TO THE SOUL SHOP
With the departure of the other two, Trix's tempestuousness finally left
her; it had worn itself out--and her. She sat very quiet, watching Airey
Newton with a look that was saved from forlorn despair only by a sort of
appeal; it witnessed to a hope which smouldered still, and might burn
again if he would fan it. A sense of great physical fatigue was on her;
she lay back in a collapse of energy, her head resting against the
chair, her hands relaxed and idle on the arms of it.
'What a pity we can't leave it just where it is!' said Airey with a
compassionate smile. 'Because we can't really put it all straight
to-night; that'll take ever so much longer.' He sighed, and smiled at
her. He came and laid his hand on one of hers. 'If I've got a life worth
living, it's through you,' he told her. 'You were very angry with Tommy
Trent, who had nothing to do with it. You were very, very angry with
poor Peggy. Well, she was partly responsible; I don't forget that. But
in the end it's a thing between you and me. We haven't seen so very much
of one another--not if you count by time at least; but ever since that
night at Paris there seems to have been something uniting us. Things
that happened to you affected me, and--well, anyhow, you used to feel
you had to come and tell me about them.'
He caressed her hand gently, and then walked away to the window.
'Yes, I used to feel that,' said Trix softly. 'I came and told you
even--even bad things.'
'You chose your man well,' he went on. 'Better than you knew. If you
had known, it wouldn't have been fair to choose a confessor so much
worse than yourself. But you didn't know. I believe you thought quite
highly of me!' There was no bitterness about him, rather a tone of
exultation, almost of amusement. He took hold of a chair, brought it
nearer to her, and rested his knee on it. 'There was a man who loved a
woman and knew that she was ruined. There was no doubt about it. A
friend told him; the woman herself told him. The friend said: "You can
help." The woman he loved said, "Nobody can help." He could help, but
even still he wouldn't. The friend said, "You can give her back life and
her care about living." She said, "I have no joy now in living"--her
eyes said that to him. Come, guess what his answer was! Can you guess?
No, by heaven, nobody in the world could guess! He answered, "Yes,
perhaps, but it would cost too much."'
For an instant she glanced at his face; she found him smiling still.
'That's what he said,' Airey pursued, in a tone of cheerful sarcasm.
'The fellow said it would cost too much. Prudent man, wasn't he? Careful
and circumspect, setting a capital example to the thriftless folk we see
all about us. It was suggested to him--oh, very delicately!--that it was
hardly the occasion to count pennies. Then he got as far as asking that
the thing should be reduced to figures. The figures appalled him!' A dry
chuckle made her look again; she smiled faintly, in sympathy, not in
understanding.
'Remarkable fellow, wasn't he? And the best of it was that the woman he
loved was so cut up about being ruined and not having made a success of
it altogether that she thought it very condescending and noble of him to
show any concern about her or to trouble to give her advice. Now this
man was always most ready to give advice; all his friends relied on him
for that. As far as advice went, he was one of the most generous men in
England. Well, there she lay--in the dust, as somebody put it to him.
But, as I say, when it came to figures, the cost of raising her was
enormous. Are you feeling an admiration for this hero? Don't you think
that the worst, the foolishest woman on earth would have been a bit too
good for him? This little trouble of his about figures he had once
described as a propensity.'
She leant forward suddenly and looked hard at him. He saw her breath
come more quickly.
Airey pulled his beard and continued, smiling still: 'That was the
position. Then a girl came to him, a very dangerous girl in my opinion,
one who goes about sowing love all over the place in an indiscriminate
and hazardous fashion--she carries it about her everywhere, from her
shoes to the waves of her hair. She came to him and said, "Well, you're
a pretty fellow, aren't you? I've got twopence that I'm going to give.
We want tenpence. Out with eightpence, please," said she. "Why so?" he
asked, with his hand tight on the eightpence. "She's got ruined just on
purpose to give you the chance," said she. That was rather a new point
of view to him--but she said it no less.'
'Tell it me plainly,' Trix implored.
'I'm telling it quite plainly,' Airey insisted. 'At last he forked out
the tenpence--and sat down and groaned and cried. Lord, how he cried
over that tenpence! Till one day the girl came back again and----'
'I thought she only asked for eightpence?' put in Trix, with a swift
glance.
'Did I say that? Oh, well, that's not material. She came back, and laid
twopence on the table, and said eightpence had been enough. He was just
going to grab the twopence and put it back in his pocket again, when she
said, "Wouldn't it be nice to spend it?" "Spend it? What on?" he cried.
"A new soul," said she, in that wholesale reckless way of hers. "If you
get a new soul, she may like you. You can't suppose she'd like you with
the one you've got?" She could be candid at times, that girl--oh, all in
a very delicate way! So they went out together in a hansom cab, and
drove to the soul shop and bought one. There's a ready-made soul shop,
if you know where to find it. It's dearer than the others, but they
don't keep you waiting, and you can leave the worn-out article behind
you.'
'Well?'
'He liked the feel of the new soul, and began to thank the girl for it.
And she said, "Don't thank me. I didn't do it." So he thanked her just a
little--but the rest of his thanks he kept.'
There was a long silence. Trix gazed before her with wide-open eyes.
Airey tilted his chair gently to and fro.
'You paid the money for me?' she asked at last in a dull voice.
'I gave it and Peggy took it. We did it between us.'
'Was it all yours or any of hers?'
'It was all mine. In the end I had that decency about me.' He went on
with a touch of eagerness: 'But it wasn't giving the money; any churl
must have done that. It's that now--to-day--I rejoice in it. I thank God
the money's gone. And when some came back I wouldn't have it. Ah, there
was the last tug--it was so easy to take it back! But no, we went out
and--wasted it!' He gave a low, delighted laugh. 'By Jove, how we wasted
it!' he repeated with a relish.
'Of all people in the world I never thought of you.'
'What I called my life was half-spent in making it impossible that you
should.'
'Where did you get the money from?'
The last touch of his old shame, the last remnant of his old secret
triumph, showed in his face.
'I had five or six times as much--there in the safe at Danes Inn. It lay
there accumulating, accumulating, accumulating. That was my delight.'
'You were rich?'
'I had made a good income for five or six years. You know what I spent.
Will you give a name to what was my propensity?' For an instant he was
bitter. The mood passed; he laughed again.
'You must have been very miserable?' she concluded.
'Worse than that. I was rather happy. Happy, but afraid. A week ago I
should have fled to the ends of the earth sooner than tell you. I
couldn't have borne to be found out.'
'I know, I know,' she cried, in quick understanding. 'I felt that
at----' She stopped in embarrassment. Airey's nod saved her the rest.
'But now I can talk of it. I don't mind now. I'm free.' He broke into
open laughter. 'I've spent a thousand pounds to-day. It sounds too
deliciously impossible.'
She gave a passing smile; she had not seen the thing done, and hardly
appreciated it. Her mind flew back to herself again.
'And you bought Mr. Fricker off? You ransomed me?'
'You were angry with Tommy, you were angry with Peggy'--he turned his
chair round suddenly and rested his hands on the back of it--'are you
angry with me?'
She made a gesture of petulant protest. 'It leaves me a helpless fool
again,' she murmured.
'It was the price of my liberty more than of yours. I had a right--a
right--to pay it. Won't you come to the soul shop too? I've been there
now; I can show you the way. There was my life--and yours. What was I to
do?'
'You meant to deceive me?'
'Yes.' He paused an instant. 'Unless there ever came a time when you
would like to be undeceived--when it might seem better to have been
helped than not to have needed help. Well, Beaufort Chance upset that
scheme. Here we are, face to face with the truth. We've not been that
before. How we made pretence with one another!' He shook his head in
half-humorous reprobation. She saw with wonder how little unhappy he was
about it all, how it all seemed to him a bygone thing, a strange dream
which might retain its meaning and its interest, but ceased to have
living importance the moment dawning day put it to flight.
'You told me you weren't cured,' he went on. 'That you still wanted the
old life, the old ambition--that my advice still appealed to you. That
fatal advice of mine! It did half the mischief. Don't you see my right
to pay the money in that again? Still, I tell you, I didn't pay it for
you; I paid it for myself.'
'I can give you no return for it.'
'I ask none. The return I have got I've told you. I am free.' He loved
the thought; again it brought a smile to his lips. 'There's no question
of a return from you to me.'
'Yes, but I shall owe you everything,' she cried. 'The very means of
living decently!' Her pride was in arms again as the truth came back to
her.
'Then sell all you have and repay me the money,' he suggested. 'Say I'm
Fricker. There'll be nobody to buy me off, as Peggy and I bought Fricker
off.'
'What?' she exclaimed, startled into betraying her surprise.
'Pay it back,' he cried gaily. 'Pay it all back. I'll take it. I'm not
afraid of money now. It might come rolling into Danes Inn--in barrels!
Like beer-casks! And a couple of draymen hard on the rope! I shouldn't
so much as turn round. I shouldn't count the barrels--I should go on
counting the sparrows on the roof. I've not the least objection to be
repaid.'
She fell into silence. Airey began strolling about the room again; he
smoked a cigarette while she sat without speaking, with her brows knit
and her hands now clenching the arms of her chair. Suddenly she broke
out in a new protest.
'Oh, that's not it, that's not it! Paying the money back wouldn't cure
it. As far as that goes, I could have paid Fricker myself. It's the
failure. It's the failure and the shame. Nothing can cure that.'
'Think of my failure, think of my shame! Worse than yours! You only set
about living a little bit in the wrong way. I never set about living at
all! I shut out at least a half of life. I refused it. Isn't that the
great refusal?'
'You had your work. You worked well?'
'Yes, I did do that. Well, shall we give that half? I had half a life
then.'
'And what had I?'
'At least that. More, I think, in spite of everything.'
'And you can forget the failure and the shame?'
'I can almost laugh at them.'
She held out her hands to him, crying again for help:
'How? How?'
A low sound of singing came through the door. Peggy beguiled the vigil
with a song. Airey held up his hand for silence. Trix listened; the
tears gathered in her eyes.
'Does that say nothing to you?' he asked as the song died away. 'Does
that give you no hint of our mistake? No clue to where the rest of life
lies? Life isn't taking in only, it's giving out too. And it's not
giving out only work, or deeds, or things we've made. It's giving
ourselves out too--freely, freely!'
'Giving ourselves out?'
'Yes, to other people. Giving ourselves in comradeship, in
understanding, in joy, in love. Oh, good Lord, fancy not having found
that out before! What a roundabout road to find it! Hedges and briars
and bleeding shins!' He laughed gently. 'But she knows it,' he said,
pointing to the door. 'She goes on the royal road to it--straight on the
King's highway. She goes blindfold too, which is a funny thing. She
couldn't even tell you where she was going.'
Another snatch of song came. It was sentimental in character, but it
ended abruptly in uncontrolled gurgles of a mirth free from all such
weakness.
'Yes, she gets there, dainty, trim, serene!'
He shook his head, smiling with an infinite affection. Trix Trevalla
leant her head on her hand and regarded him with searching eyes.
'Yes, that's true of her,' she said, 'that's true. You've found out the
meaning of it.'
'Everything's so plain to find out to-day.'
'Then surely you must be in love with her?' Her eyes were grave and
curious still. 'How can you help it? She mayn't love you, but that makes
no difference. How can you help loving her?'
'Does it make no difference? I don't know.' He came across to Trix.
'We've travelled the bad road together, you and I,' he said softly. 'I
may have seen her far off--against the sky--and steered a course by
hers. The course isn't everything. But for your arm I should have fallen
by the way. And--should you never have fallen if you'd been quite alone?
Or did you fall and need to be picked up again?'
He took both her hands and she let them lie in his; but she still looked
at him in fear and doubt, unable to rise to his serenity, unable to put
the past behind her as he did. The spectres rose and seemed to bar the
path, crying to her that she had no right to tread it.
'I've grown so hard, I've been so hard. Can I forget what I've been and
what I've done? Sha'n't I always hear them accusing me? Can I trust
myself not to want to go back again? It seems to me that I've lost the
power of doing what you say.'
'Never,' said Airey confidently. 'Never!' His smile broke out again.
'Well, certainly not your side of thirty,' he amended, trying to make
her laugh.
'Oh, ask Mrs. Bonfill, or Lord Mervyn, or Beaufort Chance of me!'
'They'd all tell me the truth of what they know, I don't doubt it.'
'And you know it too!' she cried, in a sort of shrinking wonder.
'To be sure I know it,' he agreed cheerfully. 'Wasn't I walking beside
you all the way?'
'Tell me,' she said. 'If you'd really been a very poor man, as we all
believed you were, would you ever have thought it wise or possible to
marry a woman like me?'
She had an eye for a searching question. Airey perceived that.
'Most pertinent, if I were poor! But now you see I'm not. I'm well
off--and I'm a prodigal.'
'Ah, you know the truth, you never would!'
'I can't know the truth. I shall find it out only if you marry me now.'
'Suppose I said yes? I said yes to Mortimer Mervyn!'
'And you ran away because----'
'Because I told him----'
'Let me put it in my way, please,' interrupted Airey, suavely but
decisively. 'Because you weren't a perfect individual, and he was a
difficult person to explain that to. Isn't that about it?'
Trix made a woeful gesture; that was rather less than it, she thought.
'And what did he do? Did he come after you? Did he say, "The woman I
love is in trouble; she's ruined; she's so ashamed that she couldn't
tell the truth even to me. Even from me she has fled, because she has
become unbearable to herself and is terrified of me"? Did he say that?
And did he put his traps in a bag, and take a special train, and come
after you?'
Trix's lips curved in an irrepressible smile at this picture of a line
of conduct imputed, even hypothetically, to the Under-Secretary for War.
'He didn't do exactly that,' she murmured.
'Not he! He said, "She's come a cropper--that's her look-out. But people
who come croppers won't do for me. No croppers in the Barmouth family!
We don't like them; we aren't accustomed to them in the Barmouth family.
I've my career," he said. "That's more to me than she is."' Airey paused
a moment and held up an emphatic finger. 'In point of fact, that
miserable man, Mervyn, behaved exactly as I should have done a fortnight
ago. Substitute his prejudices and his career for my safe and my money,
and he and I would be exactly the same--I mean, a fortnight ago. If ever
a man lost a woman by his own act, Mervyn is the man!'
'So if I say yes to you, and run away----?'
'The earth isn't big enough to hide you, nor the railway fares big
enough to stop me.'
'And Beaufort Chance?' she murmured, trying him again.
'Men who buy love get the sort of love that's for sale,' he answered in
brief contempt.
She smiled as, leaning forward, she put her last question.
'And Mr. Fricker?' said she.
Airey gave a tug at his beard and a puzzled whimsical glance at her.
'Do you press me as to that?'
'Yes, of course I do. What about Mr. Fricker?'
'Well, from all I can learn, it does appear to me that you behaved in a
damned shabby way to Fricker. I've not a word to say for you there, not
one.'
The answer was so unexpected, so true, so honest, that Trix's laughter
rang out in genuine merriment for the first time for many days.
'And when old Fricker saw his chance, I don't wonder that he gave you a
nasty dig. It was pure business with Fricker--and you went back on him
all along the line!'
She looked at him with eyes still newly mirthful. He had dismissed
Beaufort Chance and Mervyn contemptuously enough; one had sought to
barter where no barter should be; the other had lost his prize because
he did not know how to value it. But when Airey spoke of Fricker's
wrongs, there was real and convinced indignation in his voice; in
Fricker's interest he did not spare the woman he loved.
'How funny!' she said. 'I've never felt very guilty about Mr. Fricker.'
'You ought to. That was worst of all, in my opinion,' he insisted.
'Well, I was afraid you'd quite acquitted me! Should you be always
throwing Mr. Fricker in my face?'
'On occasions probably. I can't resist a good argumentative point.
You've got the safe and the red book, you know.'
'I'd sooner die than remind you of them.'
'Nonsense! I sha'n't care in the least,' said Airey.
'Then what will be the good of them to me?' He laughed. But she grew
serious, saying, 'I shall care about Mr. Fricker, though.'
'Then don't ask me what I think again.'
He laughed, took a turn the length of the room, and came quickly and
suddenly back to her.
'Well, is the unforgivable forgiven?' he asked, standing opposite to
her.
'The unforgivable? What do you mean?' she said, with a little start of
surprise. He had struck sharply across her current of thought.
'What you couldn't have forgiven Tommy, or Peggy, or anybody? What you
couldn't possibly forgive me? You know.' His smile mocked her. 'My
having sent the money to Fricker.'
'Oh, I'd forgotten all about it!'
'Things forgotten are things forgiven--and the other way round too.
Forgiving, but not forgetting--don't you recognise the twang of
hard-hearted righteousness?' He came up to her. 'It was very
unforgivable--and you forgot it! Haven't you stumbled on the right
principle, Trix?'
She did not rise to any philosophic or general principle. She followed
her feeling and gave it expression--or a hint of expression, her eyes
being left to fill in the context.
'Somehow it's not so bad, coming from you,' she said.
In an instant he was sitting by her. 'Now I'll tell you what we did this
afternoon.'
'You and Peggy Ryle? I'm jealous of Peggy Ryle!'
'A sound instinct, in this case misapplied,' commented Airey. 'Now just
you listen.'
The sound of song had ceased. Were all sounds equally able to penetrate
doors and cross passages, quite another would have struck on Trix's
ears. Peggy was yawning vigorously--while Tommy was trying to find
patience in a cigar.
'Where had you been going to dine?' asked Peggy, referring to the meal
as a bright but bygone possibility.
'I had been going to have a chop at the club,' murmured Tommy sadly.
'That doesn't help me much,' observed Peggy. 'And I suppose you're going
to begin about that wretched promise again? I'm tired to death, but I'll
sing again if you do.'
'I've expressed my sentiments. I don't want to rub it in.'
'If Airey hadn't come, you'd have done just the same yourself.'
'No, I shouldn't, Peggy.'
'What would you have done, then?'
'I should have bolted--and dined. And I rather wish I had. I tell you
what; if I were you, I'd have one comfortable chair in this room.' He
was perched on a straight-backed affair with spindly legs--a base
imitation of what (from the sitter's point of view) was always an
unfortunate ideal.
'I'd bolt with you--for the sake of dinner,' moaned Peggy. 'What are
they doing all this time, Tommy?'
Tommy shrugged his shoulders in undisguised contempt. 'Couldn't we go
and dine?' he suggested, with a gleam of hope.
'I want to dine very, very much,' avowed Peggy; 'but I'm too excited.'
She looked straight at him, pointed towards the door, and declared, 'I'm
going in.'
'You'd better knock something over first.'
'No, I'm going straight in. If it's all right, it won't matter, and we
can all go out to dinner together. If they're being silly, I shall stop
them. I'm going in, Tommy!'
Tommy rose from the spindle-shanked counterfeit with a determined air.
'You'll do nothing of the kind. It isn't fair play,' he said.
'It's not you that's going in, is it?' asked Peggy, as though that
disposed of his claim to interfere. 'And you needn't tell me I'm
dishonourable any more. It's dull. I'm going.'
In fact she had got to the handle of the door. She had grasped it when
Tommy came and took hold of her arm.
'No, you don't!' he said.
For an instant Peggy thought that she would take offense. Tommy's
rigidity of moral principle, within the limits of his vision, proved,
however, too much for her. She still held the handle, but she leant
against the door, laughing as she looked up in his face.
'Let go, Tommy! In short, unhand me!'
'Will you go, if I do?'
'That's what I want you to do it for,' Peggy explained, with a rapid and
pronounced gravity.
Her eyes sparkled at him, her lips were mischievous, the waves of her
hair seemed dowered with new grace. Perhaps there was something, too, in
the general atmosphere of the flat that night. Anyhow the thought of
vindicating moral principles and the code of honour lost the first place
in Tommy's thoughts. Yet he did not let go of his prisoner.
With the change in his thoughts--did it betray itself on his face?--came
a change in Peggy also. She was still gaily defiant, but she looked
rather on the defensive too. A touch of timidity mingled with the
challenge which her eyes still directed at him.
'It's not the least good lecturing you,' he declared.
'I don't know how you ever came to think you knew how to do it.'
'Peggy, am I never to get any forwarder?'
'Not much, I hope,' answered Peggy, with a stifled laugh.
He looked at her steadily for a minute.
'You like me,' he said. 'If you hadn't liked me, I should have been
kicked out by now.'
'I call that taking a very unfair advantage,' murmured Peggy.
'Because you're not the sort of girl to let a man----'
'Then why don't you let go of my arm?'
This was glaringly illogical. It seized Tommy's premise and twisted it
to an absolutely opposite conclusion. But Tommy was bewildered by the
mental gymnastics--or by something else that dazzled him. He released
her arm and stepped back almost ceremoniously. Peggy lifted her arm and
seemed to study it for a second.
'That's nice of you,' she said. 'But'--her laugh rang out--'I'm going
all the same!'
In an instant she had darted through the door. Tommy made as though he
would follow, but paused on the threshold and pulled the door close
again. Perhaps she could carry it off; he could not. He walked slowly
back to the spindle-shanked chair and sat down again. Tommy's head was
rather in a whirl, but his heart beat gaily. 'By Jove--yes!' he thought
to himself. 'Give her time, and it's yes!'
Peggy, unrepentant, strode across the passage and stopped outside the
sitting-room. Human nature would not stand it. She must listen or go in.
She did not hesitate: in she went.
Airey was standing by the window; she saw but hardly noticed him. In the
middle of the room was Trix Trevalla. But what a Trix! Peggy stood
motionless a minute at the sight of her. Her quick eye took in the ring
on Trix's finger, the sparkle of the diamonds on her wrist, the softer
lustre of the pearls about her neck. The plain gown she wore showed them
off bravely, and she seemed as though she were hung with jewels. Peggy
recognised the jewels; the small boxes she knew also, and marked where
they lay on the table. All that was the work of an instant. Her eyes
returned to Trix and rose above the pearls to Trix's face. The hardness
and the haggardness, the weariness and shame, all suspicion and all
reserve, were gone from it. The face was younger, softer; it seemed
rounder and more girlish. The eyes glowed with a veiled brightness.
Peggy stood there on the threshold, looking.
At last Airey spoke to her; for Trix, though she met her eyes, said
nothing and did not move from her place.
'Peggy,' he said, 'she's been with me. She's been where we went this
afternoon. You know the way; you showed it to me.'
Now Trix Trevalla came towards her, a little blindly and unsteadily as
it seemed. She held out both hands, and Peggy went forward a step to
meet them.
'Yes, I've been. I think I've been to--to the soul shop, Peggy.' She
threw herself in the girl's arms.
'Is it--is it all right?' gasped Peggy.
'It's going to be,' said Airey Newton.
She put Trix at arm's length and gazed at her. 'They look beautiful, and
you look beautiful. I wonder if you've ever looked like that before!'
'It's all gone,' said Trix, passing her hand across her eyes. 'All gone,
I think, Peggy.'
'Oh, I can't stay here!' cried Peggy in dismay. For her eyes too grew
dim; and now she could no more have sung than yawned. She caught Trix to
her, kissed her, and ran from the room.
'I beg your pardon; you were quite right, sir,' she said to Tommy. 'I
never ought to have gone in.'
'But, I say, what's happened, Peggy?' Of another's sin it seems no such
great crime to take advantage.
'Everything,' said Peggy, with a comprehensive wave of her arms.
'Everything, Tommy!'
'They've fixed it up?' he asked eagerly.
'If you don't feel disgraced by putting it like that--they have,' said
Peggy, breaking into glad laughter again.
He rose and came near to her.
'And what are we going to do?' he inquired.
Peggy regarded him with eyes professedly judicial, though mischief and
mockery lurked in them.
'As I don't think it's the least use waiting for them, I suggest that
we go and have some dinner,' she said.
'That's not a bad idea,' agreed Tommy.
He turned quietly, took up his hat and stick, and went out into the
passage; Peggy stayed a minute to put on a hat and jacket. She came out
to join him then, treading softly and with her linger on her lips. Tommy
nodded understanding, took hold of the handle of the baize door, and
made way for her to pass. His air was decorous and friendly. Peggy
looked at him, immeasurable amusement nestling in her eyes. As she
passed, she flung one arm lightly about his neck and kissed him.
'Just to celebrate the event!' she whispered.
Tommy followed her downstairs with heart aglow.