INTERIM
VOLUMES IN THIS SERIES:
POINTED ROOFS
BACKWATER
HONEYCOMB
THE TUNNEL
INTERIM
DEADLOCK (in preparation)
INTERIM
BY
DOROTHY M. RICHARDSON
AUTHOR OF "POINTED ROOFS," ETC.
LONDON
DUCKWORTH & CO.
3 HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN
First Published 1919
TO
F. de B.
INTERIM
CHAPTER I
1
Miriam thumped her Gladstone bag down on to the doorstep. Stout boots
hurried along the tiled passage and the door opened on Florrie in her
outdoor clothes smiling brilliantly from under the wide brim of a
heavily trimmed hat. Grace in a large straight green dress appeared
beside her from the open dining-room door. Miriam finished her cadenza
with the door knocker while Florrie bent to secure her bag saying on a
choke of laughter, _come_ in. You've just been out, said Miriam
listening to Grace's soothing reproaches for her lateness. Shall I come
in or shall I burst into tears and sit down on the doorstep? Florrie
laughed aloud, standing with the bag. Bring her _in_ scolded Mrs. Philps
from the dining-room door. Grace took her by the arm and drew her along
the passage. I'm one mass of mud.--Never mind the mud, come in out of
the rain, scolded Mrs. Philps backing towards the fire, you must be worn
out.--No, I don't feel tired now I'm here, oh what a heavenly fire.
Miriam heard the front door shut with a shallow suburban slam and got
herself round the supper table to stand with Mrs. Philps on the
hearthrug and smile into the fire. Mrs. Philps patted her arm and cheek.
Is the door really shut O'Hara said Miriam turning to Florrie coming
into the room. Of course it is, choked Florrie coming to the hearthrug
to pat her;--I'll put the chain up if you like.--Sit down and rest
before you go upstairs said Mrs. Philps propelling her gently backwards
into the largest of the velvet armchairs. Its back sloped away from her;
the large square cushion bulging out the lower half of the long woollen
antimacassar prevented her from getting comfortably into the chair. She
sat on the summit of the spring and said it was not cold. Wouldn't you
like to come up before supper suggested Grace in answer to her uneasy
gazing into the fire. Well I feel rather grubby. Give her some hot water
murmured Mrs. Philps taking up the Daily Telegraph. Grace preceded her
up the little staircase carrying her bag. Will you have your milk hot or
cold Miriam? called Florrie from below--Oh, hot I think please, I shan't
be a _second_ said Miriam into the spare room, hoping to be left. Grace
turned up the gas. M-m darling she murmured with timid gentle kisses,
I'm so glad you have come. So am _I_. It's glorious to be safely
here ... I shan't be a second. I'll come down as I am and appear radiant
to-morrow--You're _always_ radiant--I'm simply grubby; I've worn this
blouse all the week; _oh_ bliss, hot water. Sit on the rocking chair
while I ablute; unpack my bag--D'you mind if I don't Miriam darling?
Aunt and I called on the Unwins to-day and I haven't put my hat by yet.
We've got three clear days--All right, oh my dear you don't know how
glad I am I'm here--Grace came back murmuring from the door to repeat
the gentle kisses. When the door was shut the freshness and quietude of
the room enfolded Miriam, smoothing away grubbiness and fatigue. Opening
her Gladstone bag she threw on to the bed her new cream nun's veiling
blouse and lace tie, her brushbag and sponge-bag and shoes and a volume
of Schiller and a bundle of note-paper and envelopes. A night-gown was
put ready for her on the bed frilled in an old-fashioned way with
hand-made embroidery. Her bag went under the bed for nearly four days.
Nothing grubby anywhere. No grubbiness for four days. In the large
square mirror her dingy blouse and tie looked quite bright under the
gaslight screened by the frosted globe. Her hair had been flattened by
her hat becomingly over the broad top of her head, and its mass pushed
down in a loose careless bundle with good chance curves reaching low on
to her neck. She poured the hot water into one of the large
cream-coloured basins, her eye running round the broad gilt-edged band
ornamenting its rim over the gleaming marble cover of the washstand, the
gleaming tiles facing her beyond the rim of the basin, the highly
polished woodwork above the tiles. She snuffed freshness everywhere.
While the fresh unscented curdiness of the familiar Broom soap went over
her face and wrists and hands she began to hunger for the clean supper,
for the fresh night in the freshness of the large square bed, for the
clean solid leisurely breakfast. Pushing back her hair she sponged the
day from her face sousing luxuriously in the large basin and listening
to Grace moving slowly about upstairs. Seizing a towel she ran up the
little single flight and stood towelling inside Grace's door. Hullo
pink-face, laughed Grace tenderly, smoothing tissue paper into a large
hat box--I say it must be an _enormous_ one--It is; it's huge smiled
Grace--You must show it to me to-morrow--Miriam ran downstairs and back
to the mirror in her room to look at her clean untroubled face. Don't
run about the house, come down to supper, called Florrie from below.
2
Have they brought the sausages, asked Mrs. Philps acidly.
Yes, scowled Florrie.
Don't forget to tell Christine how we like them done, said Grace
frowning anxiously. Miriam took her eyes from the protruding eyes of the
Shakespeare on the wall opposite, and shut away within her her sharp
sense of the many things ranged below him on the mantlepiece behind
Florrie, the landscape on one side of him, the picture of Queen Victoria
leaning on a walking stick between two Hindu servants, receiving an
address, on the other side, the Satsuma vases and bowls on the sideboard
behind Mrs. Philps, the little sharp bow of narrow curtain-screened
windows behind Grace, the clean gleam on everything.
Chris_tine_?
Oh yes, didn't you know? She's been with us a month--
What became of Amelia?
Oh we had to let her go. She got fat and lazy.
They all do! they're all the same--Go on Miriam.
--Well, said Miriam from the midst of her second helping--they both
listened, and the steps came shambling up their stairs--and they heard
the man collapse with a groan against their door. They waited and, well,
all at once the man, well, they heard him being violently _ill_--Oh
_Miriam_--Yes; wasn't it awful? and then a feeble voice like a
chant--a-a-a-ah-oo--oo-oo-oo kom, and hailpemee--_Oh_ Meester Bell, kom,
oh, I am _freezing_ to death, _what_ a pity what a pity--and then
silence. She fed rapidly, holding them all silently eager for her voice
again to fill out the spaces of their room--For about half an hour they
heard him break out, every few minutes, _oh_ Meester Bell, dear pretty
Mr. Bell kom. I am freezing to death whatta pity--whattapity. The Brooms
sat breaking one against the other into fresh laughter. Miriam ate
rapidly glancing from face to face. What-eh-pitie--what-eh-pitie she
moaned. Can't you hear him? Grace choked and sneezed and drank a little
milk. They were all still slowly and carefully eating their first
helping.--You do come across some funny people said Mrs. Philps mopping
her eyes and dimpling and sighing upon the end of her laughter. _I_
didn't come across him. It was at Mag's and Jan's boarding house. Mrs.
Philps had not begun to listen at the beginning. But Grace and Florrie
saw the whole thing clearly. Mrs. Philps did not remember who Mag and
Jan were. She would not unless one told her all about their
circumstances and their parents. Florrie's face was preparing a
question. Then they must have--went on Miriam. There was a subdued ring
at the front door bell.--There's Christine shall we have her in to
change the plates aunt, frowned Florrie.--No let 'er changer dress. We
can put the plates on the sideboard--Then they must both have gone to
sleep again, said Miriam when Florrie returned from letting Christine
in--because they did not hear him go downstairs and he wasn't there in
the morning--A good thing I should think, observed Mrs. Philps. He
wasn't there said Miriam cheerfully--er--not in _person_. Oh _Miriam_,
protested Grace hysterically. _Oh--oh_--cried the others. Miriam watched
the second course appearing from the sideboard--she greeted the
blancmange and jam with a soft shout, feeling as hungry as when supper
had begun. Isn't she _rude_ chuckled Florrie, putting down a plate of
bananas and a small dish of chocolates. Ooo-_ooo_ squealed Miriam--Be
quiet and behave yourself and begin on that said Grace giving her a
plate of blancmange. Oh yes and _then_ said Miriam inspired to remember
more of her story--it all came out. He must have got down somehow to his
room in the morning. But he lay on the floor--he told them at
dinner--all of mee could not find thee bed at once!--Oh-oh-oh--He had
been--she cried raising her voice above the tumult--to a birthday party;
twenty-seex wheeskies and sodahs....--Why did he talk like that? Was he
an Irishman? Oh, can't you hear? He was a Hindu. They all talk like
that. "I will kindly shut the door." When they write letters they
begin--Honoured and spanking sir, wept Miriam--they find spanking in the
dictionary and their letters are like that all the way through, masses
of the most amazing adjectives. Why did Mag and Jan leave that boarding
house? asked Florrie into the midst of Miriam's absorption with the
solid tears on Mrs. Philps's cheekbones. She was longing for Mrs. Philps
to see the second thing, not only the funniness of spanking addressed to
a civil servant, but exactly how spanking would look to a Hindu. If only
they could see those things as well as produce their heavenly laughs.
Oh, _I_ don't know, she said wearily; you see they never meant to go
there. They wanted a place of their own. If only they could realise Mag
and Jan. There was never enough time and strength to make everything
clear. At every turn there was something they saw differently. They
_are_ a pair she breathed sleepily. _No_, thanks, she answered formally
to an offer of more blancmange. She was beginning to feel strong and
sleepy. No thanks she repeated formally as the heavy dish of bananas
came her way. She wants a chocolate said Florrie from across the table.
Miriam revived a little. Take _two_ begged Mrs. Philps. They're so huge,
said Miriam obeying and leaving the chocolates on her plate while her
mind moved heavily about seeking a topic. They were all beginning on
bananas. It would be endless. By the time it came to sitting over the
fire she would be almost asleep. She stirred uneasily. Someone must be
seeing her longing and impatience.
3
Miriam lost threads while Christine cleared away supper, pondering the
thick expressionless figure and hands and the heavy sallow sullen face.
She was very short. The Brooms watched her undisturbed, from their
places by the fire, now and again addressing instructions in low
frowning voices from the midst of conversation--_Do_ sit down said Mrs.
Philps at intervals--I've been sitting down all day said Miriam swaying
on her toes--I think we _did_ half believe it she pursued with biting
heartiness, aching with the onset of questions, speaking to make warmth
and distraction for Christine. She had never thought about it. _Had_
they half believed it? Had anyone ever put it to them in so many words?
Giving an opinion opened so many things. It was impossible to show
everything, the more opinions you expressed the more you misled people
and the further you got away from them--Because she continued with a
singing animation; Christine glanced;--we never heard anyone come
in--although--(the room enclosed her even more happily with Christine
there, everything looked even more itself)--we stayed awake till what
seemed almost morning, always till long after the ser-m- our domestic
staff had gone to bed. Their rooms were on the same floor as the night
nursery--Christine was padding out with a tray, her back to the room;
she had a holiday every year and regular off times and plenty of money
to buy clothes and presents; probably she had some sort of home. When
she had taken away the last of the supper things and closed the door
Grace patted the arm of the vacant armchair. I like this best, said
Miriam drawing up a little carved wooden stool--oh _don't_ sit on that
cried Mrs. Philps.--I'm all right said Miriam hurriedly, looking at no
one and drawing herself briskly upright with her eyes on the clear
blaze. Grace and Florrie were close on either side of her in straight
chairs, leaning forward towards the fire. Mrs. Philps sat back in the
smaller of the armchairs, its unyielding cushion sending her body
forward, her small chest crouched, her head bent and propped on her
hand, half facing their close row and gazing into the fire. There was a
silence. Florrie cleared her throat and glanced at Miriam. Miriam half
turned with weary resentment.--Did you used to hang up stockings Miriam
said Florrie quickly. Miriam assented hastily, staring at the fire.
Florrie patiently cleared her throat. With weary animation Miriam
dropped phrases about the parcels that were too big for the stocking,
the feeling of them against one's feet when one moved in the morning.
Shy watchful glances came to her from Florrie. Grace took her hand and
made encouraging sympathetic sounds. How secure they were, sitting with
all the holiday ahead over the fire which would be lit again for them in
the morning. This was only the fag-end of the first evening and it was
beginning to be like the beginning of a new day. Things were coming to
her out of the fire, fresh and new, seen for the first time; a flood of
images. She watched them with eyes suddenly cool and sleepless, relaxing
her stiff attitude and smiling vaguely at the fire-irons. She's tired;
she wants to go to bed said Mrs. Philps turning her head. The two heads
came round--Do you my sweet asked Grace pressing her hand.--You shall
have breakfast in bed if you like--Miriam grimaced briskly in her
direction.--Did you have a Noah's _ark_ she asked smiling at the fire.
Yes; Florrie had one. Uncle George gave it to her.--They began
describing.--Didn't you love it? broke in Miriam presently.--Do you
remember--and she recalled the Noah's ark as it had looked on the
nursery floor, the offended stiffness of the rescued family, the look of
the elephants and giraffes and the green and yellow grasshoppers and the
red lady bird, all standing about alive amongst the little stiff bright
green trees--We had a farm-yard too, pigs; and ducks and geese and hens
with feathers--We used to stand them all out together on the floor, and
the grocer's shop and all our dolls sitting round against the nursery
wall. It used to make me _perfectly_ happy. It would still--Everyone
laughed--It would. It _does_ only to think of it. And there was a doll's
house with a door that opened and a staircase and furniture in the
rooms. I can smell the smell of the inside at this moment. But the thing
I liked best and never got accustomed to was a little alabaster church
with coloured glass windows and a place inside for a candle. We used to
put that out on the floor too. I wish I had it now.... The
kaleidoscope. Do you _remember_ looking at the Kaleidoscope? I used to
cry about it sometimes at night; thinking of the patterns I had not
seen. I thought there was a new pattern every time you shook it,
forever. We had a huge one with very small bits of glass. They clicked
smoothly when the pattern changed and were very beautifully coloured....
Oh and do you remember those things--did you have a little paper
_theatre_? They were all looking at her, not at the little theatre. She
wished she had not mentioned it. It was so sacred and so secret that she
had never thought of it or even mentioned it to herself all these years.
She rushed on to the stereoscope, her eyes still on the little cardboard
stage, hearing the sound of the paper scraping over the little wooden
roller as the printed scenes came round backwards or forwards, and
plunged into descriptions of deep views of the insides of cathedrals in
sharp relief in a clear silver light, mountains, lakes, statuary in
clear light out of doors and came back to the dolls, pressing alone
wearily on through the dying interest of her hearers to discover with
sleepy enthusiasm the wisdom and indifference and independence of Dutch
dolls, the charm of their wooden bodies, the reasons why one never
wanted to put any clothes on them, the dear kind friendliness of dolls
with composition heads--I don't believe I've ever loved anyone in the
world as I loved Daisy--Yes, I know--we had one too; it belonged to Eve,
it was enormous and had real hair and a leather trunk for its clothes
and felt huge and solid when you carried it; but it was as far away from
you as a human being--yes, the rag dolls were simply funny--I never
understand all that talk about the affection for rag dolls. We used to
scream at ours and hold them by the skirts and see which could bang
their heads hardest against the wall. They were always like a Punch and
Judy show. The composition dolls I mean were painted a soft colour, very
roundly moulded heads, with a shape, just a little hair, put on in soft
brown colour, and not staring eyes but soft bluey grey with an
_expression_; looking at something, looking at the same thing you looked
at yourself--.... Mrs. Philps yawned and Florrie began making a
move--I suppose it's bed time--said Miriam. They were all looking
sleepy.--Have a glass of claret Miriam before you go said Mrs. Philps.
No thank you, said Miriam springing up and dancing about the room. Giddy
girl, chuckled Mrs. Philps affectionately. Grace and Florrie fetched
dust sheets from the hall cupboard and began spreading them over the
furniture. Miriam pulled up in front of a large oil-painting over the
sofa; its distances where a meadow stream that was wide in the
foreground with a stone bridge and a mill-wheel and a cottage half
hidden under huge trees, grew narrow and wound on and on through tiny
distant fields until the scene melted in a soft toned mist, held all her
early visits to the Brooms in the Banbury Park days before they had
discovered that she did not like sitting with her back to the fire. She
listened eagerly to the busy sounds of the Brooms. Someone had bolted
the hall door and was scrooping a chair over the tiles to get up and put
out the gas. Dust sheets were still being flountered in the room behind
her. Grace's arm came round her waist.--I'm so glad you've come sweet
she said in her low steady shaken tones--So'm I said Miriam.--Isn't that
a jolly picture--Yes. It's an awfully good one you know. It was one of
papa's--What's O'Hara doing in the kitchen?--Taking Grace by the waist
Miriam drew into the passage trying to prance with her down the hall.
The little kitchen was obscured by an enormous clothes-horse draped with
airing linen. She's left a miserable fire, said Mrs. Philps from behind
the clothes-horse--She hasn't done the saucepans aunt scolded Florrie
from the scullery--Never mind, we can't have er down now. It's neely
midnight.
4
Miriam emerged smoothly into the darkness and lay radiant. There was
nothing but the cool sense of life pouring from some inner source and
the deep fresh spaces of the darkness all round her. Perhaps she had
awakened because of her happiness ... clear gentle and soft in a
melancholy minor key a little thread of melody sounded from far away in
the night straight into her heart. There was nothing between her and the
sound that had called her so gently up from her deep sleep. She held in
her joy to listen. There was no sadness in the curious sorrowful little
air. It drew her out into the quiet neighbourhood ... misty darkness
along empty roads, plaques of lamplight here and there on pavements and
across house fronts ... blackness in large gardens and over the bridge
and in the gardens at the backs of the rows of little silent dark
houses, a pale lambency over the canal and reservoirs. Somewhere amongst
the little roads a group of players hooting gently and carefully slow
sweet notes as if to wake no one, playing to no one, out into the
darkness. Back out of fresh darkness came the sweet clear music ...
the waits; of course. She rushed up and out heart foremost, listening,
following the claim of the music into the secret happy interior of the
life of each sleeping form, flowing swiftly on across a tide of
remembered and forgotten incidents in and out amongst the seasons of the
years. It sent her forward to to-morrow sitting her upright in morning
light telling her with shouts that the day was there and she had only to
get up into it ... the little air had paused on a tuneful chord and
ceased ... It was beginning again nearer and clearer. She heard it
carefully through. It was so _strange_. It came from far back amongst
the generations where everything was different; telling you that they
were the same.... In the way those people were playing, in the way they
made the tune sound in the air neither instrument louder than the others
there was something that _knew_. Something that everybody knows.... They
show it by the way they do things, no matter what they say.... Her
heart glowed and she stirred. How rested she was. How fresh the air was.
What freshness came from everything in the room. She stared into the
velvety blackness trying to see the furniture. It was the thick
close-drawn curtains that made the perfect velvety darkness ... Behind
the curtains and the Venetian blinds the windows were open at the top
letting in the garden air. The little square of summer garden showed
brilliantly in this darkest winter blackness. It was more than worth
while to be wakened in the middle of the night at the Brooms. The truth
about life was in them. She imagined herself suddenly shouting in the
night. After the first fright they would understand and would laugh. She
yawned sleepily towards an oncoming tangle of thoughts, pushing them off
and slipping back into unconsciousness.
5
Miriam picked up the blouse by its shoulders and danced it up and down
in time to the girls' volleys of affectionate raillery--Did you sleep
well broke in Mrs. Philps sitting briskly up and superciliously grasping
the handle of the large coffee-pot with her small shrivelled hand.
Christmas Day had begun. The time for trying to say suitable things
about the present was over. All the six small hands were labouring
amongst the large things on the table. The blouse hung real, a blouse, a
glorious superfluity in her only just sufficient wardrobe.--Yes, thank
you, I _did_ she said ardently, lowering it to her knees. The rich
strong coffee was flowing into the cups. In a moment Grace would be
handing plates of rashers and Florrie would have finished extracting the
eggs from the boiler. She laid the blouse carefully on the sofa and
heard in among the table sounds the greetings that had followed her
arrival downstairs. The brown and green landscape caught her eye, old
and still, holding all her knowledge of the Brooms back and back, fresh
with another visit to them. She turned back to the table with a sigh.
Someone chuckled. Perhaps at something that was happening on the table.
She glanced about. The fragrant breakfast had arrived in front of
her--_Don't_ let it get cold laughed Florrie drawing the mustard-pot
from the cruet-stand and rapping it down before her. There was something
that she had forgotten, some point that was being missed, something that
must be said at this moment to pin down the happiness of everything. She
looked up at Shakespeare and Queen Victoria. It was going
away--_Mustard_--said Florrie tapping the table with the
mustard-pot.--Did you hear the waits? asked Mrs. Philps with dreary
acidity. _That_ was it. She turned eagerly. Mrs. Philps was sipping her
coffee. Miriam waited politely with the mustard-pot in her hand until
she had put down her cup and then said anxiously, offering it to Mrs.
Philps--they played--Help yourself--laughed Mrs. Philps--a most lovely
curious old-fashioned thing she went on anxiously. Florrie was watching
her narrowly. That was the _Mistletoe_ Bough--bridled Mrs. Philps
accepting the mustard.--Oh that's The Mistletoe Bough mused Miriam
thrilling. Then Mrs. Philps had heard, and felt the same in the night.
Nothing was missing. Everything that had happened since she had arrived
on the doorstep came freshly back and on into to-day, flowing over the
embarrassment of the parcels. There was nothing to say; no words that
could express it; a tune.... _That's_ the Mistletoe Bough ... she
said reflectively. Florrie was sitting very upright exactly opposite,
quietly munching, her knife and fork quiet on her plate. Grace's small
hands and mouth were gravely labouring. She began swiftly on her own
meal, listening for the tune with an intelligent face. If Florrie would
take off her attention she could let her face become a blank and recover
the tune. Impossible to go on until she had recalled it. She sought for
some distracting remark. Grace spoke. Florrie turned towards her. Miriam
radiated agreement and sipped her hot coffee. Its strong aroma flowed
through her senses. She laughed sociably. Someone else laughed.--Of
_course_ they don't said Florrie in her most grinding voice and laughed.
Two voices broke out together. Miriam listened to the tones, glancing
intelligence accordingly, umpiring the contest, her mind wandering
blissfully about. Presently there was a silence. Mrs. Philps had bridled
and said something decisive. Miriam guiltily re-read the remark. She
could not think of anything that could be made to follow it with any
show of sincerity and sat feeling large and conspicuous. Mrs. Philps'
face had grown dark and old. Miriam glanced restively at her
meaning.... Large terrible illnesses, the doctor coming, trouble
amongst families, someone sitting paralyzed; poverty, everything being
different....--D'you like a snowy Christmas, Miriam? asked Florrie
shyly. Miriam looked across. She looked very young, a child speaking on
sufferance, saying the first thing that occurs lest someone should
remark that it was time to go to bed. Hilarious replies rushed to
Miriam's mind. They would have re-awakened the laughter and talk, but
there would have been resentment in the widowed figure at the head of
the table, the figure that had walked with arch dignity into the big
north London shop and chosen the blouse. The weight in the air was
dreadful--There don't seem to be snowy Christmases nowadays she said
turning deferentially to her hostess with her eyes on Florrie's child's
eyes--Christmas is a _very_ different thing to what it was breathed Mrs.
Philps sitting back with folded hands from her finished meal.--Oh, I
don't know aunt corrected Grace anxiously--aren't you going to have your
toast and marmalade? You lived in the North all your young Christmases.
It's always colder there. Take some toast aunt----We used to burn Yule
logs flickered Mrs. Philps, plaintively refusing the toast. Miriam
waited imagining the snow on the garden where the frilled shirts used to
hang out to bleach in the dew ... the great flood, the anxiety in the
big houses--Yule logs would look funny in this grate, laughed
Florrie--Oh, I don't know, pressed Grace.--We had some last year.
Haven't we got any this year aunt?----I ordered some wood; I don't know
if it's come--Miriam could not imagine the Brooms with burning logs.
Yes, she could. They were nearer to burning logs than anyone she knew.
It would be more real here; more like the burning logs in the Christmas
numbers. The glow would shine on to their faces and they would see into
the past. But it was all in the past. Yule logs and then, no yule logs.
Everyone even the Brooms were being pushed forward into a new cold
world. There was no time to remember--they don't build grates for wood
nowadays, ruled Mrs. Philps. Who could stop all this coming and crowding
of mean little things? But the wide untroubled leisure of the Brooms
breakfast-table was shut away from the mean little things.... Are you
coming to church Miriam?--Miriam looked across the doomed
breakfast-table and met the watchful eyes. Behind Florrie very upright
in her good, once best stuff dress, two years old in its features and
methodically arrived at morning wear, the fire still blazed its
extravagant welcome, the first of Christmas morning was still in the
room. When they had all busied themselves and gone, it would be gone.
She glanced about to see that everyone had finished and put her elbows
on the table.--_Well_ she said abundantly. There was an expectant
relaxing of attitudes--I should _like_ to go very much. _But_--Grace
fidgeting her brooch had flung her unrestrained burning affectionate
glance--when I saw Mr. La Trobe climbing into the pulpit--Florrie's eyes
were downcast and Mrs. Philps was blowing her nose her eyes gazing wanly
out above her handkerchief towards the little curtained
bow-window--Miriam dimpled and glanced sideways at Grace catching her
shy waiting eyes--I should stand up on my seat ... give one loud
shriek--the three laughters broke forth together--and fall gasping to
the ground----Then you'd certainly better not go chuckled Florrie amidst
the general wiping away of tears----I saw the Miss Pernes at Strudwick's
on Friday; Miss Perne and Miss Jenny----oh, did you responded Miriam
hurriedly. The room lost something of its completeness. There was a
coming and a going, the pressing grey of an outside world--How are
they?----They seemed very well--They don't seem to change--Oh; I'm so
glad--They asked for you--_Oh_----I didn't say we were expecting
you--_Oh_, it's such an age----We always say you're very busy and
hard-worked smiled Grace--Yes, that's it....--You didn't go often even
when Miss Haddie was alive--No; she was awfully good; she used to come
down and see me in the west-end when I first came to town.--How they
like the west-end--Aunt, I don't blame them.--She used to write to you a
lot didn't she Miriam?--She used to come and talk to me in a tea-shop at
six-fifteen ... yes she wrote regularly said Miriam irritably--You were
awfully fond of Miss Haddie weren't you?--Miriam peered into space
struggling with a tangle of statements. Her mind leapt from incident to
incident weaving all into a general impression--so strong and clear that
it gave a sort of desperation to her painful consciousness that nothing
she saw and felt was visible to the three pairs of differently watchful
eyes. Poured chaotically out it would sound to them like the ravings of
insanity. All contradictory, up and down backwards and forwards, all
true. The things they would grasp here and there would misrepresent
herself and the whole picture. Why would people insist upon talking
about things--when nothing can ever be communicated.... She felt
angrily about in the expectant stillness. She could see their minds so
clearly; why wouldn't they just look and see hers instead of waiting for
some impossible pronouncement. Yes would be a lie. No would be a lie.
Any statement would be a lie. All statements are lies. I like the Pernes
better than I like you. I like all of you better than the Pernes. I hate
you. I hate the Pernes. I, of course you must know it, hate _everybody_.
I adore the Pernes so much that I can't go and see them. But you come
and see us. Yes; but you insist. Then you like us only as well as you
like the Pernes; you like all sorts of people as well perhaps better
than you like us. I have nothing to do with anyone. You shall not group
me anywhere. I am everywhere. Let the day go on. Don't sit there
worrying me to death....--They always send you their love and say you
are to go and see them--Oh yes, I _must_ go; some time----They are
wonderfully fond of their girls.... It's one of the greatest pleasures
of their lives keeping up with the old girls--Fatigue was returning upon
Miriam; her face flushed and her hands were large and cold. She drew
them down on to her unowned knees. A mild yes would bring the sitting to
an end.--But you see I'm _not_ an old girl she said impatiently. No one
spoke. Florrie's mind was darkly moving towards the things of the day.
Perhaps Mrs. Philps and Florrie had been thinking of them for some
minutes.--You know it does make a difference she pursued, obsequiously
collecting attention,--when people are your employers. You can never
feel the same--Everyone hovered,--and Mrs. Philps smiled in triumphant
curiosity.--I shouldn't have thought it made any difference to you
Miriam said Florrie flushing heavily.--I think I know what Miriam means
said Grace gently radiating--I always feel a pupil with them much as I
like them--Grace, d'you know you're my pupil said Miriam leaping out
into laughter.--I can _see_ Grace--she drove on carrying them all with
her, ignoring the swift eyes upon the dim things settling heavily down
upon her heart--_gazing_ out of the window in the little room where I
was supposed to be holding a German class--Yes I know Miriam darling,
but now you know me you know I could never be any good at
languages----You're my pupil----It seems absurd to think of you as a
teacher now we know you chuckled Florrie.--Aren't you glad it's over,
Miriam?----I _loved_ the teaching. I've never left off longing to go
back to school myself yawned Miriam absently.--You won't get much
sympathy out of Florrie----I was a perfect _fool_ beamed Florrie.
Everyone laughed.--I often think now--chuckled Florrie rosy and
tearful--when I open the front door to go out how glad I am there's no
more _school_--Miriam looked across laughing affectionately.--Why did
you like your school so much Miriam?--I didn't like it except now and
again terrifically in flashes. I didn't know what it was. I hadn't seen
other schools. I didn't know what we were doing--It wasn't--a--a genteel
school for young ladies, there was nothing of that in it--You never know
when you're happy reproved Mrs. Philps--Oh, I don't _know_ aunt, I think
you _do_ appealed Grace, her eyes full of shy championship.--I'm very
happy, thank you,--aren't we all happy dear brethren? chirped Miriam
towards the cruet-stand.--Silly children----Now aunt you _know_ you are.
You know you enjoy life tremendously.--Of course I do cried Mrs. Philps
beaming and bridling. In a devout low tone she added--it's the little
simple things that make you happy; the things that happen every day--For
a moment there was nothing but the sound of the fire flickering in the
beamy air.--Hadn't we better have her _in_ aunt, muttered Grace? Florrie
got up briskly and rang the bell.
6
They all went busily upstairs. Even Grace did not linger.--Let me come
and help make my bed said Miriam going with her to the door--No, you're
to rest----I don't want to rest----Then you can run round the room--She
turned back towards the silent disarray. Busy sounds came from upstairs.
A hurried low reproving voice emerged on to the landing ...--and light
the drawing-room fire as soon as you've finished clearing and when the
postman comes leave the letters in the _box_--Christine came downstairs
without answering. In a moment she would be coming in. Moving away from
the attraction of the blouse Miriam wandered to the fireside. Her eyes
turned towards the chair in the corner half-hidden by the large
armchair. There they were, on the top of the pile of newspapers and
magazines. Dare's Annual lay uppermost its cover bright with holly. Her
hands went out ... to look at them now would be to anticipate the
afternoon. But there would be at least two Windsors that she had not
seen. She drew one out and stood turning over the leaves. It would be
impossible to look round and say a Happy Christmas and then go on
reading, and just as bad to stop reading and not say anything more. She
planted herself in the middle of the hearthrug with her face to the
room. Why should she stand advantageously there while Christine
unwillingly laboured? Why should Christine be pleased to be spoken to?
She thought a happy Christmas in several different voices. They all
sounded insulting. Christine was still making noises in the kitchen.
There was time to escape. The drawing-room door would be bolted and that
meant getting one of the hall chairs and telling the whole house of an
extraordinary impulse. Upstairs her bed would still be being made or her
room dusted. She drew up the little stool and sat dejectedly, close over
the fire as if with a heavy cold in her head and anxiously deep in the
pages of the magazine. Perhaps Christine would think she did not hear
her come in ... she guessed the story from the illustrations and
dropped into the text half-way through the narrative. No woman who did
typewriting from morning till night and lived in a poor lodging could
look like that ... perhaps some did ... perhaps that was how clerks
_ought_ to look ... she skimmed on; moving automatically to make room
for boots that were being put down in the fender; ready to speak in a
moment if whoever it was did not say anything; the figure turned to the
table. It was Christine. If she blew her nose and coughed Christine
would know she knew she was there. She turned a page swiftly and wrapped
herself deeply in the next. When Christine had gone away with a trayful
she resumed her place on the hearthrug ready to see her for the first
time when she came in again and catch her eye and say Good _morning_, I
wish you a happy Christmas. Christine came shapelessly in and began
collecting the remaining things with sullen hands. Her face was closed
and expressionless and her eyes downcast. Miriam's eyes followed it,
waiting for the eyes to lift, her lips powerless. It was too late to say
good morning. Sadness came growing in the room. Her thoughts went
homelessly to and fro between her various world and the lumpy figure
moving sullenly along the edge of an unknown life. Stepping observantly
in through the half-open door with a duster bunched carefully in her
hand came Florrie. Miriam flung out a greeting that swept round
Christine and out into a shining world. It brought Florrie to her side,
shy and eager. Christine taking her final departure looked up. Miriam
flushed through her laughter, steadily meeting the expressionless brown
glitter of Christine's eyes. Hullo Madam O'Hara she defended, collecting
herself for the question that would follow Florrie's encirclement of her
waist--Hullo Little Miriam; you _are_ happy ground out Florrie
shyly--are you rested?--Yes said Miriam formally, I think I am--They
turned, Florrie withdrawing her arm, and stood looking into the
fire--Oooch isn't it cold said Grace from the doorway--have you done the
hall chairs?--No, I came in here to get warm first--It _is_ cold said
Grace coming to the hearthrug--are you warm Miriam darling?--I'm so warm
that I think I ought to run upstairs for a constitutional and scrub my
teeth said Miriam briskly, preparing to follow Florrie from the
room.--Grace dropped her duster and put her arms upon her, raising an
anxious pleading face--stay here while I dust sweetheart. You can scrub
your teeth when we're gone. _Dear_ pink-face. How are you my sweet? Are
you rested? she asked between gentle kisses dabbed here and there--Never
berrer old chap. I tell you never _berrer_--Grace laughed gently into
her face and stood holding her, smiling her anxious pleading solicitous
smile.--I tell you never _berrer_ repeated Miriam. _Dear_ sweet pink
face smiled Grace and turned carefully away to her dusting. Miriam sank
into an armchair, listening to the soft smooth flurring of the duster
over the highly polished surfaces--Well she asked presently--how are
things in general?--Grace rose from her knees and carefully shut the
door. She came back with fear darkening the velvet lustre of her
eyes--Oh I don't know Miriam dear she murmured kneeling on the hearthrug
near Miriam's knees and holding her hands out towards the fire. It's all
over thought Miriam, she's failed.--I've got ever so many things to tell
you. I want to ask your advice--Remember I've never even seen him argued
Miriam automatically, figuring the surroundedness, the sudden
realization and fear, the recapturing of liberty, the hidden polite
determined retreat.--Oh, but you always understand. Wait till we can
talk she sighed rising from her knees, and kissing Miriam's forehead. It
was all over. Grace was clinging to some "reasonable" explanation of
some final thing. She cast about in her mind for something from her own
scattered circumstances to feed their talk when it should come. She
would have to induce Grace to turn away and go on ... the end of the
long history of faithfully remembered details would be a relief ...
the delicate depths of their intercourse would come back ... its reach
backwards and forwards; and yet without anything in the background ...
it seemed as if always something were needed in the background to give
the full glow to every day ... she must be made to see the real face of
the circumstance and then to know and to feel that she was not forlorn;
that the glow was there ... first to brush away the delusion
ruthlessly ... and then let the glow come back, begin to come back,
from another source.
7
Left alone with silence all along the street, Christine inaudible in the
kitchen, dead silence in the house, Miriam gathered up her blouse and
ran upstairs. As she passed through the changing lights of the passage,
up the little dark staircase past the turn that led to the little
lavatory and the little bathroom and was bright in the light of a small
uncurtained lattice, on up the four stairs that brought her to the
landing where the opposing bedroom doors flooded their light along the
strip of green carpet between the polished balustrade and the high
polished glass-doored bookcase, scenes from the future, moving in
boundless backgrounds came streaming unsummoned into her mind, making
her surroundings suddenly unfamiliar ... the past would come again....
Inside her room--tidied until nothing was visible but the permanent
shining gleaming furniture and ornaments; only the large box of matches
on the corner of the mantlepiece betraying the movement of separate
days, telling her of nights of arrival, the lighting of the gas, the
sudden light in the frosted globe preluding freedom and rest, bringing
the beginning of rest with the gleam of the fresh quiet room--she found
the nearer past, her years of London work set in the air, framed and
contemplable like the pictures on the wall, and beside them the early
golden years in snatches, chosen pictures from here and there,
communicated, and stored in the loyal memory of the Brooms. Leaping in
among these live days came to-day ... the blouse belonged to the year
that was waiting far off, invisible behind the high wall of Christmas.
She dropped it on the bed and ran downstairs to the little drawing-room.
The fire had not yet conquered the mustiness of the air. The room was
full of strange dim lights coming in through the stained glass door of
the little greenhouse. She pushed open the glass door turning the light
to a soft green and sat sociably down in a low chair her hands clasped
upon her knees, topics racing through her mind in a voice thrilling with
stored up laughter. In her ears was the rush of spring rain on the
garden foliage, and presently a voice saying where are we going this
summer?... By the time they came back she would be too happy to
speak. Better perhaps to go out into the maze of little streets and in
wearying of them be glad to come back. As she moved to the door she saw
the garden in late summer fulness, the holidays over, their heights
gleaming through long talks on the seat at the end of the garden, the
answering glow of the great blossoms of purple clematis hiding the north
London masonry of the little conservatory, the great spaces of autumn
opening out and out running down rich with happenings to where the high
wall of Christmas again rose and shut out the future. She ran busily
upstairs casting away sight and hearing and hurried thoughtlessly into
her outdoor things and out into the street. She wandered along the
little roads turning and turning until she came to a broad open
thoroughfare lined with high grey houses standing back behind colourless
railed-in gardens. Trams jingled up and down the centre of the road
bearing the names of unfamiliar parts of London. People were standing
about on the terminal islands and getting in and out of the trams. She
had come too far. Here was the wilderness, the undissembling soul of
north London, its harsh unvarying all-embracing oblivion....
Innumerable impressions gathered on walks with the schoolgirls or in
lonely wanderings; the unveiled motives and feelings of people she had
passed in the streets, the expression of noses and shoulders, the
indefinable uniformity, of bearing and purpose and vision, crowded in on
her, oppressing and darkening the crisp light air. She fought against
them, rallying to the sense of the day. It was Christmas Day for them
all. They were keeping Christmas in their homes, carrying it out into
the streets, going about with parcels, greeting each other in their
harsh ironic voices. Long ago she had passed out of their world for
ever, carrying it forward, a wound in her consciousness unhealed, but
powerless to re-inflict itself, powerless to spread into her life. They
and their world were still there, unchanged. But they could never touch
her again, ensconced in her wealth. It did not matter now that they went
their way just in the way they went their way. To hate them for past
suffering now that they were banished and powerless was to allow them to
spoil her day.... They were even a possession, a curious thing apart,
unknown to anyone in her London life ... _dear_ north Londoners. She
paused a moment, looking boldly across at the figures moving on the
islands. After all they did not know that it was cold and desolate and
harsh and dreadful to be going about on Christmas Day in a place that
looked as this place looked, in trams. They did not know what was wrong
with their clothes and their bearing and their way of looking at things.
That was what was so terrible though. What could teach them? There were
so many. They lived and died in amongst each other. What could change
them?... Her face felt drawn and weariness was coming upon her
limbs ... a group was approaching her along the wide pavement, laughing
and talking, a blatter of animated voices; she turned briskly for the
relief of meeting and passing close to them ... too near, too near ...
prosperity and kindliness, prosperous fresh laughing faces, easily
bought clothes, the manner of the large noisy house and large secure
income, free movement in an accessible world, all turned to dangerous
weapons in wrong hands by the unfinished, insensitive mouths, the ugly
slur in the speech, the shapelessness of bearing, the naïvely visible
thoughts, circumscribed by business, the illustrated monthly magazines,
the summer month at the seaside; their lives were exactly like their way
of walking down the street, a confident blind trampling. Speech was not
needed to reveal their certainties; they shed certainty from every angle
of their unfinished persons. Certainty about everything. Incredulous
contempt for all uncertainty. Impatient contempt for all who could not
stand up for themselves. Cheerful uncritical affection for each other.
And for all who were living or trying to live just as they did ... The
little bushes of variegated laurel grouped in railed-off oblongs along
the gravelled pathway between the two wide strips of pavement, drew her
gaze. They shone crisply, their yellow and green enamel washed clean by
yesterday's rain. She hurried along feeling out towards them through
downcast eyes. They glinted back at her unsunned by the sunlight,
rootless sapless surfaces set in repellent clay, spread out in
meaningless air. To and fro her eyes slid upon the varnished leaves ...
she saw them in a park set in amongst massed dark evergreens, gleaming
out through afternoon mist, keeping the last of the light as the people
drifted away leaving the slopes and vistas clear ... grey avenues and
dewy slopes drifted before her in the faint light of dawn, the grey
growing pale and paler; the dew turned to a scatter of jewels and the
sky soared up high above the growing shimmer of sunlit green and gold.
Isolated morning figures hurried across the park, aware of its morning
freshness, seeing it as their own secret garden, part of their secret
day....
From the sunlit white facade of a large London house the laurels looked
down through a white stone-pillared balustrade. They appeared coming
suddenly with the light of a street lamp, clumped safely behind the
railings of a Bloomsbury square ... the opening of a side street led her
back into the maze of little roads. The protective presence of the
little house was there and she sauntered happily along through channels
of sheltered sunlit silence.... What was she doing here? At
Christmas-time one should be where one belonged. Gathering and searching
about her came the claims of the firesides that had lain open to her
choice, drawing her back into the old life, the only life known to those
who sat round them. They looked out from that life, seeing hers as
hardship and gloom, pitying her, turning blind eyes unwillingly towards
her attempts to unveil and make it known to them. She saw herself
relinquishing efforts, putting on a desperate animation, professing
interests and opinions and talking as people talk, while they watched
her with eyes that saw nothing but a pitiful attempt to hide an awful
fate, lonely poverty, the absence of any opening prospect, nothing ahead
but a gloom deepening as the years counted themselves off. Those were
the facts--as almost anyone might see them. They made those facts live;
they tugged at the jungle of feelings that had the power to lead one
back through any small crushing maiming aperture.... In their midst
lived the past and the thing that had ended it and plunged it into a
darkness that still held the threat of destroying reason and life.
Perhaps only thus could it be faced. Perhaps only in that way. What
other way was there? Forgetfulness blotted it out and let one live on.
But it was always there, impossible, when one looked back.... The little
house brought forgetfulness and rest. It made no break in the new life.
The new life flowed through it, sunlit. It was a flight down strange
vistas, a superfluity of wild strangeness, with a clue in one's hand,
the door of retreat always open; rest and forgetfulness piling up within
one into strength.
8
The incidents Grace had described went in little disconnected scenes in
and out of the caverns of the dying fire. She was waiting tremulously
for a verdict. They seemed to Miriam so decisive that she found it
difficult to keep within Grace's point of view. She stood in the
picturesque suburb, saw the distant glimpse of Highgate Woods, the
pretty corner house standing alone in its garden, the sisters in the
dresses they had worn at the dance talking to their mother indoors,
waited on by their polite admiring brother; their unconsciousness, their
lives as they looked to themselves. Everything fitted in with the
leghorn hats they had worn at the league garden party in the summer. She
could have warned Grace then if she had heard about the hats.... Grace
had not yet found out that people were arranged in groups.... The only
honest thing to say now would be--oh well of course with a mother and
sisters like _that_; don't you _see_--what they are? Her mind drew a
little circle round the family group. It spun round them on and on as
they went through life. She frowned her certainty into the fire, ranging
herself with the unknown people she knew so well. If she did not speak
Grace would see in her something of the quality that was the passport
into that smooth-voiced world ... she imagined herself further and
further into it, seeing everyday incidents, hearing conversations slide
from the surfaces of minds that in all their differences made one even
surface, unconscious unbroken and maddeningly unquestioning and
unaware.... They were unaware of anything, though they had easy fluent
words about everything ... underneath the surface that kept Grace off
they were ... amœbæ, awful determined unconscious ... octopi ...
frightful things with one eye, tentacles, poison-sacs ... the surface
made them, not they the surface; rules ... they were civilisation. But
they knew the rules; they knew how to do the surface ... they held to
them and lived by them. It was a sort of game.... They were martyrs;
with empty lives ... always awake, day and night, with unrelaxed wills
... she turned and met frank eyes still waiting for a verdict. All the
strength of Grace's personality was quivering there; all the determined
faith in reason and principle. Perhaps if she had a clear field she
could disarm them ... anyone, everyone. If she could get near enough
they would find out her reality and her strength. But they would not
want to be like her. They would run in the end from their apprehension
of her, back to the things she did not see.... They had done so. He had;
it was clear. Or she could not have spoken of him. If you can speak of a
thing, it is past ... Speaking makes it glow with a life that is not
its own.--There's a lot more to tell you--said Grace pressing her hand.
Miriam turned from the fire; Grace was looking as she had done when she
began her story. Miriam sat back in her chair searching her face and
form trying to find and express the secret of her indomitable
conviction. Being what she was, why could she not be sufficient to
herself? Entrenched in uncertainty she seemed less than herself. Her
careful good clothes, so exquisitely kept, the delicate old gold chain,
the little pearled cross, the old fine delicate rings, the centuries of
shadowy ecclesiasticism in her head and face, the look of waiting,
gazing from grey stone framed days upon a jewelled splendour, grew with
her uncertainty small and limited. It was unbearable that they should
have no meaning ... Grace was ready to take all she possessed into a
world where it would have no meaning; ready to disappear and be changed.
She was changed already. She could not get back and there was nothing to
go forward to. Miriam dropped her eyes and sat back in her chair. The
tide of her own life flowed fresh all about her; the room and the figure
at her side made a sharply separated scene, a play watched from a
distance, the end visible in the beginning to be read in the shapes and
tones and folds of the setting, the intentions and statements nothing
but impotent irrelevance, only bearable for the opportunities they
offered here and there, involuntarily, for sudden escape into the
reality that nothing touched or changed. If only Grace could be forced
to see the unchanging reality.... Oh Miriam darling, breathed Grace in
an even, anxious tone. Miriam suppressed a desire to whistle;--Oh well
of course that may make a _difference_ she said hurriedly, checking the
thrill in her voice. Far back in the caverns of the fire life moved
sunlit. She dropped her eyes and drew away the hand that Grace had
clasped. Life danced and sang within her; shreds of song; the sense of
the singing of the wind; clear bright light streaming through large
houses, quickening on walls and stairways and across wide rooms. Along
clear avenues of light radiating from the future, pouring from behind
her into the inner channels of her eyes and ears came unknown forms
moving in a brilliance, casting a brilliance across the visible past,
warming its shadows, bathing its bright levels in sparkling gold. Her
free hands lifted themselves until only the tips of her fingers rested
on her knees and her hair strove from its roots as if the whole length
would stand and wave upright.--You see--she said to gain a moment.
Suddenly her mind became a blank. Her body was heavy on her chair,
ill-clothed, too warm, peevishly tingling with desires. She stirred,
shrinking from her ugly, inexorable cheap clothes, her glasses, the
mystery of her rigid stupidly done hair; how how _how_ did people get
expression into their hair consciously and not by accident? Why did
Grace like her in spite of all these things, in spite of the evil
thoughts which must show. She did. She had felt nothing, seen nothing.
She dissembled her face and turned towards Grace, gazing past her into
the darkness beyond the range of the firelight. Just outside the rim of
her glasses Grace's firelit face gleamed on the edge of the darkness
half turned towards her. Leaping into her mind came the realisation that
she was sitting there talking to someone ... _Marvellous_ to speak and
hear a voice answer. Astounding; more marvellous and astounding than
anything they could discuss. Grace must know this, even if she were
unconscious of it ... some little sound they could both hear, a little
mark upon the stillness, scattering light and relief. She turned her
eyes and met Grace's, velvety, deeply sparkling, shedding admiration and
tyrannous love, patiently waiting--Well,--said Miriam, sleepily feeling
for a thread of connected thought.--D'you mean a difference about my
taking aunt to call, asked Grace with fear in her eyes.--No, my dear,
said Miriam impatiently.--Can't you see you can't do that
anyhow?----They've only been there five years, said Grace in a low
determined recitative--We've lived in what's almost the same
neighbourhood, fifteen. So it's our place to call first--Miriam sighed
harshly.--That doesn't make a _scrap_ of difference she retorted
flushing with anger.--I wish I had your grasp of things Miriam dear,
said Grace with gentle weariness.--Well--we've got to-morrow and Monday
said Miriam getting up with an appearance of briskness and striking
random notes on the piano. Grace laughed.--I suppose we ought to light
the gas she said getting up?--Why?----Oh well--Florrie will be coming in
and asking why we're sitting in the dark----What if she does?----Oh, I
think I'll light it Miriam. Miriam sat down again and stared into the
fire. After supper they would all sit, harshly visible, round the hot
fire, enduring the stifling unneeded gaslight.