adjoining, where a number of girls were (apparently) frantically
busy--far too busy to be conscious that their employer had entered the
room. Sally did not believe that they were always so intent upon their
work. She knew too much. To herself she said "Swank!" It was a
beautifully light place, all decorated in a pale grey; and there was a
long deep bench all round the room. It was lighted by windows and a
skylight, and it was plain that a considerable amount of work was in
progress. Sally gave a dazed glance round, and looked again, saying,
"Yes, ma'am; Yes, ma'am," to everything Madame Gala said; and a few
minutes later was out in the street again, engaged at seven shillings a
week, and not knowing whether she was alive or dead, awake or dreaming.
The day was still before her; she had nearly ten shillings hidden in her
bodice; and she was a queen amid all the surging traffic of the West
End--her West End--the place of her dreams, her pilgrimage, her triumph.
Sally's eyes were filmed with tears. She walked away from the building
passionately fighting with sobs that rose from deep within her. The
tears trickled down her white cheeks. And all at once she was laughing
again, chuckling and chuckling as if this was the most splendid joke in
the world. And then, when the laughter was done, she was once again
Sally, deliberate, cool and unflinching. This was what she had
determined. There were other steps to follow. She must not be too sure;
she must go carefully. But all the same she would win. She was Sally.
She was going to get on. She was going to be cautious. She was going to
be secure. That was her touchstone--security. Without it, she would
never know peace. At all costs, security. That meant keeping cool. That
meant watching your step. And in the end it meant making money, and
having enough to eat, and nice clothes, and pleasures, and all that she
had never yet had. Into the eyes that had been brimming with tears, and,
immediately after, with glee, there came once again a hardness, a
determination. It was the expression of a wary animal, treading among
dangers.
xiv
By an instinct, Sally turned west, so that she presently found herself
in a confusing number of small streets; but when she had extricated
herself and had mastered the geography of that part of London she was
rewarded by coming out into Park Lane, with the fine breadth of Hyde
Park open to her eyes and her impulse towards exploration. She pretended
that she knew the Park; but in fact to her older eyes and in its weekday
freedom from crowds it looked so different that she could not link it
with ancient memories. Thus, for a time, its paths and its greenness and
its air of great space gave her unqualified pleasure. She wandered on,
observing the fallen leaves, and the few pedestrians; and looked up at
the blue sky, and marvelled to herself; and then presently she sat down
upon one of the public seats and tried to get some coherence into her
thoughts. She sat there for some time, her shabby little toes cocked up
on the gravel before her, and she began to feel lonely and tired and
restless, as though something further had still to be done. There was
the whole day before her. She could not stay here, because although the
day was clear and fine there was a chill wind, and she was not warmly
clad. Already her hands were feeling numb in the cotton gloves, and her
feet were losing the pleasant tired tingle they had had a short time
before. The sense of innumerable hours which had to be filled was strong
upon Sally, who had never previously had so much time to herself, alone.
So she rose briskly from her seat, walked along the broad pathway, and
came back to the Marble Arch, where Oxford Street began again. This time
she was bent upon looking at the shops, and browsed for a time at the
windows of Lewis's, at the end of Orchard Street. And then she had her
inspiration. A clock told her it was after half-past eleven. May's words
came into her mind: "She might think you was takin' a day off to go to
the Zoo."
"Here, where's the Zoo," she suddenly, without a tremor, asked a
policeman.
"They got plenty white mice," the policeman said. "No good you a-goin'
there."
"Saucy!" rebuked Sally. "Suppose they let you out ... on a chain."
"Quite right," said the policeman. "Didn't want to let me go. Everybody
loved little Sammy. But the Police Force wanted me."
"Fancy wanting _you_!" remarked Sally, witheringly, staring at his
good-tempered face, and, under his helmet, at a pair of bright blue
eyes. He was a "red" man. "Give 'em a bit of ginger, I suppose."
"As you go by the Marrabon Road, you just cross over and go into Madame
Tussaud's. You'll see a lot of old friends and relations there. Charlie
Peace, and Mother Dyer...."
"Who's she?" Sally demanded. "Mother Dyer. Never heard of her."
"Mother Dyer? Baby-farmer. Her you used to call 'Nursie.' Go straight
along here, and when you've looked at Madame Tussaud's, keep down the
Marrabon Road till you come to the Park. See? Regent's Park, that is.
And walk along the nice broad road, and you'll find the Zoo on your
left. Good morning, my dear.... Don't let 'em keep you, will you?...
Cahm alahng, 'ere; cahm alahng, 'ere." He broke off to attend to the
traffic, which he addressed in a very different way from that in which
he had spoken to Sally; and she, rather cheered by the exchange of
badinage, set off towards Baker Street and the Marylebone Road with a
new interest in hand. Madame Tussaud's and the Zoo in one day! What a
day it would have been by the time she reached the end of it. What a
tale she would be able to tell May in the evening!
Apart from the two visits which she made, to the wax-works and the
menagerie, both of which took so long that she did not get home until
six o'clock, Sally had no other adventure. She had lunch in the Zoo, and
arrived back in Holloway with less than five shillings remaining from
her windfall. But it had been a day, and it still held marvellous
possibilities of an encounter with Toby. Her first thought on reaching
home was of him. That was why she was so deaf to her mother's
complaining. She did not hear it. And she did not tell her mother of the
day's outing. There would be time for that later. If she told her now
there would only be trouble, and Sally was tired of trouble. When she
had explained to Miss Jubb, and had left Miss Jubb on Saturday week, she
would airily say to her mother: "I got a job in the West End, now." See
ma jump! Sally was conscious for the first time of a slightly sinking
heart. Suppose she didn't suit Madame Gala? Suppose she lost her new job
after a week or two? Oh, rubbish.... Rot! Time enough for the gripes
when she got the sack!
She could hear no sound at all from the room above. Was Toby not home
yet? He used to get home about ten minutes past six, as a rule. It was
now a quarter-past. If she did not hear him she would go and meet May,
and then call in to tell Mrs. Perce all about the news, and then come
home after her mother had gone to bed. She had her tea, turning up her
nose at it, and all the time wishing for something better. For some time
after the meal she stood about reflecting upon her day and upon the
possibilities of the future. Consideringly, she at last said in a
matter-of-fact tone:
"One day we'll have jam for tea, ma. And kippers. And fried sausages.
And steak and chips."
"Good gracious!" cried Mrs. Minto. "Whatever's put such ideas into your
head!"
"And we'll have real coal, and thick blankets, and a new mattress, and
new curtains, and a brass fender. And everything in the room'll be a
beautiful gray-blue. And you'll sit here, doing nothing."
"I'm sure I shan't," exclaimed Mrs. Minto, fingering her mouth to hide a
nervous smile of pleasure.
"Doing nothing. And Elbert, the footman, will come in with the tea and
take it away again; and you'll say, Elbert'--mustn't say 'Elbert
dear'--you'll say, 'Elbert, just bring me my glass of hot water at ten
o'clock.' And he'll say, 'Yes, me lady.' No, he won't. He'll say, 'Yes,
meddam ... quite.... Yes, meddam.' That's what he'll say. Lick your
shoes, he will, because you're rich."
"Rich!" sighed Mrs. Minto. "Who's to make me rich?"
"I'm going to make us all rich," explained Sally. "You mark my words and
wait and see."
"I wouldn't mind not being rich," Mrs. Minto said, "if it wasn't that my
poor 'ed...."
"O-oh!" cried Sally, in wrath. Her mood was crushed by this inexorable
return to the subject she had been chattering to avert. "Give your old
head a rest, ma. Here, come out for a walk with me."
"You're not to go out, Sally. Mrs. Roberson says...."
"_That_ for Mrs. Roberson," said Sally, already on her feet. "You don't
suppose I'm going to stick in here and get frozen stiff. There's nothing
to do indoors. I got no sewing. Only makes me fret if I stay at home.
I'm going to see Mrs. Perce...."
She moved hastily to the door, and closed it quietly after her, for she
had heard below her the shutting of the front door, and she thought it
might be Toby at last. It was nearly a quarter to seven. Her guess had
been right. It was he. Seeming not to have heard him, she ran lightly
down the stairs as he heavily mounted them. Her heart was thumping so
that she felt quite sick and faint. She could no longer run, but could
only totter down towards the inevitable confrontation. It was there, and
it was past--a plain, boorish "Evening." She managed the rest of the
flight at a run; but when she was out of doors Sally turned to the
darkness and could no longer restrain her tears of anguish. This was the
end of her day. Laugh in the morning, cry before night. That was the
truest proverb that ever was made. She was heartbroken.
xv
There was no question of seeing May or calling upon Mrs. Perce. Sally
was beaten. She was full of expostulations and arguments, but all were
addressed to Toby, and she could not have borne any other society. So
she wandered about the streets for an hour, miserably aware that once or
twice she was followed by an aimless strolling youth who did not know
how to occupy a lonely evening and who yet was too much of a coward to
address her. In her mind she went over every detail of her friendship
with Toby. It had become suddenly unreal, like a thing that had happened
years before. And yet the throb of pain belonging to her sense of his
cruelty was immediate. Every detail was clear to her; and the whole was
blurred. He was a stranger; and yet his presence would at once have
given life to her memories. They had been written, as it were, in
invisible ink, which needed only the warmth of a fire to produce their
message vividly once again. Sally sobbed from time to time; but she was
no longer crying. Her pain was too deep to be relieved by tears, which
with her were the result of weakness, since she was not naturally
liquid. And as the memory was exhausted in its evocation she began to
think as of old. Her quick brain was recovering its sway. She was no
longer an overwrought child. And yet when she strove to plan a
discomfiture for Toby, who had so wickedly hurt her, she shrank from
that also; so it was still a restless and undetermined Sally who
returned home to find her mother dozing by the feeble warmth of a dying
fire.
The next day passed in a variety of moods, and in the evening Sally
found in herself the determination to call upon Mrs. Perce. She had
explained her non-arrival of the previous night to May, and had removed
her grievance with a recital of all she had done during the stolen day.
She had endured Miss Jubb's sour scrutiny of her hair, which was
accomplished without comment. And she had almost, but not quite, told
Miss Jubb of her proposed change. At times her courage was very nearly
high enough, but it never reached the necessary point, or the
opportunity was ruined at the vital moment by some interruption. So Miss
Jubb worked innocently, not guessing the blow that was to fall. That it
would be a serious blow only Sally suspected. Miss Jubb had never even
supposed it possible that Sally would leave her. The three of them spent
the day in the little workroom, which managed by the end of the
afternoon to be the coldest and the closest room in the neighbourhood,
perhaps owing to Miss Jubb's use of a defective stove for heating, and
her own radical immunity from chilblains.
After tea Sally went straight to Hornsey Road. In thinking of Toby as
she left the house she made a light gesture with her fingers to show
that he no longer existed. If she had met him she would have attempted
no greeting, for such was her present temper. At the Barrows' she was
received with acclamation. Old Perce, who had enjoyed a good deal of
four-ale during the day, and had a jugful of it now at his elbow,
collapsed at sight of her. He bayed a little, but with an expression of
admiring wonder that gave Sally her best tribute. Mrs. Perce, the
expert, nodded. She had received a letter in the morning from Madame
Gala. So to her all the news was known. All the same, Sally spent a
happy couple of hours in the flat, and collected her outdoor clothes
with unwillingness. Each time she had been to see Mrs. Perce she had
felt more strongly than of old the contrast between her always-cheerless
home and their warm, prosperity-laden atmosphere. The recognition acted
powerfully upon her. It was the creation in her mind of a standard of
physical comfort, as the visit to Madame Gala had created a standard of
decorative colour. She was frowning at the new perception as she left
the house, and was half-absorbed in her consciousness of it.
The feeling did not prevent her, at first with a sharp tingling of
surprise, and then, as she grasped the significance of the fact, a start
of emotional disorder, from seeing a familiar figure in the light of the
Supply Stores. Her heart jumped, and began to flurry in her breast. The
figure she saw was that of Toby. He stood a little to the side of the
Stores, watching the doorway from which Sally came. As she flinched, he
came across the road. Sally pretended not to notice him, and knew that
he was following her. But Toby made no attempt to speak to her while
they were in the light of the shops. She saw that he had his cap pulled
very low down over his eyes, and that his hands were not in his pockets,
but hanging loose. He was dressed in a rough dark tweed suit, and looked
like a fighter, but not a professional boxer. His carriage was clumsy,
but light. His dark face was marked by a sort of determination--not
bravado, not impudence, but a solid resoluteness. His eyes she had never
properly seen. His mouth was large, but the lips were thin; the nose was
coarse, but not big. He was ugly, but he was very obviously strong. He
was not tall, but was very sturdily built, and gave the air of
considerable strength. As he followed her she could hardly keep from
looking back; it was only with a great effort that she kept her eyes
forward, and as she turned into Grove Road she increased her pace. Sally
knew quite well what he would do. He would wait until she had passed the
block of shops and had come to the comparative darkness of the houses
beyond. Then he would walk abreast and speak to her. And while she tried
to think what to do her heart was strangling her. She was so excited
that her breath was coming almost in sobs. She was excited, but she did
not therefore feel at his mercy.
It happened as Sally had foreseen. As soon as she was past the shops she
heard his urgent voice at her elbow--"Sally!" For a moment she ignored
it. Then she turned, very coldly, and with a slight sneer looked at him.
They were side by side now. He was keeping step with her as easily as he
could have kept step with a child. "Sally," he repeated. Sally stopped
dead.
"What are you following me for?" she asked, viciously. "Why can't you
leave me alone? Following me like that! I never heard of such a thing."
"I been waiting outside for you all the time. I've had no grub. I
followed you from the house. I saw you start out just as I was getting
home."
"Well, what of it? I didn't ask you to follow me, did I?" demanded
Sally. But in the darkness of the street her eyes softened. Her heart
swelled at the thought that he had waited for her in the Hornsey Road
for fully two hours. Toby took her defiance as a matter of course. He
was still standing doggedly before her, and as she began once again to
walk rapidly in the direction of home he followed her, half a step
behind. At the darkest part of the road he put out a hand to check her
progress. Sally snatched away her arm, but he had been prepared for
that, and caught her immediately. He held her, panting, as she pressed
against a big stone gate-post.
"Let me be!" cried Sally, hoarsely and breathlessly. "Let me be." She
did not scream. She was too impressed by his exhibition of strength. He
continued to hold her, and they stood breast to breast, Sally panting,
and Toby with a kind of stolid determination.
"Will you come for a walk quietly?" he asked, jerking his head.
"No," said Sally, "I won't." There was no mercy, no humility. Only a
hard defiance.
"Yes, you will." He pulled her towards him, so that Sally could not
escape. She was now wholly within the circle of his arm, not struggling,
but with her poor thin arms staving him off. Her body was tense. But she
made no sound, and if there were any passers they knew that this was
only a typical lovers' tiff, common to the neighbourhood, and largely a
matter of physical strength and feminine vituperation. "Yes, you will.
See? Come on, Sally."
"You let me go," she demanded.
"Say you'll come. I'll let you go the moment you say that."
Sally hesitated, then bowed her head in a slow acquiescence. He released
her, and she ran; but he easily overtook her, and she was once again
held, still with her back to a pillar. Both were now breathing hard.
Sally's head was lowered. She was suffocating. She seemed to be in
complete darkness. And she had no sense of what was happening. The mere
technique of the row absorbed her. They were almost like two quarrelling
cats, both sullen, both glowering and full of resentment rather than
burning anger.
"Will you come?" asked Toby. "Just for a walk. Half an hour."
"What d'you want me to come for?"
"Want to talk to you."
"Yes, well, I don't want to talk to you. Understand?" Sally was suddenly
trembling with a passionate rage. Her voice quivered as she spoke, and
the words tumbled out in a savage incoherence.
"I'm going to talk to you. So you may as well make up your mind to come.
You don't want to stand here all night, do you?" He was as savage as
she, and more grim. Sally made an attempt to escape, and was further
pinned. He was breaking down the defence of her tired arms. One of his
knees was against her leg. She was slipping, slipping, and her resolve
to fight against him was fading as rapidly in her sense of the physical
contact. She burst into tears. For an instant he loosed her, at that,
but as she sobbingly began to run away he resumed his former hold,
pressing her against him, a broken little girl, and no longer the
triumphant Sally of the morning. Her hand was to her eyes, and she was
biting her lip to restrain her sobs. Toby put his free hand up and
touched hers, held it, drew it away from her wet face.
"Sally," he said. "I want you. Don't cry, Sally."
His arm tightened. His face was close. Although she turned away her
head, and tried to wrench herself free, Sally knew his lips were
relentlessly following her own. She was conscious of all the joy of
surrender, incapable of moving from those strong arms, incapable of
avoiding his kiss. Her eyes closed, her heart rose; she was limp in his
embrace, not as yet returning his caresses, but accepting them with a
feeling of miserable thankfulness. Her hat was tilted back, and she felt
his cheek against hers, his body against her own. How long they stood
she did not know; but at last she put her hands up, put them round his
neck, and feverishly kissed him, welcoming this joy that was half pain.
"D'you love me?" she asked breathlessly.
They were alone in the dark street, in the invisible world; and she had
never been so happy. So at last Toby had his way, and they walked about
the streets for an hour, until it was long past the time when Sally
should have been in bed. Only then did they part, and Sally was
half-undressed when she heard Toby passing upon his way upstairs. Her
cheeks were burning, her eyes shining, her heart exultant. Sometimes,
as she lay wakeful during the long night, she was so happy that she
could hardly breathe. But a moment came when happiness seemed
overwhelmed in a poignance of emotion that resembled rather a terrible
apprehensiveness, and it was then that Sally felt the tears trickling
from her eyes. It was only the reaction from excessive joy; but she was
deeply affected. She longed again for Toby's arms to be round her,
pressing her face into the pillow to comfort herself with the pretence
that he was still there. Exhausted, she slept.
xvi
All the next day she could not work for preoccupation with her
happiness. She was mad with it, and reckless in her madness. It even,
when rebuke came from Miss Jubb, gave her courage to mention Madame
Gala. And that was a further cause for delight, since Miss Jubb's mouth
dropped open at the news and she could hardly speak to her two girls for
the rest of the afternoon. Sally, chuckling to herself, and every now
and then grimacing at May Pearcey, abandoned herself to anticipations of
the evening. She would see her dear Toby, would show how much she loved
him, would feel herself loved, would hear and say all the little secrets
they had never spoken until now. She would know at last what it was to
be in love, and with the man who loved her. How wonderful it was! What
joy! What fun! Sally could not conceal her grin of happiness. Her white
face was as if it had become plump, so immediately did happiness
transfigure her. And she looked at silly old Miss Jubb, and soppy May,
and thought how they had no lovers. May had her boys--she could keep
them. Sally had Toby. Toby was not a boy: he was a man. He shaved; she
had felt the roughness of his chin. May's boys looked as if they had
smooth faces, or if they shaved it made their skins powdery. Miss Jubb
had never had a boy at all, she shouldn't think. You couldn't fancy Miss
Jubb as a young girl. She must be quite old--as old as Sally's
mother--perhaps forty. But ma had been unlucky to strike dad. He had
never been any good. Not like Toby. Toby was getting almost a pound a
week already, he said; and when he was older he would have lots of
money, and never be out of a job, because he worked with his hands, with
engines, and a man who understood engines would never want for work. He
was twenty, and he kept himself. He just took his meals with his aunt,
and lived in his own room the rest of the time. How she would like to
see his room. She longed for them both to get older. But she wanted to
get on herself, first. She thought: if Toby's out all day, and we just
have a little home, I shall be able.... She thought she might be a
dressmaker herself, and employ twenty hands, and have a waiting-room
that was all grey-blue. She had told Toby about Madame Gala, and how he
could come to fetch her Saturdays, and they'd have the afternoons
together. Sally was brimming with plans.
In the middle of them there came a knock at Miss Jubb's door. Miss Jubb
went, thinking it might be a customer. But she came back again in a
minute, with a face even longer than it had been since she heard Sally's
news. She could hardly speak, but stood against the dingy door, which
she held closed, and swallowed quickly before she could say a word.
"Sally dear, there's a man here from the hospital. Get on your hat and
coat, there's a good girl. He says your mother's been taken there. She
turned dizzy just now when she was crossing the road, and was knocked
down by a van, and run over. She's asking for you, Sally. You're to go.
It's not serious, he says. So don't worry about it. You're just to go
and see her."
Mother? Ma knocked down by a van! Sally was on her feet in an instant.
As Miss Jubb went out again to glean further details from the man, Sally
struggled into her hat and coat. She turned with a callousness which
showed that she did not in the least realise what might have happened,
and addressed the startled and gaping May.
"We may not be princesses," she said with a sort of wild gaiety; "but we
do see life!"
xvii