ONE day Norma received a polite intimation from her bankers that
her account was overdrawn. This had happened before but on previous
occasions she had obtained from her father an advance on her allowance
and the unpleasant void at the bank had been filled. Now she realised
with dismay that the allowance had been cut off, and that no money could
come into her possession until the payment of the half-yearly dividend
from the concern in which her small private fortune was invested. She
looked in her purse and found five shillings. On this she would have
to live for three weeks. Her money was in the hands of trustees, wisely
tied up by the worldly aunt from whom she had inherited it, so that she
could not touch the capital. While she was contemplating the absurdity
of the position, the maid brought up a parcel from a draper's on which
there was three and eleven pence halfpenny to pay. She surrendered four
of her shillings, and disconsolately regarded the miserable one that
remained. The position had grown even more preposterous. She actually
needed money. She had not even the amount of a cab-fare to Friary Grove.
She would not have it for three weeks.
Preposterous or not, the fact was plain, and demanded serious
consideration. She would have to borrow. The repayment of the loan and
the overdraft would reduce the half-yearly dividend. A goodly part of
the remainder would be required to meet an outstanding milliners' bill,
not included in the bridal trousseau for which her father was to pay.
The sum in simple arithmetic frightened her.
“I am poverty-stricken,” she said to Connie, to whom she confided her
difficulties.
Connie blotted the cheque that was to provide for immediate wants, and
laughed sympathetically.
“You'll have to learn to be economical, dear. I believe it's quite
easy.”
“You mean I must go in omnibuses and things?” said Norma, vaguely.
“And not order so many hats and gowns.”
“I see,” said Norma, folding up the cheque.
With money again in her pocket, she felt lighter of heart, but she knew
that she had stepped for a moment out of fairyland into the grey world
of reality. The first experience was unpleasant. It left a haunting
dread which made her cling closer to Jimmie in the embrace of their next
meeting. It was a relief to get back into the Garden of Enchantment and
leave sordid things outside. Wilfully she kept the conversation from
serious discussion of their marriage.
When next she had occasion to go to the studio, she remembered the
necessity of economy, and took the St. John's Wood omnibus. As a general
rule the travellers between Baker Street station and the Swiss Cottage
are of a superior class, being mostly the well-to-do residents in
the neighbourhood and their visitors; but, by an unlucky chance, this
particular omnibus was crowded, and Norma found herself wedged between
a labouring man redolent of stale beer and bad tobacco, and a fat Jewish
lady highly flavoured with musk. A youth getting out awkwardly knocked
her hat awry with his elbow. It began to rain--a smart April shower.
The wet umbrella of a new arrival dripped on her dress while he stood
waiting for a place to be made for him opposite. The omnibus stopped at
a shelterless corner, the nearest point to Friary Grove. She descended
to pitiless rain and streaming pavements and a five minutes' walk, for
all of which her umbrella and shoes were inadequate. She vowed miserably
a life-long detestation of omnibuses. She would never enter one again.
Cabs were the only possible conveyances for people who could not afford
to keep their carriage. She fought down the dread that she might not
be able to afford cabs. The Almighty, who had obviously intended her to
drive in cabs, would certainly see that His intentions were carried out.
She arrived at the studio, wet, bedraggled, and angry; but Jimmie's
exaggerated concern disarmed her. It could not have been less had she
wandered for miles and been drenched to the skin and chilled to the
bone. He sent Aline to fetch her daintiest slippers to replace the
damp shoes, established the storm-driven sufferer in the big leathern
armchair with cushions at her back and hassocks at her feet, made a
roaring fire and insisted on her swallowing cherry brandy, a bottle of
which he kept in the house in case of illness. In the unwonted luxury of
being loved and petted and foolishly fussed over, Norma again forgot
her troubles. Jimmie consoled the specific grievance by saying
magniloquently that omnibuses were the engines of the devil and vehicles
of the wrath to come. With a drugged economic conscience she went home
in a cab. But the conscience awoke later, somewhat suffering, and she
recognised that her exasperated vow had been vain. Jimmie was a poor
man. She recalled to mind his words on the night of their engagement,
and apprehended their significance. The trivial incident of the omnibus
was a key. The abandonment of cabs and carriages meant the surrender of
countless luxuries that went therewith. Her own two hundred a year would
not greatly raise the scale of living. She was to be a poor man's wife;
would have to wear cheap dresses, eat plain food, keep household books
in which pennies were accounted for; hers would be the humdrum existence
of the less prosperous middle class. The first pang of doubt frightened
her for a while and left her ashamed. Noble revolt followed. Had she not
renounced the pomps and vanities of a world which she scorned? Had not
this wonderful baptism of love brought New Birth? She had been reborn,
a braver, purer woman; she had been initiated into life's deeper
mysteries; her soul had been filled with joy. Of what count were
externals?
The next evening Connie Deering gave a small dinner-party in honour
of the two engagements. Old Colonel Pawley, charged under pain of her
perpetual displeasure not to reveal the secret of Norma's whereabouts,
was invited to balance the sexes. He was delighted to hear of Norma's
romantic marriage.
“I can still present the fan,” he said, rubbing his soft palms together;
“but I'm afraid I shall have to write a fresh set of verses.”
“You had better give Norma a cookery-book,” laughed Connie.
“I have a beautiful one of my own in manuscript which no publisher will
take up,” sighed Colonel Pawley.
Norma, who had been wont to speak with drastic contempt of the amiable
old warrior, welcomed him so cordially that he was confused. He was not
accustomed to exuberant demonstrations of friendship from the beautiful
Miss Hardacre. At dinner, sitting next her, he enjoyed himself
enormously. Instead of freezing his geniality with sarcastic remarks,
she lured him on to the gossip in which his heart delighted. When Connie
rallied her, later, on her flirtation with the old man, she laughed.
“Remember I've been a prisoner here. He's one of the familiar faces from
outside.”
Although jestingly, she had spoken with her usual frankness, and her
confession was more deeply significant than she was aware at the time.
She had welcomed Colonel Pawley not for what he was, but for what he
represented. As soon as she was alone she realised the moral lapse, and
rebuked herself severely. She was sentimental enough to hang by a ribbon
around her neck the simple engagement ring which Jimmie had given her,
and to sleep with it as a talisman against evil thoughts.
She spent the following evening at the studio, heroically enduring
the discomforts of the detested omnibus. When she descended she drew
a breath of relief, but felt the glow that comes from virtuous
achievement. Jimmie was informed of this practice in the art of economy.
He regarded her wistfully. There were times when he too fought with
doubts,--not of her loyalty, but of his own honesty in bringing her down
into his humble sphere. Even now, accustomed as he was to the adored
sight of her there, he could not but note the contrast between herself
and her surroundings. She brought with her in every detail of her
person, in every detail of her dress, in every detail of her manner, an
atmosphere of a dainty, luxurious life pathetically incongruous with
the shabby little house. He had not even the wherewithal to call in
decorators and upholsterers and make the little house less shabby. So
when she spoke of practising economy, he looked at her wistfully.
“Your eyes are open, dear, are n't they?” he said. “You really do
realise what a sacrifice you are making in marrying me?”
“By not marrying you,” she replied, “I should have gained the world and
lost my own soul. Now I am doing the reverse.”'
He kissed her finger-tips lover-wise. “I am afraid I must be the devil's
advocate, and say that the loss and gain need not be so absolutely
differentiated. I want you to be happy. My God! I want you to be happy,”
he burst out with sudden passion, “and if you found that things were
infinitely worse than what you had expected, that you had married me in
awful ignorance--”
She covered his lips with the palm of her hand.
“Don't go on. You pain me. You make me despise myself. I have counted
the cost, such as it is. Did I not tell you from the first that I would
go with you in rags and barefoot through the world? Could woman say
more? Don't you believe me?”
“Yes, I believe you,” he replied, bowing his head. “You are a
great-hearted woman.”
She unfastened her hat, skewered it through with the pins, and gave it
him to put down.
“I remember my Solomon,” she said, trying to laugh lightly, for there
had been a faint but disconcerting sense of effort in her protestation.
“'Better is a dinner of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and
hatred there with.' Besides, you forget another important matter. I am
now a homeless, penniless outcast. I am not sacrificing anything. It is
very kind of you to offer to take me in and shelter me.”
“These are sophistries,” said Jimmie, with a laugh. “You gave up all on
my account.”
“But I am really penniless,” she said, ignoring his argument. “_Anch' io
son pittore_. I too have felt the pinch of poverty.”
“You?”
She revealed her financial position--the overdraft at the bank, the
shilling between herself and starvation. Were it not for Connie, she
would have to sing in the streets. She alluded thoughtlessly, with her
class's notions as to the value of money, to her “miserable two hundred
a year.”
“Two hundred a year!” cried Jimmie. “Why, that's a fortune!”
His tone struck a sudden chill through her. He genuinely regarded the
paltry sum as untold riches. She struggled desperately down to his point
of view.
“Perhaps it may come in useful for us,” she said lamely.
“I should think it will! Why did n't you tell me before?”
“Have you never thought I might have a little of my own?” she asked with
a touch of her old hardness.
“No,” said Jimmie. “Of course not.”
“I don't see any 'of course' in the matter. The ordinary man would have
speculated--it would have been natural--almost common-sense.”
Jimmie threw up his hands deprecatingly.
“I have been too much dazzled by the glorious gift of yourself to think
of anything else you might bring. I am an impossible creature, as you
will find out. I ought to have considered the practical side.”
“Oh! I am very glad you did n't!” she exclaimed. “Heaven forbid you
should have the mercenary ideas of the average man. It is beautiful to
have thought of me only.”
“I am afraid I was thinking of myself, my dear,” said he. “I must get
out of the way of it, and think of the two of us. Now let us be severely
business-like. You have taken a load off my mind. There are a thousand
things you can surround yourself with that I imagined you would lack.”
He took her two hands and swung them backwards and forwards. “Now I
shan't regard myself as such a criminal in asking you to marry me.”
“Do you think two hundred a year a fortune, Jimmie?” she asked.
“To the Rothschilds and Vanderbilts perhaps not--but everything is
relative.”
“Everything?”
Her heart spoke suddenly, demanding relief. Their eyes met.
“No, dear,” he said. “One thing at least is absolute.” An interlude of
conviction succeeded doubt. She felt that she had never loved him so
much as at that moment. It was more with the quickly lit passion of the
awakened woman than with the ardour of a girl that she clasped her hands
round his head and drew it down to their kiss. She had an awful need of
the assurance of the absolute.
It nerved her to face a discussion on ways and means with Aline,
whom Jimmie at her request summoned from demure sewing in her little
drawing-room.
“You are right,” she had said, referring to his former remark. “We ought
to be severely business-like. I must begin to learn things. You don't
know how hopelessly ignorant I am.”
Aline came down to give the first lesson in elementary housekeeping. She
brought with her a pile of little black books which she spread out
at the end of the long table. The two girls sat side by side. Jimmie
hovered about them for a while, but was soon dismissed by Aline to a
distant part of the studio, where, having nothing wherewith to occupy
himself, he proceeded to make a charcoal sketch of the two intent faces.
Aline, proud at being able to display her housewifely knowledge before
appreciative eyes, opened her books, and expounded them with a charming
business air. These were the receipts for the last twelve months; these
the general disbursements. They were balanced to a halfpenny.
“Of course anything I can't account for, I put down to the item
'Jimmie,'” she said naively. “He _will_ go to the money-drawer and help
himself without letting me know. Is n't it tiresome of him?”
Norma smiled absently, wrinkling her brows over the unfamiliar figures.
She had no grasp of the relation the amounts of the various items bore
to one another, but they all seemed exceedingly small.
“I suppose it's necessary to make up this annual balance?” she asked.
“Of course. Otherwise you would n't know how much you could apportion to
each item. Jimmie says it's nonsense to keep books; but if you listen to
Jimmie, you 'll have the brokers in in a month.”
“Brokers?”
Aline laughed at her perplexed look. “Yes, to seize the furniture in
payment of debt.”
The main financial facts having been stated, Aline came to detail. These
were the weekly books from the various tradesmen. She showed a typical
week's expenditure.
“What about the fishmonger?” asked Norma, noting an obvious omission.
“Fish is too expensive to have regularly,” Aline explained, “and so
I don't have an account. When I buy any, I pay for it at once, in the
shop.”
“When _you_ buy it?”
“Why, yes. You'll find it much better to go and choose things for
yourself than let them call for orders. Then you can get exactly what
you want, instead of what suits the tradesman's convenience. You see,
I go to the butcher and look round, and say 'I want a piece of that
joint,' and of course he does as he's told. It seems horrid to any one
not accustomed to it to go into a butcher's shop, I know; but really
it's not unpleasant, and it's quite amusing.”
“But why should n't your housekeeper do the marketing?”
“Oh, she does sometimes,” Aline admitted; “but Hannah is n't a good
buyer. She can't _judge_ meat and things, you know, and she is apt to be
wasteful over vegetables.”
“You don't bring the--the meat and things--home with you in a basket, do
you?” asked Norma, with a nervous laugh.
Jimmie, interested in his sketch, had not listened to the conversation,
which had been carried on in a low tone. The last words, however,
pitched higher, caught his ear. He jumped to his feet.
“Norma carry home meat in a basket! Good God! What on earth has the
child been telling you?”
“I never said anything of the kind, Jimmie,” cried Aline, indignantly.
“You needn't bring home anything unless you like; our tradesmen are most
obliging.”
Norma pushed back her chair from the table and rose and again laughed
nervously.
“I am afraid I can't learn all the science of domestic economy in
one lesson. I must do it by degrees.” She passed her hand across her
forehead. “I'm not used to figures, you see.”
Jimmie looked reproachfully at Aline. “Those horrid little black books!”
he exclaimed. “They are enough to give any one a headache. For heaven's
sake, have nothing to do with them, dear.”
“But the brokers will come in,” said Norma, with an uncertain catch in
her voice.
“They are Aline's pet hobgoblins,” laughed Jimmie. “My dear child,”
pointing to the books, “please take those depressing records of wasted
hours away.”
When they were alone, he said to Norma very tenderly, “I am afraid my
little girl has frightened you.”
She started at the keenness of his perception and flushed.
“No--not frightened.”
“She is so proud of the way she runs her little kingdom here,” he said;
“so proud to show you how it is done. You must forgive her. She is only
a child, my dearest, and forgets that these household delights of hers
may come as shocks to you. I shall not allow you to have these worries
that she loves to concern her head about.”
“Then who will have them?” she asked, with her hand on the lapel of his
jacket. “You? That would be absurd. If I am your wife, I must keep your
house.”
“My dear,” said Jimmie, kissing her, “if we love each other, there will
be no possibility of worries. I believe in God in a sort of way, and He
has not given you to me to curse and wither your life.”
“You could only bless and sanctify it,” she murmured.
“Not I, dear; but our love.”
Soothed, she raised a smiling face.
“But still, I'll have to keep house. Do you think I would let you go to
the butcher's? What would Aline say if you made such a proposal?”
“She would peremptorily forbid him to take my orders,” he replied,
laughing.
“I am sure I should,” she said.
It was growing late. She glanced at the wheezy tilted old Dutch clock
in the corner, and spoke of departure. She reflected for a moment on the
means of home-getting. To her lowered spirits the omnibus loomed like a
lumbering torture-chamber. The consolation of a cab seemed cowardice. An
inspiration occurred to her. She would walk; perhaps he would accompany
her to Bryanston Square. He was enraptured at the suggestion. But could
she manage the distance?
“I should like to try. I am a good walker--and when we are outside,” she
added softly, “we can talk a little of other matters.”
It was a mild spring night, and the quiet stars shone benignantly upon
them as they walked arm in arm, and talked of “other matters.” As she
had needed a little while before the assurance of the absolute, so now
she craved the spirituality of the man himself, the inner light of faith
in the world's beauty, the sweetness, the courage--all that indefinable
something in him which raised him, and could alone raise her, above the
terrifying things of earth. She clung to his arm in a pathos of yearning
for him to lead her upward and teach her the things of the spirit. Only
thus lay her salvation.
He, clean, simple soul, lost in the splendour of their love, expounding,
as it chanced, his guileless philosophy of life and his somewhat
childishly pagan religious convictions, was far from suspecting
the battle into which he was being called to champion the side of
righteousness. He went to sleep that night the most blissfully happy of
men. Norma lay awake, a miserable woman.