his brow. But in a moment Sally, perhaps growing more daring, exchanged
her right hand for her left; and this meant approaching Gaga more
closely, and the partial encirclement of his head with her arm. She was
quite near him, as Gaga must have known; but he did not dare to put his
arm round her, as he might easily have done. Sally, so experienced,
guessed at his temptation, at his fear, and relished both. She was also
aware of a singular tenderness towards him, a protective, superior
wisdom that made Gaga seem to be a child in his trepidation. To her an
embrace meant so much less than it meant to him, and she knew quite well
that a flirtatious man would have recognised the game that was in
progress and risked a rebuff because of the successive return. Sally was
still so far from deliberately exploiting Gaga that she did not feel
impatient at his slowness. She savoured it, appreciating the fact that
he shrank, knowing that when she wanted him to do anything she could
always manage Gaga with the lightest touch. And that was why, in a
moment, she allowed herself contact with his shoulder. Gaga's arm
mechanically rose, and was about her waist, quite unpossessively. His
face was moved with a conflict of emotions. Sally recognised temptation
and self-consciousness, and also with amusement, a sense of his own
incomparable daring.
"You _are_ a devil, aren't you!" she whispered. Instantly she knew that
she had made a mistake. His arm relaxed. It was only when she drew his
aching head to her breast that she recovered her mastery of him. It was
the only mistake she had made, and it was at that time the last, for she
learnt at once that he was sensitive to ridicule. She had stepped too
far, and had thereby, for a moment, endangered her sport. She was
smiling again, but she had breathed quickly, at the knowledge of danger.
"How's the head?" she asked. "My hand's getting hot."
"Very bad," answered Gaga, dreading her withdrawal.
"Let me get a wet handkerchief."
"No, no. Don't move. I.... I don't want you to move."
Unconsciously, Sally gave a little sigh. It was all so easy, so much a
question of his being content with whatever she gave, that the adventure
was fading. It was ceasing to amuse her.
"That's enough," she said. "Now I'm going home." She did not move, and
Gaga's clasp tightened.
"No," he murmured entreatingly. "Not yet."
"_Must_ go." She took her hand away from his forehead, lingeringly. Gaga
held her to him with rigidity. "Let me go." He took no notice, and
Sally's hand rested gently upon his shoulder. At last: "Well?" said she.
"Don't go."
There was the slightest struggle, and Sally was free. Gaga's face was
quite red. She stood looking down at him, on her lips that same
quizzical smile. Gaga could not bear it. He rose quickly, and at her
flight followed breathlessly. She was again lightly imprisoned, her head
to his breast, and his arms giving small convulsive pressures as he
sought to retain her. She could tell his physical weakness, and his
feeble, excited desire for her, and she felt his face pressed to her
hair. Again Gaga kissed Sally, but she continued to withhold her lips,
so that he approached no nearer than her cheek.
"You ... you _must_ know I love you," breathed Gaga.
"Do I?" asked Sally, coolly. "I don't. Why should I?"
"Can't you tell?" He was speaking directly into her ear, so that she
felt his breath. "I love you ... like this!" He held her with all his
strength, and gave her cheek a fevered, gnawing kiss. "D'you see, Sally?
I love you."
"How's your headache?" asked Sally.
"I ... oh, Sally. Better ... better. But Sally! I love you. Don't you
love me a little? Sally!" There was a long silence. Consideringly, Sally
looked down, faintly excited, but unemotional. He vainly sought to
achieve a mutual kiss; but she kept her head turned away. Strange! Her
brain was perfectly clear! She was aware of every contact with him, knew
his every wish; and was unmoved. How different it was from when she was
with Toby! Gaga's voice resumed: "I think you ... love me a little,
Sally, my dear, my angel."
"Angel! Good lord!" ejaculated Sally. She put her hands to his breast,
forcing him a little away. "D'you think I'm an angel?"
"Yes!" came defiantly from Gaga.
"You're mad!" cried Sally, with contempt. "You don't know what you're
talking about. And even if you _are_ in love with me, as you say, what
does it mean? You'd soon get tired of me. You'd begin to think I
_wasn't_ an angel. What's the good of it all?"
Gaga looked astounded.
"But if _you_ love _me_," he stammered.
Sally's face was darkened. She had tears in her eyes, and her mouth was
thin and hard. There was altogether a hardness in her expression that
terrified Gaga.
"Even if I did," she said in a grim voice.
"But we could be married," he urged.
Married! Sally's heart gave a jump. Her cheeks were suffused. Married!
She could hardly conceal her amazement. He had flown right past her
expectation by that single word. Sally was aghast, forced to exercise
all her self-control to prevent him from seeing how staggered she was.
"Married!" she said, deprecatingly. "What would you want to marry a girl
like me for?" But as she spoke she no longer meant the words which had
been conceived in honesty. A storm of temptation was upon her. Married
to Gaga! Why, _nothing_ could stop her! Married to him, she would be
unassailable. It was not to be believed.
"Because I love you. Sally, do say 'yes.'" He was beseeching. His grey
face was flushed, his lips eagerly parted, his eyes radiant. Gaga seemed
transfigured. And his embrace was strengthened each instant by his
vehement desire for her.
"You love me?" Sally's voice had become thick and stupid as she
struggled to maintain her clearness of judgment in face of this
overwhelming proposal.
"Say 'yes,'" urged Gaga. "Say 'yes.' It would be so wonderful. Sally,
I've never ... never been in love before. I've ... never wanted a girl
like this. You're so...."
"What am I?" Sally's voice was tender, lingering. The tears came again
to her eyes, so touched was she by his earnestness and his gentleness,
so puzzled by the unforeseen situation.
"So lovely," Gaga breathed. His lips came nearer, and she did not
withdraw. He kissed her mouth at last, and again; and at her response
the kiss became long and possessive. "You lovely girl," he went on.
"We'll be married ... and ... and so happy."
"I don't know," cried Sally. "I don't know."
"Dear!" he begged.
"I'm not sure. Perhaps you'll be sorry to-morrow that you asked me. Will
you? Sorry? Such things _have_ been known to happen." Her voice was
quite hard, because her temptation was so great.
"I'll never change. I love you."
"I wonder." Sally shook her head. "I'll tell you to-morrow." She was
still dubious, suspicious.
"Let me get a license."
Sally's heart jumped again. He had once more surprised her, and she had
supposed herself altogether beyond surprise. A license! Her quick glance
could fathom no deceit, no inconceivable sportiveness in Gaga.
"Oh! You _are_ in a hurry!" she exclaimed, delayingly. "Frightened you
_will_ change."
"I'm frightened of losing you."
Sally laughed a little, held up her face, and kissed him. Still she was
puzzled.
"To-morrow. But you'll be sorry by then. I won't promise."
She found it not unpleasant to be loved in this fervid, nervous fashion.
It amused her. But she was curiously unmoved, and when he had put her
into her omnibus Sally breathed almost with relief. Strange to feel that
relief after parting from the man you might be going to marry! Sally
jerked her head. She remembered suddenly that Miss Summers had said
earlier in the day. "_You'll_ think twice before you marry for just
love, and nothing else," Miss Summers had said. "You're right, my dear,"
thought Sally. And then there came galloping into her memory a
recollection that made Sally blanch. "It's not the first man who makes
the best husband," Miss Summers had said. Not the first man! The reason
for Sally's fear was explained. She had known all along why she was
afraid and had pressed back the knowledge from her attention, so that it
should not interfere with her actions. The first man was Toby; and it
was of Toby that she was afraid--of Toby and his love for her; and, more
than all, of her strangely smouldering love for Toby.
xix
What had she been doing to forget Toby? Had she forgotten him at all?
Somehow Toby had a little faded from her mind in these days, because he
was on a voyage longer than usual, and she had not heard from him. Toby,
her lover! Only when she had been a little frightened or distressed had
she longed for his protective arms. Otherwise he had slipped into a sure
place in her self-knowledge. He was the man she loved, strong and rough,
the first to capture her heart, and until now the only man to hold her
imagination. At the thought of deserting him Sally shrank. She belonged
to Toby. Toby belonged to her. She had been going to marry him. If she
had not loved Toby she would ruthlessly have shouldered him aside; but
she could not do that, because he was her lover. And she was afraid. If
once she betrayed him, Toby might kill her. She became terrified at the
idea. Men killed their girls for jealousy's sake. She had often read in
the papers of what were called "love tragedies."
Sally did not want to die. She wanted to rise to power, to riches. And
Gaga offered her the way to attain her ambition. Married to him she
could have all, or almost all, she wanted. If she refused him she might
lose everything. She might lose her place with Madame Gala, she
might.... How harassed she was! It was such a temptation! Gaga, with
money, and everything that he could offer; and Toby, with love that she
craved, and years of waiting, and a poky house, and his opposition to
all she might want to do upon her own account. She had a vision of his
lowering face, his savage mouth. She remembered all her joys in his
arms. A shudder shook Sally at thought of his vengefulness, his fierce
strength. And then, when she was married to Gaga, she would be mistress
of so much that she desired. It was a desperate problem. The more she
thought of it, the more tormented Sally became.
She was still in active distress when she reached home; and her headache
of the morning had returned. Bright colour showed in her pale cheeks,
and her eyes were brilliant with excitement. She was at high tension.
The first sight of their room, and her mother's squalid figure, produced
a violent effect upon Sally's thoughts. Anything to escape from this!
Anything! But what of Toby? His strong hands could crush the life out of
her. His jealousy would be so unmeasured.... He would kill Gaga. He
would kill her. Sally was carried to an extreme pitch of fear. Life was
so precious to her. And she loved Toby.
Did she still love him? Did he still love her? They were both older;
separation had made each of them less dependent upon the other than they
had been at first, and even although her love was jubilant when Toby
returned on leave she was no longer the rapturous girl of even a year
before. Long and long Sally remained torn between her two desires. She
did not sleep at all, but lay turning from side to side and longing for
oblivion or the daylight. She had never been so confronted with great
temptation and great fear. Her head ached more and more. She could not
cry, or sleep, or forget. She lay with open eyes, watching the window
for the dawn. And when the morning broke she was still undetermined.
The choice was too difficult.
Breakfast was uneatable; her journey to work was a dream. She shrank
from going into the workroom, from seeing Gaga. All her confidence had
disappeared. She was a bewildered little girl--not eighteen, but a child
still without sense of direction. At one minute Toby seemed the only
choice to make, but principally because she was afraid of what he might
do if she married Gaga; and when she forgot her fear she no longer
hesitated between love and ambition. She argued that she no longer loved
Toby. She never once considered her feeling for Gaga. She hardly thought
of him, or of what marriage to him might mean. Her eye was all to the
consequences. It was so throughout, whether she thought of Toby or his
new rival. All her thoughts were anticipations.
As she sat at work she began to lose fear of Toby. She felt she could
always manage him, explain to him. She pretended that they would be
friends; though the thought of Toby married to another girl gave her a
sharp horror. If she married, it was different. She did not imagine what
Toby might feel--only what he might do. She was thus the complete
egoist. Not Toby's happiness or unhappiness was implicated; but only her
own dominant desire. If she had still been unsatisfied in her love for
Toby, she might have valued him more; but she knew all that he could
teach her of love, and already her strong eagerness for him was becoming
old and accustomed. The one restraint she had was fear of what he might
do; and that fear was beginning to decline in face of stronger impulses
towards the opportunity which marriage with Gaga would produce. And just
in this crucial stage of her reflections came a most striking fresh
influence. It was brought by Miss Summers, who returned from the
telephone with a solemn expression upon her face.
"Sally," she said. "Come here." When Sally approached her, Miss Summers
pretended to give some instructions; but in reality, under her breath,
she murmured: "Sally, don't tell the other girls; but Madam's worse this
morning. Her temperature's 103." Her warning frown emphasised the
meaning of the words. It made Sally's heart begin to beat fast. Madam
... Madam....
With her head low, Sally bent over her work. But that frown had brought
decision to her mind. She would marry Gaga. It was so important that she
should not miss this chance that she would marry him at once. She _must_
do so. It was essential. What if he had grown frightened?
That was her new spur of fear. Toby was forgotten. She was on fire for
the marriage. It had now become the only conclusion to her doubts. She
must take the earliest opportunity of seeing Gaga, of conveying her
acceptance, of making sure of him. Her fingers trembled, so important
did time now seem to Sally. Her one anxiety was lest she should have to
kindle his eagerness anew. Troubled but resolute, she tried in vain to
work. Every sound made her start. All her attention was distracted from
the sewing and concentrated upon the possibility of an interview with
Gaga. Yet a shyness made her afraid to leave her place and go into
Madam's room. The other girls would notice. What if they did? They would
soon know that they could not treat her with anything but humility. She
would have untold power over them. Sally almost recoiled from the
knowledge of what power she would wield in the business once she was
Gaga's wife. It seemed to her incredible. Her mind strayed to Miss
Summers, Miss Rapson, the jealous Rose.... How would they like it? What
would they do? Sally imagined the news reaching them, imagined their
fear of her, their jealousy, their cutting remarks about herself. And
she laughed, knowing that she would be out of reach of any of the harm
that they might wish her.
While she was thus contemplating a development, the door of Gaga's room
opened, and he came quickly into the workroom. Sally's heart seemed to
stop beating. She felt sick with dread. He wore a flower in his
buttonhole. His first glance was for Sally, as her own lightning
scrutiny showed. He was white, but he smiled. His eagerness of inquiry
was manifest. Sally could not help smiling in return, although she was
trembling, and knew that he too must be trembling. She gave the faintest
possible nod, and saw the colour start to his cheek. Gaga was checked
for an instant in his progress. His smile broadened, his head was thrown
back. At that moment he looked almost like a determined man, so vividly
did Sally's nod cause a new ichor of confidence to run in his veins.
xx
On a bright morning about ten days later, Sally lay in bed watching her
mother prepare the breakfast upon their oil stove. Although the year was
in its last months it was still warm and sunny, and Mrs. Minto clambered
about the room half-dressed, with her grey hair hanging behind in ragged
tails. With her bodice off she looked more than ever meagre, her thin
face sharper and greyer than of old, and her movements more uncertain.
As Sally watched her mother she realised that the unsightly walls and
battered furniture were just of a piece with the creeping figure. What
she did not understand was that Mrs. Minto was so used to the furniture,
which she had known during the whole of her married life, that she did
not recognise its dilapidation. But Sally had no time for thought of her
mother. She was excited. Her tongue came out between her teeth, and she
looked at the ceiling. At last, in a laconic voice, she said:
"Ma!" Mrs. Minto glanced wearily at her. Sally considered her speech
with a further smile, so that Mrs. Minto became irritated, and went on
with her preparations in a rather indignant way. "Ma," resumed Sally,
relishingly, "I shan't be home to-night."
Mrs. Minto started. She became instantly alert.
"Oh yes you will, my girl," she cried sternly. "None o' that!"
"Yes, I shan't be home to-night," repeated Sally. "Nor to-morrow night,
either."
Mrs. Minto left her work and came to the bedside. She was like a
snarling bitch, savage over her threatened young.
"Sally!" she exclaimed, in a rough voice. "What you doing! What d'you
mean? Of course you'll be home. You're not going to play any tricks with
me, my gel."
"I shan't be coming home," continued Sally. "Not ever. I'm getting
married to-day."
Mrs. Minto sat down upon the bed.
"Married!" she screamed. "Married! Why, who you going to marry! What
d'you mean? Silly girl, trying to frighten me!"
"Don't get excited, ma. I'm going to look after you. The fact is, I'm
... well, _you'll_ be all right. Nothing to worry about."
"Who _is_ he?" demanded Mrs. Minto. "Who _is_ he?" She was desperately
agitated. "Sally, I'm your mother.... Oh, you bad girl! You been
hiding.... I knew you was hiding something. I knew where them fast
frocks was leading you!"
Sally was enjoying the scene. But she suddenly checked herself.
"Ma, I'm marrying a rich man. I'm marrying Madam's son."
"Madam's _son_!"
"Yes." She was complacent. "Those fast frocks lead to the registry
office."
"Reg.... Not in church? It's.... Sally!"
"What I say," cried Sally.
"A rich man!"
"Mr. Bertram. And what's more he loves me. And you won't have to do any
more charing. Only sit here and gorge yourself on the police news, like
a lady, and...."
"Married!" gasped Mrs. Minto. She gave a foolish giggling laugh, and the
tears ran down her cheeks. "Is it _true_, Sally?"
Sally held up her left hand, brought it blazing from under the
bedclothes. Mrs. Minto seized the hand, squeezed it hard, and pored over
the brilliants.
"Well!" she exclaimed. Then she shook her head, and wiped the tears from
her cheeks. A great sobriety appeared in her expression. Anxiety was her
dominating concern. "D'you love him, Sally? You ought to have told me. I
ought to have seen him. He hasn't asked for you. He ought to have come
and asked your mother."
"Madam's ill. I told him I'd tell you. You got to give your consent,
'cause I'm so young. He's got no time to get away. I'm very fond of him,
and he thinks I'm...." Sally hoisted her shoulders. She had spoken very
deliberately.
"You said he was soppy."
Sally turned a cold eye upon her mother.
"You got too good a memory," she remarked. "What I've said to you....
Well, I knew you'd worry about him, and think I was going to get into
trouble, and.... Anyway, we're getting married this morning, and going
for our honeymoon this afternoon."
"Where you going?"
"In the country. Penterby. It's on the river, near the sea. You get to
the sea in no time. Ga-- Bertram-- Bert says it's lovely. Quiet, and ...
you know, you can get about."
"Married! I can't believe it!"
"I'll show you my certificate, when I get it. Don't you believe me?"
Mrs. Minto sat quite still upon the bed for a minute, her face intensely
pale. She seemed unable to say anything more. Then, very slowly indeed,
she recovered the power of motion, and rose wearily to her feet. She did
not look at Sally, but kept her eyes away. She stood upright, and took
two or three steps. But as she paused again her emotion became
overwhelming, and she clutched feebly at the bedrail. With her head
resting upon both thin arms she began to cry aloud--great turbulent sobs
which shook her whole body.
"My baby! My baby!" she wailed noisily. "Oh, what shall I do! My baby!"
Sally's lips quivered. She tried to smile. Slowly she crept out of bed,
and put her arms round her mother.
"Sh! Sh!" she whispered. "Ma! Ma! You're making me blubber, too. You old
fool! It's not a funeral!"
Strange emotion shook Sally as well as her mother. But they were
different. A thoughtful pucker came between her brows, and she had a
smile that was almost contemptuous.
"Ma!" she repeated, as the sobs remained vehement. "Shut up, ma! Oh,
what an old image! Talk about a noise! Anybody'd think it was _you_ who
was getting married!"
She had recovered her own nerve. She could not see the future; but her
head was cool, and she stared over her mother's shoulder at the sunlight
bleaching the outer grime of the neighbouring roofs. In her thin
nightgown she looked like a child, and her face was so impish that she
seemed to regard her marriage as one more in a long series of good
jokes. Her eyes were wide open, and her lips smiling.
BOOK THREE: CONSEQUENCES
i
The Merricks--Sally and Bertram--went for their honeymoon to Penterby, a
little South of England town near the sea but not actually upon the
coast. The honeymoon was to be a short one, the barest weekend, and so
they could not go far from London; and for some reason Gaga could not
stand the sea itself. Strong air made him ill, and even sight of rolling
waves made him feel sick. Sally, still elated and not as yet very
confident or assertive, immediately agreed when he suggested this
country town; but she had no real notion of what was in store for her.
She was all half-amused trepidation. The scuffled marriage-ceremony,
after which the registrar's clerk hurried to call for her for the first
time by her new name, was fun to her. It meant nothing: "I, Sarah,
Margaret Minto, call on these present...." It was all a part of a game,
a rather exciting game; and Gaga was no more to her after the ceremony
than he had been before it. He was a tall agitated grey creature, very
tremulous and muffled in his speech, and nothing like a husband. What
_was_ a husband? How did one feel towards a husband? All Sally knew was
that her husband was a stranger. He was one man out of millions of men,
no more and no less than the others. The thought that she was binding
herself to him for life did not trouble her. It did not enter her head.
Nevertheless, she felt triumph at her wedding ring, and clutched Gaga's
arm as they came out of the register office with their two
casually-acquired witnesses. They were instantly alone, and walking
along the street together in the autumn sunshine, married and excited,
but merely two strangers on their way to lunch. And yet that was not
quite all, because when they were seated at lunch Sally felt the
slightest sensation of flurry at Gaga's possessive stare. She returned
it boldly, quite unembarrassed; but across her mind flitted a knowledge
which came there of its own accord. He was a weak man, weak in his
possessiveness as he had been weak in his stammering; and the
possessiveness (which in a strong man might have excited her) gave Sally
an uncomfortable sense that Gaga might bother her. She had never
realised this. She saw in this instant that he would be jealous,
exacting, amorous. She did not love him, and the amorousness of the
unloved is a bore. Sally knew she could always deal with Gaga; but she
did not want a profusion of excited caresses from him. It was this
realisation that gave her a jerk of dismay. It was not that she shrank
from him. It was that with her cold little brain she imagined him in a
fever about her, fretful, tantalised by her coolness, rebuffed, sulky,
ineffably tedious.... As she knew all this her eyes darkened. It was all
very well to play with Gaga; but he was now her husband, and that meant
an association so constant that in future, so far from tempting him, she
would forever be engaged in battles with his exasperating, petty claims
to her person and her attention. He would not ever be able to understand
her wish to be alone, or to be self-engrossed. Febrile himself, he would
be dumfounded at her reserve, which he would take for hostility.