THE UNFINISHED SENTENCE
Was it strange that I was in a pretty state of mind? Was it to be
wondered at that I hardly knew if I was standing on my head or heels?
When I got into my room I slammed the door, and turned the key. I tore
my hat off and threw it on to the bed. I could have cried; but I make
it a rule never to cry--or hardly ever. Besides, I was only too well
aware that if I once started I never should leave off; and then I
should have jumped from the frying-pan into the fire, with a
vengeance. They would tear me to pieces if I did not make haste and
get the rubbish they wanted.
I went to the looking-glass. There was no mistake about it, I did look
hideous. There was some excuse for some of the things they said. It
has always been a conviction of mine that if they would let me dress
as I pleased I might look presentable. But they won’t let me. They all
dress like fashion-plates, and nothing could suit them better; and
they make me dress like the fashion-plates, and nothing could suit me
less. I believe they are afraid of me getting out of the picture; or,
rather, of my being a sort of picture all by myself, and so diverting
attention from them. As it is I am a kind of raree show. So whenever
they take me out with them--which is very seldom; for, in any case,
five sisters are a frightful crowd--I am either a perpetual
wallflower, or an ideal gooseberry, neither of which _rôles_ I care
for in the very least.
I am big--taller than Lilian, and much broader. I have great limbs--I
cannot help it if they are like a man’s, though mamma is always
throwing it in my teeth. I like all sorts of exercise. The only form
of exercise they really like is dancing. They dance exquisitely. My
dancing is like an elephant’s--I am always having to apologise for
getting on my partner’s toes. I should like to spend the whole of my
life in the open air. I sometimes fancy that mamma thinks there is
something improper in being out-of-doors. She is always exclaiming
against what she calls masculine women--by which she means girls who
golf, and row, and ride bicycles, and all that sort of thing. I should
like to go in for everything athletic, but they won’t let me. They
keep me fastened in a tight pair of corsets, which sometimes make me
feel as if I were being held in a vice. I am in a dreadful
condition--soft as putty, instead of hard as nails. I cannot walk a
quarter of a mile, at anything like a decent pace, without perspiring.
Then they laugh at me. If they would let me go in for some real hard
work, like lots of other girls do, I would soon show them. By nature I
am a sort of female Hercules; it is a shame that they insist on making
me a jelly-fish.
I want to have plenty of room inside my clothes. I want my hair to do
itself; it would not look so bad with just a touch or two, even if it
ran a trifle wild. I want my boots and shoes to humour my feet, I do
not want my feet to have to humour them; I am not ashamed of their
being large. I do not want to be screwed into an imitation Paris
costume, which is too tight everywhere, and bursts when I lift my
arms. I know I look a gawk in it, and I always shall. If they would
let me be natural--my own self--I do believe I should pass muster.
Girls of my build are not meant to be made up in imitation of Dresden
china, or Watteau drawings.
The result of such attempts was to be seen there in the mirror. A
great picture hat, with the flowers all anyhow. Flowers never will
look as they ought to on my big hats--flopping about in a lop-sided
fashion, on the crest of a draggly handful of sandy-coloured hair. It
does not look a handful; but that is because they make me wear pads
and frames, and all sorts of horrors, which will show through; and
they call it sandy, though it is my private opinion that it is a sort
of light chestnut. If they would only let me do it up in a simple
twist, and wear it on the top of my head, I am persuaded that it would
not look half bad, though I am aware that the colour is unusual. Under
the floppity hat, a good-sized face, with big grey eyes, a straight
nose, largish mouth--it is a decent shape if it is large, and the lips
are nice ones. The freckles I do not deny; but there are not more than
twelve or thirteen altogether, and they are principally on the left
side of my nose. But the perspiration I was in! It made me disgusted
to see that my skin was positively greasy, and there were beads upon
my forehead. The truth is, I am built for work, or, at any rate, for
plenty of hard out-of-doors exercise; and if I cannot get it, I am
bound to be a nuisance to myself, and an object to others. Mr Morgan,
if one of his shoulders is a little higher than the other, is an
all-round athlete, though he was so weak as a child. It is because he
has gone in for everything that he is now as strong as a horse. If I
went in for everything, I believe that inside twelve months I should
be a different person.
I only wished that I had a chance of trying.
When I saw what a sight I looked in that glass, and how unfitted I was
to fill the fashion-plate _rôle_ for which they insisted on casting
me, I did feel that some people had all the luck, while others had
none. My chances for having a good time were slipping
away--twenty-three is an age. The good marriage I was expected to make
was a dream of the mater’s: as she was beginning bitterly to realise:
unless I married Ben Morgan, which, of course, would be absurd.
Compared with my sisters, I was not in it. Not a man would ever look
at me when they were by, or even near. Considering that it was
supposed to be my mission in life to attract men, it was really tragic
what an awful failure I was. Among the dozens who were proud to call
themselves my sisters’ friends, I doubt if there were many who even
knew my Christian name. I was quite aware how they talked of me.
“You know that youngest O’Brady girl? Sort of understudy for a
grenadier, who looks as if she got her clothes from a dealer in
decayed wardrobes, and put them on inside out.”
“You don’t mean to say that that’s the youngest?”
“She’s the youngest in years and sense; but so far as looks and that
sort of thing is concerned, she might have come out of the ark. Can’t
think what they call the creature.”
“What does it matter what they call a girl like that?”
That was part of a conversation I once overheard at a dance. The first
speaker had been recently entrapped into having a waltz with me, which
I doubt if he had enjoyed. I know I hadn’t--a possible explanation of
his exceeding bitterness. But that his remarks were typical of the
kind of thing which was being said of me on all sides I had every
reason to suppose.
What could people be expected to say of such an object as I saw before
me in that looking-glass?
“Oh,” I cried, “if only for a short time I could have my time! If I
could only make those girls feel what I have felt--the insolence of
masculine imbeciles, the snubs of conceited boys, the contemptuous
impertinence of their uncles and their fathers, even of their
grandsires! If only I could treat some of those men as all of them
have treated me I’d give--well, it’s no use my talking about giving
anything, because I’ve just simply nothing to give; but wouldn’t I
like to have the chance.”
I had my comb in my hand at the moment. I had torn off my hat, and was
trying to do something to my hair, without letting it down, and taking
my bodice off, and all the rest of the fuss which a girl has to go
through if she wants to titivate herself. I brought the comb down bang
whack against the dressing-table to emphasise my concluding
aspiration.
“If only every masculine thing had to fall madly in love with me at
sight! There; now I’ve done it!”
I had--broken the comb into two clear halves. And I had only had it a
week. I cannot think how it is that my things do break so. I should
have to buy a new one that very afternoon; though it would only be a
shilling one, because funds were low, and combs were waste of money.
As I was surveying the broken pieces with a pretty wry face--it was a
tortoise-shell comb; I happened to know that mamma had paid
twelve-and-six for it, to match my toilet-set; she would go on when
she knew what had happened--I became conscious that something very odd
indeed was taking place. On the top of the little drawers which was on
one side of my dressing-table was half a sheet of notepaper. Just an
ordinary half-sheet which I had torn off somebody’s letter and left
there; I have a trick of keeping half-sheets. A second ago that
half-sheet was blank. Now I became aware that someone--or
something--was writing on it. I heard a faint scratching noise.
Turning, I saw that letters were forming upon the paper--how, I cannot
say. They appeared to be written in ink, though there were no signs of
a pen, and certainly none of anybody holding it.
It was the strangest feeling, to stand there and watch words
apparently writing themselves upon that piece of paper. I know it
sounds incredible, and it is incredible; but it’s true, for all that.
It was just simply the most extraordinary thing that ever
happened--and lots of people know that extraordinary things do happen.
When you have lived to my time of life, and have had my experience,
you know that as a solemn fact. Though, I repeat once more, that that
was the most wonderful experience even I ever had.
I cannot describe my sensations as I stood there watching. The two
halves of the comb in my hands, my hair all anyhow, my bodice
positively maddening beneath my arms, and, I was convinced, unhooked
behind, rage in my bosom, perspiration on my brow. It was so
frightfully mysterious; there is nothing I dislike like things I do
not understand, they make you feel yourself so insignificant. Then the
letters went on forming themselves before my eyes, and there I
remained looking on like a stuck pig, until I could endure it no
longer. I snatched up the paper, exclaiming:
“What are you doing?”
Though to whom I addressed the inquiry I have not the faintest notion.
On that half-sheet of paper, staring me in the face, were the words:
“Your wish shall be gratified u----”
The sentence ended with the letter “u,” just that, and nothing more.
It seemed that I had snatched it up before it was finished, so that
what the conclusion would have been was still another mystery. Though,
beside the first and chief mystery of how those words came there at
all, other considerations were but trifles. What did they mean? “Your
wish shall be gratified u----” What wish? I was continually wishing. I
never have anything, and nothing ever happens that I really want, so
it is only natural. To what wish was the reference made? For what
particular thing had I been wishing recently?
Why--not a minute ago--with what wild words had I been easing my mind?
In my temper--my usual temper. I certainly am the worst-tempered girl
I ever met, though I believe that, as a rule, girls are worse tempered
than men--they have more cause to be, poor things. In some things it
is horrid being a girl--what was it I had said? Something about every
masculine creature tumbling head over heels in love with me at sight.
Had I not wished that that fate were mine?
Was that the wish? No; absurd! ridiculous! preposterous! What could
put such nonsensical thoughts into my head? It just showed, when your
head was empty, what stuff could get in. But--still----
My gracious! If that was the wish which was to be gratified, would it
not be--wouldn’t it just be larks.