“I was born,” said Miss Wych, “in a small town in the north of England
which would have been the ugliest town in the world if there hadn’t been
uglier ones all round it. My mother died when I was quite young, and
when I was nineteen my father died; but I did not mind being alone half
so much as you might think, because I was very ambitious. So, with the
few pounds my father had left, I came to London to try my fortune on the
stage. I had an aunt who was once an actress in Birmingham, and that was
why I thought first of all of the stage. And people said I was pretty.
“In that ugly town there was a boy who loved me. His name was George and
he was a clerk in an auctioneer’s office, but he wanted to be a farmer.
When my father died George asked me to marry him, but I said I couldn’t
do that and explained about my ambitions and how I would first of all
like to have a try at being _something_ in the world. You see, it isn’t
only grown-ups who have dreams. Besides, George was poor, and however
would we live if we did get married?
“He came to see me soon after I had settled in London. I told him I was
studying acting at the Academy of Dramatic Arts, and also I told him
that I loved him. Of course, I wouldn’t have told him that if he hadn’t
asked me. But I thought I did. I was only nineteen and a bit, and he was
so strong and serious, and as fair as you are dark, and when he was
almost too serious to speak the tip of his nose would quiver in a lovely
funny way.
“That was the last time I saw George, but this evening I am to see him
again. You see, that was on the first of May five years ago, and George
and I swore a great oath. George said he was off to America to make his
fortune, but that in five years to the day he would be waiting for me at
the Savoy Hotel at eight o’clock to give me dinner and hear me say that
I would marry him. We chose a grand place like the Savoy Hotel because
of course George would have made his fortune by then. George added that
he had no ambitions for himself, he wouldn’t mind being just a farmer,
but that he would work for me. I said that was a very good idea, for men
should be ambitious and imperious, marching into history with clear
heads and brave thoughts and clean eyes.
“I said I would keep myself free for him. I promised him that just as he
was going away, and you should have seen how happy his eyes were and
how the tip of his nose quivered! And now I have to see him in a few
minutes’ time, and what shall I say to him?
“I was a failure on the stage. I am a failure even as a girl in a shop.
I am a failure in everything but my dreams. My childish ambitions have
withered, and you would think I had learnt such a lesson that I wouldn’t
have any more, but now I have the largest ambition in the world. I would
like very much to be happy. That is why I have been wondering all to-day
and for how many days what I would say to George this evening. You see,
I wasn’t really in love with him even when I made my promise, I knew
that in my heart even then. My promise was just one of those
important-looking flowers that are wrung out of the soil of pity. And my
business in life from now onwards, dear stranger, will be to keep that
hidden from my husband. But of course I will get used to disenchantment,
just like everyone else, and the time will come when I will wonder at
myself for talking to you like this, and the time will come when I, like
everyone else, will die with the sick heart of one who has never
fulfilled herself. And now I must go, for it is close on eight o’clock.”
“Of course,” said the lean young man thoughtfully, “he might, for some
reason we can’t tell, not keep his appointment. And then----”
“And then, and then, and then!” sang Miss Wych, but she added gravely:
“But oh, he will! George is a good man and a determined man. Failure or
success, he will be there.”
The fires burnt low in the west. They walked towards the gates of the
Park. Miss Wych counted four stars in the sky.
“Love,” said the lean young man, “knows every emotion but that of
patience. Mayn’t I come with you, Pamela Wych? Mayn’t we go together to
this George man? Could he do anything but release you?”
“That wouldn’t be fair,” said Miss Wych. “That wouldn’t be fair at all.
Oh, yes, George would release me. But life is not so easy as that. It’s
all very nice and easy to talk and dream, but aren’t there duties too? I
will go to George and tell him I am ready to marry him. I _must_ do
that. But maybe he won’t want to marry me. And then----”
The clock at the Park Gates stood at ten minutes to eight o’clock; and
on this strange enchanted evening, said Miss Wych, she would indulge in
the extravagance of a taxicab. The lean young man stood by the door and
said good-bye, and he said also: “If that George man isn’t there, I
shall know. Or if that George man isn’t worthy of your loyalty, I shall
know. And I will come to you again.”
“If!” sighed Miss Wych. “If! If the world was a garden, and we were
butterflies! If the world was a garden, and God was kind to lovers!
Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye!”
V
There is an eminent school of thought which insists that there is no
such thing in this world as chance. Therefore we may take it that ever
since the beginning of creation there was appointed one small wind to
lurk nearby the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square for the purpose of
blowing an empty paper-bag under a horse’s nose.
The horse belonged to a van, and it was probably bored with the van. It
gave a kick at the paper-bag. It missed the paper-bag. “Woa!” cried the
driver of the van. That got on the horse’s nerves, and it bolted.
Two men cried: “Ho! Woa! Oi!” An old man selling newspapers by the steps
of St. Martin’s-in-the-Fields said. “No ’orse can’t bolt far with an
’eavy van.” The driver of the van cried: “----!” An orange-and-banana
merchant leapt for his life from the horse’s hooves, and his oranges and
bananas fell as manna upon Trafalgar Square, and many little children
ran together and gave praise. A large handsome limousine was coming at a
good pace up the slope from the Strand. It had to swerve to avoid
running over the orange-and-banana merchant. As it swerved it crashed
into the side of an ancient taxicab that was bustling round the corner.
The ancient taxicab overturned. There was a scream of smashing glass,
and the two wheels of the taxicab revolved plaintively in the air.
“Bewty!” said the old man selling newspapers, for he was a connoisseur
of accidents. The limousine had stopped. The horse was walking on quite
calmly now. A little boy picked up the paper-bag, blew into it, and made
a noise. A lot of people came to look at the taxicab.
“Stand back, there! Stand back!” cried a young policeman.
The driver of the taxicab crawled from underneath the wreck. There was
blood on his face, and he was so ugly that he looked like several sorts
of animals at once. He stared at the chauffeur of the limousine.
“Wotcherdothatfor?” he asked bitterly.
“Come on now, lend a hand!” said the young policeman sternly.
A tall, fair, serious-looking young man had alighted quickly from the
limousine, and with him a young lady in a chinchilla coat.
“My, there’s a girl underneath!” she sobbed in a faint American accent.
“There was!” said the taxi-driver bitterly.
“Good God, she’s pinned there!” cried the tall, fair young man.
“George, and on our honeymoon!” sobbed the young lady in the chinchilla
coat.
“Come on now, give us room!” said the policeman sharply. “Now then, sir,
just help me lift this wheel off the young lady.”
It was the lean young man who was helping the policeman. He had followed
Miss Wych. As the tall fair young man and his young wife in the
chinchilla coat pressed forward through the crowd, the lean young man
looked up at him, and his face was very stern. The tall fair young man
looked back with bewildered, wretched eyes.
“Don’t say she’s dead!” he whispered.
“Now, sir,” said the young policeman, “I’ll keep this up while you bring
her through sharp as you like. Now!”
The lithe young body was broken and still. The crowd pressed round.
“She’s dead orl right!” said the orange-and-banana merchant.
The last flames of sunset over Admiralty Arch lit the peering faces, and
they looked as impersonal as gargoyles. Some took off their hats.
“Oh, she’s dead!” sobbed the young lady in the chinchilla coat.
“Such a pretty young lady!” said the taxi-driver bitterly, wiping the
blood from his face.
The lean young man and the young policeman knelt beside the still,
broken body and tried to find life where no life was. The
orange-and-banana merchant took off his hat. The policeman’s helmet fell
to the ground and rolled a little way down towards the Strand. The tall
fair young man held his silk hat in his hand. The lean young man looked
up at him through a blinding mist of tears and stammered: “Aren’t you
sorry, aren’t you sorry?”
“George,” sobbed the young lady in the chinchilla coat, “why is he
looking at you like that?”
“Blessed if I know!” stammered the tall fair young man.
“By gum, look at the cop!” said the orange-and-banana merchant.
The lean young man darted a look at the policeman kneeling beside him,
and he saw that the policeman wept, and he saw that the tip of the
policeman’s nose was quivering.
“She died,” stammered the lean young man, “while keeping her promise to
you. But you had failed her.”
“I’ve failed at everything in every country,” said the young policeman.
“And now I’ll probably get the sack from this job too for crying on my
beat.”
“’Ere, give ’im back ’is ’elmet,” said the taxi-driver bitterly. “A cop
without a ’elmet don’t look natchral.”
“And who’s goin’ to give me back my oranges and bananas?” said the
orange-and-banana merchant. “Isn’t there no justice in this world,
that’s wot I want to know?”