checked a sob that would have plunged her into hysteria. "I'm married!"
Toby fell away, his mouth open. The release sent Sally against the wall
once more. He stood looking at her, his face grey, his eyes smouldering.
"You tell me _that_?" he said. "Married!"
"Yes. Married."
He did not speak. He eyed her with a sombre and threatening
appraisement. Then, more quietly, he went on:
"You _can't_ be. You're mine. You belong to _me_. Nobody else can't have
you!"
"Nobody else can have me. But I'm married, all right," Sally told him.
She was recovering some composure. When she moistened her lips she
glanced sideways at him, like lightning. Toby had not struck her. He was
too surprised.
"Married.... And you come here with me. Liar!"
"My husband's away.... We don't.... His mother's ill. I don't love
him--never did. We were only married a few days ago. I wrote to you. You
never got the letter."
"Oh, _that's_ why...." Toby's tone was vengeful. His fists were
clenched.
"See, Toby, I only love you. Only you. But he's rich. We.... I don't
sleep with him, Toby. He's never...."
"You liar!" Toby approached her. Sally could see his teeth glistening.
"I swear it's true. Toby!"
Toby suddenly caught her a blow on the arm which sent her spinning
across the tiny room. She held on to the mantelpiece to save a fall.
They were both panting now; but Toby was like a bulldog. The colour was
returning to his cheeks. He was watching Sally, as she was watching him.
She was ready to dodge a further blow; but she knew that if he was
determined to kill her nothing would stop him. She was filled with
abject fear at her own physical powerlessness. But by now her wits were
alert again. Toby made a movement, and Sally started, ready to dart
away. He did not come nearer. A stupidity seemed to descend upon him.
A loud rap at the door startled them both.
"Hot water. Half-past seven. And less noise there!" came a loud voice.
The whole scene was transformed by the interruption. Both became
listless.
"Married!" Toby said, as if to himself. He shook his head.
"I love _you_," Sally told him.
He sat dully upon the bed. Timidly, for fear of another outburst, Sally
approached him. At last, standing by his side, she held Toby's head to
her breast, kissing him with little fierce kisses that must have carried
their message to his heart. At last Toby's arms were raised, and around
her, and she was pressed to him once more. Their lips met. Toby made a
muffled, snarling sound that was a mixture of love and hatred and
masterfulness. He held her with ferocity. Then, as suddenly, his muscles
relaxed, until Sally by repeated endearments baffled his indignation and
softened his anger. She was struggling with all her might to keep
possession of him, moving each instant with more assurance among his
dull thoughts and his easily-roused passions. As the moments passed she
knew that she had kept him, and at this knowledge her own passion rose
until it equalled Toby's.
"My love," she whispered. "My dear love."
xi
Later in the day, when she was able to think of all that had happened,
Sally had an unexpected glimpse of the situation. She realised that she
was a victor. She was almost too satisfied. She had no shame, no
contrition; she merely knew that if she might still keep Toby her
marriage with Gaga would be bearable. She had none of the turmoil of the
conventional married woman who takes a lover; but then she had never
been trained to be scrupulous. She was still young enough to be
intoxicated by her own prowess. She could manage Gaga; she could manage
Toby; she could manage the business--there was no end to her power. More
than anything else, it was necessity to her to gratify her sense of
power. If that necessity had been removed she would have known herself
for a reckless fool; but the demand for power obliterated every
inconvenient thought of risk. As for a sense of honour, Sally had been
born without one.
All the girls looked at her "very old-fashioned," as they would have
said, when she arrived in the morning; but as the day wore on, and there
was no further telephone message for her from Gaga, they began to forget
what had happened on the previous day. Sally worked like a mouse, her
brain exulting in its vivid memories of her time with Toby; and she did
not think of Gaga at all. She only hoped that he would not come to the
office. She was feeling too tired to deal effectively with any
peevishness from Gaga; although, the causes of her hysteria having been
removed, she was not likely to repeat the failure of that other restless
night. A heaviness hung upon her as the day wore on; a kind of thick
readiness for sleep. She yawned over her work. The workroom seemed
stuffy, the day unusually long. The nervous strain of the past few days
was reacting, and even Sally's vitality was shaken by the consequences
of her successive excitements. When tea-time came she was relieved. But
there had been no news of Gaga, or from him: not even a message through
Miss Summers. Miss Summers grew more and more fidgetty and anxious as
the hours went by.
"I do hope nothing's happened," she clucked. "So funny not having heard.
I wonder if I ought to telephone to ask. Perhaps Mr. Bertram's ill. Did
you _see_ him last night? D'you think I ought to ring up? I'm so
worried. It's so strange, and Madam being so ill, and that."
"I shouldn't worry," urged Sally. "He'll 'phone fast enough if there's
anything to say. Look at yesterday."
"Yes; but perhaps he's ill himself."
"Sick," commented Sally. "He's bilious, you know."
Miss Summers shook her head, and sighed.
"Yes," she readily agreed. "I'm afraid he's not the man his mother is."
They had hardly finished speaking when Miss Summers was called to the
telephone. She was away for two or three minutes; and returned with
tears streaming down her cheeks. All their pink plumpness was softened
into a blur of tearful weakness. She was bent and dissolved under
disaster. As she made her way up the long workroom to her place the
girls all craned their necks to look at Miss Summers, and one or
two--the kinder ones--rose to see if they could do anything to comfort
her. But it was to Sally that Miss Summers turned, and within an inch of
Sally's cheeks that she shook her tear-stained face. At first she could
not speak; but grimaced like a child, as if her cold nose was smarting.
Sally was first to hear the news; but all of them had known it from the
first glimpse of Miss Summers in tears.
"She's gone," cried Miss Summers, "Poor soul, she's gone. And what will
happen to us I don't know."
"_We'll_ be all right," Sally murmured, with singular confidence. A
shock had slightly discomposed her, but it was not a shock of sorrow for
the death of Madame Gala. Rather was it a passing thrill of dismay at
her own responsibility, which her reassuring speech had been intended to
remove.
"She's dead.... Madam's dead...." ran through the workroom. One girl
hurried to tell Miss Rapson and the workers in her department, who came
crowding immediately into the room, agog with excitement. They all
gathered together in a body, and then in detached groups, talking fast.
"I s'pose we'll all have a day off for the funeral," somebody said with
a giggle.
"Oo, yes. Sure to. And have to wear mourning," added another girl, more
solemnly and hopefully.
Sally stood, as if by right, with Miss Summers and Miss Rapson. She was
definitely a principal figure in the scene. Just as the other girls
began to notice this, and murmuringly to comment upon it as a piece of
characteristic impudence, Miss Summers had a quick return of memory.
Gesticulating with helpless impatience, she said:
"Oh, Sally; I'd quite forgotten. Mr. Bertram _is_ ill. And the nurse
said he was asking to see you. Yes, asking to see ... Miss Minto."
Asking to see Sally Minto! There was a thrill among the girls that was
even greater than the one which they had felt at the news of Madam's
death. Gaga asking to see Sally Minto! Whew! Everything became electric.
Rose Anstey coloured deeply, and turned upon her heel. Sally knew they
were all staring at her, like fish in an aquarium. With something
approaching dignity she ignored them and directly addressed Miss
Summers.
"Did you mean he wanted me to go at once?" she asked.
"Yes, child. Yes. At once. Better run along now...." Miss Summers was
distracted, tearful, inclined to kiss Sally, and altogether without
knowledge of what she was doing or what she ought to do. "Wait.... Tell
him--perhaps I ought to write a letter? Oh, dear! I don't know...." She
pressed her fingers to her temples. "No, tell him how sorry we all are.
Say if he wants _me_.... Run along, run along!"
"Yes, Miss Summers."
In a very leisurely manner, Sally rolled up her pinafore and put her
work away. Then she washed and dressed herself to go out. She walked
back through the workroom like a queen, sedately bidding Miss Summers
"good-afternoon" and smiling a cool farewell to the girls. The buzz of
their amazed whispering followed her into the waiting-room. She felt
their eyes like stings in her back. On the way downstairs the memory of
the scene and an understanding of the girls' feelings made her laugh.
Well, that was that; and she was face to face with her problem in its
entirety. Unconsciously, Sally walked more erect.
xii
Sally never went back to the workroom. She hurried from it to the old
house in Kensington in which the Merricks had lived for years; and as
she saw the house, so black with dust, and the steps that led up to the
heavy front door, even Sally's heart quailed. She hesitated for several
minutes before going up the steps, and loitered there, a little figure
in a grey dress, trim and _chic_, but not at all the girl to take
control of such a mansion and of the difficulties which lay within. She
could not tell what a mass of custom the house indicated; but her
instinct was enough to make her feel extraordinarily small,
extraordinarily untrained and incapable. It had been very well for her
to suppose that everything could be seized and controlled at a glance.
The reality was too solid for a longer dream. Thoughtless,
over-confident as her fantasy had been, she had the sense which a child
has when a running man comes threateningly near--of a great shape, of
unexpected size and dangerousness, looming out of the focussed picture,
and setting all previous conceptions at nought. Here was this giant
house, and Madam lying dead in it, and servants who would resent her
appearance, and Gaga; and Sally was such a little girl in the face of a
definite trial. She was a little girl, and she would never be able to
deal with what lay ahead. It was a long, devastating spasm of doubt,
like a trembling of the earth. The house towered above her, huge and
gloomy; and other houses, equally oppressive, continued from the
Merricks' house, with basements and railings and great black fronts and
lace curtains, until the road turned and its end was unseen. And Sally,
who had lived all her life in small flats and single rooms, was shaken.
Her heart sank. She entered the house. Her head was high, from pride;
but her qualms were intense. An atmosphere of solemn melancholy made
everybody speak in low tones. She had difficulty in remaining calm.
All the rooms were large rooms, filled with large furniture and old
pictures and prints. Madam had made her home for comfort; and the taste
which had marked her other work was here subdued. An old clock ticked
steadily; and if there were no ancient horrors at least the house within
did not belie its serious front. Sally was like a little doll, shrinking
under the weight of such solid comfort, and not yet able to appraise it
in terms of possession and disposal. She was still shy and timid.
Wherever, upon this first entrance, she looked round for encouragement,
she found none. During that first evening she was so miserable that she
could have run away. She was like a child that goes for the first time
to school, and feels bereft of every familiar support and association.
But in the morning Sally found everything better. She saw Gaga's
doctor, and she talked to the three servants. She telephoned to Miss
Summers and asked her to come to the house in the afternoon. She wrote
to Mrs. Perce and to Toby. She nursed Gaga and refused to see the dead
body of his mother. Every minute which she spent in the house increased
her familiarity with it; and her youth and smallness captivated the
three middle-aged servants, who were glad to have somebody there whom
they could advise. Sally had long been able to behave as somebody other
than a workgirl, and the servants were so well-behaved that they did not
make any attempt to be too much at ease with her. Sally, moreover,
looked down with all the contempt of her class upon women who worked in
domestic service--SKIVVIES! She was drawlingly refined with them, but
not grotesquely so, and they respected her.
First in importance among the things which Sally had to seem to arrange
was the funeral. She handed all the details to the undertaker. This
showed her to be a general. From the first she followed the only
possible plan--to give _carte blanche_ to those who had to deal with
matters of urgency. Gaga was all the time ill. His mother's death had so
broken down his strength and his self-control that Sally often found him
weak with crying; a pathetic figure, in bed, woebegone and feeble. His
delight at seeing her was so violent that he had covered her hands with
kisses before he fell back exhausted upon his pillow. He constantly
called for her. The servants noticed with clucked tongues how feverish
was his devotion; but they also recognised Sally's patience. Sally was
angelic to Gaga. She tended him so protectively that one might have
thought her loving. And in the rest of her free time she tried hard to
learn about the house. Mistakes she made, of course, and many of them;
but she was still shrewd, and if she was often superficial and hasty,
at least she was alert.
Miss Summers Sally found invaluable. Once Miss Summers had overcome her
surprise at the new order and once she had found that Sally was the old
Sally, who relied upon her, she rose to every call. Her kindness and her
generalship were unfailing. She it was who kept the business moving at a
trying time. In her hands orders were filled with the expected
promptitude and the customary excellence. She obsequiously interviewed
those who came to be fitted; and her knowledge of the business enabled
her to satisfy these customers and make them understand that in spite of
the extraordinary conditions they could still rely upon proper
attention. She was unsparing of her time and her devotion. She had at
last a satisfactory mission.
And all this Sally recognised. While Gaga claimed her attention, and
household affairs worried her, she did not trouble very much about the
business. Miss Summers would come in the evening to Kensington, tell her
the news, and give advice upon other matters. The two had long talks at
night. Sally suddenly knew how valuable a friend she had in Miss
Summers. She knew the value of an unselfish readiness to serve; and she
herself was generous enough and, in a sense, imaginative enough not to
exploit Miss Summers. There was a good understanding between them. And
Sally, as she looked round at the mahogany furniture in this old house,
and saw the dull carpets and engravings which Madam had gathered
together in other days for the suitable adornment of her rooms, could
think of no better repayment than a gift of some of the things which
Miss Summers might prize, and which Sally and Gaga could never use. It
was characteristic of her that she made this definite reservation; but
with Gaga's consent she finally made Miss Summers happy by such a
lavish present that Sally might have done many strange things without
ever losing the loyalty of her adjutant.
She slept by herself in a room connected with Gaga's room by an open
door. She was thus able to tend him during his frequent fits of sickness
and weakness, which often took the form of long hypochondriacal attacks;
and was at the same time given opportunity for active thought and
planning. Sally was very happy in these days, for nothing gives greater
happiness than incessant occupation that is flattering to the vanity.
She walked with a new air, looked about her with confidence and a sense
of ownership. Above all, she had reached that almost super-human
state--she knew herself to be indispensable.
xiii
When Gaga seemed to be well enough, they went out for a time each day,
and Sally tried to interest him in plans for a change of home. He was
still so feeble that he was rather listless and querulous; but when she
told him the sort of flat she wanted nearer town, and the sort of
furniture, Gaga caught fire, and became enthusiastic. His eyes glowed.
Much more gently than ever before, and to that extent more tolerably, he
kissed her. He proclaimed Sally's genius. Everything she suggested
appeared to him more excellent than the last thing: if she had been a
silly girl she might have been made reckless. But having interested him
she became rather afraid of his eager support. The flat was to be _her_
flat. She did not want Gaga blundering in with enthusiastic mistakes.
And another thing was that the doctor warned her about the dangers of
excitement.
"Your husband's not a strong man, Mrs. Merrick," he said. "He's not
even a sound man. You don't want him to get too excited. It's bad for
him. Go slow."
"I'll try," agreed Sally. But it was with a shrug. "You see how he is. I
mustn't be out of his sight; and yet _something's_ got to be done."
"You're a very plucky girl," remarked the doctor feebly; and he went
away.
Sally's shrug had been sincere. She would have preferred to do
everything alone; but to do so would have been to make Gaga fully as ill
as any over-excitement could do. They accordingly went about together,
looking for a flat. They discovered one at last in Mayfair; and
decorations were begun there. It was not a large flat, and the rooms
were not all large; but it was cosy, and the furnishing of it was going
to give Sally a satisfaction hard to exceed. The two of them exulted in
the flat. They walked through and through it. They saw the wallpapers
and the paint, and admired everything in the most delicious manner
possible.
And then the doctor's warning was justified. Gaga collapsed. He fainted
in the flat, overcome by the smell of paint and the excitement of
proprietorship. With the help of one of the painters Sally took him home
in a cab and put him to bed. The doctor arrived, nodded, and was not in
the least surprised or alarmed. Sally was merely to be Gaga's nurse once
more. It did not matter to the doctor, who had no interest in Gaga
except as a patient.
"It's rough on you, though," he said to Sally. He was a bald man of
fifty, with a cold eye and a cold, fish-like hand. He was interested in
nothing outside his profession and his meals. To him Sally was a plucky
little thing; but Sally could not find that he thought anything more
about her. She shrugged again. "So sorry," said the doctor. "Good-bye."
When he had gone, Sally frowned. Bother! All her plans were interrupted.
Her energies were subdued. Thoughtfully, she began to consider how far
she might act alone. She wondered whether she might persuade Gaga to let
her go out in the mornings or the afternoons. He _must_ do so, and yet
she knew he would not like it. Although the decision always lay with
her, he had the sick and nervous man's fussy wish to seem to make a
choice. He wanted to be there, to be heard, to announce Sally's decision
in a loud voice as his own.
"What a man he is!" thought Sally. "Big kid. Got to have a say in
everything. And he _can't_!" The last words were spoken aloud, so
vehemently did she feel them. "He can't, because he doesn't know.
O-o-oh!"
She beat one hand upon the other, in a sudden passion. For a moment she
had an unexpected return of hysteria. And as she took two or three
fierce paces Sally without warning felt dizzy. She clung to a chair; and
the dizziness immediately passed. It frightened her, none the less,
because she had been feeling unwell for some days, and she had a horror
of illness.
"Here, here!" she exclaimed. "None of that. _I_ mustn't get ill. Oh,
lor! If I was to get ill _wouldn't_ there be a shimozzle! Gaga'd go off
his head. And everything else--pouf!"
It amused her to realise this. It made her forget the unexplained sick
dizziness which had given rise to her reflections, because the thing
which Sally above everything else had always desired was to be as
important as she now found herself. At the age of eighteen she was
dominating a world which she had long since determined to conquer.
xiv
During the week following, Sally had no time for any thing but
attendance upon Gaga. She was herself feeling sick and wretched; and
Gaga was very ill indeed. He was sometimes extremely feeble, so that a
lethargy fell upon him and he lay so quiet that Sally believed him to be
asleep. But at her first movement he would unclose his eyes and groan
her name, groping with his finger to detain her. So she sat in his big
square bedroom with the drab walls and the plain furniture, watching the
daylight fade and pondering to herself. It was a gloom period, and it
had a perceptible effect upon her vitality. At other times Gaga would
rally, would even sit up and talk in his old stammer, his grey face
whitened and sharpened by illness. Always he demanded her kisses,
although at times she had such horror of being made love to by one so
ill that she was pricked by a perfect frenzy of nerves. He would sit by
the fire, passing his thin hand across her shoulders, stooping and
caressing her and catching her neck with his fingers in order to bring
her cheek the more submissively to his own. His lips were ever
encroaching, and his fevered clasp was so incessant and so vibrant with
overstrung excitement as to create a sense of repulsion. It was a
tyranny, to which Sally listlessly yielded because she had not the
spirit to resist. She also knew that resistance would make him ill
again; and however much she chafed at his kisses she chafed still more
at the constant attention demanded by Gaga's state of health, which kept
her ever there and delayed intolerably the execution of those plans
which would have interposed a relief from these intimacies. Then again
he would be seized with fits of vomiting which shook his frame and made
him so ill that he had to be helped back to bed and comforted as if he
were a child. It was a weary time, much shorter than it appeared to be
in her slow watching of the clock; and she could not have endured it at
all if her resolution had been less tough. Sometimes, too, Sally knew
that she was rather fond of Gaga. Her feeling for him was a mixture of
emotion; but she never actively disliked him, even when she was bored by
his constant show of possessiveness. The truth was that she had grown to
be afraid. She was like a Frankenstein, and her monstrous plan had
become too great to be carried through alone. She was frightened that
Gaga would die; and she did not want him to die. He was necessary to
her, because at present he was the key to her scheme of immediate life.