"Dear Sally. How are you and your mother? She takes no notice when I write to her, so perhaps I'd better start writing to you. Such news I've got. I've won thirty-five pounds in a competition. I don't know how I did it any more than you do. Anyway, Sally, I don't want to forget my little niece, and so here's a little something for you. I'm giving the boys some, and buying a new dress, and then I'm going to bank the rest against a rainy day. Waste not, want not, you know. Don't tell mummy I've sent you anything, but spend it on yourself, love. Get a bit of something nice. Your affectionate Aunt Emmy."
"Dear Sally. How are you and your mother? She takes no notice when I write to her, so perhaps I'd better start writing to you. Such news I've got. I've won thirty-five pounds in a competition. I don't know how I did it any more than you do. Anyway, Sally, I don't want to forget my little niece, and so here's a little something for you. I'm giving the boys some, and buying a new dress, and then I'm going to bank the rest against a rainy day. Waste not, want not, you know. Don't tell mummy I've sent you anything, but spend it on yourself, love. Get a bit of something nice. Your affectionate Aunt Emmy."
Enclosed was a postal-order for a pound. Sally's heart seemed to stop beating for an instant. She looked again at the postal-order, and with a sharp movement put it inside her blouse. Then she put the letter in the fire, and watched it flame and blacken and flick to pieces in the draught. Slowly, thinking with all her might, she took off her out-of-doors jacket and hung it up. A pound! She was rich! With a pound you could do a lot. You could ... you could buy material for a frock. You could buy underclothes, stockings, shoes. Not all of them, but what you wanted. Or you could buy a hat and sweets and scent and ... oh, lots of things! A whole pound to spend! Slowly, slowly came Sally's mind round to something from which it instantly darted away. It crept back again. It seized upon her will. With apound you could ... you could make your hair look nice and your face....
After the resolve, Sally was quite cool. She turned to greet her mother with entire self-possession. But her ears were strained, because overhead she heard a heavy footstep.
The thing determined, Sally was faced with a great difficulty. She did not know how to do things. She had to find out. You couldn't make a fool of yourself and ask at a shop. She had talked to May once or twice about ... making your hair look nice ... well, dyeing it, if you wanted to know; and May could only show her advertisements clipped from the Sunday paper. She had not kept those advertisements: she had not liked the look of them. Mother wouldn't know. She must do it at once. A bold plan had come into her mind. She was near the end of her second year with Miss Jubb. She could go into the West End if only she looked nice enough. If she could do it to-night or to-morrow she could meet May Pearcey first thing on Monday morning, get her to tell Miss Jubb Sally was ill, and perhaps go after some situation during the day. What a game! But how was she to get the stuff? That was the difficulty. No, it was the easiest thing of all. Mrs. Perce! Mrs. Perce used peroxide, because she had once been a barmaid. But that meant a long time. Sally must have something quick in its action. Mrs. Perce would know. Mrs. Perce knew everything of that kind. The notion of going shopping with her mother was abandoned. She had more important things to do. She would go and see Mrs. Perce immediately after tea. Then, while old Perce was playing the piano, she would get to know everything. Sally became wildly animated. Sheglimpsed the future. Transformed, she would conquer. Toby would be won. She would be in the West End. A whole new vista opened before her, glittering with promise. Never had she been so excited, even when Toby first spoke to her.
Mrs. Minto wearily threw off her dingy cloak and raked the fire, so that the kettle began to boil. She looked in a lethargic way at Sally, as a cat looks at a stranger in whom it is not at all interested; and then mechanically took down the tea-caddy from the mantelpiece. As she stooped over the kettle there seemed to be cramp in all her limbs. The little bell-pull of hair was smaller than ever, and the hair itself was more grey. Her whole bearing expressed a lifeless dejection. Panting faintly as the result of her late posture, Mrs. Minto brought the teapot to the spotless table, and clumsily touched the teacups and spoons so that they jarred upon Sally's nerves. Everything her mother did now annoyed Sally. The slow motions, the awkward way in which her fingers turned to thumbs, the shortsightedness that made her unable to thread a needle or read a paper except through an old magnifying glass, the general air of debility and discouragement. Sally felt furious with her all the time—"Old fool ... old fool!" she would frantically murmur to herself; and then would fall again into despair at her own sensation of frustrate youth. She had lost love for her mother, had no pity to give in its place; and only awoke in these moments of dreadful exasperation to the sense that she was still dependent upon Mrs. Minto for her existence. During this tea-time, while her mother mutely ate bread and margarine, Sally was away in the clouds, dreaming of all that her windfall was to produce. It was to produce beauty, opportunity, happiness. So much for a pound to do! Sally was so impatient to call on Mrs.Perce that she could hardly eat anything or drink her tea.
"Youareworritting and fidgetting, Sally," cried Mrs. Minto, peevishly. "Sit still, there's a good girl. I don't know what's come to my 'ead. It feels all funny inside, and if I put my hand there it's like I got a bruise. And yet I don't remember knockin' myself anywheres, and I can't understand it at all, because it's not as if I'd taken anything to disagree with me; and yet there it is, a nasty pain all inside my 'ead and a feeling as though I'd got a bruise on the outside. I was telling Mrs. ... oh, dear, what is her name?... Mrs. ... Roberson about it, and she said that's what her 'usband used to suffer from, and ...hetook...."
Sally ignored the rest of the speech. Her mother rambled on; and Sally looked at the clock. She'd get to Hornsey Road about six. That would be time enough. There would be the Clancy kids playing in the doorway, so she would go straight upstairs to Mrs. Perce; and she would say....
Self-absorbed, both went mechanically on with the unappetising meal. Upstairs Toby walked once more into his own room; and then came running heavily down the stairs and past their door and then right down to the street. Sally's heart was in a flutter, and her eyes flew once again to the clock. It was so early for Toby to be going out. She would not see him, then. She would not see him, and all her excitement was gone like an exploded toy balloon. The heart was taken out of her enterprise. He was going out: he did not want her: he was finished with her. Sally could not repress the single sob that rose to her lips.
"... so I asked Mr. Flack if they'd ever kep' it, and he said no, they never had, and told me to try at Boots's, down by the Nag's Head...."
"Oh,mother," cried Sally, beside herself. "Do shut up about your head. It gives me the hump." Then, as she became aware of what she had said, she defensively proceeded. "Well, you keep on talking about it, and it doesn't do anygoodto talk about it. If you want to know, I'm ill myself. I've got a headache, and I've got the rats...."
"You got no call to speak to your mother that way," said Mrs. Minto. "If I'd a spoke tomymother like that, I should have got the strap. So mind that, Sally. It's not nice. I've noticed you getting very unmannerly and out of hand lately. Very rude. I don't know what to do with you, you're so rude. It's not right, and it worries me so that I can't think what I'm doing. I was talking about it the other day to Mrs. Roberson, andshesays...."
"Yes, ma," said Sally, rising, and going to the door to take her hat down from the peg. "She seems to have got a lot to say. Doesn't seem to be much sense in what she says."
"Now, you're not to...." By this time Sally had one sleeve on and was feeling for the other. In a glance at her little peaked determined face, and obstinate mouth, Mrs. Minto's spirit suddenly failed. Where she had meant to be maternally peremptory she became querulous. "Wherever you going now?" she asked weakly. "Oh, youarea naughty wilful girl."
"Out," said Sally, bluntly. Unheeding the outcry that followed, she was out of the door and down the stairs before her mother could check her; and with a new ugly sense of revolt was on her way to see Mrs. Perce in a mood of reckless despair. Left alone, Mrs. Minto washed feebly up, and sighingly dried the cups and plates and rearranged them in the cupboard. Presently she sat in a limp curve over the fire, in a kind ofstupor, dreaming of she knew not what. Every now and then she would give a jerk in anger at Sally's rudeness and recently uncontrollable highhandedness, which recurred to her attention whenever her thoughts touched reality. For the rest she sat motionless, until the coal-blocks subsided and the fire went black.
Out in the dark streets, Sally was as if enveloped. First she looked this way and that for Toby; but he was gone. A wave of hysteria passed over her. She hated him. She hated him for such loutish cruelty. He didn't care. And because he did not care, although she tried to feel indifferent, she loved him the more. Blindly she walked away from the house, and heard the trams grinding, and the rattle of carts over the rough paving. Holloway Road at this point is at its worst—dull and ugly, with an air of third-rate respectable indigence. She crossed the road, and passed into a squalid thoroughfare called Grove Road, and marched past the ugly houses with her head in the air, pretending that she had no interest whatever in Toby. All her thoughts were busy inventing indifference; and her consciousness was at each turn confusing and contradicting her thoughts. If solitude had been possible to her, Sally would have cried; but as a rule she cried very little, both because she was rarely alone and because she was not naturally hysterical. Fighting, therefore, against what she felt to be weakness, she proceeded on her way, trying to laugh at rival butchers shouting insults and challenges across the street. At the post office near her old home she changed her open postal-order, and was given a half-sovereign and ten shillings-worth of silver. This money she carefullyput, in paper, inside her blouse. She was then ready for her interview.
At the old address new tenants already occupied the first floor flat, and Mr. Clancy stood at the gate smoking his pipe. The man who lived in the ground floor flat next door still showed his glass-covered sign "Why Pay Rent?" Children littered the few inches of asphalt which served as front garden to the two houses. Seeing Sally, Mr. Clancy took his pipe out of his mouth, spat, and nodded at her in a friendly way.
"Hello, Sally. Keepin' well? Look fine."
"I've come to see Mrs. Perce— Mrs. Barrow, you know."
Mr. Clancy jerked his head, receptive of the news, and as Sally passed him continued to smoke and to regard the traffic. He must have been bitterly cold, she thought; but she knew he must be standing outside either because Mrs. Clancy was out or because she was in. The stairs were just as steep as of old, and as dark. Sally had absolutely no memory of her father's fall. She was merely curious about the new people in the flat. But she did not see them, for all the doors were closed, and she kicked her feet against the stairs, stumbling a little in the darkness.
At her further progress a door flew open above, and Mrs. Perce looked out.
"Sally! Well I never!" she ejaculated. "Perce! Here's Sally come to see you!" Perce's reply did not reach Sally, but there was an exchanged kiss with Mrs. Perce, and then her coat and hat were off and she was conscious of overpowering warmth and kippers and a general sizzle of comfort and plenty. "Had your tea?" demanded Mrs. Perce. "Have another. Come on. Plenty of kippers. Perce! Sally's eating your kippers!"
Perce appeared, rubbing the back of his neck with atowel—a large fair red-faced man with a broad grin. He put his hand on Sally's shoulder, and shook her. Then he went out of the room again, and Sally began almost immediately upon the feast. It was such a jolly, cosy, close room, so bright and gaudy in its decoration, that it was Sally's idea of what a kitchen should be. The walls were a varnished brown, so that they shone in the lamplight. Polished candlesticks stood by a shiny clock on the mantelpiece. There were bright pictures and a brilliant lamp and a glittering tablecloth covered with polished dishes and silver. She had a great admiration for old Perce and Mrs. Perce. They both loved comfort and food and drink, and both had hearty laughs that showed all their teeth. Both had shrewd, glistening, money-engrossed eyes; both were large and stout and cheerful and noisy. To anybody as young as Sally noise goes a long way towards cheeriness, because it deadens thought. So when old Perce came and took his place at the table she suddenly threw off her despair with the volatility of childhood, and laughed aloud and ate and drank, and made sly remarks, until she became an altogether different Sally from the one who had taken an earlier tea with her mother. She was now in high spirits. All sorts of funny things came into her head—things she had seen and thought since their last meeting; and when she repeated them the Barrows laughed in great roars that filled her with conceited exultation. It was so long since she had laughed. It was so long since she had fed properly. This was like a dream, a riotous dream of noise and colour. She looked from old Perce's red face to Mrs. Perce's almost equally florid cheeks, her eyes travelling like dragon-flies, as bright and eager as possible.
And all the time she was taking in Mrs. Perce's appearance. Mrs. Perce wore a black silk dress, very plain,but well-cut. She had a gold brooch at her throat, and a thin gold chain round her neck. Her hair was abundant, and was dressed in a great blob upon the top of her head. It was a noticeable colour, fair and startling. She did not decorate her eyebrows and eyelashes, which were darker than her hair. And she wore high corsets, because her bosom, although firm, was inclined to be over-flowing. The bodice of her dress fitted closely and emphasised what was still a very shapely figure. She was what would be called a fine woman. Her eyes were full and clear; her lips were well-moulded; her teeth, rather protruding, were unimpaired. Sally was filled with renewed envy of her personal advantages. Then her eyes went back to Mrs. Perce's hair. It was too obviously doctored. She didn't want anything like that. She wanted something more delicate....
The truth flashed upon her. Mrs. Perce was a trifle on the coarse side. Sally quickly compared Mrs. Perce's plump hands with her own lean ones. At the scrutiny, she put her hands below the table, for they were not clean. But if they had been clean she would have taken pride in them; for where the fingers of Mrs. Perce were stubby her own were slim and pretty. She understood her own shortcomings, but in the quick observations and comparisons she had been making, Sally had learnt a great deal more clearly than ever before how careful she must be to avoid exaggeration in all she did. Dressed and adorned as Mrs. Perce was dressed and adorned, she would have looked a guy. It was a new lesson to her, and a valuable one.
"Have you noticed," said Mrs. Perce, "how me and Perce's dressed up to-day?"
Sally was staggered. She looked quickly at old Perce and saw that he was in his best clothes, with a lovelynew spotted blue and white tie, and a dahlia in his buttonhole.
"Of course," she said. "I noticed everything. Didn't like to ask. What is it? Is it your birthday? Wish I'd known," she added, half-truthfully. "I'd a brought you a present."
"No," laughed Mrs. Perce. "Very good guess. Not a birthday. It's the anniversary of our wedding-day. Been married nine years, we have."
"Nine years!" echoed Sally, awestruck. "Nine years! And you haven't had a baby yet!"
There was a startling guffaw. Old Perce slapped his leg and bayed. Mrs. Perce threw herself back in her chair, showing every brilliant tooth. The noise was tremendous.
"The things she says!" shrieked Mrs. Perce. "Perce, I always said that child was a caution!" They both laughed until they were in an extremity of mirth.
Sally recognised herself as a wit, flushed, and laughed as heartily as they. She had spoken incautiously, as a child, and without sophistication. But she accepted responsibility for her joke. She was not in the least flurried, but was pleased at being considered an adept in the ways of marriage. At heart she was despising herself for not having been more truly observant of their clothes, because in reality she had been so concentrated upon Mrs. Perce that she had never thought to spare an eye for Mrs. Perce's husband. She was thankful to have ridden off so easily upon her naïveté. Meanwhile, having laughed amply, the Barrows had resumed their tea.
"Nine years, eh!" said old Perce, reflectively. "Takes some believing, Poll. Nine years. Nine years, and no baby, eh!" He shook his head, like a cat sneezing, and laughed again. "Here, Sally. Have some more kipper. More tea, then. Poll, here's a lady will have some moretea, if you please, ma'am. Sweet enough, Sally? As before, if you please, Poll."
"See, where was you then, Perce?" asked Mrs. Perce. "Nine years ago."
"This time nine years ago——" murmured old Perce, reflectively. "I was at Potter's. Yes, Sally, I waddn't makin' above two pound a week when I got married—if that. Two pound a week was about my top-notch in those days. Well, it's different now." He shrugged his shoulders. "And I'll tell you for why, Sally. It was Poll, there. Don't you forget it. If a man's got a good wife—say there's something in him—he'll end his days in comfort.She'llsee to that. Now, the man you marry——"
"Here, Perce! Steady on!" cried Mrs. Perce. "Sally's not seventeen yet, remember."
"Wait!" Old Perce directed a finger. Sally was brimming with gladness, at the topic and the confidence in herself which she saw he was going to express. "The man you marry, Sally—he'll have tobea man. Understan' what I mean? None of these fine la-di-da fellows, but a Man. And—if he works, you save. Not to scrape, you understand. Just save. For the first five years, be careful. Have your fun. No harm in that. But be careful. No kids. No swank. Stability, that's what's wanted. Stability. If you've got a bit of money behind you—— See what I mean?"
"Oo yes, Mr. Barrow," said Sally, incoherent with pride. "That's just what I think."
Old Perce looked at Mrs. Perce, raising his shoulders as if to exhibit Sally to her. There was a nod between them. For some time all became rather thoughtful, perhaps thinking—as she was uncontrollably doing—of Sally's future. Old Perce took out his pipe at last.
"I'm just going to step in the other room, Sally," he remarked, "and have a pipe and a bit of a tune. I'll seeyou later—you ladies," he added gallantly, with a bow. And then he withdrew, leaving them alone, with Sally's cheeks flushed at the warmth and the subject they had been considering. All the time old Perce had been talking she had been wishing that Toby had been there to hear. Then he'd have seen what these people thought of her. They didn't think of her face; they didn't go off in a huff because she had been too ill to go out one evening. They knew.... Tears filled her eyes. She stared at the red fire in the grate. Mrs. Perce had her back turned, filling the kettle for the inevitable washing-up, and so she did not see this sudden arrival of tragic reflection. All she saw was a willing Sally gathering the dishes and scraping the fishbones together ready for throwing behind the fire. How was Mrs. Perce to visualise that other tea, that lonely figure in the other room? How was anybody to understand why Sally was so different from what she had been at home?
Over the washing-up, the two became confidential. Sally broached the subject of the West End. She dilated upon it. Mrs. Perce was all sympathy, and full of agreement.
"You're quite right," she said. "And I'm glad. I wish I could help you. Now, can I?" She thought a moment. "Wait a bit. Wait a bit."
She went out of the room. Amid the din of "There you are, there you are, there you ain't—ain't—ain't," Sally heard her call: "Perce, what's the name Maggie Merrick calls herself now?" There was a silence. The door of the other room was closed. Sally, standing by the kitchen table, drying a plate, strained her ears unavailingly. A silence was upon the flat. Only the fire huskily caved in, and little darting sparks flew into the air. It was as though her life hung suspended. Then, in a few minutes, Mrs. Perce returned, a triumphant beam uponher face. "You go and see Maggie on Monday," she said. "I'll write her a letter. She calls herself Gala—Madame Gala. Got a place round behind Regent Street, and about twenty hands. She's a very old friend of mine.... I'll give you a letter to-night. Just say you come from Polly Barrow. She'll see you. Course, I can't be sure...."
"No, no!" Sally's concurrence was eager. Her heart was like a flame. "Youarekind to me, Mrs. Perce."
"If I can help you, Sally...." Mrs. Perce's voice took on a tone of kindness almost solemn. "Well, that's all right. Just wait till these things are washed."
Trembling, Sally introduced her other problem. At first Mrs. Perce gave a great laugh, and looked very sharply at Sally. She looked at her dress, at her face, at her hair.
"I don't want to look...."
"It wouldn't help you to look made-up. Not with Maggie. So thereisa boy!"
"No!" Sally's tone was fierce.
"Oh, all right." Mrs. Perce was evidently not altogether convinced. She dried her hands, her head consideringly upon one side.
"Who'd look at me?" There was a vain effort in this speech to corroborate the disclaimer; but there was also an ingenuous and pathetic appeal for some sort of reassurance, for this was Sally's hidden fear.
"Don't be a fool, Sally. If a girl makes up her mind to have a man...."
Sally's heart leapt. She looked with shining eyes of glory at Mrs. Perce. It was the announcement of her dream, a confirmation of her hope. She was for a moment ecstatic.
"Oh, Mrs. Perce!"
"You just look at him like that, my dear. Well, I'lltell you.... You don't want to looktoofresh. Don't use peroxide. Henna's the stuff for you."
"Henna! How much?" Sally was desperate. The word was open sesame to her.
"Wait a bit. I'll think. Henna. And a face cream. But mind, Sally, be careful. Not too much of it. And whatever you do, remember your neck.Youdon't see it; but others do. All that's above your dress. And a bit below. Some people are inquisitive. And just a bit of lip salve—just a tinge. See, your lips aren't red enough. But you've got to be on the watch not to overdo it. No good looking like a tart."
"No. It's just the hair and the freckles," breathed Sally.
"Oh, well.... We'll make a picture of you. And the eyebrows, Sally. But only a bit, Sally. Only a bit. You've got to be moderate...."
Mrs. Perce went off into a delighted silence. She was in her element. She had before her a great opportunity, and all her vanity was roused. They understood one another. And for all Sally's disclaimer Mrs. Perce was in no way deceived about her ultimate object. She was as aware of Toby as if she knew the facts. But she was too shrewd to force a confidence. To herself she was laughing with the full enjoyment which some women, if not most of them, bring to the contemplation of an intrigue and its ultimate consequences. Later, she resolved to add a word of warning upon the handling of that subject. But more thought encouraged her to be silent. There was that in Sally's bearing which gave Mrs. Perce to understand that in the long run Sally knew what she was about. Mrs. Perce was conscious of a smart feeling of admiration for this child.
Clasping tightly the precious henna and her other purchases, Sally hurried home through the dark streets. Within her blouse was the letter to Madame Gala. Her head was full of her plans, her delighted anticipations of victory. For this moment she could not contemplate the possibility that all would not go well. She was intoxicated. Her heart was swelling. Thoughts galloped away, like steam from a boiling kettle. She kept no memory of them. It was enough for her that she was thrilled with her own prospects. Of course Mrs. Perce's friend would take her on. Of course Toby would fall in love with her. She could make him. Once let her achieve her immediate objects, and there was no end to future possibilities. How strange, how wonderful, the difference which the last few hours had made to her! It really seemed true for once that in the darkest hour dawn was most nearly at hand. She let herself into the house and crept up the stairs, subdued but exultant. It would now have taken much more than the coldness and darkness of the horrible room to spoil her excited happiness. She even welcomed them, because if her mother awoke there would be the less need for explanations. She stood a candle upon the washstand, screened from the bed, and lighted the oil stove which they always used for preparing the breakfast. Her purchases were carefully arrayed, and then hidden. She removed her outer clothes, and let down her hair, shivering slightly, but tense with resolve and the absorption of the moment. Round her shoulders she hung a big towel, and kicked it out, looking down at her legs and feet. She was conscious of pride, of physical freedom. She made small dancing steps, as happy as a child, while she waited and waited for the slow kettle to boil.
Later, Sally stole to bed, careful not to touch her sleepingmother, lest her own chill body should awaken her and provoke a querulous scene. She was shuddering from head to foot. It seemed to take hours to shake off the frozen feeling, and if she raised her feet and touched them with her hands they were like pieces of ice. They were still cold when she forgot everything; and she awoke, the towel still about her head, with the sun up and the day well advanced. A careful hand to her hair, a quick scurry to the mirror, a leap of apprehensiveness; and then she was back in bed, shamming sleep, because her mother had stirred. The two lay side by side for ever so long, until Sally could once again allow herself to breathe freely. She did not examine her feelings: she only knew that she was afraid and confident, alternately timid and ashamed, and then again breathing deep with satisfaction. She had begun. She was set out upon her adventure. At a blow she had to put everything to the test. How she longed for the next day! How she longed for her interview with Mrs. Perce's friend, and for her next encounter with Toby!
At night she allowed her mother to go to bed first, and waited a little while before beginning her preparations. She was so long that her mother, although still engrossed by the pain in her head, began to grumble.
"What you doing, Sally?" she cried sharply.
"Washing my hair," answered Sally, like a shot.
"Ought to have done it in daylight, silly girl. And dried it in front the fire. I don't know what'scometo you, Sally. You seem to do everything you can to worrit me. Now I want to go to sleep, and you keep the lamp burning, and the fire burning, and it's all alight, so I can't get off."
Sally shaded the lamp. Her lip was curled. She did not deign to answer the complaint. Silly old fool; always grumbling! Let her wait. Let her wait and see what happened! Sally was less excited, and less clumsy, to-night. She was warmer, too; and that gave her more assurance. Once her mother had fallen asleep, as she knew from the loud breathing, she became leisurely. Her actions were even luxurious, so much more at ease was she. First of all she combed her hair, wishing it were longer. Then she made all her dispositions. For the next hour she was busy, and by the time she was in bed she had begun to giggle almost hysterically. She lay quite still, and quite warm, listening for some sound of Toby. But none came. Wherever he was, she did not hear him before she went to sleep.
And then in the dark morning her mother could not see the transformation that had occurred; and Sally could not see it, either. They made a slow and tasteless breakfast, and Mrs. Minto slipped out to her first situation, where she had to be at half-past seven. From that she would go on to another at half-past ten that would keep her for the greater part of the afternoon. Sally, instead of going back to bed, as she often did when the two breakfasted together, dressed herself with great care and prepared to go out and meet May Pearcey. She tried to see herself in the mirror, but could only get a lamplight view that frightened her. She had washed very carefully, and as she had made her own dress it fitted well and suited her. She had a big black hat and was going to get new gloves before calling upon Madame Gala. Her shoes were bad, but she brushed them well. Stockings she had bought on Saturday night. Turning round and round before the mirror, extending her arms, and patting down her skirt, she was content with everything but the incalculable effect of her recent activities. But the part of her hairwhich showed beneath her hat was a rich shade, and if her face looked artificially pale it still appeared smooth and fresh.
What doubt she may have had was set at rest by May Pearcey when they met. The encounter took place in Grove Road at the corner of Hornsey Road, just where the shops are; and the two girls walked westward together.
"Oo, Sally, youdolook smart!" May irrepressibly cried. "Oo, what you bin doing to your hair! Looks lervly! Oo, and your face. Got off with a earl?"
She was all attention at Sally's tale, and Sally showed her the letter to Madame Gala. They stood together reading it. For the moment May was honestly full of congratulation. She was so simple-minded, and so little attached to the dressmaking, that she had no envy. A boy would have been a different matter. And she was honestly delighted with Sally's appearance.
"You look lervly!" she kept saying. "Oo, I do hope you get it. I say, come out 's evening, and tell me. Will you?" May was very coaxing indeed. She was sincerely impressed.
It was a compliment, as well as a curiosity. Sally hesitated. She had planned to see Toby; but if Toby was going to be a lout she might just as well show him she didn't care.
"All right," she said. "Look here, if I'm not there by half-past seven, you'll know I've been kept—mother's kept me. See?"
"Mother!" laughed May. "Well, I'll be there quarter-past. See! Shouldn't come any further, case old Mother Jubb's lookin' out the window. She might not believe you was ill if she saw you lookin' so smart. Might think you was takin' a day off to go to the Zoo."
They parted, May Pearcey to spin a tale of Sally's illnessto Miss Jubb, and Sally to proceed, after getting a pair of black cotton gloves, to the West End. In the shop, half hidden among the rolls of flannel and little racks and trays of smaller articles of haberdashery, there was a full-length strip of mirror. It stood gloomily in the half-light of the shop, which, like all suburban drapers' shops, had the air of a crowded and airless cavern full of stale adornments. Sally did not see the mirror at first, but while the shop girl went to fetch the gloves, she was looking idly round when she caught sight of a slim young lady in black. The young lady was very trim, dressed all in black, with slim ankles and pretty hands, and a big black hat—and it was herself! Herself, looking like a lady. Quickly, she stepped to the mirror, examining her cheeks, her neck, her brows, and her gloriously richly-tinted hair. She was amazed and delighted. A proud smile twisted her thin little lips, so slightly touched with Lipsol that they did not seem to have been touched at all, but only to be prettier than usual. After the first curiosity, the first flush of recognition, followed precise scrutiny. Sally nodded to herself. She would do. There was no doubt of it. From that moment she was no longer triumphant or excited: she was sure. She had learnt a great lesson, that excitement is no criterion of victory or happiness, and that the artist is cool, confident, free from triumph. At a bound, Sally had become an artist. She had always been potentially an artist; but she at last had attained vision.
Precious pennies went to pay her tram fare to Tottenham Court Road; and from there she walked to Madame Gala's, asking the way, and getting rather flustered and bewildered at the pushing crowds and the big shops with their irresistible windows, and the extraordinary amountof traffic that seemed to make Oxford Street one continuous torrent of carts and omnibuses. The big furniture shops in Tottenham Court Road had impressed her; but the shops in Oxford Street were beyond anything she ever remembered to have seen. A flash of comparison with Holloway—even with Jones's magnificent row of shops on the way to Highbury, or the big drapers and clothiers in the Upper Street—made her realise how right had been her longing for the West End. It had been more than a dream. It had been an inspiration. Holloway was seen in its dinginess, its greasy mud on the rough roads, the general air it had of being a step or two behind the times; and here was the brilliance, the enthralling reality, of the West to take its place. Sally was conscious of new buoyancy. If she had been pleased with Tottenham Court Road, and delighted with the essentially commonplace Oxford Street, she exulted in that alluring curve which will always make Regent Street a fascination for the visitor to London and even a satisfaction to the Londoner himself. Sally was both a Londoner and a visitor, and her feelings were proportionate. She did not know that she was proud of being London born and bred; but her eye was possessive, and she would not have given London in exchange for the dozen other great capitals of the world put together. She looked round at the shops, at the buildings and the traffic; and she made a historic remark.
"Cooh," she said. "Fine! Fancylivinghere! This is the place for me."
It was final. It took no account of the risks of a peradventure. Madame Gala was a mere cog in the great wheel of Sally's progress through life. Even Toby had at first no place in her survey. Then she wondered if he knew Regent Street. He could come one Saturday and wait for her outside Madame Gala's. They would swank,and go and have tea at an A. B. C. or Lyons's; and perhaps go into Hyde Park. Gradually it came back to her that her father used to take them to Hyde Park on Sundays. But that was long ago, and on Sundays the traffic was less and the shops were all shuttered. She gave a sigh at the memory, awoke, and marched up to a colossal policeman who was wagging a pair of gloves in his right hand—as if to keep the flies away, but in reality to encourage the traffic. He inclined an ear, and an eye to her letter, and trumpeted out directions.
And at last Sally reached Madame Gala's, and with Madame Gala's another turning-point in her life. It was the first time she had been conscious of so all-important an event. When she came to the building she was trembling. Her eyes closed, almost in an expression of prayer. She took five minutes to climb the stairs to the second floor, and then turned to fly. She recovered, and hung about for a while, hoping for some accident to carry her right into the place. Then, with a feeble air of confidence, she pushed open the door and walked in without knocking.
Sally could have fallen down in horror; for as she entered she saw a very tall young woman talking to the most beautifully dressed person she had ever seen. And they were in a room such as Sally had never been in before—a room entirely decorated in a sort of grey-blue. Wallpaper, hangings, and chair-upholsterings were exactly uniform. The effect, although beautiful and restful, was to Sally's eye so sumptuous that she felt she must by some terrible mischance have come into a drawing-room. But she heard the young woman say, "Yes, meddam.... I'll tell Madame Gala.... Yes, meddam.... Yes, meddam ... quite ... yes, I quite....Goodmorning, meddam." And then as the wonderful creature disappeared in a whirl of richness, like a fairygodmother, the tall young woman turned almost pouncingly upon Sally, and in a contemptuous voice said "Yes?"
Sally shook herself. It was the gesture of one who has been dreaming.
"I want to see Madame Gala," she said, very distinctly. "I've got a letter for her from Mrs. Barrow."
"Where is it?" demanded the young woman. "That it?"
She took from Sally's unwilling but unresisting hand the letter which Mrs. Perce had written, pulled it from the open envelope, read it, and looked again at Sally.
"I want toseeMadame Gala," said Sally, stubbornly. Her little mouth was now very savagely set, and if there had been any refusal upon the young woman's part there would have been a scene.
"All right. Keep your hair on," said the inquisitive young woman. "Are you Miss Minto?"
"Yes, I am." Sally nodded energetically, flushing. She wondered if the word "hair"....
Her interlocutor turned, and went into an inner room, replacing the letter as she did so, and folding over the flap, so that it would seem as though she knew nothing of the contents. Sally quickly saw the kind of person she was—an interfering creature, with "Miss Pry" written all over her. She was tall and thin, and had gooseberry eyes and a small nose and a large sycophantic mouth. Sally had a picture of her all the time she was away—grey-blue dress and all. She didn't like her. She hated her. She knew that they would never get on together. Miss Nosey! "Yes, meddam; no, meddam ... yes, Iquite...." Sally tried to pronounce quite "quaite," as she had done. After all, she was only a sort of maid—somebody to take the names of callers. She'd got no right to be saucy. Old six-foot. Old match-legs. She'd got a nose in everybody'sbusiness. Mind she didn't get it pulled!... But what a lovely room! Must have cost pounds and pounds! All grey-blue—even to the little ornaments on the mantelpiece, all except the black tiger. Fancy working in a place like this! Different to Miss Jubb's! Sally gave a sort of internal giggle, a noiseless affair that was almost just a wriggle of delight. Miss Jubb! Did you ever see anything like the dress she made for Mrs. Miller, of 17 Tavistock! Chronic, it was! Like a concertina! And poor old Annie Jubb getting flurried when the material frayed in the scissors! Cooh! Call her a dressmaker! More like a figure of fun!
"Come in, please," said Nosey, jerking her nose. And Sally started once again from reverie, to follow the tall young woman from the grey-blue room into another one which was all in a warm colour between orange and biscuit. She swallowed quickly, and heard a little runnel of moisture in her dry throat. There was a throbbing behind her eyes. She became very small and clumsy, and kept her head lowered, and her hands clasped.
When a voice bade her sit down, Sally stole a quick glance at Madame Gala. At once she lowered her eyes again, because they had met unexpectedly a pair of eyes more disconcerting than any she had known since her schooldays. Madame Gala did not employ a score of hands for nothing! She had looked at Sally the moment Sally came into the room, and did not cease to look at her. And she had very cold grey eyes, and was very cold (really very deficient in stamina) herself. She was terribly thin, and chilling, and capable. She was dressed in grey; but you could not see the dress except at the bottom of the skirt and the middle of the sleeves, because she wore a large pinafore-overall, of a lighter grey and a softer material. She had no pins in her mouth, and there were no pictures of costumes or sheets of paper patternsto be seen. But the room, all the same, was a workroom, and there was a beautiful large table in it which could have served for cutting out a costume for a giantess.
"You're Miss Minto. How old are you? Hn, small for your age. Mother and father? When did your—oh, you're in mourning for him. How did he die? What sort of accident? Hn.... What experience have you had? MissWhat?Oh, yes ... two years. Have you left? I see. Well, Mrs. Barrow's an old friend of mine, and I'd like to oblige her. Also, I want more help. My business is increasing. If you can start in a fortnight I'll pay you six—no, I'll pay you seven shillings a week. You get here at nine in the morning. You'll do as you're told, and behave yourself. You'll work under a very clever lady, Miss Summers, in that room. I'll show you. Come in here...."
Sally, shaking with jubilation, followed her into a very large room adjoining, where a number of girls were (apparently) frantically busy—far too busy to be conscious that their employer had entered the room. Sally did not believe that they were always so intent upon their work. She knew too much. To herself she said "Swank!" It was a beautifully light place, all decorated in a pale grey; and there was a long deep bench all round the room. It was lighted by windows and a skylight, and it was plain that a considerable amount of work was in progress. Sally gave a dazed glance round, and looked again, saying, "Yes, ma'am; Yes, ma'am," to everything Madame Gala said; and a few minutes later was out in the street again, engaged at seven shillings a week, and not knowing whether she was alive or dead, awake or dreaming. The day was still before her; she had nearly ten shillings hidden in her bodice; and she was a queen amid all the surging traffic of the West End—her West End—the place of her dreams, her pilgrimage, her triumph. Sally's eyeswere filmed with tears. She walked away from the building passionately fighting with sobs that rose from deep within her. The tears trickled down her white cheeks. And all at once she was laughing again, chuckling and chuckling as if this was the most splendid joke in the world. And then, when the laughter was done, she was once again Sally, deliberate, cool and unflinching. This was what she had determined. There were other steps to follow. She must not be too sure; she must go carefully. But all the same she would win. She was Sally. She was going to get on. She was going to be cautious. She was going to be secure. That was her touchstone—security. Without it, she would never know peace. At all costs, security. That meant keeping cool. That meant watching your step. And in the end it meant making money, and having enough to eat, and nice clothes, and pleasures, and all that she had never yet had. Into the eyes that had been brimming with tears, and, immediately after, with glee, there came once again a hardness, a determination. It was the expression of a wary animal, treading among dangers.
By an instinct, Sally turned west, so that she presently found herself in a confusing number of small streets; but when she had extricated herself and had mastered the geography of that part of London she was rewarded by coming out into Park Lane, with the fine breadth of Hyde Park open to her eyes and her impulse towards exploration. She pretended that she knew the Park; but in fact to her older eyes and in its weekday freedom from crowds it looked so different that she could not link it with ancient memories. Thus, for a time, its paths and its greenness and its air of great space gave her unqualifiedpleasure. She wandered on, observing the fallen leaves, and the few pedestrians; and looked up at the blue sky, and marvelled to herself; and then presently she sat down upon one of the public seats and tried to get some coherence into her thoughts. She sat there for some time, her shabby little toes cocked up on the gravel before her, and she began to feel lonely and tired and restless, as though something further had still to be done. There was the whole day before her. She could not stay here, because although the day was clear and fine there was a chill wind, and she was not warmly clad. Already her hands were feeling numb in the cotton gloves, and her feet were losing the pleasant tired tingle they had had a short time before. The sense of innumerable hours which had to be filled was strong upon Sally, who had never previously had so much time to herself, alone. So she rose briskly from her seat, walked along the broad pathway, and came back to the Marble Arch, where Oxford Street began again. This time she was bent upon looking at the shops, and browsed for a time at the windows of Lewis's, at the end of Orchard Street. And then she had her inspiration. A clock told her it was after half-past eleven. May's words came into her mind: "She might think you was takin' a day off to go to the Zoo."
"Here, where's the Zoo," she suddenly, without a tremor, asked a policeman.
"They got plenty white mice," the policeman said. "No good you a-goin' there."
"Saucy!" rebuked Sally. "Suppose they let you out ... on a chain."
"Quite right," said the policeman. "Didn't want to let me go. Everybody loved little Sammy. But the Police Force wanted me."
"Fancy wantingyou!" remarked Sally, witheringly, staring at his good-tempered face, and, under his helmet,at a pair of bright blue eyes. He was a "red" man. "Give 'em a bit of ginger, I suppose."
"As you go by the Marrabon Road, you just cross over and go into Madame Tussaud's. You'll see a lot of old friends and relations there. Charlie Peace, and Mother Dyer...."
"Who's she?" Sally demanded. "Mother Dyer. Never heard of her."
"Mother Dyer? Baby-farmer. Her you used to call 'Nursie.' Go straight along here, and when you've looked at Madame Tussaud's, keep down the Marrabon Road till you come to the Park. See? Regent's Park, that is. And walk along the nice broad road, and you'll find the Zoo on your left. Good morning, my dear.... Don't let 'em keep you, will you?... Cahm alahng, 'ere; cahm alahng, 'ere." He broke off to attend to the traffic, which he addressed in a very different way from that in which he had spoken to Sally; and she, rather cheered by the exchange of badinage, set off towards Baker Street and the Marylebone Road with a new interest in hand. Madame Tussaud's and the Zoo in one day! What a day it would have been by the time she reached the end of it. What a tale she would be able to tell May in the evening!
Apart from the two visits which she made, to the wax-works and the menagerie, both of which took so long that she did not get home until six o'clock, Sally had no other adventure. She had lunch in the Zoo, and arrived back in Holloway with less than five shillings remaining from her windfall. But it had been a day, and it still held marvellous possibilities of an encounter with Toby. Her first thought on reaching home was of him. That was why she was so deaf to her mother's complaining. She did not hear it. And she did not tell her mother of the day's outing. There would be time for that later. If she told her now there would only be trouble, and Sallywas tired of trouble. When she had explained to Miss Jubb, and had left Miss Jubb on Saturday week, she would airily say to her mother: "I got a job in the West End, now." See ma jump! Sally was conscious for the first time of a slightly sinking heart. Suppose she didn't suit Madame Gala? Suppose she lost her new job after a week or two? Oh, rubbish.... Rot! Time enough for the gripes when she got the sack!
She could hear no sound at all from the room above. Was Toby not home yet? He used to get home about ten minutes past six, as a rule. It was now a quarter-past. If she did not hear him she would go and meet May, and then call in to tell Mrs. Perce all about the news, and then come home after her mother had gone to bed. She had her tea, turning up her nose at it, and all the time wishing for something better. For some time after the meal she stood about reflecting upon her day and upon the possibilities of the future. Consideringly, she at last said in a matter-of-fact tone:
"One day we'll have jam for tea, ma. And kippers. And fried sausages. And steak and chips."
"Good gracious!" cried Mrs. Minto. "Whatever's put such ideas into your head!"
"And we'll have real coal, and thick blankets, and a new mattress, and new curtains, and a brass fender. And everything in the room'll be a beautiful gray-blue. And you'll sit here, doing nothing."
"I'm sure I shan't," exclaimed Mrs. Minto, fingering her mouth to hide a nervous smile of pleasure.
"Doing nothing. And Elbert, the footman, will come in with the tea and take it away again; and you'll say, Elbert'—mustn't say 'Elbert dear'—you'll say, 'Elbert, just bring me my glass of hot water at ten o'clock.' And he'll say, 'Yes, me lady.' No, he won't. He'll say, 'Yes, meddam... quite.... Yes, meddam.' That's what he'll say. Lick your shoes, he will, because you're rich."
"Rich!" sighed Mrs. Minto. "Who's to make me rich?"
"I'm going to make us all rich," explained Sally. "You mark my words and wait and see."
"I wouldn't mind not being rich," Mrs. Minto said, "if it wasn't that my poor 'ed...."
"O-oh!" cried Sally, in wrath. Her mood was crushed by this inexorable return to the subject she had been chattering to avert. "Give your old head a rest, ma. Here, come out for a walk with me."
"You're not to go out, Sally. Mrs. Roberson says...."
"Thatfor Mrs. Roberson," said Sally, already on her feet. "You don't suppose I'm going to stick in here and get frozen stiff. There's nothing to do indoors. I got no sewing. Only makes me fret if I stay at home. I'm going to see Mrs. Perce...."
She moved hastily to the door, and closed it quietly after her, for she had heard below her the shutting of the front door, and she thought it might be Toby at last. It was nearly a quarter to seven. Her guess had been right. It was he. Seeming not to have heard him, she ran lightly down the stairs as he heavily mounted them. Her heart was thumping so that she felt quite sick and faint. She could no longer run, but could only totter down towards the inevitable confrontation. It was there, and it was past—a plain, boorish "Evening." She managed the rest of the flight at a run; but when she was out of doors Sally turned to the darkness and could no longer restrain her tears of anguish. This was the end of her day. Laugh in the morning, cry before night. That was the truest proverb that ever was made. She was heartbroken.
There was no question of seeing May or calling upon Mrs. Perce. Sally was beaten. She was full of expostulations and arguments, but all were addressed to Toby, and she could not have borne any other society. So she wandered about the streets for an hour, miserably aware that once or twice she was followed by an aimless strolling youth who did not know how to occupy a lonely evening and who yet was too much of a coward to address her. In her mind she went over every detail of her friendship with Toby. It had become suddenly unreal, like a thing that had happened years before. And yet the throb of pain belonging to her sense of his cruelty was immediate. Every detail was clear to her; and the whole was blurred. He was a stranger; and yet his presence would at once have given life to her memories. They had been written, as it were, in invisible ink, which needed only the warmth of a fire to produce their message vividly once again. Sally sobbed from time to time; but she was no longer crying. Her pain was too deep to be relieved by tears, which with her were the result of weakness, since she was not naturally liquid. And as the memory was exhausted in its evocation she began to think as of old. Her quick brain was recovering its sway. She was no longer an overwrought child. And yet when she strove to plan a discomfiture for Toby, who had so wickedly hurt her, she shrank from that also; so it was still a restless and undetermined Sally who returned home to find her mother dozing by the feeble warmth of a dying fire.
The next day passed in a variety of moods, and in the evening Sally found in herself the determination to call upon Mrs. Perce. She had explained her non-arrival of the previous night to May, and had removed her grievance with a recital of all she had done during the stolen day.She had endured Miss Jubb's sour scrutiny of her hair, which was accomplished without comment. And she had almost, but not quite, told Miss Jubb of her proposed change. At times her courage was very nearly high enough, but it never reached the necessary point, or the opportunity was ruined at the vital moment by some interruption. So Miss Jubb worked innocently, not guessing the blow that was to fall. That it would be a serious blow only Sally suspected. Miss Jubb had never even supposed it possible that Sally would leave her. The three of them spent the day in the little workroom, which managed by the end of the afternoon to be the coldest and the closest room in the neighbourhood, perhaps owing to Miss Jubb's use of a defective stove for heating, and her own radical immunity from chilblains.
After tea Sally went straight to Hornsey Road. In thinking of Toby as she left the house she made a light gesture with her fingers to show that he no longer existed. If she had met him she would have attempted no greeting, for such was her present temper. At the Barrows' she was received with acclamation. Old Perce, who had enjoyed a good deal of four-ale during the day, and had a jugful of it now at his elbow, collapsed at sight of her. He bayed a little, but with an expression of admiring wonder that gave Sally her best tribute. Mrs. Perce, the expert, nodded. She had received a letter in the morning from Madame Gala. So to her all the news was known. All the same, Sally spent a happy couple of hours in the flat, and collected her outdoor clothes with unwillingness. Each time she had been to see Mrs. Perce she had felt more strongly than of old the contrast between her always-cheerless home and their warm, prosperity-laden atmosphere. The recognition acted powerfully upon her. It was the creation in her mind of a standard of physical comfort, as the visit to Madame Gala had created a standardof decorative colour. She was frowning at the new perception as she left the house, and was half-absorbed in her consciousness of it.
The feeling did not prevent her, at first with a sharp tingling of surprise, and then, as she grasped the significance of the fact, a start of emotional disorder, from seeing a familiar figure in the light of the Supply Stores. Her heart jumped, and began to flurry in her breast. The figure she saw was that of Toby. He stood a little to the side of the Stores, watching the doorway from which Sally came. As she flinched, he came across the road. Sally pretended not to notice him, and knew that he was following her. But Toby made no attempt to speak to her while they were in the light of the shops. She saw that he had his cap pulled very low down over his eyes, and that his hands were not in his pockets, but hanging loose. He was dressed in a rough dark tweed suit, and looked like a fighter, but not a professional boxer. His carriage was clumsy, but light. His dark face was marked by a sort of determination—not bravado, not impudence, but a solid resoluteness. His eyes she had never properly seen. His mouth was large, but the lips were thin; the nose was coarse, but not big. He was ugly, but he was very obviously strong. He was not tall, but was very sturdily built, and gave the air of considerable strength. As he followed her she could hardly keep from looking back; it was only with a great effort that she kept her eyes forward, and as she turned into Grove Road she increased her pace. Sally knew quite well what he would do. He would wait until she had passed the block of shops and had come to the comparative darkness of the houses beyond. Then he would walk abreast and speak to her. And while she tried to think what to do her heart was strangling her. She was so excited that her breathwas coming almost in sobs. She was excited, but she did not therefore feel at his mercy.
It happened as Sally had foreseen. As soon as she was past the shops she heard his urgent voice at her elbow—"Sally!" For a moment she ignored it. Then she turned, very coldly, and with a slight sneer looked at him. They were side by side now. He was keeping step with her as easily as he could have kept step with a child. "Sally," he repeated. Sally stopped dead.
"What are you following me for?" she asked, viciously. "Why can't you leave me alone? Following me like that! I never heard of such a thing."
"I been waiting outside for you all the time. I've had no grub. I followed you from the house. I saw you start out just as I was getting home."
"Well, what of it? I didn't ask you to follow me, did I?" demanded Sally. But in the darkness of the street her eyes softened. Her heart swelled at the thought that he had waited for her in the Hornsey Road for fully two hours. Toby took her defiance as a matter of course. He was still standing doggedly before her, and as she began once again to walk rapidly in the direction of home he followed her, half a step behind. At the darkest part of the road he put out a hand to check her progress. Sally snatched away her arm, but he had been prepared for that, and caught her immediately. He held her, panting, as she pressed against a big stone gate-post.
"Let me be!" cried Sally, hoarsely and breathlessly. "Let me be." She did not scream. She was too impressed by his exhibition of strength. He continued to hold her, and they stood breast to breast, Sally panting, and Toby with a kind of stolid determination.
"Will you come for a walk quietly?" he asked, jerking his head.
"No," said Sally, "I won't." There was no mercy, no humility. Only a hard defiance.
"Yes, you will." He pulled her towards him, so that Sally could not escape. She was now wholly within the circle of his arm, not struggling, but with her poor thin arms staving him off. Her body was tense. But she made no sound, and if there were any passers they knew that this was only a typical lovers' tiff, common to the neighbourhood, and largely a matter of physical strength and feminine vituperation. "Yes, you will. See? Come on, Sally."
"You let me go," she demanded.
"Say you'll come. I'll let you go the moment you say that."
Sally hesitated, then bowed her head in a slow acquiescence. He released her, and she ran; but he easily overtook her, and she was once again held, still with her back to a pillar. Both were now breathing hard. Sally's head was lowered. She was suffocating. She seemed to be in complete darkness. And she had no sense of what was happening. The mere technique of the row absorbed her. They were almost like two quarrelling cats, both sullen, both glowering and full of resentment rather than burning anger.
"Will you come?" asked Toby. "Just for a walk. Half an hour."
"What d'you want me to come for?"
"Want to talk to you."
"Yes, well, I don't want to talk to you. Understand?" Sally was suddenly trembling with a passionate rage. Her voice quivered as she spoke, and the words tumbled out in a savage incoherence.
"I'm going to talk to you. So you may as well make up your mind to come. You don't want to stand here all night, do you?" He was as savage as she, and moregrim. Sally made an attempt to escape, and was further pinned. He was breaking down the defence of her tired arms. One of his knees was against her leg. She was slipping, slipping, and her resolve to fight against him was fading as rapidly in her sense of the physical contact. She burst into tears. For an instant he loosed her, at that, but as she sobbingly began to run away he resumed his former hold, pressing her against him, a broken little girl, and no longer the triumphant Sally of the morning. Her hand was to her eyes, and she was biting her lip to restrain her sobs. Toby put his free hand up and touched hers, held it, drew it away from her wet face.
"Sally," he said. "I want you. Don't cry, Sally."
His arm tightened. His face was close. Although she turned away her head, and tried to wrench herself free, Sally knew his lips were relentlessly following her own. She was conscious of all the joy of surrender, incapable of moving from those strong arms, incapable of avoiding his kiss. Her eyes closed, her heart rose; she was limp in his embrace, not as yet returning his caresses, but accepting them with a feeling of miserable thankfulness. Her hat was tilted back, and she felt his cheek against hers, his body against her own. How long they stood she did not know; but at last she put her hands up, put them round his neck, and feverishly kissed him, welcoming this joy that was half pain.
"D'you love me?" she asked breathlessly.
They were alone in the dark street, in the invisible world; and she had never been so happy. So at last Toby had his way, and they walked about the streets for an hour, until it was long past the time when Sally should have been in bed. Only then did they part, and Sally was half-undressed when she heard Toby passing upon his way upstairs. Her cheeks were burning, hereyes shining, her heart exultant. Sometimes, as she lay wakeful during the long night, she was so happy that she could hardly breathe. But a moment came when happiness seemed overwhelmed in a poignance of emotion that resembled rather a terrible apprehensiveness, and it was then that Sally felt the tears trickling from her eyes. It was only the reaction from excessive joy; but she was deeply affected. She longed again for Toby's arms to be round her, pressing her face into the pillow to comfort herself with the pretence that he was still there. Exhausted, she slept.
All the next day she could not work for preoccupation with her happiness. She was mad with it, and reckless in her madness. It even, when rebuke came from Miss Jubb, gave her courage to mention Madame Gala. And that was a further cause for delight, since Miss Jubb's mouth dropped open at the news and she could hardly speak to her two girls for the rest of the afternoon. Sally, chuckling to herself, and every now and then grimacing at May Pearcey, abandoned herself to anticipations of the evening. She would see her dear Toby, would show how much she loved him, would feel herself loved, would hear and say all the little secrets they had never spoken until now. She would know at last what it was to be in love, and with the man who loved her. How wonderful it was! What joy! What fun! Sally could not conceal her grin of happiness. Her white face was as if it had become plump, so immediately did happiness transfigure her. And she looked at silly old Miss Jubb, and soppy May, and thought how they had no lovers. May had her boys—she could keep them. Sally had Toby. Toby was not a boy: he was a man. He shaved; she had felt the roughness of his chin. May'sboys looked as if they had smooth faces, or if they shaved it made their skins powdery. Miss Jubb had never had a boy at all, she shouldn't think. You couldn't fancy Miss Jubb as a young girl. She must be quite old—as old as Sally's mother—perhaps forty. But ma had been unlucky to strike dad. He had never been any good. Not like Toby. Toby was getting almost a pound a week already, he said; and when he was older he would have lots of money, and never be out of a job, because he worked with his hands, with engines, and a man who understood engines would never want for work. He was twenty, and he kept himself. He just took his meals with his aunt, and lived in his own room the rest of the time. How she would like to see his room. She longed for them both to get older. But she wanted to get on herself, first. She thought: if Toby's out all day, and we just have a little home, I shall be able.... She thought she might be a dressmaker herself, and employ twenty hands, and have a waiting-room that was all grey-blue. She had told Toby about Madame Gala, and how he could come to fetch her Saturdays, and they'd have the afternoons together. Sally was brimming with plans.
In the middle of them there came a knock at Miss Jubb's door. Miss Jubb went, thinking it might be a customer. But she came back again in a minute, with a face even longer than it had been since she heard Sally's news. She could hardly speak, but stood against the dingy door, which she held closed, and swallowed quickly before she could say a word.
"Sally dear, there's a man here from the hospital. Get on your hat and coat, there's a good girl. He says your mother's been taken there. She turned dizzy just now when she was crossing the road, and was knocked down by a van, and run over. She's asking for you,Sally. You're to go. It's not serious, he says. So don't worry about it. You're just to go and see her."
Mother? Ma knocked down by a van! Sally was on her feet in an instant. As Miss Jubb went out again to glean further details from the man, Sally struggled into her hat and coat. She turned with a callousness which showed that she did not in the least realise what might have happened, and addressed the startled and gaping May.
"We may not be princesses," she said with a sort of wild gaiety; "but we do see life!"
After she had seen her mother in the hospital Sally was again aware of that sinking feeling of having time to fill—a feeling of emptiness of immediate plan,—which she had felt in Hyde Park on the Monday. At seven she was to see Toby outside the house. It was not yet five. What was she to do? Not go back to Miss Jubb's, that was certain! Her mother had been lying in a cot in a big ward, and her arm was bandaged, and she said both her legs felt as though they had red-hot nails in them; but she was conscious, and they had told her she would soon be about again. Sally was to see Mrs. Roberson and tell her the news, and to go to two other places to let them know that Mrs. Minto would not be able to come for a time. And she was to be a good girl, and not worry, but to take the three shillings and ninepence which was in Mrs. Minto's purse, and look after herself, and explain to the landlady what had happened.... She had a host of things to do, and she paid her three calls within ten minutes. So far the question of money had not troubled her. She did not think that three shillings and ninepence was very little to live on for perhaps amonth. Her emotions at the moment were so blithe that all she perceived in herself was a sense of liberty. Ma would not be worrying her every minute she was indoors to do this or that, and not to do the other. Ma would not be talking all the time about her head. Ma would not be watching her, asking what she was doing, playing the policeman, grumble, grumble, grumble. It was a fine liberation for Sally. That was the way in which she saw it.
Her first shock was when she arrived home and found her own breakfast dishes still strewn about the table as she had left them, the fire unlighted and the old ashes still lying in the grate and upon the hearth, the bed unmade. She was sobered. She first of all found the oil, filled the lamp, and set a match to it. Then she swept the hearth and carefully made a small fire. The coal-blocks took a long time to catch, as they always did, and they quickly burned dull. Upon them she set a kettle, washed the dishes in cold water, and laid the table for tea. The kettle took a century to boil, and she knelt close to the fire, warming herself and waiting for the first spiral of steam. Everything now made her feel splendid. She invented a game that she was married to Toby, and that she was expecting him home; so that for this evening all her work was thoroughly done. Even the bed was made with care. And when she had finished tea she cleared away, and spread a little old red cloth upon the table, and once more snuggled close to the puny fire. As she did so all her thoughts were for Toby. Already she began to listen for him, although it was long before his time. Thought of her mother's accident did not disturb her at all. Thought of the future was abandoned. Only the sweet delight of being with Toby again was her incessant reverie.
At last she heard him, and started to her feet. Her impulsewas to run to the door and whisper to him at once; but on the way thither she checked herself. Some scruple of prudence, lest he should think her too eager for him, made Sally allow the steps to pass on up the stairs. But for all that she watched the clock, and listened almost passionately for any sound from above. The fire died. She put on her coat and hat, standing near the fireplace to catch the last waves of heat, with her foot upon the fender and her eyes fixed upon the purplish glow, so rapidly fading to mauve and to grey. She was tense with expectancy. She had no consciousness of anything but her strained hearing. Tick-tick-tick. The clock raced on, but the hands all the time appeared to remain still, by so much did her eager heart outstrip them.
Then there was a thud upstairs, as of a door closed; and quick steps sounded in Toby's room. He stayed there a few minutes, his feet moving a little, and Sally guessed that he was washing himself. Then, noisily, he came down the stairs and left the house. He was barely past the door when Sally blew out the lamp; but she stood mutely in the darkness for more than a minute afterwards. Only when her own patience was gone did she obey her impulse and follow him, creeping down the stairs in the subdued brown light of the house. Out of doors all was black. She peered for Toby. He was there just under the lamp at a few yards distance, and she saw him move farther away at her approach. That action, and the sense of him, gave Sally the most extraordinary tremor of excitement and happiness, and her cheeks grew warm. She greeted him with the lightest touch of the arm, and felt in return his hand to her elbow. They walked without speech to the end of the road, and by common impulse to a dark turning where at this time of the evening they knew there would be no passers; andthere Toby caught her in his arms. There was no moon, and no sound in the street. They were entirely alone, and separated from the rest of mankind by an impassable wall of obsession. They stood pressed close to one another, kissing from time to time, and did not speak. They had at first nothing to say, but there was no shyness between them. They were absorbed in this physical contact. But after some time Sally told him her news, and made him tell her what he had done during the day, and felt a great proprietary interest in him all the while. They spoke in low tones, lovers and amorous lovers even in the middle of humdrum confidences. Toby was shocked about Mrs. Minto—far more shocked than Sally had been or could have been; but she airily reassured him in her first delicious abandonment to a sense of common life. She said "Oo, she's all right. Quite comfortable. More than if she was at home. And it's nicer for me, being alone. See, she grumbles at me—always at it—what Mrs. Roberson says, and about her head, and what I ought to do, and that. 'Tisn't that there's really anything to grumble at; only, you know, it's her nature. I never grumble. That's one thing about me. Doesn't matterwhathappens, I never ... you know ... keep on at it, like mother does. What's the good? Crying won't do any good, or grumbling either. I shall be happier while she's away—do what I like. Be on my own."