ON THE SINGULAR EFFECTS OF SUNLIGHT
When I regained my bedroom, which, in spite of its manifold and
ostentatious deficiencies, I had long regarded as a harbour of refuge
in which I might find shelter when the storms of life pressed too
hardly, I took out of my dress pocket--I always insisted on having a
pocket in my dress, whatever the fashion was, it was the one point on
which I would have my way--that scrap of paper. It was blank. That
sentence must have been written on it with vanishing ink, because
already not a trace of it could be seen. That process of fading must
have proceeded with marvellous rapidity. I held in my hand a soiled,
crumpled piece of paper, which was so void of anything in the shape of
written characters, that I was at a loss as to which side of it those
mysterious words had been on.
The brief hour of my triumph had faded too. I was again the plain,
uninteresting Norah O’Brady; the ugly girl with the pretty sisters;
the overgrown gawk, who always looked so ridiculous in the clothes she
wore. As I had once heard myself described--the creature with the
hands and feet. I was that pleasant person again, this time for ever
and a day. I could hardly expect a second miraculous interference with
the ordinance of nature.
And the story of that interposition would be scored up against me, in
the family debtor and creditor account, to be used as another missile,
when the tale of Norah’s clumsiness, bearishness, multitudinous
stupidities, was once more the well-worn domestic theme. How amusing
it would be to recall the day when the five men took her out to dine.
How incredible it seemed, and, indeed, was. One must have dreamed it.
By degrees, quite possibly, a legend would grow up that it was an
elaborate practical joke which those five gentlemen had planned among
themselves. And the Duke who called on her! You wouldn’t think it to
look at her, would you? No one ever does believe it; but he actually
did. And the bald-headed old horror! And that waiter!--a waiter,
actually, my dear!--such a ridiculous fellow! Don’t you remember how
impertinent he was to her? How he treated her as if she were the dirt
beneath his feet! It was the funniest thing you ever saw.
I knew. My prophetic soul saw it all in store for me, being acquainted
with the family methods where anything which would point a gibe
against me was concerned.
Putting on my hat I went out. The atmosphere of the house, even of my
own room, was insupportable. It would not have been surprising if
someone had endeavoured to stay me, for with Jane, assisted only by a
charwoman, I had to play the part of second maid. But no one did. I
was conscious that someone came to the drawing-room window as I went
by. But I did not notice who it was; and as, so far as I know, no
attempt was made to attract my attention, I did not care.
I steered for Kensington Gardens. They were the nearest available
approach to the country for which I was always longing; and there,
sometimes, one could be alone with the grass, and the trees, and the
birds. That was my dominant feeling: the desire to get away from
everyone, from everything. To transplant myself from this world, in
which I had been, and was, and should be, such an utter failure. If I
could only find myself in a different environment, in some place where
people were not principally concerned with each other’s appearance,
where one could dress as one pleased, and do as one chose, and be
comfortable, and yet not be the subject of perpetual comment; where
one could have liberty to be a woman, a girl, in one’s own way, which
would not be such a dreadful way after all, where one could be even
huge and plain and not despised, what a place that would be.
As I tramped through the trees, seeking a spot which was not overrun
with nursemaids, and all kinds of persons, I perceived no prospect of
ever finding such a haven; unless, perhaps, it were by way of the
Round Pond, if it contains water to cover a person of my unseemly
inches. On the other side of it, almost obscured by the trunk of a
great oak, I saw two chairs. Not only were they unoccupied, but there
seemed to be no one in their immediate neighbourhood. So I planted
myself in one. In Kensington Gardens no one ever sits upon the grass.
Not only would it be in the highest degree improper, but it would
spoil one’s clothes, and everyone would stare, and take one for quite
a common person. Such an act would be impossible. If one sits at all,
one sits upon a chair,--as I did then, though I would infinitely have
preferred the ground, and my back against a tree, because the chair
was most uncomfortable. And I prepared to lash myself with pessimistic
and painful reflections on some such cheerful topic as the Vanity of
Human Wishes--please put in the capital letters.
Unfortunately, the sun was shining; and when the sun shines, and I am
out-of-doors, and the air is fresh and sweet, and one feels that the
summer is at hand, and there is no unsympathetic person to stick pins
in you, somehow I never can make as much of my distresses as I ought
to; they seem to melt. To begin with, they are solid; in fact,
immensely solid, and I mean to keep them solid. Indeed, I often set
out with the deliberate intention of considering nothing else but
their immense solidity, and allowing nothing to interfere with my
consideration either. Then, in some way, the sunshine gets into my
eyes, or head, or something, and has a sort of a kind of a dazzling
effect. It must have, because, all of a sudden, they are gone--or seem
gone. I cannot see them anywhere. Of course, it is absurd, and most
illogical; because, all the time, they must be there. But it really is
fatal for me to start thinking of my grievances in fine weather. No
matter how resolved I am to stick to the subject, I never can keep my
mind fixed on them when the sun is shining, and I am
out-of-doors--never.
It was like that, then. I had not been on that chair three minutes
when Ben Morgan came and seated himself on the one just next. I was
too surprised for words, having had no notion that he was anywhere
within miles. His coming in that unexpected and startling fashion
knocked all the ideas clean out of my head, except the consciousness
of my disgraceful conduct to him the day before. But his tact was
marvellous; I always have been struck by it. He never hinted at it by
so much as a syllable. And presently, to my absolute amazement, I
found myself chattering away as if I had come out for that especial
purpose.
We began with what was in the newspaper, which I did not happen to
have seen, though, from what I could gather from him, I had not lost
much. And then--well then, the subject was changed. A white poodle
crossed in front of us, and we began talking about dogs. We were both
of us very fond of dogs, and, indeed, all sorts of animals; so that it
was a topic which was interesting to us both. Then the subject was
changed again. Became personal. Drifted, as it were. I have always
laughed at people who did that sort of thing in Kensington Gardens. I
never thought I should have done it--never. But it became sunnier and
sunnier every moment, until I was looking at everything through a
golden haze.
Well--I said I would. And when I confessed my shame and my contrition
for my behaviour to him yesterday, he said it did not matter--nothing
mattered now. And I was the happiest girl in the world! As for being
sorry because that fatal power of mine had endured for so short a
time, it was the best thing that could have happened. I was delighted.
How awful it would have been if everyone I met had kept on falling in
love with me right off--high and low, married and single, young and
old--when I wanted to be loved by no one else but Ben.
When I told him, in a muddly way, of what had occurred, you should
have seen how deliciously he was amused. Though he did say one
ridiculous thing--that he could see nothing miraculous in people
falling in love with me at sight, since no man worth his salt could
help it. Of course I knew that that was one of love’s sweet perjuries.
I am not sure that truth is always the thing which is most to be
desired.
He is not at all mis-shapen, really; or, if he is, the tiniest scrap:
I love him all the more because of it. To me, he will always be
straighter than I am; and, ever since I was the merest tot, for
straightness, I have been a perfect grenadier.
He would walk home with me; and he told them about it, then and there.
You should have seen mamma and the girls when we walked in together.
We had actually forgotten lunch; it was quite late in the afternoon;
they were beginning to wonder what had become of me. When they learnt,
their faces were a study. But they were positively as nice as possible
to both of us. Mamma kissed me, and was quite sweet to Ben; and
Audrey, in particular, said some lovely things.
... We are going to have that scrap of paper, on which the writing
was, framed, and hung up in--in our bedroom.
[The End]
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES.
Alterations to the text:
Add TOC.
Change several instances of _anyrate_ to _any rate_.
Minor punctuation fixes.
Note: minor spelling and hyphenization inconsistencies have been left
as is.
[Chapter III]
“I am a kind of raree show, So whenever...” change comma to period.
[Chapter V]
“among all my compeers. am best qualified...” change period to comma.
[Chapter IX]
“than to the end of a _women’s_ arm.” to _woman’s_.
“scarcely saying _bo_! to a goose” to _boo_.
[Chapter XVIII]
Change “when they were _yonng_” to _young_.
Change “on the _otber_ side of the top...” to _other_.
[Chapter XX]
“or rage. or something.” change the period after _rage_ to a comma.
Change “But this time I _sha’n’t_ mind.” to _shan’t_.
[Chapter XXV]
Change “A _promonitory_ something was...” to _premonitory_.
[End of Text]