Poll. Nine years. Nine years, and no baby, eh!" He shook his head, like
a cat sneezing, and laughed again. "Here, Sally. Have some more kipper.
More tea, then. Poll, here's a lady will have some more tea, if you
please, ma'am. Sweet enough, Sally? As before, if you please, Poll."
"See, where was you then, Perce?" asked Mrs. Perce. "Nine years ago."
"This time nine years ago----" murmured old Perce, reflectively. "I was
at Potter's. Yes, Sally, I waddn't makin' above two pound a week when I
got married--if that. Two pound a week was about my top-notch in those
days. Well, it's different now." He shrugged his shoulders. "And I'll
tell you for why, Sally. It was Poll, there. Don't you forget it. If a
man's got a good wife--say there's something in him--he'll end his days
in comfort. _She'll_ see to that. Now, the man you marry----"
"Here, Perce! Steady on!" cried Mrs. Perce. "Sally's not seventeen yet,
remember."
"Wait!" Old Perce directed a finger. Sally was brimming with gladness,
at the topic and the confidence in herself which she saw he was going to
express. "The man you marry, Sally--he'll have to _be_ a man. Understan'
what I mean? None of these fine la-di-da fellows, but a Man. And--if he
works, you save. Not to scrape, you understand. Just save. For the first
five years, be careful. Have your fun. No harm in that. But be careful.
No kids. No swank. Stability, that's what's wanted. Stability. If you've
got a bit of money behind you---- See what I mean?"
"Oo yes, Mr. Barrow," said Sally, incoherent with pride. "That's just
what I think."
Old Perce looked at Mrs. Perce, raising his shoulders as if to exhibit
Sally to her. There was a nod between them. For some time all became
rather thoughtful, perhaps thinking--as she was uncontrollably doing--of
Sally's future. Old Perce took out his pipe at last.
"I'm just going to step in the other room, Sally," he remarked, "and
have a pipe and a bit of a tune. I'll see you later--you ladies," he
added gallantly, with a bow. And then he withdrew, leaving them alone,
with Sally's cheeks flushed at the warmth and the subject they had been
considering. All the time old Perce had been talking she had been
wishing that Toby had been there to hear. Then he'd have seen what these
people thought of her. They didn't think of her face; they didn't go off
in a huff because she had been too ill to go out one evening. They
knew.... Tears filled her eyes. She stared at the red fire in the grate.
Mrs. Perce had her back turned, filling the kettle for the inevitable
washing-up, and so she did not see this sudden arrival of tragic
reflection. All she saw was a willing Sally gathering the dishes and
scraping the fishbones together ready for throwing behind the fire. How
was Mrs. Perce to visualise that other tea, that lonely figure in the
other room? How was anybody to understand why Sally was so different
from what she had been at home?
Over the washing-up, the two became confidential. Sally broached the
subject of the West End. She dilated upon it. Mrs. Perce was all
sympathy, and full of agreement.
"You're quite right," she said. "And I'm glad. I wish I could help you.
Now, can I?" She thought a moment. "Wait a bit. Wait a bit."
She went out of the room. Amid the din of "There you are, there you are,
there you ain't--ain't--ain't," Sally heard her call: "Perce, what's the
name Maggie Merrick calls herself now?" There was a silence. The door of
the other room was closed. Sally, standing by the kitchen table, drying
a plate, strained her ears unavailingly. A silence was upon the flat.
Only the fire huskily caved in, and little darting sparks flew into the
air. It was as though her life hung suspended. Then, in a few minutes,
Mrs. Perce returned, a triumphant beam upon her face. "You go and see
Maggie on Monday," she said. "I'll write her a letter. She calls herself
Gala--Madame Gala. Got a place round behind Regent Street, and about
twenty hands. She's a very old friend of mine.... I'll give you a letter
to-night. Just say you come from Polly Barrow. She'll see you. Course, I
can't be sure...."
"No, no!" Sally's concurrence was eager. Her heart was like a flame.
"You _are_ kind to me, Mrs. Perce."
"If I can help you, Sally...." Mrs. Perce's voice took on a tone of
kindness almost solemn. "Well, that's all right. Just wait till these
things are washed."
Trembling, Sally introduced her other problem. At first Mrs. Perce gave
a great laugh, and looked very sharply at Sally. She looked at her
dress, at her face, at her hair.
"I don't want to look...."
"It wouldn't help you to look made-up. Not with Maggie. So there _is_ a
boy!"
"No!" Sally's tone was fierce.
"Oh, all right." Mrs. Perce was evidently not altogether convinced. She
dried her hands, her head consideringly upon one side.
"Who'd look at me?" There was a vain effort in this speech to
corroborate the disclaimer; but there was also an ingenuous and pathetic
appeal for some sort of reassurance, for this was Sally's hidden fear.
"Don't be a fool, Sally. If a girl makes up her mind to have a man...."
Sally's heart leapt. She looked with shining eyes of glory at Mrs.
Perce. It was the announcement of her dream, a confirmation of her hope.
She was for a moment ecstatic.
"Oh, Mrs. Perce!"
"You just look at him like that, my dear. Well, I'll tell you.... You
don't want to look _too_ fresh. Don't use peroxide. Henna's the stuff
for you."
"Henna! How much?" Sally was desperate. The word was open sesame to her.
"Wait a bit. I'll think. Henna. And a face cream. But mind, Sally, be
careful. Not too much of it. And whatever you do, remember your neck.
_You_ don't see it; but others do. All that's above your dress. And a
bit below. Some people are inquisitive. And just a bit of lip
salve--just a tinge. See, your lips aren't red enough. But you've got to
be on the watch not to overdo it. No good looking like a tart."
"No. It's just the hair and the freckles," breathed Sally.
"Oh, well.... We'll make a picture of you. And the eyebrows, Sally. But
only a bit, Sally. Only a bit. You've got to be moderate...."
Mrs. Perce went off into a delighted silence. She was in her element.
She had before her a great opportunity, and all her vanity was roused.
They understood one another. And for all Sally's disclaimer Mrs. Perce
was in no way deceived about her ultimate object. She was as aware of
Toby as if she knew the facts. But she was too shrewd to force a
confidence. To herself she was laughing with the full enjoyment which
some women, if not most of them, bring to the contemplation of an
intrigue and its ultimate consequences. Later, she resolved to add a
word of warning upon the handling of that subject. But more thought
encouraged her to be silent. There was that in Sally's bearing which
gave Mrs. Perce to understand that in the long run Sally knew what she
was about. Mrs. Perce was conscious of a smart feeling of admiration for
this child.
xi
Clasping tightly the precious henna and her other purchases, Sally
hurried home through the dark streets. Within her blouse was the letter
to Madame Gala. Her head was full of her plans, her delighted
anticipations of victory. For this moment she could not contemplate the
possibility that all would not go well. She was intoxicated. Her heart
was swelling. Thoughts galloped away, like steam from a boiling kettle.
She kept no memory of them. It was enough for her that she was thrilled
with her own prospects. Of course Mrs. Perce's friend would take her on.
Of course Toby would fall in love with her. She could make him. Once let
her achieve her immediate objects, and there was no end to future
possibilities. How strange, how wonderful, the difference which the last
few hours had made to her! It really seemed true for once that in the
darkest hour dawn was most nearly at hand. She let herself into the
house and crept up the stairs, subdued but exultant. It would now have
taken much more than the coldness and darkness of the horrible room to
spoil her excited happiness. She even welcomed them, because if her
mother awoke there would be the less need for explanations. She stood a
candle upon the washstand, screened from the bed, and lighted the oil
stove which they always used for preparing the breakfast. Her purchases
were carefully arrayed, and then hidden. She removed her outer clothes,
and let down her hair, shivering slightly, but tense with resolve and
the absorption of the moment. Round her shoulders she hung a big towel,
and kicked it out, looking down at her legs and feet. She was conscious
of pride, of physical freedom. She made small dancing steps, as happy as
a child, while she waited and waited for the slow kettle to boil.
Later, Sally stole to bed, careful not to touch her sleeping mother,
lest her own chill body should awaken her and provoke a querulous scene.
She was shuddering from head to foot. It seemed to take hours to shake
off the frozen feeling, and if she raised her feet and touched them with
her hands they were like pieces of ice. They were still cold when she
forgot everything; and she awoke, the towel still about her head, with
the sun up and the day well advanced. A careful hand to her hair, a
quick scurry to the mirror, a leap of apprehensiveness; and then she was
back in bed, shamming sleep, because her mother had stirred. The two lay
side by side for ever so long, until Sally could once again allow
herself to breathe freely. She did not examine her feelings: she only
knew that she was afraid and confident, alternately timid and ashamed,
and then again breathing deep with satisfaction. She had begun. She was
set out upon her adventure. At a blow she had to put everything to the
test. How she longed for the next day! How she longed for her interview
with Mrs. Perce's friend, and for her next encounter with Toby!
xii
At night she allowed her mother to go to bed first, and waited a little
while before beginning her preparations. She was so long that her
mother, although still engrossed by the pain in her head, began to
grumble.
"What you doing, Sally?" she cried sharply.
"Washing my hair," answered Sally, like a shot.
"Ought to have done it in daylight, silly girl. And dried it in front
the fire. I don't know what's _come_ to you, Sally. You seem to do
everything you can to worrit me. Now I want to go to sleep, and you keep
the lamp burning, and the fire burning, and it's all alight, so I can't
get off."
Sally shaded the lamp. Her lip was curled. She did not deign to answer
the complaint. Silly old fool; always grumbling! Let her wait. Let her
wait and see what happened! Sally was less excited, and less clumsy,
to-night. She was warmer, too; and that gave her more assurance. Once
her mother had fallen asleep, as she knew from the loud breathing, she
became leisurely. Her actions were even luxurious, so much more at ease
was she. First of all she combed her hair, wishing it were longer. Then
she made all her dispositions. For the next hour she was busy, and by
the time she was in bed she had begun to giggle almost hysterically. She
lay quite still, and quite warm, listening for some sound of Toby. But
none came. Wherever he was, she did not hear him before she went to
sleep.
And then in the dark morning her mother could not see the transformation
that had occurred; and Sally could not see it, either. They made a slow
and tasteless breakfast, and Mrs. Minto slipped out to her first
situation, where she had to be at half-past seven. From that she would
go on to another at half-past ten that would keep her for the greater
part of the afternoon. Sally, instead of going back to bed, as she often
did when the two breakfasted together, dressed herself with great care
and prepared to go out and meet May Pearcey. She tried to see herself in
the mirror, but could only get a lamplight view that frightened her. She
had washed very carefully, and as she had made her own dress it fitted
well and suited her. She had a big black hat and was going to get new
gloves before calling upon Madame Gala. Her shoes were bad, but she
brushed them well. Stockings she had bought on Saturday night. Turning
round and round before the mirror, extending her arms, and patting down
her skirt, she was content with everything but the incalculable effect
of her recent activities. But the part of her hair which showed beneath
her hat was a rich shade, and if her face looked artificially pale it
still appeared smooth and fresh.
What doubt she may have had was set at rest by May Pearcey when they
met. The encounter took place in Grove Road at the corner of Hornsey
Road, just where the shops are; and the two girls walked westward
together.
"Oo, Sally, you _do_ look smart!" May irrepressibly cried. "Oo, what you
bin doing to your hair! Looks lervly! Oo, and your face. Got off with a
earl?"
She was all attention at Sally's tale, and Sally showed her the letter
to Madame Gala. They stood together reading it. For the moment May was
honestly full of congratulation. She was so simple-minded, and so little
attached to the dressmaking, that she had no envy. A boy would have been
a different matter. And she was honestly delighted with Sally's
appearance.
"You look lervly!" she kept saying. "Oo, I do hope you get it. I say,
come out 's evening, and tell me. Will you?" May was very coaxing
indeed. She was sincerely impressed.
It was a compliment, as well as a curiosity. Sally hesitated. She had
planned to see Toby; but if Toby was going to be a lout she might just
as well show him she didn't care.
"All right," she said. "Look here, if I'm not there by half-past seven,
you'll know I've been kept--mother's kept me. See?"
"Mother!" laughed May. "Well, I'll be there quarter-past. See! Shouldn't
come any further, case old Mother Jubb's lookin' out the window. She
might not believe you was ill if she saw you lookin' so smart. Might
think you was takin' a day off to go to the Zoo."
They parted, May Pearcey to spin a tale of Sally's illness to Miss
Jubb, and Sally to proceed, after getting a pair of black cotton gloves,
to the West End. In the shop, half hidden among the rolls of flannel and
little racks and trays of smaller articles of haberdashery, there was a
full-length strip of mirror. It stood gloomily in the half-light of the
shop, which, like all suburban drapers' shops, had the air of a crowded
and airless cavern full of stale adornments. Sally did not see the
mirror at first, but while the shop girl went to fetch the gloves, she
was looking idly round when she caught sight of a slim young lady in
black. The young lady was very trim, dressed all in black, with slim
ankles and pretty hands, and a big black hat--and it was herself!
Herself, looking like a lady. Quickly, she stepped to the mirror,
examining her cheeks, her neck, her brows, and her gloriously
richly-tinted hair. She was amazed and delighted. A proud smile twisted
her thin little lips, so slightly touched with Lipsol that they did not
seem to have been touched at all, but only to be prettier than usual.
After the first curiosity, the first flush of recognition, followed
precise scrutiny. Sally nodded to herself. She would do. There was no
doubt of it. From that moment she was no longer triumphant or excited:
she was sure. She had learnt a great lesson, that excitement is no
criterion of victory or happiness, and that the artist is cool,
confident, free from triumph. At a bound, Sally had become an artist.
She had always been potentially an artist; but she at last had attained
vision.
xiii
Precious pennies went to pay her tram fare to Tottenham Court Road; and
from there she walked to Madame Gala's, asking the way, and getting
rather flustered and bewildered at the pushing crowds and the big shops
with their irresistible windows, and the extraordinary amount of
traffic that seemed to make Oxford Street one continuous torrent of
carts and omnibuses. The big furniture shops in Tottenham Court Road had
impressed her; but the shops in Oxford Street were beyond anything she
ever remembered to have seen. A flash of comparison with Holloway--even
with Jones's magnificent row of shops on the way to Highbury, or the big
drapers and clothiers in the Upper Street--made her realise how right
had been her longing for the West End. It had been more than a dream. It
had been an inspiration. Holloway was seen in its dinginess, its greasy
mud on the rough roads, the general air it had of being a step or two
behind the times; and here was the brilliance, the enthralling reality,
of the West to take its place. Sally was conscious of new buoyancy. If
she had been pleased with Tottenham Court Road, and delighted with the
essentially commonplace Oxford Street, she exulted in that alluring
curve which will always make Regent Street a fascination for the visitor
to London and even a satisfaction to the Londoner himself. Sally was
both a Londoner and a visitor, and her feelings were proportionate. She
did not know that she was proud of being London born and bred; but her
eye was possessive, and she would not have given London in exchange for
the dozen other great capitals of the world put together. She looked
round at the shops, at the buildings and the traffic; and she made a
historic remark.
"Cooh," she said. "Fine! Fancy _living_ here! This is the place for me."
It was final. It took no account of the risks of a peradventure. Madame
Gala was a mere cog in the great wheel of Sally's progress through life.
Even Toby had at first no place in her survey. Then she wondered if he
knew Regent Street. He could come one Saturday and wait for her outside
Madame Gala's. They would swank, and go and have tea at an A. B. C. or
Lyons's; and perhaps go into Hyde Park. Gradually it came back to her
that her father used to take them to Hyde Park on Sundays. But that was
long ago, and on Sundays the traffic was less and the shops were all
shuttered. She gave a sigh at the memory, awoke, and marched up to a
colossal policeman who was wagging a pair of gloves in his right
hand--as if to keep the flies away, but in reality to encourage the
traffic. He inclined an ear, and an eye to her letter, and trumpeted out
directions.
And at last Sally reached Madame Gala's, and with Madame Gala's another
turning-point in her life. It was the first time she had been conscious
of so all-important an event. When she came to the building she was
trembling. Her eyes closed, almost in an expression of prayer. She took
five minutes to climb the stairs to the second floor, and then turned to
fly. She recovered, and hung about for a while, hoping for some accident
to carry her right into the place. Then, with a feeble air of
confidence, she pushed open the door and walked in without knocking.
Sally could have fallen down in horror; for as she entered she saw a
very tall young woman talking to the most beautifully dressed person she
had ever seen. And they were in a room such as Sally had never been in
before--a room entirely decorated in a sort of grey-blue. Wallpaper,
hangings, and chair-upholsterings were exactly uniform. The effect,
although beautiful and restful, was to Sally's eye so sumptuous that she
felt she must by some terrible mischance have come into a drawing-room.
But she heard the young woman say, "Yes, meddam.... I'll tell Madame
Gala.... Yes, meddam.... Yes, meddam ... quite ... yes, I quite....
_Good_ morning, meddam." And then as the wonderful creature disappeared
in a whirl of richness, like a fairy godmother, the tall young woman
turned almost pouncingly upon Sally, and in a contemptuous voice said
"Yes?"
Sally shook herself. It was the gesture of one who has been dreaming.
"I want to see Madame Gala," she said, very distinctly. "I've got a
letter for her from Mrs. Barrow."
"Where is it?" demanded the young woman. "That it?"
She took from Sally's unwilling but unresisting hand the letter which
Mrs. Perce had written, pulled it from the open envelope, read it, and
looked again at Sally.
"I want to _see_ Madame Gala," said Sally, stubbornly. Her little mouth
was now very savagely set, and if there had been any refusal upon the
young woman's part there would have been a scene.
"All right. Keep your hair on," said the inquisitive young woman. "Are
you Miss Minto?"
"Yes, I am." Sally nodded energetically, flushing. She wondered if the
word "hair"....
Her interlocutor turned, and went into an inner room, replacing the
letter as she did so, and folding over the flap, so that it would seem
as though she knew nothing of the contents. Sally quickly saw the kind
of person she was--an interfering creature, with "Miss Pry" written all
over her. She was tall and thin, and had gooseberry eyes and a small
nose and a large sycophantic mouth. Sally had a picture of her all the
time she was away--grey-blue dress and all. She didn't like her. She
hated her. She knew that they would never get on together. Miss Nosey!
"Yes, meddam; no, meddam ... yes, I _quite_...." Sally tried to
pronounce quite "quaite," as she had done. After all, she was only a
sort of maid--somebody to take the names of callers. She'd got no right
to be saucy. Old six-foot. Old match-legs. She'd got a nose in
everybody's business. Mind she didn't get it pulled!... But what a
lovely room! Must have cost pounds and pounds! All grey-blue--even to
the little ornaments on the mantelpiece, all except the black tiger.
Fancy working in a place like this! Different to Miss Jubb's! Sally gave
a sort of internal giggle, a noiseless affair that was almost just a
wriggle of delight. Miss Jubb! Did you ever see anything like the dress
she made for Mrs. Miller, of 17 Tavistock! Chronic, it was! Like a
concertina! And poor old Annie Jubb getting flurried when the material
frayed in the scissors! Cooh! Call her a dressmaker! More like a figure
of fun!
"Come in, please," said Nosey, jerking her nose. And Sally started once
again from reverie, to follow the tall young woman from the grey-blue
room into another one which was all in a warm colour between orange and
biscuit. She swallowed quickly, and heard a little runnel of moisture in
her dry throat. There was a throbbing behind her eyes. She became very
small and clumsy, and kept her head lowered, and her hands clasped.
When a voice bade her sit down, Sally stole a quick glance at Madame
Gala. At once she lowered her eyes again, because they had met
unexpectedly a pair of eyes more disconcerting than any she had known
since her schooldays. Madame Gala did not employ a score of hands for
nothing! She had looked at Sally the moment Sally came into the room,
and did not cease to look at her. And she had very cold grey eyes, and
was very cold (really very deficient in stamina) herself. She was
terribly thin, and chilling, and capable. She was dressed in grey; but
you could not see the dress except at the bottom of the skirt and the
middle of the sleeves, because she wore a large pinafore-overall, of a
lighter grey and a softer material. She had no pins in her mouth, and
there were no pictures of costumes or sheets of paper patterns to be
seen. But the room, all the same, was a workroom, and there was a
beautiful large table in it which could have served for cutting out a
costume for a giantess.
"You're Miss Minto. How old are you? Hn, small for your age. Mother and
father? When did your--oh, you're in mourning for him. How did he die?
What sort of accident? Hn.... What experience have you had? Miss _What?_
Oh, yes ... two years. Have you left? I see. Well, Mrs. Barrow's an old
friend of mine, and I'd like to oblige her. Also, I want more help. My
business is increasing. If you can start in a fortnight I'll pay you
six--no, I'll pay you seven shillings a week. You get here at nine in
the morning. You'll do as you're told, and behave yourself. You'll work
under a very clever lady, Miss Summers, in that room. I'll show you.
Come in here...."