Part 11

For three months he had enjoyed liberty. Journalism was overstocked; his name not well known. Too shy and proud to ask for recommendation from ‘Conglomerated Journals,’ he could never bring himself to explain why he had ‘got the hoof.’ Claim a higher standard of morality than his fellows--not he! For two months he had carried on pretty well, but the last few weeks had brought him low indeed. Yet the more he brooded, the more he felt that he had been right, and the less inclined he was to speak of it. Loyalty to the chief he had insulted by taking such an attitude, dislike of being thought a fool, beyond all, dread of ‘swanking’ kept him silent. When asked why he had left ‘Conglomerated Journals’ he returned the answer always: “Disagreement on a point of principle,” and refused to enter into details. But a feeling had got about that he was a bit of a crank; for, though no one at ‘Conglomerated Journals’ knew exactly why he had vanished, Counter had spread the news that he had blasted Georgie Grebe, and refused to write his article. Someone else had done it. Taggart read the production with irritation. It was jolly bad. Inefficient devilling still hurt one who had devilled long and efficiently without a qualm. When the article which had not been written by Sir Cutman Kane appeared--he swore aloud. It was no more like the one Sir Cutman would have signed if Taggart had written it than the boots of Taggart were like the boots of the chief, who seemed to wear a fresh pair every day, with cloth tops. He read the chief’s new leaders with melancholy, spotting the many deficiencies of style supplied to the chief by the poor devil who now wrote them. His square, red, cheerful face had a bitter look while he was reading; and when he had finished, he would rumple his stiff hair. He was sturdy, and never got so far as calling himself a fool for his pains; but, week by week, he felt more certain that his protest had been in vain.

Sitting against the ranger’s palings, listening to the birds, he had a dreamy feeling about it all. Queer creatures, human beings! So damned uncritical! Had he not been like that himself for years and years? The power of a label--that was what struck him, sitting there. Label a thing decently, and it _was_ decent! Ah! but, ‘Rue by any other name would smell as sour!’ Conscience!--it was the deuce!

1922.

SALTA PRO NOBIS

(_A Variation_)

“The dancer, my Mother, is very sad. She sits with her head on her hands. She looks into the emptiness. It is frightful to watch. I have tried to make her pray, my Mother, but the poor girl does not know how; she has no belief. She refuses even to confess herself. She is pagan--but quite pagan. What could one do for her, my Mother--to cheer her a little during these hours? I have tried to make her tell me of her life. She does not answer. She sits and looks always into the emptiness. It does me harm in the heart to see her. Is there nothing one can do to comfort her a little before she dies? To die so young--so full of life; for her who has no faith! To be shot--so young, so beautiful; but it is frightful, my Mother!”

The little elderly Sister raised her hands and crossed them on her grey-clothed breast. Her eyes, brown and mild, looked up, questioning the face before her, wax-pale under its coif and smooth grey hair. Straight, thin, as it were bodiless, beneath her grey and white garb, the Mother Superior stood pondering. The spy-woman in her charge, a dancer with gipsy blood they said--or was it Moorish?--who had wormed secrets from her French naval lover and sold them to the Germans in Spain. At the trial they said there was no doubt. And they had brought her to the convent saying: “Keep her for us till the fifteenth. She will be better with you than in prison.” To be shot--a woman! It made one shiver! And yet--it was war! It was for France!

And, looking down at the little elderly Sister, the Mother Superior answered:

“One must see, my daughter. Take me to her cell.”

They went in gently. The dancer was sitting on her bed. There was no colour in her skin save the saffron sprinkled into it by eastern blood. The face was oval, the eyebrows slanted a little up; black hair formed on her forehead a V reversed; her lips, sensuous but fine, showed a gleam of teeth. Her arms were crossed as though compressing the fire within her supple body. Her eyes, colour of Malaga wine, looked through and beyond the whitened walls, through and beyond her visitors, like the eyes of a caged leopard.

The Mother Superior spoke:

“What can we do for you, my daughter?”

The dancer shrugged.

“You suffer, my daughter. They tell me you do not pray. It is a pity.”

The dancer’s passing smile had the sweetness of something tasted, of a rich tune, a long kiss; she shook her head.

“One would not say anything to trouble you, my daughter; one feels pity for your suffering. One comprehends. Is there a book you would read; some wine you would like; in a word, anything which could distract you a little?”

The dancer clasped her hands behind her neck. The movement was beautiful, sinuous--all her body beautiful. A faint colour came into the Mother Superior’s waxen cheeks.

“Would you wish to dance for us, my daughter?”

On the dancer’s face the smile came again and did not pass.

“Willingly. It will give me pleasure, madame!”

“That is well! Your dresses shall be brought. This evening in the refectory after the meal. If you wish music--one can place a piano. Sister Mathilde is a good musician.”

“Music--some simple dances. Madame, could I smoke?”

“Certainly, my daughter. I will have cigarettes brought to you.”

The dancer stretched out her hand. Between her own thin hands the Mother Superior felt its supple warmth. To-morrow it would be cold and stiff!

“_Au revoir_! then, my daughter....”

“The dancer will dance for us!” This was the word. One waited, expectant, as for a miracle. One placed the piano; procured music; sat eating the evening meal--whispering. The strangeness of it! The intrusion! The little gay ghosts of memories! Ah! the dramatic, the marvellous event! Soon the meal was finished; the tables cleared, removed; against the wall on the long benches sixty grey white-coifed figures waited--in the centre the Mother Superior, at the piano Sister Mathilde.

The little elderly Sister came first; then, down the long whitened refectory, the dancer swaying slowly over the dark-oak floor. Every head was turned--alone the Mother Superior sat motionless. If only it did not put notions into some light heads!

The dancer wore a full skirt of black silk, she had silvery shoes and stockings, round her waist was a broad tight network of gold, over her bust tight silvery tissue, with black lace draped; her arms were bare; a red flower was set to one side of her black hair; she held a black and ivory fan. Her lips were just touched with red, her eyes just touched with black; her powdered face was like a mask. She stood in the very centre, with eyes cast down. Sister Mathilde began to play. The dancer lifted her fan. In that dance of Spain she hardly moved from where she stood, swaying, shivering, spinning, poised; but her eyes darted from this face to that of the long row of faces, where so many feelings were expressed--curiosity and doubt, pleasure, timidity, horror, sympathy. Sister Mathilde ceased playing. A little murmur broke along the line of nuns, and the dancer smiled. Sister Mathilde began again to play. For a moment the dancer listened as if to catch the rhythm of music strange to her; then her feet moved, her lips parted, sweet and gay she was, like a butterfly, without a care; and on the lips of the watching faces smiles came, and little murmurs of pleasure escaped.

The Mother Superior sat without moving, her lips pressed together, her fingers interlaced. Images from the past kept starting out, and falling back, like figures from some curious old musical box. She was remembering her lover killed in the Franco-Prussian war, her entrance into religion all that time ago. This figure from the heathen world, with the red flower in her black hair, the whitened face, the sweetened eyes, stirred a yearning for her own gay pulses, before they had seemed to die, and she brought them to the church to bury them.

The music ceased; began again. Now it was a Habañera, awakening remembrance of those pulses after they were buried--secret, throbbing, dark. The Mother Superior turned her face to left and right. Had she been wise? So many light heads, so many young hearts! And yet how not soothe the last dark hours of this poor heathen girl--the hours so few! She was happy dancing. Yes, she was happy! What power! And what abandonment! It was frightening. She was holding every eye--the eyes even of Sister Louise--holding them as a snake holds a rabbit’s eyes. The Mother Superior nearly smiled. That poor Sister Louise! And then, just beyond that face of fascinated horror, she saw young Sister Marie. How the child stared--what eyes, what lips! Sister Marie--so young--just twenty--her lover killed in the war--but one year dead! Sister Marie--prettiest in all the convent! Her hands--how tightly they seemed pressed together on her lap! And--but, yes--it was at Sister Marie that the dancer looked; at Sister Marie she was twirling and writhing those supple limbs! For Sister Marie the strange sweet smile came and went on those enticing lips. In dance after dance--like a bee on a favourite flower--to Sister Marie the dancer seemed to cling. And the Mother Superior thought: ‘Have I done a work of mercy, or--the Devil’s?’

Close along the line of nuns the dancer swept; her eyes were glowing, her face proud. On Sister Marie a look alighted, a touch with the fan, a blown kiss, “_Gracias, Señoras! Adios!_”

And swaying, as she had come, she glided away over the dark floor; and the little old Sister followed.

A sighing sound rose from the long row of nuns; and--yes--one sob!

“Go to your rooms, my daughters! Sister Marie!”

The young nun came forward; tears were in her eyes.

“Sister Marie, pray that the sins of that poor soul be forgiven. But, yes, my child, it is sad. Go to your room, and pray!”

With what grace the child walked! She, too, had the limbs of beauty, and the Mother Superior sighed....

Morning, cold and grey, a sprinkle of snow on the ground. They came for the dancer during Mass. Later a sound of firing! With trembling lips the Mother Superior prayed for the soul dancing before her God....

That evening they searched for Sister Marie, and could not find her. After two days a letter came.

“Forgive me, my Mother. I have gone back to life.

“MARIE.”

Life out of death! The Mother Superior sat quite still. Figures from the past were stealing out again; and the dancer’s face with the red flower in her hair, the dark sweetened eyes, the lips, touched with a flying finger, parted in a kiss!

1922.

PHILANTHROPY

Mist enwrapped Restington-on-Sea; not very thick, but exceedingly clammy. It decked the autumn trees in weirdness, cobwebbed the tamarisks, and compelled Henry Ivor to shut his window, excluding the faint hiss and rustle from the beach. He seldom wrote after tea without the accompaniment of fresh air, and was drowsing over his pen when his housekeeper entered.

“A couple to see you, sir; they came once before, when you was away.”

Ivor blinked. “Well, show them in.”

When the door was again opened a scent of whisky came in first, then a man, a woman, and a dog.

Ivor laid down his pen, and rose; he had never seen any of them before, and immediately doubted whether he wanted to see any of them again. Never able, however, to be disagreeable at a moment’s notice, he waited defensively. The man, who might have been thirty-five, pale, warped, and thin, seemed to extract his face from the grip of nerves.

“Hearing you were down here, sir, and being in the printing trade, if you understand my meaning----”

Ivor nodded; he did not want to nod, but it seemed unavoidable; and he looked at the woman. Her face was buttoned, the most expressionless he had ever seen.

“Well?” he said.

The man’s lips, thin and down at one corner, writhed again.

“You being a well-known writer,” he said, and the scent of whisky deepened.

Ivor thought: ‘It wants courage to beg; it’s damp too. Perhaps he’s only primed himself.’

“Well?” he said again.

“If you understand me,” said the man, “I’m in a very delicate position. I expect you know Mr. Gloy--Charles Gloy--editor of _Cribbage_----”

“No,” said Ivor. “But will you sit down?” And he placed two chairs.

The man and the woman sat down on their edges, the dog, too, sat on its edge! Ivor regarded it--a Schipperke--thinking:

‘Did they bring their dog to undermine me?’ As to that, it was the only kind of dog he did not like, but it looked damp and woeful.

“My brother works for Mr. Gloy,” said the man; “so, being at Beachhampton--out of a job, if you understand my meaning--I brought my wife--you being a well-known philanthropist----”

Ivor nervously took out a cigarette, and nervously put it back.

“I don’t know what I can do for you,” he murmured.

“I’m one to speak the truth,” resumed the man, “if you follow me----” And Ivor did--he followed on and on behind a wandering tale of printing, the war, ill-health. At last he said in despair:

“I really can’t recommend people I know nothing about. What exactly do you want me to do?”

The woman’s face seemed suddenly to lose a button, as if she were going to cry, but just then the dog whimpered; she took it up on her lap. Ivor thought:

‘How much have I got on me?’

“The fact is, Mr. Ivor,” said the man, “I’m broke to the world, if you understand my meaning. If once I could get back to London----”

“What do you say, madam?”

The woman’s mouth quivered and mumbled; Ivor stopped her with his hand.

“Well,” he said, “I can give you enough to get up to London with, and a little over. But that’s all, I’m afraid. And, forgive me, I’m very busy.” He stood up. The man rose also.

“I don’t want to say anything about my wife; you’ll forgive my mentioning it, but there’s not a lady in England that’s her equal at makin’ babies’ slippers.”

“Indeed!” said Ivor. “Well, here you are!” And he held out some pound notes. The man took the notes; one of his trouser-legs was pitiably patched.

“I’m sure I’m more than grateful----” he said; and looking at Ivor as if he expected to be contradicted, added: “I can’t say better than that, can I?”

“No,” said Ivor, and opened the door.

“I’ll be ready to repay you as soon as ever I can--if you understand my meaning.”

“Yes,” said Ivor. “Good-day! Good-day, Mrs. ----! Good-bye, little dog!”

One by one the three passed him and went out into the mist. Ivor saw them trailing down the road, shut the outer door, returned to his chair, sighed profoundly, and took up his pen.

When he had written three pages, and it was getting too dusk to see, his housekeeper came in.

“There’s a boy from the Black Cow, sir, come to say they want you down there.”

“Want _me_?”

“Yes, sir. That couple--the boy says they don’t know what to do with them. They gave your name as being a friend.”

“Good Lord!”

“Yes, sir; and the landlord says they don’t seem to know where they come from like.”

“Heavens!” said Ivor. He got up, however, put on his overcoat, and went out.

In the lighted doorway of the Black Cow stood the landlord.

“Sorry to have troubled you, sir, but really I can’t tell how to deal with these friends of yours.”

Ivor frowned. “I only saw them for the first time this afternoon. I just gave them money to go up to London with. Are they drunk?”

“Drunk!” said the landlord. “Well, if I’d known the man was half gone when he came in--of course I’d never---- As to the woman, she sits and smiles. I can’t get them to budge, and it’s early closin’----”

“Well,” muttered Ivor, “let’s look at them!” And he followed the landlord in.

On the window-seat in the bar parlour those two were sitting, with mugs beside them, and the dog asleep on the feet of the woman, whose lips were unbuttoned in a foolish smile. Ivor looked at the man; his face was blank and beatific. Specimens of a damp and doleful world, they now seemed almost blissful.

“Mist’ Ivor?” said the man suddenly.

“Yes,” said Ivor, “but I thought you wanted to go up to London. The station’s not half a mile.”

“Cert’nly--go up to London.”

“Come along, then; I’ll show you the way.”

“Ve’y good, we can walk, if you understand my meaning.” And the man stood up, the dog and the woman also. All three passed unsteadily out.

The man walked first, then the woman, then the dog, wavering into the dusky mist. Ivor followed, praying that they might meet no traffic. The man’s voice broke the silence in front.

“Hen’y Ivor!” Ivor closed up nervously.

“Hen’y Ivor! I see ’m sayin’ to ’mself: ‘What’ll they move on for!’ I see him, if y’ understand my meaning. Wha’sh he good for--Hen’y Ivor--only writer o’ books. Is he any better than me--no! Not ’s good, if you f-follow me. I see ’m thinkin’: ‘How can I get rid of ’m?’” He stood still suddenly, almost on Ivor’s toes. “Where’s dog--carry th’ dog--get ’is feet wet.”

The woman stooped unsteadily, picked up the dog, and they both wavered on again. Ivor walked alongside now, grim and apprehensive. The man seemed to have become aware of him.

“Mist’ Ivor,” he said. “Thought so--I’m not tight--can’t say better than that, can I?--I’m not writer of books like you--not plutocrat, if you understand my meaning. Want to ask you question: What would you do if you was me?”

There was silence, but for the slip-slippering of the woman’s feet behind.

“I don’ blame you,” said the man, whose speech was getting thicker; “you can’t help being a plutothrist. But whash the good of anything for me, except ob-oblivion, if you follow me?”

A faint radiance shone through the mist. The station building loomed suddenly quite close. Ivor steered towards it.

“Goin’ up t’ London,” said the man. “Qui’ right!”

He lurched past into the lighted entry, and the woman followed with the dog. Ivor saw them waver through the doorway. And, spinning round, he ran into the mist. ‘Perfectly true!’ he thought while he was running. Perfectly true! Why had he helped them? What did he care so long as he got rid of man, woman, and dog?

1922.

A LONG-AGO AFFAIR

Hubert Marsland, the landscape painter, returning from a day’s sketching on the river in the summer of 1921, had occasion to stay the progress of his two-seater about ten miles from London for a minor repair, and while his car was being seen to, strolled away from the garage to have a look at a house where he had often spent his holidays as a boy. Walking through a gateway and passing a large gravel-pit on his left, he was soon opposite the house, which stood back a little in its grounds. Very much changed! More pretentious, not so homely as when his uncle and aunt lived there, and he used to play cricket on this warren opposite, where the cricket ground, it seemed, had been turned into a golf course. It was late--the dinner hour, nobody playing, and passing on to the links he stood digesting the geography. Here must have been where the old pavilion was. And there--still turfed--where he had made that particularly nice stroke to leg, when he went in last and carried his bat for thirteen. Thirty-nine years ago--his sixteenth birthday. How vividly he remembered his new pads! A. P. Lucas had played against them and only made thirty-two. One founded one’s style on A. P. Lucas in those days--feet in front of the bat, and pointed a little forward, elegant; you never saw it now, and a good thing too--one could sacrifice too much to style! Still, the tendency was all the other way; style was too much ‘off,’ perhaps!

He stepped back into the sun and sat down on the grass. Peaceful--very still! The haze of the distant downs was visible between his uncle’s old house and the next; and there was the clump of elms on the far side behind which the sun would be going down just as it used to then. He pressed the palms of his hands to the turf. A glorious summer--something like that summer of long ago. And warmth from the turf, or perhaps from the past, crept into his heart, and made it ache a little. Just here he must have sat, after his innings, at Mrs. Monteith’s feet peeping out of a flounced dress. Lord! The fools boys were! How headlong and uncalculating their devotions! A softness in voice and eyes, a smile, a touch or two--and they were slaves! Young fools, but good young fools. And, standing behind her chair--he could see him now--that other idol, Captain MacKay, with his face of browned ivory--just the colour of that elephant’s tusk his uncle had, which had gone so yellow--and his perfect black moustache, his white tie, check suit, carnation, spats, Malacca cane--all so fascinating! Mrs. Monteith, ‘the grass widow’ they had called her! He remembered the look in people’s eyes, the tone in their voices. Such a pretty woman! He had ‘fallen for her’ at first sight, as the Yanks put it--her special scent, her daintiness, her voice! And that day on the river, when she made much of him, and Captain MacKay attended Evelyn Curtiss so assiduously that he was expected to propose. Quaint period! They used the word courting then, wore full skirts, high stays; and himself a blue elastic belt round his white-flannelled waist. And in the evening afterwards, his aunt had said with an arch smile: “Good-night, _silly_ boy!” Silly boy, indeed, with a flower the grass widow had dropped pressed by his cheek into his pillow! What folly! And that next Sunday--looking forward to church--passionately brushing his top hat; all through the service spying at her creamy profile, two pews in front on the left, between goat-bearded old Hallgrave, her uncle, and her pink, broad, white-haired aunt; scheming to get near her when she came out, lingering, lurking, getting just a smile and the rustle of her flounces. Ah, ha! A little went a long way then! And the last day of his holidays and its night with the first introduction to reality. Who said the Victorian Age was innocent?

Marsland put his palm up to his cheek. No! the dew was not yet falling! And his mind lightly turned and tossed his memories of women, as a man turns and tosses hay to air it; but nothing remembered gave him quite the feeling of that first experience.