When Spring and first love meet in a girl's heart, then the birds sing.
The songs that blackbirds and dusty-coated thrushes flung through
Nedda's window when she awoke in Hampstead those May mornings seemed to
have been sung by herself all night. Whether the sun were flashing on
the leaves, or rain-drops sieving through on a sou'west wind, the same
warmth glowed up in her the moment her eyes opened. Whether the lawn
below were a field of bright dew, or dry and darkish in a shiver of east
wind, her eyes never grew dim all day; and her blood felt as light as
ostrich feathers.
Stormed by an attack of his cacoethes scribendi, after those few blank
days at Becket, Felix saw nothing amiss with his young daughter. The
great observer was not observant of things that other people observed.
Neither he nor Flora, occupied with matters of more spiritual
importance, could tell, offhand, for example, on which hand a
wedding-ring was worn. They had talked enough of Becket and the Tods to
produce the impression on Flora's mind that one day or another two young
people would arrive in her house on a visit; but she had begun a poem
called 'Dionysus at the Well,' and Felix himself had plunged into a
satiric allegory entitled 'The Last of the Laborers.' Nedda, therefore,
walked alone; but at her side went always an invisible companion. In
that long, imaginary walking-out she gave her thoughts and the whole of
her heart, and to be doing this never surprised her, who, before, had
not given them whole to anything. A bee knows the first summer day and
clings intoxicated to its flowers; so did Nedda know and cling. She
wrote him two letters and he wrote her one. It was not poetry; indeed,
it was almost all concerned with Wilmet Gaunt, asking Nedda to find a
place in London where the girl could go; but it ended with the words:
“Your lover,
“DEREK.”
This letter troubled Nedda. She would have taken it at once to Felix or
to Flora if it had not been for the first words, “Dearest Nedda,” and
those last three. Except her mother, she instinctively distrusted women
in such a matter as that of Wilmet Gaunt, feeling they would want to
know more than she could tell them, and not be too tolerant of what they
heard. Casting about, at a loss, she thought suddenly of Mr. Cuthcott.
At dinner that day she fished round carefully. Felix spoke of him almost
warmly. What Cuthcott could have been doing at Becket, of all places, he
could not imagine—the last sort of man one expected to see there; a good
fellow, rather desperate, perhaps, as men of his age were apt to get if
they had too many women, or no woman, about them.
Which, said Nedda, had Mr. Cuthcott?
Oh! None. How had he struck Nedda? And Felix looked at his little
daughter with a certain humble curiosity. He always felt that the young
instinctively knew so much more than he did.
“I liked him awfully. He was like a dog.”
“Ah!” said Felix, “he IS like a dog—very honest; he grins and runs about
the city, and might be inclined to bay the moon.”
'I don't mind that,' Nedda thought, 'so long as he's not “superior.”'
“He's very human,” Felix added.
And having found out that he lived in Gray's Inn, Nedda thought: 'I
will; I'll ask him.'
To put her project into execution, she wrote this note:
“DEAR MR. CUTHCOTT:
“You were so kind as to tell me you wouldn't mind if I bothered you
about things. I've got a very bothery thing to know what to do about,
and I would be so glad of your advice. It so happens that I can't ask my
father and mother. I hope you won't think me very horrible, wasting your
time. And please say no, if you'd rather.
“Yours sincerely,
“NEDDA FREELAND.”
The answer came:
“DEAR MISS FREELAND:
“Delighted. But if very bothery, better save time and ink, and have a
snack of lunch with me to-morrow at the Elgin restaurant, close to
the British Museum. Quiet and respectable. No flowers by request. One
o'clock.
“Very truly yours,
“GILES CUTHCOTT.”
Putting on 'no flowers' and with a fast-beating heart, Nedda, went on
her first lonely adventure. To say truth she did not know in the least
how ever she was going to ask this almost strange man about a girl of
doubtful character. But she kept saying to herself: 'I don't care—he has
nice eyes.' And her spirit would rise as she got nearer, because, after
all, she was going to find things out, and to find things out was jolly.
The new warmth and singing in her heart had not destroyed, but rather
heightened, her sense of the extraordinary interest of all things that
be. And very mysterious to her that morning was the kaleidoscope of
Oxford Street and its innumerable girls, and women, each going about her
business, with a life of her own that was not Nedda's. For men she had
little use just now, they had acquired a certain insignificance, not
having gray-black eyes that smoked and flared, nor Harris tweed suits
that smelled delicious. Only once on her journey from Oxford Circus she
felt the sense of curiosity rise in her, in relation to a man, and this
was when she asked a policeman at Tottenham Court Road, and he put his
head down fully a foot to listen to her. So huge, so broad, so red in
the face, so stolid, it seemed wonderful to her that he paid her any
attention! If he were a human being, could she really be one, too? But
that, after all, was no more odd than everything. Why, for instance, the
spring flowers in that woman's basket had been born; why that high white
cloud floated over; why and what was Nedda Freeland?
At the entrance of the little restaurant she saw Mr. Cuthcott waiting.
In a brown suit, with his pale but freckled face, and his gnawed-at,
sandy moustache, and his eyes that looked out and beyond, he was
certainly no beauty. But Nedda thought: 'He's even nicer than I
remembered, and I'm sure he knows a lot.'
At first, to be sitting opposite to him, in front of little plates
containing red substances and small fishes, was so exciting that she
simply listened to his rapid, rather stammering voice mentioning that
the English had no idea of life or cookery, that God had so made
this country by mistake that everything, even the sun, knew it. What,
however, would she drink? Chardonnet? It wasn't bad here.
She assented, not liking to confess that she did not know what
Chardonnet might be, and hoping it was some kind of sherbet. She had
never yet drunk wine, and after a glass felt suddenly extremely strong.
“Well,” said Mr. Cuthcott, and his eyes twinkled, “what's your
botheration? I suppose you want to strike out for yourself. MY daughters
did that without consulting me.”
“Oh! Have you got daughters?”
“Yes—funny ones; older than you.”
“That's why you understand, then.”
Mr. Cuthcott smiled. “They WERE a liberal education!”
And Nedda thought: 'Poor Dad, I wonder if I am!'
“Yes,” Mr. Cuthcott murmured, “who would think a gosling would ever
become a goose?”
“Ah!” said Nedda eagerly, “isn't it wonderful how things grow?”
She felt his eyes suddenly catch hold of hers.
“You're in love!” he said.
It seemed to her a great piece of luck that he had found that out. It
made everything easy at once, and her words came out pell-mell.
“Yes, and I haven't told my people yet. I don't seem able. He's given me
something to do, and I haven't much experience.”
A funny little wriggle passed over Mr. Cuthcott's face. “Yes, yes; go
on! Tell us about it.”
She took a sip from her glass, and the feeling that he had been going to
laugh passed away.
“It's about the daughter of a laborer, down there in Worcestershire,
where he lives, not very far from Becket. He's my cousin, Derek, the
son of my other uncle at Joyfields. He and his sister feel most awfully
strongly about the laborers.”
“Ah!” said Mr. Cuthcott, “the laborers! Queer how they're in the air,
all of a sudden.”
“This girl hasn't been very good, and she has to go from the village, or
else her family have. He wants me to find a place for her in London.”
“I see; and she hasn't been very good?”
“Not very.” She knew that her cheeks were flushing, but her eyes felt
steady, and seeing that his eyes never moved, she did not mind. She went
on:
“It's Sir Gerald Malloring's estate. Lady Malloring—won't—”
She heard a snap. Mr. Cuthcott's mouth had closed.
“Oh!” he said, “say no more!”
'He CAN bite nicely!' she thought.
Mr. Cuthcott, who had begun lightly thumping the little table with his
open hand, broke out suddenly:
“That petty bullying in the country! I know it! My God! Those prudes,
those prisms! They're the ruination of half the girls on the—” He looked
at Nedda and stopped short. “If she can do any kind of work, I'll find
her a place. In fact, she'd better come, for a start, under my old
housekeeper. Let your cousin know; she can turn up any day. Name? Wilmet
Gaunt? Right you are!” He wrote it on his cuff.
Nedda rose to her feet, having an inclination to seize his hand, or
stroke his head, or something. She subsided again with a fervid sigh,
and sat exchanging with him a happy smile. At last she said:
“Mr. Cuthcott, is there any chance of things like that changing?”
“Changing?” He certainly had grown paler, and was again lightly
thumping the table. “Changing? By gum! It's got to change! This d—d
pluto-aristocratic ideal! The weed's so grown up that it's choking us.
Yes, Miss Freeland, whether from inside or out I don't know yet, but
there's a blazing row coming. Things are going to be made new before
long.”
Under his thumps the little plates had begun to rattle and leap. And
Nedda thought: 'I DO like him.'
But she said anxiously:
“You believe there's something to be done, then? Derek is simply full of
it; I want to feel like that, too, and I mean to.”
His face grew twinkly; he put out his hand. And wondering a little
whether he meant her to, Nedda timidly stretched forth her own and
grasped it.
“I like you,” he said. “Love your cousin and don't worry.”
Nedda's eyes slipped into the distance.
“But I'm afraid for him. If you saw him, you'd know.”
“One's always afraid for the fellows that are worth anything. There was
another young Freeland at your uncle's the other night—”
“My brother Alan!”
“Oh! your brother? Well, I wasn't afraid for him, and it seemed a pity.
Have some of this; it's about the only thing they do well here.”
“Oh, thank you, no. I've had a lovely lunch. Mother and I generally have
about nothing.” And clasping her hands she added:
“This is a secret, isn't it, Mr. Cuthcott?”
“Dead.”
He laughed and his face melted into a mass of wrinkles. Nedda laughed
also and drank up the rest of her wine. She felt blissful.
“Yes,” said Mr. Cuthcott, “there's nothing like loving. How long have
you been at it?”
“Only five days, but it's everything.”
Mr. Cuthcott sighed. “That's right. When you can't love, the only thing
is to hate.”
“Oh!” said Nedda.
Mr. Cuthcott again began banging on the little table. “Look at them,
look at them!” His eyes wandered angrily about the room, wherein sat
some few who had passed though the mills of gentility. “What do they
know of life? Where are their souls and sympathies? They haven't any.
I'd like to see their blood flow, the silly brutes.”
Nedda looked at them with alarm and curiosity. They seemed to her
somewhat like everybody she knew. She said timidly: “Do you think OUR
blood ought to flow, too?”
Mr. Cuthcott relapsed into twinkles. “Rather! Mine first!”
'He IS human!' thought Nedda. And she got up: “I'm afraid I ought to go
now. It's been awfully nice. Thank you so very much. Good-by!”
He shook her firm little hand with his frail thin one, and stood smiling
till the restaurant door cut him off from her view.
The streets seemed so gorgeously full of life now that Nedda's head
swam. She looked at it all with such absorption that she could not tell
one thing from another. It seemed rather long to the Tottenham Court
Road, though she noted carefully the names of all the streets she
passed, and was sure she had not missed it. She came at last to one
called POULTRY. 'Poultry!' she thought; 'I should have remembered
that—Poultry?' And she laughed. It was so sweet and feathery a laugh
that the driver of an old four-wheeler stopped his horse. He was old and
anxious-looking, with a gray beard and deep folds in his red cheeks.
“Poultry!” she said. “Please, am I right for the Tottenham Court Road?”
The old man answered: “Glory, no, miss; you're goin' East!”
'East!' thought Nedda; 'I'd better take him.' And she got in. She sat
in the four-wheeler, smiling. And how far this was due to Chardonnet she
did not consider. She was to love and not worry. It was wonderful! In
this mood she was put down, still smiling, at the Tottenham Court Road
Tube, and getting out her purse she prepared to pay the cabman. The
fare would be a shilling, but she felt like giving him two. He looked so
anxious and worn, in spite of his red face. He took them, looked at her,
and said: “Thank you, miss; I wanted that.”
“Oh!” murmured Nedda, “then please take this, too. It's all I happen to
have, except my Tube fare.”
The old man took it, and water actually ran along his nose.
“God bless yer!” he said. And taking up his whip, he drove off quickly.
Rather choky, but still glowing, Nedda descended to her train. It was
not till she was walking to the Spaniard's Road that a cloud seemed to
come over her sky, and she reached home dejected.
In the garden of the Freelands' old house was a nook shut away by
berberis and rhododendrons, where some bees were supposed to make honey,
but, knowing its destination, and belonging to a union, made no more
than they were obliged. In this retreat, which contained a rustic bench,
Nedda was accustomed to sit and read; she went there now. And her eyes
began filling with tears. Why must the poor old fellow who had driven
her look so anxious and call on God to bless her for giving him that
little present? Why must people grow old and helpless, like that
Grandfather Gaunt she had seen at Becket? Why was there all the tyranny
that made Derek and Sheila so wild? And all the grinding poverty that
she herself could see when she went with her mother to their Girls'
Club, in Bethnal Green? What was the use of being young and strong if
nothing happened, nothing was really changed, so that one got old and
died seeing still the same things as before? What was the use even of
loving, if love itself had to yield to death? The trees! How they grew
from tiny seeds to great and beautiful things, and then slowly, slowly
dried and decayed away to dust. What was the good of it all? What
comfort was there in a God so great and universal that he did not care
to keep her and Derek alive and loving forever, and was not interested
enough to see that the poor old cab-driver should not be haunted day and
night with fear of the workhouse for himself and an old wife, perhaps?
Nedda's tears fell fast, and how far THIS was Chardonnet no one could
tell.
Felix, seeking inspiration from the sky in regard to 'The Last of the
Laborers,' heard a noise like sobbing, and, searching, found his little
daughter sitting there and crying as if her heart would break. The sight
was so unusual and so utterly disturbing that he stood rooted, quite
unable to bring her help. Should he sneak away? Should he go for Flora?
What should he do? Like many men whose work keeps them centred within
themselves, he instinctively avoided everything likely to pain or
trouble him; for this reason, when anything did penetrate those
mechanical defences he became almost strangely tender. Loath, for
example, to believe that any one was ill, if once convinced of it,
he made so good a nurse that Flora, at any rate, was in the habit of
getting well with suspicious alacrity. Thoroughly moved now, he sat down
on the bench beside Nedda, and said:
“My darling!”
She leaned her forehead against his arm and sobbed the more.
Felix waited, patting her far shoulder gently.
He had often dealt with such situations in his books, and now that
one had come true was completely at a loss. He could not even begin to
remember what was usually said or done, and he only made little soothing
noises.
To Nedda this tenderness brought a sudden sharp sense of guilt and
yearning. She began:
“It's not because of that I'm crying, Dad, but I want you to know that
Derek and I are in love.”
The words: 'You! What! In those few days!' rose, and got as far as
Felix's teeth; he swallowed them and went on patting her shoulder. Nedda
in love! He felt blank and ashy. That special feeling of owning her
more than any one else, which was so warming and delightful, so really
precious—it would be gone! What right had she to take it from him, thus,
without warning! Then he remembered how odious he had always said the
elderly were, to spoke the wheels of youth, and managed to murmur:
“Good luck to you, my pretty!”
He said it, conscious that a father ought to be saying:
'You're much too young, and he's your cousin!' But what a father ought
to say appeared to him just then both sensible and ridiculous. Nedda
rubbed her cheek against his hand.
“It won't make any difference, Dad, I promise you!”
And Felix thought: 'Not to you, only to me!' But he said:
“Not a scrap, my love! What WERE you crying about?”
“About the world; it seems so heartless.”
And she told him about the water that had run along the nose of the old
four-wheeler man.
But while he seemed to listen, Felix thought: 'I wish to God I were made
of leather; then I shouldn't feel as if I'd lost the warmth inside me.
I mustn't let her see. Fathers ARE queer—I always suspected that. There
goes my work for a good week!' Then he answered:
“No, my dear, the world is not heartless; it's only arranged according
to certain necessary contraries: No pain, no pleasure; no dark, no
light, and the rest of it. If you think, it couldn't be arranged
differently.”
As he spoke a blackbird came running with a chuckle from underneath
the berberis, looked at them with alarm, and ran back. Nedda raised her
face.
“Dad, I mean to do something with my life!”
Felix answered:
“Yes. That's right.”
But long after Nedda had fallen into dreams that night, he lay awake,
with his left foot enclosed between Floras', trying to regain that sense
of warmth which he knew he must never confess to having lost.