Crosby's, my very last day. For ever and ever. Amen. He'll never
come too near me again and breathe down my neck. He'll never put his
fat hand on my bare arm and shove his face close to mine while he
looks at my cash-sheet. When I get to----, wherever I'm going,
Harry, I'll want to send him a post card. Good-bye, Mr. Crosby,
good-bye, _dear_ Mr. Crosby. For ever and ever. Amen!' She made
what I knew to be her imitation of Mr. Crosby's voice. 'You're the
sort of girl who ought to marry young and have a steady husband older
than yourself, my dear. Did I ought? And who said you might call me
your dear, dear Mr. Crosby? Twenty-five shillings a week and pawings
about and being called dear, thrown in.... I'm wild to-night,
Harry--wild to-night. I could laugh and scream, and yet I want to
cry, Harry, because I'm leaving you. And leaving them all! Though
why I care I don't know. Poor, boozy, old father! Poor, silly,
scolding mother! Some day perhaps I may help them if only I get
away. And you--you've got to go on learning and improving, Harry,
learning, learning. Learn and get out of Cherry Gardens. Never
drink. Never let drink cross your lips. Don't smoke. For why
should anyone smoke? Take the top side of life, for it's easier up
there. Indeed, it's easier. Work and read, Harry. Learn French--so
that when I come back to see you, we can both talk together.'
"'You're going to learn French? You're going to France?'
"'Farther than France. But not a word, Harry. Not a word of it.
But I wish I could tell you everything. I can't. I mustn't. I've
given my promise. I've got to keep faith. All one has to do in the
world is to love and keep faith. But I wish mother had let me help
wash-up to-night, my last night. She hates me. She'll hate me more
yet.... I wonder if I'll keep awake all night or cry myself to
sleep. Let's race as far as the goods-station, Harry, and then walk
home.'"
§ 5
"The next night Fanny did not come home at all. As the hours passed
and the emotion of my family deepened I began to realise the full
enormity of the disaster that had come upon our home."
Sarnac paused and smiled. "Never was there so clinging a dream. I
am still half Harry Mortimer Smith and only half myself. I am still
not only in memory but half in feeling also that young English
barbarian in the Age of Confusion. And yet all the time I am looking
at my story from our point of view and telling it in Sarnac's voice.
Amidst this sunshine.... Was it really a dream? ... I don't believe
I am telling you a dream."
"It isn't a bit like a dream," said Willow. "It is a story--a real
story. Do you think it was a dream?"
Sunray shook her head. "Go on," she said to Sarnac. "Whatever it
is, tell it. Tell us how your family behaved when Fanny ran away."
"You must keep in mind that all these poor souls were living in a
world of repressions such as seem almost inconceivable now. You
think they had ideas about love and sex and duty different from our
ideas. We are taught that they had different ideas. But that is not
the truth; the truth is that they had no clear, thought-out ideas
about such things at all. They had fears and blank prohibitions and
ignorances where we have ideas. Love, sex, these were things like
the enchanted woods of a fairy tale. It was forbidden even to go in.
And--none of us knew to what extent--Fanny had gone in.
"So that evening was an evening of alarm deepening to a sort of moral
panic for the whole household. It seemed to be required of my family
that they should all behave irrationally and violently. My mother
began to fret about half-past nine. 'I've tole 'er, once for all,'
she said, partly to herself but also for my benefit. 'It's got to
stop.' She cross-examined me about where Fanny might be. Had she
said anything about going on the pier? I said I didn't know. My
mother fumed and fretted. Even if Fanny had gone on the pier she
ought to be home by ten. I wasn't sent to bed at the usual hour so
that I saw my father and uncle come in after the public-house had
closed. I forget now why my uncle came in to us instead of going
straight home, but it was not a very unusual thing for him to do so.
They were already disposed to despondency and my mother's white face
and anxious tiding deepened their gloom.
"'Mortimer,' said my mother, 'that gal of yours 'as gone a bit too
far. Sarf-pars' ten and she isn't 'ome yet.'
"''Aven't I tole 'er time after time,' said my father, 'she's got to
be in by nine?'
"'Not times enough you 'aven't,' said my mother, 'and 'ere's the
fruit!'
"'I've tole 'er time after time,' said my father. 'Time after time.'
And he continued to repeat this at intervals throughout the
subsequent discussion until another refrain replaced it.
"My uncle said little at first. He took up his position on the
hearthrug my father had made and stood there, swaying slightly,
hiccupping at intervals behind his hand, frowning and scrutinising
the faces of the speakers. At last he delivered his judgment.
'Somethin'sappened to that girl,' he said. 'You mark my words.'
"Prue had a mind apt for horrors. 'She's bin in 'naccident per'aps,'
she said. 'She may've bin knocked down.'
"'I've tole 'er,' said my father, 'time after time.'
"'If there's bin 'naccident,' said my uncle sagely. 'Well ...
'nything ma've 'appened.' He repeated this statement in a louder,
firmer voice. ''Nything ma've 'appened.'
"'Stime you went to bed, Prue,' said my mother, ''igh time. 'N' you
too, 'Arry.'
"My sister got up with unusual promptitude and went out of the room.
I think she must have had an idea then of looking for Fanny's things.
I lingered.
"'May've been 'naccident, may not,' said my mother darkly. 'Sworse
things than accidents.'
"'Whaddyoumean by that, Marth?' asked my uncle.
"'Never mind what I mean. That girl's worried me times and oft.
There's worse things than accidents.'
"I listened, thrilled. 'You be orf to bed, 'Arry,' said my mother.
"Whaddyou got to do,--simple,' said my uncle, leaning forward on his
toes. 'Telephone 'ospitals. Telephone plice. Old Crow at the
Wellington won't've gone to bed. 'Sgot telephone. Good customers.
'E'll telephone. Mark my words--s'snaccident.'
"And then Prue reappeared at the top of the stairs.
"'_Mother!_' she said in a loud whisper.
"'You be orf to bed, miss,' said my mother. ''Aven't I got worries
enough?'
"'Mother,' said Prue. 'You know that little old portmantle of
Fanny's?'
"Everyone faced a new realisation.
"'Sgorn,' said Prue. 'And her two best 'ats and all 'er undercloe's
and 'er other dress--gorn too.'
"'Then she's took 'em!' said my father.
"'And 'erself!' said my mother.
"'Time after time I tole her,' said my father.
"'She's run away!' said my mother with a scream in her voice. 'She's
brought shame and disgrace on us! She's run away!'
"'Some one's got 'old of 'er,' said my father.
"My mother sat down abruptly. 'After all I done for 'er!' she cried,
beginning to weep. 'With an honest man ready to marry 'er! Toil and
sacrifice, care and warnings, and she's brought us to shame and
dishonour! She's run away! That I should 'ave lived to see this
day! Fanny!'
"She jumped up suddenly to go and see with her own eyes that Prue's
report was true. I made myself as inconspicuous as possible, for I
feared some chance question might reveal my share in our family
tragedy. But I didn't want to go to bed; I wanted to hear things out.
"'Sanny good my going to the plice-station for you on my way 'ome?'
my uncle asked.
"'Plice!' said my father. 'What good's plice? Gaw! If I 'ad my
'ands on that villain's throat--I'd plice 'im! Bringing shame on me
and mine! _Plice_! 'Ere's Fanny, my little daughter Fanny, beguiled
and misled and carried away! ... I'm 'asty.... Yes, John. You go in
and tell the plice. It's on your way. Tell 'em from me. I won't
leave not a single stone unturned so's to bring 'er back.'
"My mother came back whiter than ever. 'It's right enough,' she
said. 'She's gorn! She's off. While we stand 'ere, disgraced and
shamed, she's away.'
"'Who with?' said my father. That's the question, who with? 'Arry,
'ave you ever seen anyone about with your sister? Anyone 'anging
about? Any suspicious-looking sort of dressed-up fancy man? 'Ave
you ever?'
"I said I hadn't.
"But Prue had evidence. She became voluble. About a week ago she
had seen Fanny and a man coming along from Cliffstone, talking. They
hadn't seen her; they had been too wrapped up in each other. Her
description of the man was very vague and was concerned chiefly with
his clothes; he had worn a blue serge suit and a grey felt hat; he
was 'sort of a gentleman like.' He was a good lot older than
Fanny--Prue wasn't sure whether he had a moustache or not.
"My father interrupted Prue's evidence by a tremendous saying which I
was to hear him repeat time after time during the next week.
'Sooner'n this sh'd've 'appened,' said my father, 'I'd 've seen 'er
lying dead at my feet--_gladly_ I'd 've seen 'er lying dead at my
feet!'
"'Poor girl!' said my uncle. 'Sabitter lesson she 'as before 'er. A
_bitter_ lesson! Poo' chile! Poo' little Fanny!'
"'Poor Fanny indeed!' cried my mother vindictively, seeing it all, I
perceived, from an entirely different angle. 'There she is prancin'
about with 'er fancy gentleman now in all 'er fallals; dinners and
wine she'll 'ave, flowers she'll 'ave, dresses and everything. Be
took about and shown things! Shown off and took to theayters. The
shame of it! And us 'ere shamed and disgraced and not a word to say
when the neighbours ask us questions! 'Ow can I look 'em in the
face? 'Ow can I look Mr. Crosby in the face? That man was ready to
go down on 'is bended knees to 'er and worship 'er. Stout though 'e
was. 'E'd 'ave given 'er anything she arst for--in reason. What 'e
could see in 'er, I could never make out. But see it 'e did. And
now I've got to face 'im and tell 'im I've told 'im wrong. Time
after time I've said to 'im--"_You wait. You wait, Mr. Crosby_."
And that 'uzzy!--sly and stuck-up and deep! Gorn!'
"My father's voice came booming over my mother's shrill outcry.
'Sooner'n this should've 'appened I'd 've seen er dead at my feet!'
"I was moved to protest. But for all my thirteen years I found
myself weeping. ''Ow d'you know,' I blubbered, 'that Fanny 'asn't
gone away and got married? 'Ow d'you know?'
"'Merried!' cried my mother. 'Why should she run away to be merried?
If it was merridge, what was to prevent 'er bringing 'im 'ome and
having 'im interjuced to us all, right and proper? Isn't her own
father and mother and 'ome good enough for her, that she 'as to run
away and get merried? When she could 'ave 'ad it 'ere at St. Jude's
nice and respectable with your father and your uncle and all of us
and white favours and a carriage and all. I wish I could 'ope she
was merried! I wish there was a chance of it!'
"My uncle shook his head in confirmation.
"'Sooner 'n this should 've 'appened,' boomed my father, 'I'd 've
seen 'er dead at my feet!'
''Last night,' said Prue, 'she said 'er prayers.'
"'Didn't she always say 'er prayers?' asked my uncle, shocked.
"'Not kneeling down,' said Prue. 'But last night she was kneeling
quite a long time. She thought I was asleep but I watched 'er.'
"'That looks bad,' said my uncle. 'Y'know, Smith; that looks bad. I
don't like that praying. Sominous. I don't like it.'
"And then suddenly and violently Prue and I were packed off upstairs
to bed.
"For long the sound of their voices went on; the three of them came
up into the shop and stood at the front door while my uncle gradually
took leave, but what further things they said I did not hear. But I
remember that suddenly I had a brilliant idea, suggested no doubt by
Prue's scrap of evidence. I got out of bed and knelt down and said,
'Pray God, be kind to my Fanny! Pray God not to be hard on Fanny!
I'm sure she means to get merried. For ever and ever. Amen.' And
after putting Providence upon his honour, so to speak, in this
fashion, I felt less mentally distracted and got back into bed and
presently I fell asleep."
Sarnac paused.
"It's all rather puzzling," said Willow.
"It seemed perfectly natural at the time," said Sarnac.
"That pork butcher was evidently a repulsive creature," said Firefly.
"Why didn't they object to him?"
"Because the importance of the marriage ceremonial was so great in
those days as to dominate the entire situation. I knew Crosby quite
well; he was a cunning-faced, oily-mannered humbug with a bald head,
fat red ears, a red complexion and a paunch. There are no such
people in the world now; you must recall some incredible gross
old-world caricature to imagine him. Nowadays you would as soon
think of coupling the life of a girl with some gross heavy animal as
with such a man. But that mattered nothing to my father or my
mother. My mother I suspect rather liked the idea of the physical
humiliation of Fanny. She no doubt had had her own humiliations--for
the sexual life of this old world was a tangle of clumsy ignorances
and secret shames. Except for my mother's real hostility to Fanny I
remember scarcely a scrap of any simple natural feeling, let alone
any reasonable thinking, in all that terrible fuss they made. Men
and women in those days were so much more complex and artificial than
they are now; in a muddled way they were amazingly intricate. You
know that monkeys, even young monkeys, have old and wrinkled faces,
and it is equally true that in the Age of Confusion life was so
perplexing and irrational that while we were still children our minds
were already old and wrinkled. Even to my boyish observation it was
clear that my father was acting the whole time; he was behaving as he
imagined he was expected to behave. Never for a moment either when
drunk or sober did he even attempt to find out, much less to express,
what he was feeling naturally about Fanny. He was afraid to do so.
And that night we were all acting--all of us. We were all afraid to
do anything but act in what we imagined would be regarded as a
virtuous rôle."
"But what were you afraid of?" asked Radiant. "Why did you act?"
"I don't know. Afraid of blame. Afraid of the herd. A habit of
fear. A habit of inhibition."
"What was the objection to the real lover?" asked Firefly. "I don't
understand all this indignation."
"They guessed rightly enough that he did not intend to marry Fanny."
"What sort of a man was he?"
"I never saw him until many years afterwards. But I will tell you
about that when I come to it."
"Was he--the sort of man one could love?"
"Fanny loved him. She had every reason to do so. He took care of
her. He got her the education she craved for. He gave her a life
full of interest. I believe he was an honest and delightful man."
"They stuck to each other?"
"Yes."
"Then why didn't he marry her--if it was the custom?"
"He was married already. Marriage had embittered him. It embittered
many people. He'd been cheated. He had been married by a woman who
pretended love to impose herself upon him and his fortunes and he had
found her out."
"Not a very difficult discovery," said Firefly.
"No."
"But why couldn't they divorce?"
"In those days it took two to make a divorce. She wouldn't let him
loose. She just stuck on and lived on his loneliness. If he had
been poor he would probably have tried to murder her, but as it
happened he had the knack of success and he was rich. Rich people
could take liberties with marriage-restrictions that were absolutely
impossible for the poor. And he was, I should guess, sensitive,
affectionate and energetic. Heaven knows what sort of mind he was in
when he came upon Fanny. He 'picked her up,' as people used to say
casually. The old world was full of such pitiful adventures in
encounter. Almost always they meant disaster, but this was an
exceptional case. Perhaps it was as lucky for him that he met her as
it was for her that she met him. Fanny, you know, was one of those
people you have to be honest with; she was acute and simple; she cut
like a clean sharp knife. They were both in danger and want; the
ugliest chances might have happened to her and he was far gone on the
way to promiscuity and complete sexual degradation.... But I can't
go off on Fanny's story. In the end she probably married him. They
were going to marry. In some way the other woman did at last make it
possible."
"But why don't you know for certain?"
"Because I was shot before that happened. If it happened at all."
§ 6
"_No!_" cried Sarnac, stopping a question from Willow by a gesture.
"I shall never tell my story," said Sarnac, "if you interrupt with
questions. I was telling you of the storm of misfortunes that
wrecked our household at Cherry Gardens....
"My father was killed within three weeks of Fanny's elopement. He
was killed upon the road between Cherry Gardens and Cliffstone.
There was a young gentleman named Wickersham with one of the new
petrol-driven motor-cars that were just coming into use; he was
hurrying home as fast as possible, he told the coroner, because his
brakes were out of order and he was afraid of an accident. My father
was walking with my uncle along the pavement, talking. He found the
pavement too restricted for his subject and gestures, and he stepped
off suddenly into the roadway and was struck by the car from behind
and knocked headlong and instantly killed.
"The effect upon my uncle was very profound. For some days he was
thoughtful and sober and he missed a race-meeting. He was very
helpful over the details of the funeral.
"'You can't say 'e wasn't prepared, Marth,' he told my mother. 'You
can't say 'e wasn't prepared. Very moment 'e was killed, 'e 'ad the
name 'v' Providence on 'is lips. 'E'd been saying 'ow sorely 'e'd
been tried by this and that.'
"''E wasn't the only one,' said my mother.
"''E was saying 'e knew it was only to teach 'im some lesson though
he couldn't rightly say what the lesson was. 'E was convinced that
everything that 'appened to us, good though it seemed or bad though
it seemed, was surely for the best....'
"My uncle paused dramatically.
"'And then the car 'it 'im,' said my mother, trying to picture the
scene.
"'Then the car 'it 'im,' said my uncle."
CHAPTER THE FOURTH
THE WIDOW SMITH MOVES TO LONDON
§ 1
"In those days," said Sarnac, "the great majority of the dead were
put into coffins and buried underground. Some few people were burnt,
but that was an innovation and contrary to the very materialistic
religious ideas of the time. This was a world in which you must
remember people were still repeating in perfect good faith a creed
which included 'the resurrection of the body and the life
everlasting.' Intellectually old Egypt and her dreaming mummies
still ruled the common people of the European world. The Christian
creeds were themselves mummies from Lower Egypt. As my father said
on one occasion when he was discussing this question of cremation:
'It might prove a bit orkward at the Resurrection. Like not 'aving a
proper wedding garment so to speak....
"'Though there's Sharks,' said my father, whose mental transitions
were sometimes abrupt. 'And them as 'ave been eat by lions. Many of
the best Christian martyrs in their time was eat by lions.... They'd
_certainly_ be given bodies....
"'And if _one_ is given a body, why not another?' said my father,
lifting mild and magnified eyes in enquiry.
"'It's a difficult question,' my father decided.
"At any rate there was no discussion of cremation in his case. We
had a sort of hearse-coach with a place for the coffin in front to
take him to the cemetery, and in this vehicle my mother and Prue
travelled also; my elder brother Ernest, who had come down from
London for the occasion, and my uncle and I walked ahead and waited
for it at the cemetery gates and followed the coffin to the
grave-side. We were all in black clothes, even black gloves, in
spite of the fact that we were wretchedly poor.
"''Twon't be my last visit to this place this year,' said my uncle
despondently, 'not if Adelaide goes on as she's doing.'
"Ernest was silent. He disliked my uncle and was brooding over him.
From the moment of his arrival he had shown a deepening objection to
my uncle's existence.
"'There's luck they say in funerals,' said my uncle presently,
striking a brighter note. 'Fi keep my eye open I dessay I may get a
'int of somethin'.'
"Ernest remained dour.
"We followed the men carrying the coffin towards the cemetery chapel
in a little procession led by Mr. Snapes in his clerical robes. He
began to read out words that I realised were beautiful and touching
and that concerned strange and faraway things: 'I am the Resurrection
and the Life. He that believeth in Me though he were dead yet shall
he live....'
"'I know that my Redeemer liveth and that He shall stand at the
latter day upon the earth....'
"'We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry
nothing out. The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be
the Name of the Lord.'
"Suddenly I forgot the bickerings of my uncle and brother and was
overcome with tenderness and grief for my father. A rush from my
memory of many clumsy kindlinesses, a realisation of the loss of his
companionship came to me. I recalled the happiness of many of my
Sunday tramps by his side in spring-time, on golden summer evenings,
in winter when the frost had picked out every twig in the downland
hedgerows. I thought of his endless edifying discourses about
flowers and rabbits and hillsides and distant stars. And he was
gone. I should never hear his voice again. I should never see again
his dear old eyes magnified to an immense wonder through his
spectacles. I should never have a chance of telling him how I cared
for him. And I had never told him I cared for him. Indeed, I had
never realised I cared for him until now. He was lying stiff and
still and submissive in that coffin, a rejected man. Life had
treated him badly. He had never had a dog's chance. My mind leapt
forward beyond my years and I understood what a tissue of petty
humiliations and disappointments and degradations his life had been.
I saw then as clearly as I see now the immense pity of such a life.
Sorrow possessed me. I wept as I stumbled along after him. I had
great difficulty in preventing myself from weeping aloud."
§ 2
"After the funeral my brother Ernest and my uncle had a violent
wrangle about my mother's future. Seeing that my Aunt Adelaide was
for all practical purposes done for, my uncle suggested that he
should sell up most of his furniture, 'bring his capital' into the
greengrocery business and come and live with his sister. But my
brother declared that the greengrocery business was a dying concern,
and was for my mother moving into a house in Cliffstone when she
might let lodgings, Prue would be 'no end of a 'elp' in that. At
first this was opposed by my uncle and then he came round to the idea
on condition that he participated in the benefits of the scheme, but
this Ernest opposed, asking rather rudely what sort of help my uncle
supposed he would be in a lodging-house. 'Let alone you're never out
of bed before ten,' he said, though how he knew of this fact did not
appear.
"Ernest had been living in London, working at a garage; he drove
hired cars by the month or job, and his respect for the upper classes
had somehow disappeared. The dignity of Sir John ffrench-Cuthbertson
at secondhand left him cold and scornful. 'You ain't going to 'ave
my mother to work for you and wait on you, no'ow,' he said.
"While this dispute went on my mother with the assistance of Prue was
setting out the cold collation which in those days was the redeeming
feature of every funeral. There was cold ham and chicken. My uncle
abandoned his position of vantage on my father's rag hearthrug and we
all sat down to our exceptional meal.
"For some little time the cold ham and chicken made a sort of truce
between my brother Ernest and my uncle, but presently my uncle
sighed, drank off his beer and reopened the argument. 'You know I
think, Marth,' he said, spearing a potato from the dish neatly with
his fork, 'you ought to 'ave some voice in what is going to become of
you. Me and this young man from London 've been 'aving a bit of a
difference 'bout what you ought to do.'
"I realised abruptly from the expression of my mother's white face, a
sort of white intentness which her widow's cap seemed to emphasise,
that she was quite determined to have not only some voice but a
decisive voice in this matter, but before she could say anything my
brother Ernest had intervened.
"'It's like this, mother,' he said, 'you got to do something, 'aven't
you?'
"My mother was about to reply when Ernest snatched a sort of assent
from her and proceeded: 'Well, naturally I ask, what sort of thing
can you do? And as naturally, I answer Lodgings. You carn't expect
to go on being a greengrocer, because that ain't natural for a woman,
considering the weights and coal that 'as to be lifted.'
"'And could be lifted easy, with a man to 'elp 'er,' said my uncle.
"'If 'e _was_ a man,' said my brother Ernest with bitter sarcasm.
"'Meaning----?' asked my uncle with cold hauteur.
"'What I say,' said brother Ernest. 'No more, no less. So if you
take my advice, mother, what you'll do is this. You go down early
to-morrow to Cliffstone to look for a suitable little 'ouse big
enough to 'old lodgers and not so big as to break your back, and I'll
go and talk to Mr. Bulstrode about ending up your tenancy 'ere. Then
we'll be able to see where we are.'
"Again my mother attempted to speak and was overborne.