IN the course of the afternoon, June found herself immersed in
the crisis of her fate. It began with a desire to own a dress of soft
blue silk. This, she well knew, was insane. In the first place, she was
still in mourning for her mother; in the second, she must hoard every
penny of her slender means; in the third, was William’s conviction that
the success of a dress depended upon its wearer.
Not a shade of excuse could be found for this vaulting ambition. But
it was fixed so firmly in the centre of her mind, that when she set
out soon after three to order the cheese she could think of nothing
else. The grocer was at the end of the street and two minutes did
her business with him. And then in the toils of imperious desire she
marched boldly down to Charing Cross and took a bus to Oxford Circus.
A yearning for a dress of blue silk was upon her like a passion. It was
madness and yet it was very delicious. What could a blue silk dress
avail when at any moment she was likely to be cast adrift? That thought
hit hard as she sauntered slowly along the Street of Streets gazing
wistfully upon its long array of too-fascinating drapers’ windows.
Her store of worldly wealth was nineteen pounds and a few odd
shillings. It was as certain as anything could be that she was about to
enter upon the most critical period of her life, and this was all she
had to tide her over. But do what she would to act like a reasonable
being she was now at the mercy of a demon more powerful than common
prudence. She was haunted by a passion for a blue silk dress and no
matter what happened to her afterwards she must satisfy that craving.
It was a rather thrilling business to rake these forbidden windows in
quest of a thing it was sheer madness to buy, yet within one’s power to
do so. Why was she going to buy it? Because she wanted it so badly? Why
did she want it so badly? That was a question she could not answer.
Had she been really pretty this folly might have seemed less amazing.
But she knew she was plain. At least, she always felt and always passed
for plain at Blackhampton. But her pilgrimage along Oxford Street
which, in the middle of a bright afternoon of early October, seemed the
Mecca of fashion, beauty and good taste went some way to change the
attitude she had taken up in regard to her personal appearance.
Plain she might be, her clothes might be severely provincial, their
hue depressing, but she was clearly informed by the sixth sense given
to Woman that she was not wholly unlooked at. It was nice to feel that
such was the case; indeed, it was stimulating, yet so deeply was she
occupied just then with large affairs that she didn’t think much about
it.
After many windows she had seen, she found herself drifting with the
tide into a store of regal aspect. Here she was received by young
women, elegant and gracious, with a courteous charm that made a search
for five yards of blue silk fabric in its least expensive form a
perfectly simple and yet delightful adventure. Moreover, it brought
in its train a great idea. Was it necessary, after all, that domestic
servitude should be her lot? Might it not be possible to become one of
these smart and pleasant ladies in their very attractive clothes?
Expenditure of spirit, anxious care, went to the final purchase of four
and a half yards of cotton silk material, more cotton than silk, at
eight and elevenpence three farthings a yard; and then the new thought
gained such a hold upon her, that before leaving the store she took an
inventory of her person in one of the huge mirrors which made the place
so enchanting. Standing boldly in front of the great glass, surveying
herself with a curiosity that was half fear, she went over her “points”
as might an Eastern merchant who buys a slave.
She was taller than she supposed. That was thought the first. And if
she wore shoes with high heels, as so many girls did, she could look
still taller. She could pass for slender, that was her second thought;
and her chest was something to be proud of. She might not have much
in the way of grace, and she might lack style, yet she didn’t lack
dignity. Her features were irregular, and there was no denying their
freckles, but seeing her frontispiece this afternoon, with its fighting
chin and determined eyes, the full effect was rather striking. But
when all was said it was her hair that was important. This she had
always known, but in the strong and subtle lights of the best mirror
into which she had ever gazed, it ministered considerably to the sum
and total of her charms. Perhaps her friend, Mr. Boultby the druggist,
had not overshot the mark when he compared her hair to the Empress
Eugenie’s, and said it ought to be painted by an R. A.
A mop of russet gold hair was little enough for a girl who stood in her
particular shoes. She felt that as she gazed upon it; felt it besides
with something akin to resentment. But even a self-criticism, cool and
stern, must allow that she made a better showing in Mr. Selfridge’s
mirror than could have been expected. She was far from being beautiful,
but that hair in its subtle-tinted abundance saved her somehow from
being ordinary. And to-day she looked very much alive with the bloom of
youth and health.
Four and a half yards of blue material under her arm, she went out
into Oxford Street, feeling rather better equipped for the battle of
life. She drew back a pair of shoulders that were really not so bad,
and defiantly lifted a chin that had looked uncommonly square in the
mirror. It was good to feel that she had underrated herself. She must
learn to dress in the London way, and then she might be able to hold
her own.
Walking slowly back to Oxford Circus, head higher now, she began quite
to like this new idea of becoming a shop assistant. At the worst, it
would be a far easier and more dignified way of life than domestic
service. So much was she engaged by it, and so great the pressure of
her thoughts that at first she didn’t notice that a man was following
her.
The knowledge overtook her by degrees. Stopping to look in various
windows, each time she did so brought a vague feeling that the eyes of
a man were upon her. She crossed the Circus, but the feeling was still
there; and at the corner of Berners Street, without quite knowing how,
surmise entered the region of fact. Moreover, she even contrived to
learn the style of man he was.
Out of the tail of an eye, as she stood by the edge of the kerb, she
saw that he was pale and dark, neither short nor tall, that he had
a slight moustache, and wore a hat of peach coloured velours. His
presence gave her an odd feeling; in fact, it might be said to frighten
her just a little, although there was certainly no reason why it should
in broad daylight. But she had an idea that he was going to speak to
her and that he was seeking an opportunity to do so.
Hastily she moved on, determined to give further shop windows “a miss”
for the present. However, she had not gone far when it occurred to
her that she was in need of a cup of tea, and that it would be very
pleasant to have one.
Just across the road was an A. B. C. shop. The fear of pursuit still
upon her, the sudden dash she made for this bourn was so ill-timed that
her sovereign faculty of keeping her head in a crisis was needed to
save her from being run over by Bus 13, which was going to the “Bell”
at Hendon.
With quite a sense of adventure, she went to one of a row of vacant
tables at the far end of the shop. She ordered a small pot of tea, a
scone and a pat of butter. And then she realized that a pale, dark man,
neither short nor tall, with a slight moustache, and wearing a hat of
peach-coloured velours had followed her in, and was just about to take
a seat at the table next her own.