her gloves. A few minutes later they were out in the dark street, and
pausing to discover the points of the compass. As they stood, a great
gust of wind came sweeping along from the southeast, and at its onset
the two became strangely embraced, Gaga's arm being round Sally, and the
brim of her hat against his breast. They both laughed, and Sally stood
upright; but she did not move so violently that Gaga must withdraw his
arm. She was amused and elated at contact with him. Gaga, encouraged,
drew her closer.
"Oo!" murmured Sally. She let him see her laughing face.
Gaga, very excited, lowered his head. Sally jerked her own head upon one
side with lightning speed, and felt his lips clumsily upon her ear.
Twice he kissed her convulsively hugging her to his side. Then Sally,
rather breathless, but not at all discomposed, pulled herself away.
"Now, now; that's enough," she said. They were both grinning; but of the
two only Sally was cool. She could tell that Gaga was trembling
slightly, and when a little later they parted he held her hand for a
long time, and sought timidly to draw her to him again for another kiss.
Sally, however, ignored the pressure, and left him standing in the
yellow shop and street lights, while she rode securely homeward in her
omnibus. Her last glimpse was of newspaper bills lying upon the
pavement, and of men and women in motion against the lights, and Gaga
standing watching her out of sight. Then she looked round the omnibus,
at some other girls, and an old man who wore two waistcoats, and the
conductor; and her face again puckered into a smile.
"Doesn't half think he's a devil," she thought, demurely.
Then other thoughts of Gaga arose, and Sally frowned a little. She had a
sudden feeling that she was on difficult ground. She was not afraid, not
nervous; but her imaginings darted swiftly here and there at the bidding
of a knowledge that she must not at this juncture make any false step.
xvii
All the way home Sally had the one subject, the one series of
speculations, hammering at her attention. She was again sensible; she
was shrewd and perceptive. Gaga was a funny old stick, she thought;
funny and weak and nice. She could play upon him with ease. A touch, and
he was thrilled; a kiss, and he was beside himself. And yet what did he
want--what did he _think_ he wanted? And what did Sally herself want?
She did not know. She felt at a loss, excited and almost wanton. Yet so
much depended upon all this that she dared not make a mistake. Gaga's
good-will was of enormous importance. In his hands lay some of her
future. If she could help him, earn rewards, understand the business,
she could master everything. And Madam--what if Madam died? Supposing
she suddenly died, and left Gaga in control of the business, what would
happen? Sally hoisted her shoulders in doubt. Gaga might sell the whole
thing. He might run it himself. He would keep Miss Summers....
"Oh, I wish I was older!" cried Sally, impatiently. "I could do it, but
they wouldn't let me. They'd think I couldn't. I could! Not all at once,
but in a little while. If he'd hold on. Supposing he ... wants me...."
Her thoughts flitted away. She had a quick picture of Gaga as a lover,
of herself managing everything by keeping him at her side with cajolery
and parsimoniously-yielded delights. But he might grow tired of her; and
then where would she be? Sally did not trust men now; she too clearly
saw that once they were no longer tantalised they were liable to become
sated and uneager. She was face to face with that speculation here. It
all depended upon Gaga, upon the strength of her hold upon him. Could
she so play that she reaped all the advantage she needed without giving
anything at all? She was desperately tempted. She so greatly craved the
power which only Gaga could give her. Well, what did he want? It was not
enough that she should recognise her power to excite him: she needed
much more than a few odd favours. And she was afraid to do anything to
force him to grant whatever he could. In any case, what could he give
her? She was too observant to be deceived as to his powerlessness. She
saw him as a cypher; but as one who might one day--perhaps quite
soon--own the whole business. Who else was there to make him do anything
with it? There was nobody. Sally knew her own strength. What she could
not guess was the best means of using it to her own advantage.
She arrived home to find her mother in bed, with her short grey hair
scantily bedecking the pillow. At Sally's entrance, Mrs. Minto opened
weary eyes, and looked at her with a sort of hatred. Sally knew the
expression: it was full of suspicion and dread and solicitude, the
result of Mrs. Minto's lonely evening of speculation.
"Hullo, ma!" she cried, recklessly. "Here I am. And I haven't been
working. And there's nothing to fuss about. And that's all about that."
"Where you been?" sternly demanded Mrs. Minto.
"Well," began Sally, "if you _must_ know, Madam's worse. She's ill.
Think she's going to die. And I been talking to Mr. Bertram, and giving
him good advice. I'm a mother to that man. What he'd do without me I
can't think."
"Oo, Mr. Bertram!" It was clearly a warning cry. "Mr. Bertram! Oo,
Sally!"
"Soppy, ma. We call him 'Gaga.' He's weak, you know. Cries over his
work, like a kid. Wants somebody to give him a bit of backbone."
"Confidence," suggested Mrs. Minto, intrigued by the picture. She said
no more, but rolled over and stared at the dim wall until sleep crept
upon her and annulled her reflections.
Sally was struck by the word. Confidence! That was what Gaga needed!
Half the time he was afraid of his own shadow. Quickly her brain
refashioned the meal she had had with Gaga. Poor lamb, he hadn't got any
confidence! Madam had kept him down. He wanted rousing. Once get his
blood up, and he might do something really.... For the first time Sally
was genuinely interested in Gaga. She had never honestly thought of
helping him for his own sake. All she had thought of was her own future.
And now her mother had put Gaga in a new light. Sally almost thought
well of him. He might be rather bigger than she had supposed. What if he
were?
Yes, but what did Gaga want of Sally? You don't kiss a girl because she
is anything but a girl. It was a profundity. Gaga had kissed Sally
because....
Sally turned away to hide from any glance of her sleeping mother the
gleeful smile which had made her face radiant. She had been kissed
because she had encouraged Gaga to kiss her; but he was so timid that he
would never have done it if he had not very greatly desired to kiss her.
She wondered what he thought about her. He talked of their being
"friends"; he was half silly about her; he had kissed her and had wanted
to kiss her again. Having begun, he would want to go on kissing her. And
then, what? He would be afraid to kiss her at their next meeting; but he
would all the time be watching his opportunity to do so. Was Sally going
to give him his opportunity? Was she going to give him the confidence
necessary for the task of using his opportunity? She was still gay,
still amused and self-confident; but there was a doubt in her eyes. She
wanted to know more. She wanted to know all that was still hidden from
her. All the same, during the whole of her questioning of Gaga's
ultimate aspirations, she never once lost the consciousness that the
next step lay with herself. Was she going to give him that necessary
confidence?
"Oh, I think so," thought Sally, deliberately; and smiled almost to
laughter as she lay with her face upon the pillow and was aware of the
whole of her warm body, from the tip of her nose to her round heels and
the eager fingers bunched close to her breast. "I think so...." she
repeated, with more humorousness. She had a vision of Gaga with his
chocolate eyes glowing into her own as the result of the wine and his
proximity to herself. She saw his thin lips stretched, and the faint red
under his grey cheeks, and his thin hair. She felt his lips clumsily
kissing her ear, the nervous clutching of his arms. Sally was pleased.
She knew that sleep was almost upon her, and heard Mrs. Minto's deep
breathing a foot away from the back of her head. Yawningly, she snuggled
more comfortably into her pillow, and as consciousness slipped away a
distant murmur seemed to repeat: "Yes ... yes.... I ... think so." In a
mood of expectant triumph she slept, sure for the moment of the course
of future events.
xviii
All the next day Sally's nerves were on edge. She had slept heavily, and
had awakened unrefreshed. She had made her way to Madame Gala's in a
tame morning mood, once again self-distrustful, very much waiting upon
events. The sight of Nosey checking the times of arrival, and still more
the gloomy aspect of a half-empty workroom, chilled her. Miss Summers
looked spiteful, Rose Anstey was sniffling with a cold, the others were
listless and tired. It was a muggy morning, and all spirits were low.
Sally's were lower than any others in the room. She began to work with
only half her ordinary attentiveness, broke her cotton, snapped a
needle, fidgetted. Her eyelids were hot, and she felt a headache begin
to throb faintly in promise of greater effort later in the day. She was
restless and wretched, looking at the door which probably hid Gaga. Even
the memory of last night's kisses was stale and unsatisfactory. As she
drew her breath in a half-sob, Sally longed suddenly for Toby. She
longed for his strong arms, his possessive air, his muscular strength.
And as she thought of Toby a tear came to her eye, and she felt that
life was not worth living. A consciousness of childish need for support
destroyed all her confidence at a blow. How she hated all these stupid
girls! How she longed for something--she could not imagine what--which
should take her out of their company. Complaint filled her mind. Why
should she have to work, to go backwards and forwards between the
workroom and that miserable home where her mother stewed incessantly and
followed the course of her monotonous days? It was a mood of pure
reaction, but it made Sally desperate. Her head began to ache more
noticeably. She was almost crying.
That, perhaps, was the condition of them all. None of the girls spoke,
and all looked black and miserable as they bent over their work, or
slacked and glanced around them. Outside, the rain began to fall, and
the sky was grey with cloud. The lights had to be switched on, and they
cast a deceptive glow upon all work, and idiotic shadows of the moving
fingers of the girls. Miss Summers glowered and rubbed the tip of her
nose; and at each crack or rustle of a chair or a piece of material she
glanced sharply up, as though she were fighting with an impulse to
scream. Sally felt that if Miss Summers had screamed they would all
have screamed. She herself was tempted to scream first, so as to see
what would happen. She thought that all work would be instantly thrown
down, and that everybody would answer her cry, and then begin noisily to
sob. Even miserable as she was, the thought of this avalanche of
feminine excitability made Sally snuffle with amusement. She pictured
Gaga running out of his room, distraught, looking yellow and bilious,
his eyes staring wildly out of his head, as do the eyes of prawns. And
then? And then Rose Anstey would fall bellowing into his arms, and Sally
would tear her away, and claim Gaga before them all....
How astounded he would be! But anything would be better than this
wretched suppressed exasperation which was making the atmosphere of the
workroom unbearable. Fortunately a girl finished the work she was doing,
and took it to Miss Summers.
"Very bad!" snapped Miss Summers. "It's not even straight! You must do
it again. Naughty girl, to waste that silk like this!"
The girl began weakly to cry. All the others stared viciously at her,
gloating over her distress, hating her, and thankful to have some object
at which to discharge their suppressed venom. They would have liked to
beat her. Savagery shone in their malignant eyes. All became sadistic in
their enjoyment of the weeping girl as she crept back to her place. Only
Miss Summers grew rather red, and swallowed quickly, and was ashamed.
"Nancy!" she called. "What is it? Aren't you well?"
Nancy put her head upon her outstretched arms, and they could hear the
long dreadful sobs that shook her body. Upon every face Sally read the
same message; the curled lips, the pinched nostrils, all indicated the
general strain.
"We're all like that this morning, Miss Summers," she said, almost with
defiance. "It's the weather. That's what it is."
The other girls all turned from Nancy and transferred to Sally their
mounting malevolence. They would have liked to see her swept from her
place. They could have scratched and bitten her with fury. And yet, a
moment or two after she had spoken, there was a perceptible relief.
Nancy stole out of the room, to finish her cry and bathe her face, and
one of the girls--her friend--went after her. There was a pause in work.
A window was opened, and some air lightened the oppression. Sally
remained seated, while the others crowded to the window, and slowly
recovered her own composure. And then, in five minutes, when everybody
resumed, it was found that things were not so bad after all, and Nancy's
work was rectified, and Rose Anstey blew her nose and looked
disagreeable, and some of them talked; so that presently all became more
animated, and the sky lightened, and the day was less trying. Only
Sally's head continued to ache, and her spirits to falter. But she no
longer sighed for Toby. A curious dread of him came into her
consciousness, which she could not understand. She was afraid. She felt
defensive towards him, and explanatory. Under her attention all sorts of
impulses were at work. Pictures of Toby in different circumstances began
to flash into her mind, always blurring in an instant; while the memory
of her dinner with Gaga grew stronger and more remarkable. Not knowing
what she was doing, Sally pushed her work away, and sat in a brown
study, until she became aware that she was under observation.
Sally met these cruel stares with immediately assumed equanimity, and
she once more drew the work towards her; and in a few moments the girls
forgot Sally, and chattered a little together. And by the time their
attention was withdrawn wholly it was the luncheon interval which meant
more to all of them than usual, since it once more gave the girls an
opportunity for standing up and moving about. They grouped, and went
slowly towards the room where they always ate; and Sally was able to
open the other door for an instant, only to discover that Madam's room
was empty. With a sinking heart she followed the others, again beset by
a loss of confidence.
In the afternoon she was sent out by Miss Summers to match some silk,
and this gave Sally relief without which she must have ended the day
feeling ill. As it was she came back just as they were making tea, and
her own cup of tea sent the headache away. For the first time that day,
Sally heard herself laughing. She was telling Muriel of a fight between
two dogs, and how a man had been overthrown in the mud through trying to
part the dogs; and when Muriel laughed Sally laughed also, which made
the other girls prick up their ears and grow more lively. There was a
great change in the general atmosphere after tea. The constraint
disappeared, and everybody became more normal. Needles were more
adroitly used; the light improved; a general air of contentment arose.
Sally no longer thought of Toby, or of Gaga. She was making a dream for
herself, out of a motor car she had seen, and a handsome soldier, and
the way a commissionaire had stepped out of her way. She needed few
materials for her dream, and was a fine lady for the rest of the
afternoon.
Dreaming, however, has its penalties; and for this occasion Sally was
punished by having to stay rather late in order to finish what she was
doing. The other girls began to go home; but Sally and Miss Summers
remained at their tasks. The delay produced a strange experience for
Sally, because when they were alone together Miss Summers began
abruptly to talk. She hummed a little at first, and then broke into a
long speech which had been seething all day in her mind.
"I hope you don't think I was nasty to Nancy this morning, Sally. She's
a funny girl. She's in love, you know; and thinks of nothing but this
man. And he's a married man, too, and not a good man, Sally. He'd think
nothing of leading a girl like Nancy into doing wrong, and leaving her
to get on as well as she can. Well, that's not right, Sally." Miss
Summers felt for her handkerchief, and Sally noticed with astonishment
that there were tears in her eyes. "You see, when a man's married he
ought to be careful what he does. Now once, when I was a girl, I'd got
my head full of the sort of things that young girls have--not you,
Sally; you're too sensible;--and I met a man, and thought he was the ...
well, I thought he was the finest man in the world. He wasn't. He'd got
a poor wretched wife that he neglected, and he drank, and when he ran
away they found he'd been betting with money that didn't belong to him.
And he very nearly took me with him. Fortunately, I didn't go. I was
afraid to go--though I didn't know about his wife. He said he'd marry me
when we got away. Well, I thought it was funny. I said, 'Why not
before?' and he said, 'You don't understand. What if we didn't suit each
other?' I said, 'Why shouldn't we? Other people get married.' And all
that sort of thing I said. Well, I wanted to go, and wanted to go; and
at last I didn't, and I was thankful afterwards. Now Nancy's man is a
shopwalker somewhere. He's got no money, but he's good-looking, you
know, and girls think a lot of that when they're young; and also he's
one of those men who give a girl the idea that he can have twenty others
if he wants them. That's what upsets a girl. She thinks she's got to
make her mind up in a hurry, or lose him, d'you see?"
"More fool she," remarked Sally. "Pooh!"
"So _I_ say. Mind, in Nancy's case, she's just in love. He may not want
her. She doesn't know. And it's the uncertainty that keeps her like
this. Far better if she married some steady young fellow who'd make her
a good husband. But girls don't think of that. They don't like steady
fellows, any more than young fellows like steady girls."
"That's true," said Sally, thoughtfully. "They want a bit of ginger."
"Well, sometimes I think nobody ought to marry until they're well on in
life."
"They'd miss a lot," Sally murmured.
"Eh? Well, it's a puzzle to me. Look at Nancy. What is it she wants?
She's got forty or fifty years more to live."
"But you don't think like that," breathed Sally. "It's love."
Miss Summers gave a great sigh, and rubbed the tip of her nose with the
back of her forefinger. She was seriously perplexed at the interruption
from one so sagacious.
"_You'll_ think twice before you marry for just love, and nothing else,"
said she.
Sally's little white face was turned away. She was apparently
concentrated upon her work.
"Perhaps I shall," she admitted. "You never know what you'll do till the
time comes."
"You can make up your mind to be careful," said Miss Summers. "It's not
the first man who makes the best husband."
Sally crouched in her place. Her heart was beating so fast that she felt
as though she were suffocating. Miss Summers could not appreciate the
effect of her words, because she had gone back again to the subject of
Nancy and her married shopwalker.
"You ought to have _seen_ that child's work to-day!"
"Perhaps she's going to have a baby?" suggested Sally. It gave Miss
Summers a great shock.
"Oh! D'you think so?" she exclaimed, her eyes wide open with horror.
"Oh, no!"
"You'd have thought they were all going to have 'em, the way the girls
all looked and acted this morning. They were all potty. Silly fools."
Miss Summers gave a sigh of relief, and then she laughed a little.
"We were all rather grumpy this morning," she admitted. "It's the
weather. Always upsets people. Doctor Johnson said it didn't."
"Who's he? Doctors don't know anything at all. Only take advantage of
other people's ignorance. They frighten people, you know, looking wise,
and making you put out your tongue, and all."
"I don't know what we should do without them," sighed Miss Summers. "Of
course, there's always the patent medicines; but I never found anything
that cured my indigestion."
"Only chewing prop'ly," grimly suggested Sally.
Miss Summers abruptly rolled up her work at this unsympathetic remark,
and took off her pinafore. She stood uncertainly by the window.
"I've been keeping you," she said. "But I _am_ worried about that child.
I do hope she hasn't been silly. At her age they've got no sense at all.
They can't see an inch before their nose. You coming now, Sally? All
right, slam the door after you.... Don't stay too late."
Ten minutes afterwards Miss Summers had gone. Sally waited a little
while, to give her time to reach the street and remember anything that
might bring her back. Then, very quietly, she took off her own pinafore,
and stole across the room and listened at Gaga's door. She could hear
nothing. Sharply, she tapped, and listened again.
"Come in!" said a voice.
Sally opened the door, standing there in her grey dress, with her hair
brilliant, and her whole face smiling. And Gaga, looking up from his
work, saw her thus as a vision, a happy vision for tired eyes. He smiled
in return and Sally advanced, without any shyness or assumed shyness,
into the room.
"Wondered if you were here," she said cheerfully. "Everybody else has
gone. Miss Summers and all. I'm working on something. Oo, hasn't it been
a day! The girls all had the fidgets. I've been quite ill all day."
"Ill?" demanded Gaga. "Not ... not really ill? Oh, I'm.... I'm so sorry.
Poor Sally!"
"Headache," mentioned Sally, rather lugubriously, so as to encourage his
pity.
"Headache? Oh, poor little girl! So have I."
Sally gave a little laugh. It contained all sorts of provocative shades
of meaning.
"Hn," she said. "Funny us _both_ having headaches. You still got yours?"
Gaga nodded. She went farther towards him, hesitated, and then still
nearer.
"Very bad," groaned Gaga, and Sally could see the heaviness round his
eyes.
"I'm so sorry," she said in a soft voice. Then: "My hand's cool. Shall
I?" She put her hand to Gaga's forehead, and felt how burning it was.
She felt him grow rigid at the contact, and saw his face betray his
sensitiveness to her touch. Sally's smile deepened in mischief. She was
playing with him, playing with fire and Gaga at the same time, and only
lightly amused at her employment. But she was still apart from him,
standing erect, with her right arm outstretched. There was not yet any
intimacy in her attitude. Nor could she see his face very plainly
without peeping over her arm.
"That better?" she asked.
"Beautiful." Gaga tried to move his head. Failing, he put his hand to
her wrist, pulled it down, and pressed his lips to her fingers.
"Now, now!" warned Sally. "I'm curing your headache."