that sinking feeling of having time to fill--a feeling of emptiness of
immediate plan,--which she had felt in Hyde Park on the Monday. At seven
she was to see Toby outside the house. It was not yet five. What was she
to do? Not go back to Miss Jubb's, that was certain! Her mother had been
lying in a cot in a big ward, and her arm was bandaged, and she said
both her legs felt as though they had red-hot nails in them; but she was
conscious, and they had told her she would soon be about again. Sally
was to see Mrs. Roberson and tell her the news, and to go to two other
places to let them know that Mrs. Minto would not be able to come for a
time. And she was to be a good girl, and not worry, but to take the
three shillings and ninepence which was in Mrs. Minto's purse, and look
after herself, and explain to the landlady what had happened.... She had
a host of things to do, and she paid her three calls within ten minutes.
So far the question of money had not troubled her. She did not think
that three shillings and ninepence was very little to live on for
perhaps a month. Her emotions at the moment were so blithe that all she
perceived in herself was a sense of liberty. Ma would not be worrying
her every minute she was indoors to do this or that, and not to do the
other. Ma would not be talking all the time about her head. Ma would not
be watching her, asking what she was doing, playing the policeman,
grumble, grumble, grumble. It was a fine liberation for Sally. That was
the way in which she saw it.
Her first shock was when she arrived home and found her own breakfast
dishes still strewn about the table as she had left them, the fire
unlighted and the old ashes still lying in the grate and upon the
hearth, the bed unmade. She was sobered. She first of all found the oil,
filled the lamp, and set a match to it. Then she swept the hearth and
carefully made a small fire. The coal-blocks took a long time to catch,
as they always did, and they quickly burned dull. Upon them she set a
kettle, washed the dishes in cold water, and laid the table for tea. The
kettle took a century to boil, and she knelt close to the fire, warming
herself and waiting for the first spiral of steam. Everything now made
her feel splendid. She invented a game that she was married to Toby, and
that she was expecting him home; so that for this evening all her work
was thoroughly done. Even the bed was made with care. And when she had
finished tea she cleared away, and spread a little old red cloth upon
the table, and once more snuggled close to the puny fire. As she did so
all her thoughts were for Toby. Already she began to listen for him,
although it was long before his time. Thought of her mother's accident
did not disturb her at all. Thought of the future was abandoned. Only
the sweet delight of being with Toby again was her incessant reverie.
At last she heard him, and started to her feet. Her impulse was to run
to the door and whisper to him at once; but on the way thither she
checked herself. Some scruple of prudence, lest he should think her too
eager for him, made Sally allow the steps to pass on up the stairs. But
for all that she watched the clock, and listened almost passionately for
any sound from above. The fire died. She put on her coat and hat,
standing near the fireplace to catch the last waves of heat, with her
foot upon the fender and her eyes fixed upon the purplish glow, so
rapidly fading to mauve and to grey. She was tense with expectancy. She
had no consciousness of anything but her strained hearing.
Tick-tick-tick. The clock raced on, but the hands all the time appeared
to remain still, by so much did her eager heart outstrip them.
Then there was a thud upstairs, as of a door closed; and quick steps
sounded in Toby's room. He stayed there a few minutes, his feet moving a
little, and Sally guessed that he was washing himself. Then, noisily, he
came down the stairs and left the house. He was barely past the door
when Sally blew out the lamp; but she stood mutely in the darkness for
more than a minute afterwards. Only when her own patience was gone did
she obey her impulse and follow him, creeping down the stairs in the
subdued brown light of the house. Out of doors all was black. She peered
for Toby. He was there just under the lamp at a few yards distance, and
she saw him move farther away at her approach. That action, and the
sense of him, gave Sally the most extraordinary tremor of excitement and
happiness, and her cheeks grew warm. She greeted him with the lightest
touch of the arm, and felt in return his hand to her elbow. They walked
without speech to the end of the road, and by common impulse to a dark
turning where at this time of the evening they knew there would be no
passers; and there Toby caught her in his arms. There was no moon, and
no sound in the street. They were entirely alone, and separated from the
rest of mankind by an impassable wall of obsession. They stood pressed
close to one another, kissing from time to time, and did not speak. They
had at first nothing to say, but there was no shyness between them. They
were absorbed in this physical contact. But after some time Sally told
him her news, and made him tell her what he had done during the day, and
felt a great proprietary interest in him all the while. They spoke in
low tones, lovers and amorous lovers even in the middle of humdrum
confidences. Toby was shocked about Mrs. Minto--far more shocked than
Sally had been or could have been; but she airily reassured him in her
first delicious abandonment to a sense of common life. She said "Oo,
she's all right. Quite comfortable. More than if she was at home. And
it's nicer for me, being alone. See, she grumbles at me--always at
it--what Mrs. Roberson says, and about her head, and what I ought to do,
and that. 'Tisn't that there's really anything to grumble at; only, you
know, it's her nature. I never grumble. That's one thing about me.
Doesn't matter _what_ happens, I never ... you know ... keep on at it,
like mother does. What's the good? Crying won't do any good, or
grumbling either. I shall be happier while she's away--do what I like.
Be on my own."
"Won't you be lonely?" Toby asked.
"Not with you. Different if I hadn't got you. But if I get frightened I
shall just yell for you; and I shall think of you all the time,
upstairs, and wonder if you're thinking of me. Will you be?"
"Course I shall," Toby swore, hugging her until she gasped. "All the
time."
"Will you? It's nice to have somebody to ... you know, like you."
"Is it?" he asked gruffly.
"Don't _you_ feel like that?" she asked artfully. Her reward, another
choking hug, was immediately forthcoming. "You _are_ strong," Sally went
on, and with a sense of daring and ownership and pride felt his arm for
muscle. "I'm strong. In a way. Not massive, or anything of that kind. I
can stand a lot. Mustn't think I'm weak because I'm small; but.... Well,
you know what I mean."
"Strong, but got no strength," suggested Toby. Sally shook him,
chuckling proudly at his wit and will to tease. It was like shaking a
tree, so immovable was he by the exerted strength of her weak arms.
"Saucy!" she said. "Though I s'pose it's what I meant. Toby, you do like
... you know ... _this_?" she suddenly asked, not bent upon a caress,
but in a sudden doubt. Her arms were warmly about his neck as she spoke.
Toby left her no doubt. He was not talkative; he had no ready flow of
compliment; but he could speak the language which a young girl in love
best understands. He could crush her almost to ecstatic forgetfulness in
his vigorous arms. Thus embraced, Sally was in Paradise, and her one
desire was to remain there, in a sort of annulment of every other
interest; but even in Paradise she found her thoughts irrepressible. So
she chattered on, while Toby grunted or did not say anything, or
occasionally grew marvellously glib and told something about his work,
or an anecdote about himself which she sometimes thought he must have
read somewhere. And ever and anon they were lost in silence, and their
closeness to one another, and their long breathless kisses, which made
Sally lean her forehead against Toby's breast and enjoy exquisitely the
sense of being weaker than he and of surrendering all her will to his.
If it had not been so cold they might have stood in this way for the
whole evening; but the wind was searching, and presently they began to
walk along, he with his arm about her so closely that they walked almost
with one motion. Toby smoked his cigarettes, and when he wanted one he
put his left hand in his pocket, and drew out a cigarette, and Sally
felt for his matches, and struck one, and held it for him, and received
smoke in her face, and blew the match out, and received a kiss, Toby all
the time never ceasing to hold her within his right arm. She wished
there were more cigarettes, so much did she enjoy the sense of intimacy.
Sometimes she could not resist the temptation to put her arm round
Toby's waist, and give him a little private hug of her own, to show how
happy she was. She loved the darkness more and more, because it made her
bolder. And the sky was so dark that the lamps were like small nickers,
and if anybody passed it was impossible for a face to be seen. And Sally
was alone in this dream world with Toby. She wished it might continue
like this for ever, night and day, beautifully quiet and secret, with
Toby all the time loving her as much as he did now. It was lovely. It
was lovely. She was happy. She did not feel tired or cross or mean or
worldly any longer; but only happy, and full of love.
At last they heard a clock striking eleven, and Sally gave a jump.
"Mercy! Eleven o'clock. Must go home. Good job mother's not there. Else
she'd be asking questions." She laughed as she spoke. "She'd want to
know something. I shouldn't half have a time. 'Eleven o'clock: where you
been?' I shouldn't mind. I'd take no notice. I don't take any notice of
her, because ... you know ... it encourages her if you take any notice.
Oo, the way she keeps on. You wouldn't believe. Drive me to drink, it
would, if I had it all the time. But she's not there...." Sally hugged
Toby. "Isn't it lovely! Nobody to grumble. Nobody to mind what time I
get in.... Well, you know what I mean. I must go in now." But when it
came to the moment of parting she clung to him. "I don't want to go. I
don't want to go," she cried. "It's been so nice, and I've been so
happy." To her horror she felt that she had begun to cry. With an effort
she pulled herself free. "Well, I suppose I _must_. And you'll think of
me, won't you? Just downstairs. And I'll think of you, and wish you were
there.... Oh, fancy me saying that! Toby...." She was passionately
serious. "Say you love me!"
"Love you!" said Toby.
She turned and waved to him when she was a few steps away, flew back to
his arms, and stayed there for a few minutes. Then, this time with more
resolution, she ran towards home, letting herself in with a sense of
brazen guilt at her lateness, and treading softly up the stairs. When
she was in the room, she shuddered a little, at the cold, and in her
excitement. Then she lighted the lamp and looked at herself in the
mirror--at her bright, betraying eyes, at her mouth, which was also
betraying, and at her hair and cheeks and brows and hands. She was
laughing, but not aloud. Her laughter was the mirth of happy excitement.
And, still so happy, she began to undress; and then thought she would
make herself a cup of tea. So she finished undressing while the kettle
boiled, and was sitting up in bed drinking her tea when she heard Toby
go upstairs. His movements made her start, and the tea dribbed over the
side of the cup. Into her head suddenly came a memory of her own words:
"And I'll think of you, and wish you were there."
"And so I do," she suddenly whispered. "So I do. Oh, I'm wicked. I'm
wicked!" She was trembling, and forgetting everything, her eyes fixed
upon the wall vaguely grey before her, outside the pale ray of the lamp.
Mechanically, she sipped again, and the tea ran warmly into her throat.
"No, I'm not wicked," Sally argued. "I'm not. 'Tisn't wicked to love any
one like I do Toby. It's wonderful. Fancy me in love! And Toby ... well,
liking me. Oo, he is strong and big. Wonder if he's brave? I should
think so. You couldn't be as strong as him and not be brave. Oh, I love
him." She remembered their caresses, unembarrassed and exulting. She
knew what it was to be loved. She knew ... she knew everything.
Everything that made people love each other and want to be always
together. Her mind persistently went on kneading into a general memory
the detached memories of the evening, and she was excited and full of
longing for Toby. Slowly she drank her tea, without thinking of it at
all, but accepting its comfort. Her shoulders began to feel cold, and
she shivered as she finished the cup.
Sally slid out of bed to replace the cup and to put out the lamp. As her
hand was outstretched she thought she heard a faint noise, but a
moment's startled listening reassured her. It had been nothing. She
lowered the wick, and blew out the remaining small blue rim of light.
Another instant, and she would have been back in bed, snuggled down in
the warmth. But at that instant she heard a further sound, this time the
turning of the door handle. She froze with sudden dread. In the darkness
she could see nothing.
"Who's there?" she whispered.
The door must slightly have opened. She could now see it open in the
gloom.
"Sally."
It was Toby. Joy took the place of fear. He was inside the door, and
she was in his arms, and the door was closed again behind them.
"My dear," Sally was saying, in a thick little caressing voice. "My
dear."
"Had to come," mumbled Toby, hoarsely. "Thought of you all alone. I
wanted you. See, I had to come."
"Of course you did," murmured Sally, her spirit leaping up and up in
tempestuous excitement. "Toby, you do love me? You _do_ truly love me?"
She had no sense then of anything but her love for him and his love for
her. She was carried right past caution and thought. She was in his
arms, and she was happy. And Toby, a dim figure of burly strength, was
kissing her until she was blinded and choking with excitement beyond all
she had ever felt. Everything conspired to affect her--all suppressions,
all knowledges, all curiosities and vanities. Nothing but caution could
have restrained her, and caution was forgotten. She was vehemently moved
and beyond judgment or reflection. Her one desire was to give herself to
the man she loved, the man who loved her. And the opportunity was upon
them as they were in the first fever of their passion.
BOOK TWO: GAGA
i
Ten days later, Sally began her work with Madame Gala. She arrived
punctually, but found Nosey before her, keeping a record of arrivals.
She also found one or two other girls, who stared at her in an
inquisitive fashion and went on talking among themselves. Only when a
forewoman--Miss Summers--arrived did the big room take on any air of
being used for work, and within five minutes all the girls were in a
state of preparation. Sally saw that they all had sleeved pinafores or
overalls; she had none. As she had not a farthing to buy material to
make such a thing, and had only a couple of slices of bread and
margarine in her coat pocket for lunch, and would have to walk all the
way home, Sally could not fight against the chilling of her heart which
quick glances about the workroom produced. The girls were of all sorts
and sizes, some of them smartly dressed and coiffed; others wearing
clothes less expensive even than her own, and with a general air of not
knowing how to make the best of themselves. Looking round at the faces
she could see none that indicated cleverness or special intelligence.
One ferrety-looking little thing seemed as though she might be either
sharp or half-witted; a tall dark girl who was rather pretty and had
beautiful hair used her hands with assurance; but observation did not
make Sally feel ashamed of herself or of her ability. These girls could
do almost as they were told, but not quite. But the pinafore was a
serious question. Sally had never been used to such a thing. She had not
even brought an apron.
While the others settled down, whispering among themselves and looking
sharply at Sally, the forewoman, after a greeting, ignored her until she
had attended to all that was more important. In her hands was the giving
out of work. Sally saw that she was supposed to know what each girl
could do. She also saw that some girls were favourites and others not.
If she were to make progress here she must be a favourite. She must show
quickly that she had the brains and could work well. It took a very
short time to make her realise that. For a moment she was inclined to be
over-confident; but that mood collapsed before a side glance and a
titter from two of the girls. Their instinctive ridicule warned and
stiffened Sally. They did not know her. She would have to prove her
qualities. She then concentrated upon Miss Summers, watching how she
turned, how she smiled and frowned, and how she explained what had to be
done to each girl who was receiving new work. Miss Summers was a short
stout woman with cat's eyes and a long nose. She licked her lips like a
cat. She was inconsistent and short-tempered; but Sally afterwards found
that while she was extraordinarily vain she was rarely unkind. But in
general she was severe, because severity was the only course to pursue
with these chattering girls, who were full of scratches and jealousies,
and who would have taken advantage of weakness with rapid
unscrupulousness. So the little stout woman, feline and easily
exasperated, was a good person to control the room. Her kindness might
be part of her vanity, but it was not assumed. She loved her work, and
she was always glad to praise good work from the girls, and to encourage
it by favouritism to good workers. It was not the pretty ones or the sly
ones who were the favourites. It was the workers. Following each girl
with her eye, Sally could not observe that at the beginning; but it did
not take her long to add it to her now formidable collection of facts.
When at last Sally was called to Miss Summers's side, and questioned,
she walked the length of the room feeling as though her legs had no
joints, and as though her shoulders were fixed. There were only eleven
girls in the room besides herself, but they were all looking at her. And
when she stood before Miss Summers in her little black dress she looked
so slight, with her slim body and thin pale face, that several of the
girls went on with their work again immediately, having lost interest in
her. Sally, confronted by Miss Summers's cat-like eyes, which were a
gooseberry green, twisted her fingers, and blurted out:
"I'm sorry, I got no pinafore. I didn't know I had to have one."
She was relieved when Miss Summers smiled and licked her lips.
"Well, let's make you one for a start-off. Shall we?"
Sally could have fallen down, so astonished was she at this retort.
Still she blurted further:
"I got no money for the material."
Again Miss Summers smiled. She might almost have given a purr. She
rubbed her cold nose with the back of her hand, like a cat washing its
face.
"That's all right," she said. "We'll find some stuff. It can come off
your wages. I want to see what you can do, d'you see? And that's as good
a way as any. I shall be able to notice how you do it, and give you a
word of advice if you want it. And you won't waste much time, and you
won't waste much material. And so why not? Just stand here while I get
the length." As she measured the length of Sally's frock, and allowed a
few additional inches for the pinafore, she sharply said in a low voice
that only Sally could hear: "That's right: never use scent. It's
vulgar. From the look of you I was afraid you'd use scent and be saucy.
But I'm glad you aren't."
"Oh, no, miss," answered Sally. Quite truthfully, she added: "I've never
thought of using scent. I don't like it. Only common girls use it."
Unconsciously she was emphasising all her sibilants.
"Well, some of the girls here do," said Miss Summers. "Hold still."
The pinafore was a simple matter for both Miss Summers and Sally; and
before the morning was over Miss Summers had visited Madame Gala.
"The new little girl's a quick worker," she said. "Very clever. I think
she'll be very useful."
At which Madame Gala raised her straight brows and looked piercingly at
Miss Summers. If Sally could have heard and appreciated the speech as
Madame Gala did she would have known that she had become a favourite at
a bound. She did not even guess it, so absorbed was she in deserving
commendation, until the end of the week, when she received her full
wages, without deduction. She was tempted. How easy to say nothing, and
take the risk of it being remembered! She could easily say she was sorry
she had forgotten all about it. Then some strong impulse of honesty made
her go up to Miss Summers.
"You haven't taken off the money for the pinafore," she whispered.
"That's all right," said Miss Summers. "Good girl to come to me about
it."
Good girl! Sally wondered if she really was such a very good girl.
ii
She was not, morally, being a very good girl; for her mother was still
in the hospital, and she and Toby were taking risks. So far there had
been no discovery; but they were getting bolder, and only the day before
going to Madame Gala's, when his aunt had been out for the afternoon and
evening, Toby had had Sally to tea in his aunt's room, and they had sat
together over a good fire, and had silently made love to each other for
hours. The more love-making they had, the more they wanted, and Sally
had been living all the week for the time she spent with Toby. But her
mother would be coming home soon, even though she would be unable to
work; and both knew that the wild ecstasy would end with her return. It
was that, probably, which made them less careful, or, if not less
careful, at any rate less cautious in the use of their opportunity.
Sally had a dread, which she would not face, and if Toby had any dread
he never told her. For all her feeling of intimacy with him, Sally never
reached below his manner and his strength; and her ignorance of him it
was that gave the whole relation its charm for her. He was mysterious, a
compelling strength outside her, a strange man who responded to all her
wishes and who loved her as she wished to be loved--brutally and
dominatingly. She was dazzled and infatuated. But already, in her first
days with Madame Gala, she had recovered sufficient of her old coolness
to be set upon definite personal success. This was her strongest
impulse. Her love was outside it, a gratification now, and not a
torment. She had no sense whatever of wrong-doing; only of hostility to
her mother because her mother's return would interrupt the tenour of her
life. Once only she said to Toby, secure in her trust of his love and
care: "Toby ... if I have a baby, you'll ... you'll marry me, won't
you?" And Toby gave her the necessary promise in obvious good faith.
Neither, therefore, troubled about the future. They were both too
anxious to live only in the exhilarating present.
But at last Mrs. Minto returned, and by that time Sally was living upon
money borrowed from Mrs. Perce, her one friend and protector. Mrs. Minto
could not work. She wrote to Aunt Emmy, and Aunt Emmy helped her from
her prizewinnings, and for several weeks they were thus enabled to stave
off want. Once Mrs. Minto was back at home the old order of parsimony
was revived, and it cost them very little to keep life going on from day
to day. Sally's seven shillings a week helped. And at last Mrs. Minto
was allowed to go out, and Mrs. Roberson took her back. Slowly,
half-starving, they managed to exist. Sally still had her evenings with
Toby, with their glory dimmed; and as the weeks went on she knew that
she was safe from the causes of her dread, and carried herself jauntily,
and she began to earn a little extra money by working in the evenings
for Miss Jubb. This meant that she saw Toby less often, and Toby now had
a man friend from the works where he was employed, and was sometimes
with this man Jackson. Sally had her seventeenth birthday: her figure
had improved, and so had her appearance. She was still meagre, because
she had not enough to eat; but some compensation of Nature allowed her
to maintain her health and to mature.
One day, when she had gone to practise upon Mrs. Perce's piano, as she
had not done all the time they had been away from the flat, Sally
attracted Mrs. Perce's attention by singing unusually well. Her friend
listened; and then looked into the room.