excited, and so, amorous, she was restrained from
_abandon_ by some timidity, rather than by distaste or a saving
caution. Monty's desire for her was palpable: Patricia could not be
unaware of it. The knowledge was in her blood, and it fired her; but
she was not experienced or callous or bold enough to yield to her
own importunities. Reckless though she felt, she must at all costs
gain time. She was not ready--she was maliciously tantalising--she
was inspirited and moved and made tremulous with fierce and unusual
excitement. And so, to gain time, Patricia chose to travel in the
open. Some colour to her preference was given by the fact that the
evening was brilliantly fine, and Monty remained inscrutably unruffled
to the end. He was never more characteristic than in his watchful
impassivity. But as they parted he quickly and deliberately put his arm
round her, as if it might have been for one further dance. Patricia
did not protest. She breathed quickly, her lips closely compressed.
Even when he stooped and took her hand, and then lingeringly kissed
it, she remained, with a sort of excited triumph, and her head back,
unflinching. She pressed his hand gently in releasing her own, and
stood watching from the open door Monty's retreating figure. He looked
back, espied her, hesitated, made as if to return; and was only
discouraged by her swift withdrawal. Patricia's eyes were fixed, and
she entered the house unseeing, creeping up the stairs, with tightly
closed mouth. She was jubilant, cool once more, exulting; and there
was for the first time cruelty and baseness in her triumph. Only when
she was in her own room, and when she had set the candle down, did she
feel the blood flooding her cheek and her neck and even her breast.
It receded, and came again, painfully, until her whole body burned.
Patricia was ashamed.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: CONTRAST
i
Patricia thought: How difficult it is to be good! And it's so easy to
be wicked. Some people want to be wicked, and can't. It's ... it's easy.
She was standing in her little brown room and looking at her own
reflection in the mirror with the gilded frame. And as she looked
at herself, she saw a hardness come, and a new glitter in her eye.
And it was then that she realised how easy it was to be wicked, and
how difficult to be good. How easy it was to drift into wickedness
that made one defiant afterwards, and a little afraid! That made one
continue avid of excitement!
Patricia felt that she could not keep still. Such nervous restlessness
as she was now experiencing was strange; but she could not keep still.
If she sat down she found herself immediately again standing, moving
about the room; and stopping, lost in a dream. She could not think
consecutively. If she began to think, ridiculous words came into her
head from nowhere, and fragments of the speech of somebody else; and
cross currents of her own thought interrupted and distracted her
attention.
"I'm going mad!" she suddenly thought. And from somewhere came the
comment, "Ah, I've noticed that, have I?... Pengewith.... As if it
could be helped.... Monty was ... of course, women ... I wonder how
the name Saskatchewan is really pronounced: I suppose it's.... Yes,
mad. Mad, because all this ... I could go to Africa, Biskra--isn't
that where they go? Or Samarkand.... What beautiful names they have.
... I'd like to go travelling on and on, and the moon at night shining
on the desert.... All very quiet, and stars, and peace.... Horrible
insects.... Stop! Stop!"
Patricia put her hands to her ears, as if in that way to check the
nightmare of her thoughts. She forced herself to sit quietly down,
to take up a book. Every noise in the house and street was subdued;
and after a few moments her eyes would not attend to the page, and
her brain would not accept the meaning of the printed word; and these
idiotic thoughts came stealthily back as little devils might have done.
She was trying hard not to think of something in particular. She was
trying not to think of what had happened on the previous evening, of
what might still happen. She did not want to face her own actions, or
their consequences; and all these devilish little thoughts that so
frightened her came because she had as it were locked up the only thing
she wanted most desperately to think about, and was refusing to let her
mind have free play.
ii
In the afternoon there was a noise at the door, and Lucy put in a pink
face. She was washed, and she looked mysterious. A finger was to her
lips.
"Some'dy downstairs," she whispered, her lips framing the words. "Miss
Roberts. Shall I let her come up?"
Patricia welcomed the thought of a visitor. She brightened at once.
"Oh, _anybody_!" she cried, with a great breath of relief at the
prospect of escape from her solitude, and the gnawing thoughts to which
she was offering so steadfast a resistance.
"Right!" cried Lucy, who had been secret from a sense of diplomacy.
Patricia, hastily scrambling useless papers together, heard Lucy
trample down to the front door and send Amy up; and so she went out
on to the dark landing to guide and exhort her friend. She was really
delighted to see the dim form which she knew to be that of Amy rounding
the difficult corner and achieving the ascent. Eagerly she stretched a
hand to bring her friend within the tiny, ugly room.
"How nice!" she exclaimed. "Come in. I'm in a muddle; but come in."
"What stairs!" Patricia heard Amy gasp. Then she saw the visitor throw
off a cloak and a light hat, and toss her hair. There was a moment's
silence as they scrutinised each other. "Patricia, I had to come and
see you. You didn't write, or anything." The agitation which Patricia
was feeling was as nothing to the agitation which Amy showed. She
looked ghastly, and the climb had made her breathe gaspingly. Her lips
looked blue.
"I ought to have come." Patricia was filled with remorse.
"No. I--felt I had to see you after the other day. You know, the day
you came to see me, and Harry Greenlees came."
"Well!" Patricia gave a startled exclamation. Then she sat down and
began to laugh. "What ages ago it seems!" Really, it was incredible!
She had almost forgotten the studio and Amy's warning and Harry's
arrival. So much had happened in the interval, so poignant had been her
emotions, that the reference made her breathless. "Well!"
"I heard Harry was going abroad," pursued Amy, again with that sharp
scrutiny. "I was afraid...."
"Afraid? Oh, that I might be going, too! But why, Amy? I should
have thought you would have known ... Nothing could happen to
me--ever--that I didn't ... I thought ... I thought a girl ought to be
free to live with any man she chose ... to see...."
Patricia was half-laughing. For this moment she was malicious in the
ridicule of such singular concern. She was immediately to learn the
occasion of it. Amy, who sat in the only armchair in the room, which
had been covered with horsehair, and super-covered (as it were) by a
loose envelope that was washable, looked disagreeably back at Patricia
in recognition of such levity. Her face, under the stress of recent
events, was losing its clearness, and was developing a rough greyness
of colour. Her eyes protruded, and the rims of them were faintly pink.
Amy was ageing quickly. By thirty she might be unsightly. She was old,
and stale, and without any sort of colour or imagination or quality.
She repelled Patricia, as a poor relation might have repelled a busy
man in difficulties, or as a sick person repels a healthy one.
"I know," she whispered. "I've tried it. I went down to the country
with Jack. But I couldn't stand it. It was _awful_. I left him as soon
as we got there. Patricia, I couldn't have stayed there with him."
Patricia wheeled round at the incredible announcement. She stared at
her friend. An exclamation burst from her lips.
"But Jack!" she cried. "Jack!"
Amy misunderstood her; she thought Patricia was still in a state to
harp on the inconsiderateness to Jack.
"Oh, he doesn't matter. He's quite all right----."
"I was thinking ... Yes ... I expect he's all right; but I was
thinking...." stammered Patricia. She was aghast. "Why on earth, if you
_were_ going, did you go with somebody who bores you? Surely it was
madness! Oh, my _dear_! ... Amy, you _must_ admit that Jack...."
"I know. I know. He is idiotic. I don't know why I did it. It seems
ridiculous--now. But he kept on saying I ought to go away; and it
seemed impossible to go away alone. So I thought--well: he's supposed
to love me. If I can bear it, perhaps.... You see, I was in despair.
Well, it's no good: that's all. I've been in hell. I got into the next
train, leaving him there. I simply went out without telling him, and
fortunately caught the only possible train back. It was dreadful to see
the train coming, and watch the road in case Jack was coming, too ... I
felt insane!"
"So I should think," said Patricia. "Poor Amy!" She had not really any
pity for Amy; but she did not know what else to say to this inglorious
tale. If she had imagined it, she would have shuddered as at a squalor.
She hesitated, her brain active. Then, sharply, she demanded: "Have you
seen Jack since?"
Amy nodded, tears in her eyes. She was the picture of lugubriousness.
But the colour was rising to her cheeks.
"He says he's finished with me," she pulped. "We've had a flaming row.
He was _filthy_!"
"Good!" cried Patricia, almost with vicious emphasis.
There was a moment's horrified pause. Then Amy, ignoring the
ejaculation, continued:
"However, I shall never be rid of him. He isn't the sort. He'll always
be thinking I'll change, and be pestering me. He's like a cur. The
more you kick him, the closer he sticks. I've only got to whistle. I
loathe him. Don't let's talk about Jack. It was only that I had to tell
you!" She paused, and then, in a minute, resumed: "Oh, Patricia, I've
begun painting again, you'll be glad to hear. I was a fool ever to
take any notice of Felix. Of course, you know what the explanation of
_that_ was! Mere sexual jealousy. Men simply can't bear a woman to be
an artist. It damages their singularity. It was all a part of the sex
conspiracy. I might have known! All this upset has revived my ambition.
It's done me good, in fact. It's given me impetus. I'm doing something
that's going to be _really_ good."
Patricia addressed Amy.
"Amy," she said. "You've finished with Jack. If he hasn't finished
with you, you must be finished with him. For a man who will still
stick to you after that _must_ be an idiot. He _couldn't_ be any good
to you. And if you are going back to painting after swearing as you
did that you had done with it, I shall never understand you. It seems
preposterous. Why, I can remember--Amy, you were absolutely finished
with it. My dear, what's the _good_? As for sex conspiracy--it's
laughable! I think you've been behaving very badly, indeed."
"Indeed!" cried Amy, shocked into vituperation by such an onslaught.
"And what about yourself, pray? When it comes to bad behaviour?"
It was unanswerable. Patricia flushed, staring.
At this moment, while the two of them were mutually speechless with
active hostility, Lucy, interpreting liberally Patricia's welcome
to "anybody," and also possibly rather intrigued by the appearance
of the caller, personally ushered into the room a second visitor.
It was Claudia. She had crossed the landing with a single impetuous
step, and her eagerness brought fresh air into the stuffy little
room. Her tallness, her dark complexion, the rich crimson of her
astrakhan-trimmed cloak, were all such as to make her distinguished.
There was animation in Claudia's face which showed her health and
tranquillity. The quick immature grace of her movement was lovely. She
was free from all self-consciousness. Only at sight of Amy--stricken
by contrast into absolute sickliness of appearance--did she pull up
short.
"Oh," she gasped. "I didn't know.... Sorry!"
"Come in!" Even to Patricia it was evident that Claudia's entry had
brought radiance to the room. She hurried across to greet her. "This is
my friend Amy Roberts--Miss Mayne."
"I'll go," cried Amy, rising from the armchair.
"No, no. Don't be silly." "Oh, don't ... I shall feel...." There were
two protests. But Amy was injured, wounded.
"Yes. I've said all I'd got to say. And listened to some plain
speaking. Very plain. And I must get back to my studio. I'll astonish
everybody yet! I'm an artist, Miss Mayne, and I can't leave my work for
long." She fumbled with her cloak.
"But I shall feel I've driven you away!" cried Claudia, with a puzzled
smile.
"You needn't." Amy was brusque in the effort to be dignified; and as
she flung on her cloak and hat she gave Claudia a frigid smile. "I was
just going in any case." And with that she went to the door. "Good-bye."
"Excuse me." Patricia's glance of reassurance led Claudia to remain,
and, as the two others disappeared, to remove her own cloak, and to
await Patricia's return. She looked quickly round the shabby room--at
the typewriter, the table-cover, the rug, the stained wall-paper, and
the glass with the gilt frame. Then she went to the window to glance at
the dingy outlook, and returned to sniff the gas-fire.
"Good Lord!" ejaculated Claudia, very privately to herself. "The poor
thing's stewed alive in smuts up here. It's a _horrible_ place--all
mouldy. No wonder she's conceited! I should be, myself. She's a dear!
As for the other one--pooh!"
iii
She had barely concluded this soliloquy when Patricia, who had run up
the stairs, arrived breathless, and closed the door with a rush. She
was completely changed.
"It's lovely of you to come," she cried. "I'm ever so glad. And you
came opportunely. I don't know what would have happened. I'd been
lecturing Amy, and she was excessively cross. She can't bear the
truth--or _any_ criticism. She's _very_ silly!"
"She seemed gloomy," commented Claudia, with some forbearance.
"Oh, she's worse. I couldn't tell you.... You see--" Patricia seated
herself, all fire to communicate wisdom--"the poor thing is absolutely
mad about herself. She was told some time ago that she wasn't any good
as an artist. I admit it was heartless, and I don't know who broke
the news. I didn't tell her myself, because I didn't know. I may as
well admit--I did the same to your brother, as anybody would have to
do--that I tried to like her pictures. They're very strange pictures,
and apparently everybody laughs at them. They think she's ... well, no
good at all. Well, somebody told her. She was heart-broken. She saw it.
She really did see it. She was passionate, and crushed; but she somehow
realised that she _wasn't_ any good. That was a week ago. But now she's
all changed. She thinks it's a conspiracy. Belief in her own genius has
come back--twice it's strength!"
"Recoil!" suggested Claudia, elated.
"Something like that. And she's been behaving _atrociously_--to a poor
man who loves her. I admit that he's an idiot; but still--even idiots
have their rights, you'd think! He isn't a lunatic. I don't mean that
he's really mad--only in relation to Amy. And it's bad for her. It
makes her feel a sort of horrible empty power--that he's always there
if she needs him. He's just a dog-like creature, filled with devotion.
I like him. He's too good for her. But he's perfectly idiotic about
Amy."
"I _couldn't_ fall in love with that girl," said Claudia distinctly.
"I could try to like her; because she's your friend. No more. I think
she's probably an egoist; and egoism's a bother."
Patricia was pulled up at this comment.
"There's a lot of good in her," she apologetically explained. "I
oughtn't to talk unkindly about her. And I'm afraid I'm rather an
egoist myself."
"The first thing you've got to do--if you'll try hard to forgive me for
saying such an awful impertinence--is to move out of these rooms," said
Claudia, with superficial irrelevance.
Again Patricia received a shock. But she recovered and smiled.
"I can't," she answered. "They're cheap." Then her tone became more
sober. "I've got no money at all. In fact...." Her lips quivered.
"You couldn't have any money in these rooms," said that distinct voice.
"Move out of them. _We'll_ get you some money." Claudia spoke with
assurance. Patricia was dazzled.
"But how?" she asked. "I'm desperate for it."
"We'll ask Edgar."
"I couldn't. I think ... I think ... It seems absurd; but I think
perhaps I'm just a little afraid of him."
Claudia surveyed her newest friend with astonishment and approval. Her
emotion seemed to be almost one of hopeful relief, which surprised
Patricia a good deal. Claudia proceeded.
"Oh, that's awfully good!" she cried. "I'm not afraid of him; but
I think it's nice of you to be. I'm pleased at that. However, you
needn't be afraid of him; because.... Well, what I really came for
is to beg you to come home with me for dinner. Could you? Mother
and father are having their annual wayzgoose, or beano. It's the
anniversary of their wedding. So Edgar and I are dining alone. You
needn't change your dress. I shan't. Will you come? Do!"
iv
The two girls had tea together at a café, and then walked to the
Maynes' house, arriving there before six o'clock. Claudia then hastily
telephoned to Edgar, leaving Patricia for the necessary few moments to
the entertainment of Percy and Pulcinella. Patricia was once again in
that delicately cordial room of blue and blue-grey; and the size of
the room as well as the purity of its simple comfort was a solace to
her. There were very few pictures in the room, and of these the largest
was a strong and beautiful landscape by a modern artist, C. J. Holmes,
which gave Patricia delight. All else was unaffected and apparently
unstudied. A bright fire burned within the noble grate; and a big old
clock ticked hollowly, reminding her of the clock in a half-forgotten
poem, which said "Ever--Never--Never--Forever."... The room was quite
silent except for this ticking and the occasional whispering collapses
of fragments of coal. There was an extraordinary peace in this house,
and a sense of open space in the sitting-room which was enhanced by
the cool tones of the furnishings. Patricia sighed as she sat there
alone. The little dog, Pulcinella, a glossy black twisting creature,
was exuberant and friendly. Patricia could almost have believed that he
recognised her. Percy was more distant. He stared with big steady eyes.
But at last he, too, rising from his place, stretched and yawned, and
came slowly across to her side. Here, instead of making any advance,
he merely sat with his feathery tail straight behind him on the floor,
while he contemplated the stranger in silence.
"Percy," said Patricia. "You're awfully proud."
He looked at her relentingly. Patricia slipped to her knees beside him,
and the little dog came frisking there also. Percy turned a solemn
head, in order to watch the gambollings of Pulcinella, and again
yawned. His dignified coquetry was engaging. Then he rubbed his head
against Patricia's sleeve.
"I wish I had as little care as you," she whispered. And as she sat
there her face grew white. She sprang up, transformed from white to
red. Memory of the unknown creature she had been on the previous night
came destructively to her mind. Her face hardened. "I oughtn't to be
here!" Patricia thought, as the conflict between her memory and this
pervading tranquillity sank into her mind. "I'm wicked. I _want_ to be
wicked! Claudia--why, Claudia wouldn't want to be my friend at all if
she knew all I think and do and want to do. I'm an impostor. I'm not
nice at all. I'm wicked." A great stab of misery held her silent, still
scarlet. She even took pleasure in hurting herself, in thinking that
she was wicked.
While Patricia was yet stricken with the enormity of her own guilty
inclination, Claudia came back into the room, and stood with that air
of affection that made Patricia soft towards her new and guileless and
altogether innocent friend. Claudia pulled a chair up to the fire, and
pointed to it.
"That boy will be here in no time," she gaily said.
"Boy? Oh, how strange to...." Patricia checked herself. Almost vaguely,
she went on: "I hope he's not coming ... leaving his work."
"It'll do him good!" cried Claudia, unexpectedly. "What he wants is....
No, Percy, you mustn't claw!" This last was because Percy was resenting
Patricia's neglect and seeking to re-establish their relations. "What
Edgar wants is something to save him from work altogether. Work's a
great monster."
"I hate it!" acknowledged Patricia. "It's devil-begotten!"
"Edgar's work has made happiness for everybody in this house. Without
it, we should be nowhere. We shouldn't exist. But Edgar's the one
who gets least out of his work. We're all Old Men of the Sea on his
shoulders. I've never thought of that before, by the way. I suppose you
didn't happen to think of it, by any chance, and put it into my head?"
"Oh, no," said Patricia naïvely. "You see, I don't ... don't know Edgar
very well."
Claudia gave her a quick side-long glance.
"He knows you pretty well, doesn't he?" she answered. "But of course
that's different."
That was the third shock Patricia had received that afternoon from
Claudia. She turned as if to answer; but Claudia was moving across the
room, and Patricia was left to draw her own inference. The remark had
almost seemed to accuse her of injustice to Edgar. And what beyond?
v