II

As her bus turned into that hive of buses in front of Victoria station,

Miss Matfield shivered a little. She was nervous; she was excited;

and her mind was facing two different ways. She spent the next few

minutes getting from the bus to the station, which was very crowded

and week-endy, and then to the place where she had arranged to meet

Mr. Golspie, which was on the departure side, between the bookstall

and that large clock with four faces. Mr. Golspie was not to be seen.

This did not surprise her, for she was rather early. She was somewhat

relieved to find that he was not there. It left her with a welcome

breathing space. She was by no means single-minded about this adventure.

It had been planned, if a few hasty and last-minute questions and

answers can be called planning, three days before, on Tuesday night,

which was the last time she had seen him. He had not been to the

office since and she had had no message from him, but that did not

worry her. She had a strong suspicion that he was going away very

soon, but she did not know when he would be going and she did not

believe that he knew. Last Tuesday, just before they parted, he had

asked her once again to go away for the week-end with him, anywhere

she pleased, and this time, moved obscurely by many different feelings

and forces, something genuinely eager and passionate in the man’s

voice, a sudden desire to clutch at experience, to throw herself upon

life, a contempt for her qualms and misgivings and timidities, she

had agreed to go. An hotel on the Sussex coast she had once seen was

to be their destination, and the time and meeting place were hastily

settled. Several times since, she had been tempted to write to him or

ring him up, to say that she had changed her mind. Her pride, however,

would not let her do this. She had said she would go, and now she

would carry it through. She had wanted adventure, and though she would

not have admitted it, there was always a man in this adventure, and

now that it offered itself and she had accepted it, she could not run

away. Yet there was a creature in her, and not merely a brain phantom,

but a creature that had some of her rich blood flowing through it,

that very blood which this coarse, middle-aged man could so inspire

that it dazzled and inflamed her, a shrinking and fastidious creature

that cried to run away, to run away and hide. It protested against

the shabbiness and furtiveness of this adventure, and pounced upon

the sinister lack of fairness in it. It loathed the cheap imitation

wedding ring that was now tucked away in her bag, a ring that was part

of the adventure, and that had seemed rather a joke when it first had

been mentioned last Tuesday. She had heard about those rings before,

and they had always seemed rather a joke, perky, glittering little

stage properties in amusing escapades, and it was not difficult for her

to force herself to see that ring in her bag in the same theatrical

light; but, nevertheless, the protest was not silenced and the loathing

remained. If Golspie had asked her to marry him, no matter if he had

told her that they would have to settle in the most outlandish place,

she would have agreed; but he had not asked her to marry him. Yet he

wanted her, not idly either, and, when all was said and done, that was

a heartening and exciting fact; and after this, he might want her still

more, the last traces of self-sufficiency in him (and he had appeared

unusually self-sufficient at first, and that had made him all the more

attractive) might vanish, and then--well, everything might be different.

If you delight in movement and change, the appeal of a large railway

station is irresistible; you are still in the dark cocoon of the city,

but one end is splintering already and you can see the blue beyond;

the rumbles and shrieks and snortings are only part of the tuning up;

and even the smoky smell has the savour of adventure. There had been

moments during the last two days when this week-end, this arrival

at Victoria, had loomed in Miss Matfield’s mind like some unusually

desperate appointment at the dentist’s, and at the thought of it

something coldly writhed inside her. Now that she was here, however,

she was less introspective and her spirits gradually rose. It was

almost better that something extremely unpleasant should happen than

that nothing at all should happen; and it was very unlikely that

anything extremely unpleasant _would_ happen. She responded to the

lively and adventurous bustle of the station. As she strolled over to

the bookstall, carrying her small suitcase, she felt tall, healthy,

strong, a fine woman of the world. One or two middle-aged men had

smiled in her direction and several young men had looked earnestly at

her, all of which meant that she was looking her best. The bookstall

offered her an almost unlimited choice of reading matter, light

periodicals, heavy periodicals, books that were “amazing successes,”

books that were “very outspoken,” books that were simply “great

bargains.” She did not accept any of them, but the knowledge that they

were there somehow gave her pleasure. It was impossible to resist a

holiday feeling. The sight of all the fussy and bewildered people,

of whom there were an unusually large number, the people who went

rushing up to any man in a railway uniform, who looked in despair at

the notice-boards, who mopped their brows and snapped at one another,

who blankly surveyed great mounds of luggage, who flitted like uneasy

ghosts from one platform entrance to another, only brought her a

pleasing sense of her own superiority. They were nothing to do with

her; she was not behaving like that; and so she looked on, amused,

contemptuous, failing to see in this spectacle of the harassed and

inexperienced travellers any symbol of this life of ours.

There were two trains, and they had hoped to catch the earlier one. It

was now only a few minutes from the time of starting. She returned to

her former place, nearer the clock, and looked about her anxiously.

He would get the tickets, of course, before he came on to the main

platform, so that there was still plenty of time for them to catch the

train if he appeared at all. There seemed to be more and more people

about, though round her there was a small clear space. It was just

possible that he might have missed her. Only two minutes now. She

hurried over to the entrance to No. 17 platform and looked over the

barrier down the waiting train. Then she returned, even more hastily,

to her place near the clock. From there she heard the train go out.

It was annoying. They would have more than three-quarters of an hour

to wait now. It was her turn to keep him waiting. Very deliberately,

she made her way to the tearoom, which was not very full though it

looked vaguely as if it had just been wrecked by a revolutionary mob,

and she spent ten minutes over a cup of tea and a cigarette. She

would have liked to have stayed longer, but it is almost impossible

to linger successfully with only a sheet of glass between you and a

host of trains and passengers. She tried to loiter on her way back to

the four-faced clock and the bookstall, but an inner restlessness

prevented her, and she arrived there as if her train might start any

moment. He was not there. Now she began making little circular tours

with the clock as their centre. After quarter of an hour of these, she

returned to the meeting place and remained there, her suitcase at her

feet, erect, motionless, sullen. She was there, and he must find her.

People came and went, bought papers and books, looked at the clock,

looked at the departure board, glanced at her; porters wheeled their

loaded barrows and trucks at this side of her and that; the trains

snorted and puffed and sent red gleams to the glass roof; but now she

paid no attention at all. She was tired of Victoria, tired of waiting.

This time, when the later train was nearly due to start, she stayed

where she was and made no attempt to discover if he was already on the

platform. When the train had gone, she stood quite still for a minute

or two longer, then walked away.

She had to wait again before she could get a telephone call put through

to his flat. The telephone boxes were in brisk demand. She knew his

telephone number and knew, too, that the instrument at his flat, which

had been out of order the week before, was all right now. But she would

not have been surprised to find that there was no reply to her call,

for she was sure at least that he would not be there. Something had

gone wrong; and even now he was probably trying to get to Victoria.

There was a reply, however, and it obviously came from a maid.

“Is Mr. Golspie there, please?”

“No, he’s not. He’s gone. So has Miss Golspie. They’ve both gone,” said

the voice.

“Gone? Do you mean--he’s out?”

“No, gone. Gone for good.”

“But--I don’t understand. Are you sure? I had an appointment with him

to-night.”

“All I know is--he’s gone, Miss Golspie too. They’ve gone to South

Africa or South America or one of them places. In a boat, I _do_ know.

I helped ’em to pack, and a job it was too, and a nice mess they’ve

left this place in, I can tell you. I’m cleaning it up now, after ’em,

’cos they only took it furnished and I stayed on with the place. There

was a gentleman came when I was having my dinner,” the voice continued,

as if it was rather pleased to have a little chat with somebody, “and

he wanted Mr. Golspie badly, but I couldn’t tell him anything except

they’d gone, went this morning, luggage and everything, and you never

saw such a pile.”

“Did Mr. Golspie leave any message--for anybody?”

“No, he just went----”

“All right, thank you,” said Miss Matfield, interrupting and then

ringing off.

He had gone, left the country, without even telling her he was going,

without even telling her he could not keep this appointment at the

station. He had simply tossed the week-end away, and her with it, as

if it had been a crumpled bit of paper. If he had not forgotten all

about it, then he had not cared enough to see her for the last time or

even to send a message. And this was the man--oh, the humiliation of

it all! She left the station, burning with shame and resentment. An

hour earlier she might have felt relieved if Mr. Golspie had come and

told her that it would be impossible for them to go away this week-end.

But she had waited there, suitcase in hand, that filthy little ring

in her bag, had waited there, and all the time he was miles away, not

caring if she spent the rest of her life standing in Victoria station.

Never before had she felt such bitter contempt for herself. She could

have cried and cried, not because he had gone and she would probably

never set eyes on him again, but because his sudden indifference, at

this time of all times, left her feeling pitiably small and silly.

The misery of it was like the onslaught of some unexpected, terrible

disease. Her mangled pride bled and ached inside her, so that she felt

faint.

That was why she did not return, as a sudden impulse commanded her to

do, to the station and take the first train anywhere, to get away for

the week-end at any cost from London and the Club. She could not do it;

all energy and initiative were drained away; she was too tired. She

found a No. 2 bus, climbed on top, and then watched, with smarting

eyes that refused to see anything properly, the glitter and blue murk

of half London go lumbering past, Hyde Park Corner, Park Lane, Oxford

Street, Baker Street, Finchley Road, all a meaningless jumble of light

and dark, offering nothing to Lilian Matfield, no more than if it had

been some Chinese river flickering past on a cinema screen.

Once in the Club, she hurried upstairs, as if she had stolen the

suitcase she carried. Hastily, mechanically, she washed, tidied her

hair, changed her dress, powdered her face, and then went down to the

dining-room. She did not really want food, but something impelled her

to throw herself back into the routine of the Club. But she was careful

to find one of those nondescript tables for latecomers, at which

there was little talk, and what talk there was merely the occasional

impersonal remarks of acquaintances. She ate little, and the sight and

smell of the food, the look of everybody there, the high chatter and

clatter of the room, made her feel sick. Nevertheless, she stayed on,

and had her coffee with the rest. When she got back to her room, she

began examining all her clothes and grimly set aside some stockings to

be mended. Then she remembered something.

“_Can_ I come in?” said Miss Morrison. “Hello, Matfield, what on earth

are you doing? Something desperate, by the look of you.”

“Hello, Morrison. I was only throwing something away,” she replied,

closing the window. Somewhere out there was a cheap imitation of a

wedding ring.

Miss Morrison, who was wearing bedroom slippers, contrived to shuffle

elegantly--for she never quite lost her slim elegance--into the room,

and hoisted herself on to the bottom of the bed, resting her back

against the wall. “Oh, by the way,” she cried, “you oughtn’t to be

here. Weren’t you going away for the week-end?”

“I was,” said Miss Matfield shortly, hanging a dress up, “but I changed

my mind.”

“Good!” And that was all Miss Morrison had to say about that. It was

one of her virtues, as Miss Matfield had begun to notice, that she

did not ask questions when they were obviously unwelcome, made no

attempt, except in fun, to nose things out of you. Most girls at the

Burpenfield, if you were on room-visiting terms with them, did not

allow you to have any private life of your own. “I ought to have gone

out to-night,” Miss Morrison continued, in her usual languid manner,

“but I can’t bother to. I feel foul. I never remember feeling more

completely foul, except when I’ve had ’flu or something like that. I’d

go and see a doctor only I can’t afford to, and then again I disapprove

of the way we females run after doctors and worship them. Cadnam’s just

been raving to me about some doctor she’s just been to. ‘He’s fifty,

of course, and heavily married,’ she said, ‘but the most marvellously

attractive man, my dear.’ She went raving on and on. I think it’s

revolting the way these young females adore their doctors and dentists.

I refuse to join in, don’t you? After that it’ll be vicars and curates

and dear, dear doggies--vile! But, as I said before, I feel thoroughly

ill. It’s partly the idiocy of my respected employer, who really is the

silliest woman there ever was--she gets sillier--and then again it’s

partly the time of year. Don’t you honestly think this is the very,

very foulest time of all the year? It’s such a long way from anything

or anywhere interesting, isn’t it? Just fiendishly dull. I don’t blame

all those illustrated paper people--Lady Chagworth, Colonel Mush, and

Friend--for going away and slacking about on the Riviera or in Madeira,

or wherever it is they do go. I say ‘good luck to them!’--don’t you?

Though I must say it oughtn’t to be the same people who go every year

and the same people who stay at home, like us, and push into buses on

wet nights. They ought to change round a bit. Your turn this year. Our

turn next year. That sort of thing.”

“I should think so,” said Miss Matfield, somewhat indifferently. She

was still busy putting clothes away. “I call it beastly unfair. I think

I’ll turn Bolshie.”

“I’ve often thought of turning _something_,” said Miss Morrison

meditatively. “Have you got a cigarette, by the way?”

“Some over there somewhere. Can you reach over and get them? I’ll have

one, too.”

Having found the cigarettes, Miss Morrison handed one over,

accompanying it with a curious glance. “I went to that Chehov play,

last night. I didn’t tell you, did I? My dear, don’t go. I wept and

wept--yes, honestly I did. It was just like the Burpenfield with the

lid off, really it was--awful! When I got back last night, I said to

myself, ‘I can’t bear it. I can’t bear it.’”

“I think that’s stupid, Morrison,” said Miss Matfield, sitting in the

only chair.

“What’s stupid?”

“All that--about not bearing it and about the Club being the Chehov

play. It’s not a bit like it.”

“How do you know, my dear? You haven’t seen the play.”

“I’ve read it.”

“I don’t suppose it’s the same, just reading it. I admit it’s not

like this at all on the surface, but honestly it’s got the same

what-is-it--atmosphere.”

“It hasn’t a bit, I tell you,” said Miss Matfield earnestly. “And I

really think it’s stupid talking like that about this place. It’s

ridiculous--all silly exaggeration. When you talk like that, Morrison,

you annoy me----”

“Since when, my dear?”

“Well, I’ve made up my mind that it’s simply absurd, besides being

terribly depressing, going about talking like that about the life we

lead here. It makes it seem fifty times worse than it is. And, anyhow,

it’s not bad really. It’s our own fault if it is. Yes it is.”

“My dear, you can’t mean it.”

“Yes, I do mean it.”

Having said this, Miss Matfield put down her cigarette, looked at the

floor for a minute, then quite suddenly and unaccountably burst into

tears.

“Sorry!” she cried, five minutes later, when it was all over. “I’m not

going mad, though I dare say it seemed like it. I think--I’ve been

feeling rotten too, all strung up, you know.”

“My dear,” said Miss Morrison, who had been very tactful, “if I hadn’t

wept buckets last night at that play, I don’t know what I’d be doing

to-night.”

“Listen,” cried Miss Matfield, jumping to her feet and smiling damply.

“I’ve made up my mind now. Yes, I have. It’s serious. Listen. I’m going

to work properly, and I’m going to get a better job and make more

money.”

“You’re not going to leave your present job, are you?”

“The Lord forbid! If I did, the scheme wouldn’t work at all. No, but

I’m going to tell them there isn’t anything in the office, or connected

with it, I won’t and can’t do, if they’ll only give me a chance. I’m

going to be _really_ in business, not just sort of hanging on there.

I’ve got a jolly good chance because my firm’s very busy now and we’re

short-handed, and the man who really sold all the veneers and inlays

has just left us----”

“Not the man you told me about, the fascinating one?”

“Yes,” Miss Matfield continued hurriedly. “He’s gone, and that means

there’ll be an awful lot to do and they’ll have to get new people.

Well, I’m going down to Angel Pavement in the morning--and I needn’t

go if I don’t want, because I got the morning off when I thought I was

going away for the week-end----”

“Wait a minute. Do you mean to say that you’ve actually got the morning

off and yet you’re going all the same? You do? My dear, it sounds

desperate.”

“Yes, I am. And I’m going to Mr. Dersingham, and I shall tell him that

I believe I could do anything that any man could do--and I don’t care

if it’s going round to the weirdest Jewy East End furniture places

selling veneers--and that he ought to give me a chance. I believe he

will too, particularly now, when business is so good and he’s so short

of people. He could easily get another girl to do my typing, and that

sort of thing, and I’d go and do some real work and then ask for more

money. Very soon, I might have a real job, with a decent salary and

proper responsibility and everything.”

“Quite crazy! Though I believe you could do it, if they’d give you a

chance.”

“They’ll have to give me a chance, and I’m sure I could do it.”

She kept returning to the subject for the next hour, and then, when

Miss Morrison had gone, she made up her mind all over again, and

saw Messrs. Twigg & Dersingham growing more and more prosperous and

herself, a real member of the firm, growing more and more prosperous

with it. She arrived at Angel Pavement in a neat little car, and

stepped out of it a cool, capable business woman, dressed with a

certain austerity, but still attractive. Before she finally got to

sleep, she had furnished not only her tiny flat in town, but also her

little week-end cottage, which was the delighted admiration of her

mother and other occasional guests. “Lilian, you _are_ lucky,” they

cried; but she told them it was all the result of sheer hard work. This

was the last dream of the day, and it was very pleasant. The dreams

that followed in the night, the dreams that came without being asked,

were curiously different, all dark and troubled, like the dreams of a

child who has been hurried away to a strange place.