in the dinghy among recognisable ships. He had supposed everybody knew
what a dinghy was. He pointed that fact out to Sally, who could not see
that she had betrayed such glaring foolishness. Pressed to confine
himself to comparable vessels, Toby condescendingly resumed:
"It's a question of the size, and the rig.... All that." He was
elaborately the expert, sure that an amateur could never understand.
Sally might have retorted with baffling words about seams and camisoles
and voile; but she was shrewd in mystic silence. "You'd have to see the
ships.... Then I could point it all out to you. I mean, a gunboat or a
cruiser or a trawler.... What I mean, they're _different_. See a big
liner going out from Liverpool: I tell you, it's a sight. Flocks of
people, and the old thing moving along like grease. Leaves you standing.
At first you don't half feel a fool. But on a boat like ours there's no
time to look about. We're under-manned. That's what it is. Not enough of
us to make it light for everybody. Ought to be altered. Got to be doing
chores the whole time. Swabbing down, cooking----"
"Can _you_ cook?" Sally was swift, arch, incredulous.
Toby grinned. Then he remembered her classes--her "cooking" classes--and
his aunt's message, and grew suddenly serious.
"Look here, Sally. That cooking. I don't like them other fellows," he
said. "I mean to say, meeting them at classes, and walking home, and
that."
Sally held his arm tightly. A look of scorn appeared upon her face. In
her heart a feeling arose of impatience and amused enjoyment of his
concern about a thing that was to her so trivial compared with her love
for himself.
"You going to begin that again?" she demanded. "Silly. Here, put your
face down. There! D'you think I don't love you. Think I don't believe
you're worth ten of those others? Well, I do. And that's enough of
that."
Toby was obstinate. He wanted her to be his property. Nevertheless, his
tone was milder.
"It's not right, Sally, you going about with other fellows. What I mean,
_you_ think it's all right, but what do _they_ think?"
"I don't care _what_ they think. I don't care what anybody thinks,
except you. And if you don't trust me, well...."
Toby was manifestly terrified at the removal of her arm from his. He
caught it again, but she wrenched free. For a few moments they walked
along together in dead silence, gloomy and disunited. Toby clenched his
fists. He looked about him, and uneasily rocked his head and cleared his
throat. Sally knew that he was reassuring himself by saying internally
that if that was the tone she was going to take....
"You see...." he began.
"Oh, shut up!" cried Sally, savagely. "I've had enough of it." A moment
later he heard a little sob from her, and moved close, overcome with his
consternation. At his touch she started away. Here it was that Toby's
physical strength served. He was easily able to put his arms round her,
and hold her closely. A voice from the faintly struggling Sally wailed:
"You don't trust me.... You'd better get some other girl...."
"I do! I do!" Toby swore. "Damn it all, Sally. I mean to say...."
"Bring me out ... make me miserable...." came the strangled little
voice.
Toby was conquered. Sally knew that she had him at her mercy. She had
known it all along. She had been enjoying herself, enjoying this second
quarrel as much as the first one, because she knew exactly what the
outcome would be. A quarrel is always worth while to a loving girl, for
the sake of the reconciliation. They were the sweetest moments of the
day, because in them was begun the true softening of hearts and rousing
of the emotions which later gave them so much delight. Toby and Sally
were happy all the rest of the afternoon and evening, and loved one
another; and when it was dark, and none could observe them, Toby kissed
Sally with all the fervour that he had saved up in his long days away
from her. He kissed her lips and her cheeks and her eyes, and crushed
the life out of her with his powerful arms. And Sally, at first
laughing, had grown quieter and quieter in his arms as her joy in his
love had deepened. They stood there, far above the river, in the
gloaming, with the leaves whispering and slowly floating down through
the air as they fell from above. Presently the moon rose, and in the
moonlight the two wandered together, and forgot all their plans and
ambitions and jealousies. Both were given over entirely to the moment
and to the passion of the moment, which was still as strong as it had
ever been.
xiii
A fortnight passed. Gaga came and went. Sally had no word with him,
because he could not speak to her in the workroom or in his mother's
room, and because she never met him (as she half expected to do) in the
street. Sally often thought of their evening together, but gradually, as
Gaga took no further step, she became sceptical about his plan, and she
hardened towards him. Already her active mind was casting about for new
outlets. She visited Mrs. Perce, and repaid ten shillings of the amount
she owed her. She wrote to Toby, walked with Harry Simmons, had
conversations with Miss Summers and Muriel and Mrs. Minto. And so the
days passed. But at length Gaga took the awaited step. He met her one
evening, as if by accident, upon the stairs, and immediately stopped.
She had gone past him when Gaga found his tongue, and checked Sally's
progress by a stammering. She waited.
"Er ... I never ... see you now," he began. Sally looked up at his tall
figure, thrown sharply into relief by the clear light from a window upon
the stairs, and by the pale grey distemper of the wall behind him. Again
she noticed that creeping redness under the grey of his cheeks, and the
almost liquid appeal which he directed at her. "I ... er ... I meant to
ask you.... To-morrow...."
"Oh, thank you, Mr. Bertram! I'd love to," cried Sally, quickly. He was
passionately relieved, as she could see. Not only by her acceptance of
his intended suggestion, but at the salvation of his tongue.
"At the corner? Seven o'clock? At the corner? Where ... where ... where
we met before? Really? Fine!" He nodded, and took off his hat, and
climbed the stair. Sally, very sedate, descended. Well, she was still
all right, then. How strange, she was quite cool! She was not at all
elated! That was because of the delay, which had encouraged
indifference; but it was also because the invitation was expected and
because Sally was no longer to be shaken as she would have been by a
novelty. She was ready. She was once again a general surveying the
certainties of combat with a foe inferior in resources to herself.
So the next evening she deliberately stayed later than the other girls,
and worked on with a garment which had occupied her attention all the
afternoon. She was doing some plain embroidery upon a silk frock. It was
upon this occasion that she received a great mark of favour from Miss
Summers. Miss Summers, trusting Sally entirely, showed her how to lock
the door after her. She had just to slip the catch, and slam the door,
and nobody could enter the room without first using a key. And Miss
Summers went, leaving Sally alone in the workroom. It was a thing
hitherto unknown. It showed trust which had never been given to one of
the other girls. Apart from Madam and Gaga, if one or both of them
should still be working in Madam's room, Sally was at liberty, and in
sole occupation of the establishment. It did not occur to Sally to think
so; but Miss Summers would never have given her this privilege if she
had not known that Madam also would approve. It would have been too
dangerous a responsibility for Miss Summers unsupported. Madam must
have seen that petty theft was a thing which did not tempt Sally. She
was too ambitious for that, and obviously so. Keen judge of character as
Madam was she must have known it all. But neither Madam nor Miss Summers
could have realised--as both, with their experience of girls, should
have done--that there were possibilities other than theft. Sally had
listened to the explanation of the door catch, and had promised to shake
the door when she left, so as to make sure that it was fast; but her
only conscious thought had been one of surprise and delight that she
should be left alone. Alone to do as she pleased. Alone to sing, dance,
loiter. Alone, perhaps, with Gaga. At that notion she had a curious
little thrill of excitement. Her eyes became fixed for a moment. She did
not speak, or give any other sign. She was not thinking. Merely, her
general awareness was pierced by a sudden ray.
Had she been sure that Gaga was by himself in the next room, Sally would
have found some excuse to go in there. It would have been such an
opportunity as she had never had before. But although she went close to
the door, and listened eagerly, there was no sound within. The room
might have been empty. Or Madam might be there; and if Sally sang, which
would please Gaga, Madam might come out, find her in the workroom
without real excuse, and give her the sack. Sally was too wise to
believe that in such a case Gaga could save her. She could imagine him
stammering a defence, and being crushed, and perhaps being kind to her
for a little while and fussing about to find her a job elsewhere. And
that would be the end of that. She neither sang nor whistled. Every now
and then she again listened, until she was impatient with uncertainty.
Her impatience made her laugh. Fancy being impatient for seven o'clock!
And for Gaga! It wasn't natural. It was--like Gaga himself--ridiculous.
Seven o'clock struck before she was ready; but Sally did not care. She
had no objection to the thought of Gaga waiting in patience at the
corner of the street. Toby would have been a slightly different matter.
Not that she was more afraid of Toby now than she was of Gaga. All the
same, she would not have kept him waiting. Neither Toby nor Gaga would
have kept Sally waiting. Toby would have been punctual; Gaga had been
standing at the corner already for five minutes. It was a curious moral
effect that Sally had. She was not to be treated lightly. Even now, she
was learning her power, and in this case she was illustrating it. She
did not join Gaga until she was satisfied that every smallest fold in
her dress was in perfect order, her hat precisely at the desired angle,
her gloves buttoned. Then, shutting the door with a steady bang which
rendered any shaking needless, she kept her appointment, not a timid
dressmaker's assistant, but a woman of the world. At seventeen--for she
had not yet reached her eighteenth birthday, although it was now very
near--she was more of a woman of the world than she would be at
twenty-eight, when her first intuitions had been blunted by actual
experience.
Gaga was standing thoughtfully leaning upon his walking stick. His
shoulders were bent, and the slim, and rather graceful, outline of his
figure made him appear almost pathetic in his loneliness. Sally--Sally
the hard and ambitious--was struck by a sharp irritation and pity,
almost by compunction. She did not know what her feeling for Gaga was;
but principally it was composed of contempt. He had good looks, and he
had money. He could help her at present as nobody else could do. But at
heart Sally dismissed him with a word which, to her, was fatal. He was
soppy. Not mad, not altogether stupid, but painfully lacking in vital
energy and confidence. Of all things Sally best loved assurance, and
Gaga had none of it. He drooped in waiting, and the message of his fine
clothes was contradicted by his pose, and not reinforced by it.
"I'm sorry I'm late," she said perfunctorily, at his start of
recognition and delight. Gaga's face changed completely. From one of
gloom, his expression became one of joy. "I didn't notice the time. I
was working there alone-- Miss Summers had gone. I was finishing
something. I didn't know if you'd gone or not. I couldn't hear anything
from Madam's room. Didn't like to knock, or anything."
Gaga said nothing. He walked by her side, and Sally looked up at him
almost as she might have done at a policeman or a lamp-post. He _was_
tall, she thought, when he straightened his back. And he dressed like a
prince. At that instant she was proud to be walking by his side. She
thought: "I must look a shrimp beside him! Him so big--so tall, and me
so little. But I'm as smart as he is, any day in the week. Wish he
always held himself up like that! What salmony lips he's got, and ...
it's his long lashes that make his eyes look so soft. Chocolate eyes....
Funny! He's got a weak chin. No, his _chin's_ all right. It's ... you
can't see his jaw at all: goes right in, and gets lost. And a funny
nose--got no shape to it. Just a nose." She had the curiosity to wonder
what his grey cheek felt like. She would like, one day, to touch it with
her finger, just to see. It looked dry and soft. All this she glimpsed
and considered like lightning while they walked quickly towards
Piccadilly Circus; and her notions gathered and grew in Gaga's silence.
"Were you working?" Sally presently asked, trying to say something to
begin a conversation.
Gaga shook his head, stealing a shy glance down at her.
"No. Not working," he said. "I had rather a headache, so I went for a
walk in the Park."
"Oo. Sorry you've got a headache." Sally unconsciously became
sympathetic. "Is it very bad? It's nerves, I expect. If you're nervous
you have splitting headaches. My mother's _always_ talking about her
head. She gets so tired, you know; and it goes to her head; and she sits
still and can't think about anything else. Is ... is Madam quite well
now? She was looking so ill...."
Gaga became mournful. The mention of his mother always, it seemed to
Sally, made him miserable. Silly Gaga! He then did something which had
an imperceptible effect upon Sally's thought of him. It was a mistake,
because it illustrated his lack of initiative and his powerlessness to
strike out a fresh path. He made straight for the Rezzonico again. He
ought to have taken Sally to another restaurant; but he instinctively
took her to the place where they had dined happily before. In that he
betrayed to her merciless judgment the fact of his inexperience.
Silently, they entered the big dining-room. The band was not playing at
the moment, and, as they were early, the room was less full than it had
been upon the first occasion. The enormous mirrors reflected their
hesitating movements. Gaga made his way vaguely towards their former
table; but Sally laid a hand upon his arm. It was time for her to take
command. Into her expression there crept the faintest hardness, almost a
tough assurance, that was tinged with the contempt which was her deepest
feeling for Gaga.
"Couldn't we get a table against the wall ... down there?" she demanded,
pointing.
It was done. They were installed, and a young and rapid waiter was
attending to them. This time Sally helped to choose the dinner. She
could not read the menu, because she knew no French; but the waiter,
with an uncanny insight, realised that he would do well to address her
and to explain the dishes to Sally instead of to Gaga; and so, to the
relief of all three, they were quickly served, and wine was brought, and
Sally began to feel creeping upon her all the old pleasure and
excitement of noise and wine and an intriguing situation. Her hardness
vanished. She sat almost with complacency, breaking her roll with two
small hands, and looking at Gaga with that thin little grin which caused
her meagre face to be so impish and attractive. The brilliant lights
which made Sally more and more piquante had a ghastly effect upon Gaga.
His grey cheeks were cruelly betrayed.
"I'm afraid mother's ... mother's not what she ought.... I'm afraid
mother's ill," began Gaga, stammering. Then, impulsively: "I say.... I'm
so glad you came to-night. I.... I've been--you know, my head-- I've
been miserable, and.... I've been bad-tempered all day. But I'm better
now. Couldn't help ... feeling better, seeing you there...."
Sally grinned again. If her cheeks had been plumper he could have seen
two dimples; but all that was observable was the row of tiny pointed
teeth that made her smile so mischievous. Sally's eyes looked green in
the electric light--green and dark and dangerous, like deep sea; and her
pallor was enhanced, so that she was almost beautiful. There was
something both naive and cat-like in her manner, and the tilt of her
head. She surveyed Gaga with eyes that were instinctively half-closed.
She could delightedly perceive the effect she was having upon him. He
sometimes could not look at her at all, but fixed his attention upon
his plate while she was speaking, or no higher than her neck when he was
himself--as he rarely did--making an attempt to entertain. And all
Gaga's hesitations and shynesses made Sally amused and sure of herself,
and she began to take pleasure in dominating him. When she found that
Gaga not only did not resent this, but was pleased and thrilled by her
domination, Sally grew triumphant. She chose the sweet for them both,
sweeping her eye down the prices and listening to the waiter's
translation of each title. She sipped her wine with a royal air of
connoisseurship. And she kept such control of the situation that Gaga
was afraid to give words to the timid ardour which shone from his
expressive glance. Sally was herself: it was still she who conferred
every favour, and not Gaga.
Presently she had a thought that whipped across her mind like a sting.
"D'you know what I've been doing since we came here before?" she
demanded. "I've been taking lessons in book-keeping. I'm getting on
fine. The teacher says I've got a proper head for figures. He says I
shall be a cashier in no time, and understand all that you can know
about accounts. Isn't that good? So I shall be able to help you--like
you said...."
Gaga gave an admiring gesture. He was overwhelmed.
"Oh, but you're ... marvellous!" he cried. "Simply marvellous! Here's
Miss Summers says you're the best hand, for your age, that she's
got...."
"Did she say that?" Sally jumped for joy. "Really?" She gave a
triumphant laugh, so naive and full of ingenuous conceitedness that Gaga
was overcome afresh with admiration.
"You ought to have been two people," he answered. "Two little girls."
"Half a dozen!" Sally proclaimed. "You see, I'm--it sounds conceited,
and I expect I am; but it's true-- I'm clever. I'm not soppy. Other
girls-- Rose Anstey.... They're soppy. They can't do anything. I can do
all sorts of things because I'm clever-- I can sew, and ... you know,
all sorts of things."
Gaga glowed at her words.
"I know," he eagerly agreed. "That's why you're so wonderful. Most girls
can only do one thing. They can't even do that very well."
"That's true. Takes them a week to do it; and then somebody has to do it
over again for them. They haven't got any brains. They got no _sense_.
They don't _think_." Sally was impetuous.
"They've got no brains at all," said Gaga. "They're like vegetables."
Both laughed, in great spirits and familiarity. "Well, Sally.... My
mother's.... She's a wonderful woman, too. She's been marvellous.
Marvellous! She must have been like you...."
Sally shrugged.
"Bigger than me," she murmured, brooding upon an unwelcome comparison.
"No. Not bigger. She's nearly three times as old as you. My father died,
you see.... I was a child. She had to make a living. _Had_ to."
"So have I got to," whispered Sally. "I got no father; and mother's in
her second childhood."
Gaga stopped. He looked at her. A singular expression crossed his face.
"Now, you have to," he said. "Er, I mean.... Well, ... you won't
always."
"Mean, I'll marry?" demanded Sally, sharply. "Give it all up to cook the
dinner and wash the front step?" She shrugged again.
Gaga reddened slightly.
"I.... I didn't think you'd do that," he said, hesitatingly. "I only
meant.... What I wanted to say ... mother's not well. She's ill. She's
really ill. She'll have to take a holiday. I wonder...." His hesitation
was more prolonged than usual. He became as it were lost in a kind of
doubtful reverie. Sally could not tell whether he was thinking or
whether the wheels of his mind had altogether ceased to revolve. His
mouth gaped a little. At last he concluded: "I wonder if I could ... if
I could borrow you from Miss Summers. If she'd mind. If she'd let you
go."
There was a silence, while both thought of this possibility.
"Look here," cried Sally, confidently. "Like this evening, Miss Summers
left me there--all alone. I mean to say, she didn't _mind_. She wouldn't
leave any of the other girls like that; but she left me. She knew it was
all right. Well, I wouldn't mind stopping in the evenings and helping
you. I'd like to. I'm quick. I could get through a lot of work."
"Oh, but it wouldn't be fair," he objected.
"Why not? I'd love it. See, I'd get overtime."
Sally was really prompting Gaga in this last sentence. He frowned, and
moved one of his long hands impatiently across some crumbs which lay
before him on the table.
"Oh, money...." he said. "More than overtime. We'd.... I say, it's
splendid of you. It's a splendid way to do it."
"Would you like it?" breathed Sally, her heart beating faster at the
implication. Gaga reddened. His lips were pressed together.
"It would be perfect!" he cried, vigorously.
"How lovely!" Sally's face broke once more into that expressive grin.
They sat smiling at each other, almost as lovers do who have stumbled
upon an unsuspected agreement in taste. The mood lasted perhaps a
minute Then it changed ever so slightly. "Would Madam mind?" next urged
Sally.
Gaga's face clouded. She was watching him breathlessly, and saw his
fists clenched. His tongue moistened the lips so lately compressed. His
head was inclined. At last, dubiously, he spoke.
"I wonder," he muttered. "I haven't said anything to her. I don't
think...." His face fell still more, until it was undetermined. "I'm
afraid.... I'm afraid ... perhaps she mightn't like it. You see, she's
... she's ... rather.... She doesn't like anybody.... She mightn't quite
... understand."
Sally's contentment vanished abruptly. Her heart became fierce, and her
tone followed. It was rough and hard, with a suggestion of despair and
of something less than respect for Gaga.
"It's no good!" she cried. "It's no good. I'm a girl. Girls can never do
anything! A man can do all sorts of things; but, just because she _is_ a
girl, a girl can't do one of them!"
She was watching him all the time she was speaking, and only half
realised that her indignation was warmly simulated in order to produce
an effect upon him and stiffen a wavering determination. For a moment
Gaga did not speak. He was turning the matter over in his mind, and
Sally saw the changes of opinion that passed across his face. Weakness,
submission, obstinacy, bewilderment were all to be observed. Above all,
weakness; but a weakness that could be diverted into defiance through
dread of her own contempt. The moment was desperate. Tears sprang to
Sally's eyes. She became tense with chagrin and stubbornness. A gesture
would have swept her wineglass to the floor.
"Never mind!" she cried, savagely, now really moved to anger and
despair. "You see how it is! I always knew it wouldn't be any good. Knew
it! Oh, I ought to have...."
Gaga was roused. His voice, when he spoke, was strangled.
"Don't be silly!" he cried. "We'll do it ... er ... we'll ... somehow
we'll do it." Sally waited, her anger cooling, a hope rising once again
in her breast. Cruel knowledge of him surged into her thoughts. At last
the determination she desired came from Gaga. He said, in a grim tone:
"She needn't know. We won't tell her."
Sally's eyes closed for a moment. As if she had willed this, she had
attained her end. No longer was there to be any doubt. They had an
understanding. They were going to do something together which must be
kept secret between themselves. She did not make even a tactical display
of unwillingness. She too greatly desired the end to endanger (though it
should be to confirm) her aim by any further display of finesse. It was
enough. She was hot in her glimpse of the triumph she had secured. She
would be able to stay. The rest of their evening was now unimportant,
because they had need only to speak of details, and of matters
unconnected with the plan.
xiv