‘Roddy, what are you talking about?’
‘Nothing. A slight emotional conflict,—now resolved.’
He sat up suddenly, brushing some mood all in a minute from his mind and his eyes and his voice. He lit another cigarette and started paddling.
Supposing Roddy had been going to say: ‘Kiss me?’ ... Better not to think about it.
The stars were bright now: it must be dark enough for Martin’s fireworks. Things were happening next-door: Martin was preparing to celebrate in earnest. He had hung a row of fairy lanterns all along the eaves of the verandah, and the lights glowed rose, blue, green and white among the leaves of the vine. His shadowy figure was moving on the lawn, and another moved beside it: that was Tony Baring, Roddy explained, his friend and Martin’s, staying for the night. Julian was playing the piano; he was visible in profile against the window.
‘What a party, Roddy! And I the only lady. Please protect me.’
‘Oh yes, we all will. We’ll each protect you against all the others, so you’re fairly safe.’
A sudden light flared up in the garden.
‘Hey!’ said Martin’s voice. ‘Hi! Here everybody! My fireworks have started. Where the hell has Roddy got to? I wanted——’
‘Here we are!’ shouted Judith. ‘Hullo, Martin! Martin! We’re here, we’re watching. Hurrah for you, Martin!’
‘Oh good! Is that you, Judy? I’ve got some pretty hot stuff here. Watch!’
He spoke in the anxious excited voice of a small boy displaying the charms of his hobby to some indulgently attentive adult.
‘Oh, Martin, that’s splendid. Oooh, what a beauty! How I adore fireworks!’
It was essential that dear Martin should be made to feel his fireworks a success. They had behind them so eager a purpose of giving amusement to others that they deservedtremendous encouragement. You felt he had spent every penny of his pocket-money on them.
There was a shout of laughter and screams from Julian. He had left the piano and was joining the others on the lawn; and the Catherine wheel had broken loose and was after him, snapping and leaping at his heels.
A shower of golden sparks went up in a fountain and poured down over the tulips and wall-flowers. Another followed; but this time the shower was rainbow-coloured. The deep talk and laughter of Martin, Julian and Tony was a strange not quite human chorus in the moonless dark.
‘Oh, Roddy, isn’t it exciting?’
‘It is indeed.’
The fireworks became more and more splendid. Long crystal-white cascades broke and streamed down to the grass. Things went off in the air with a soft delicious explosion and blossomed in great blazing coloured drops that lingered downwards like a drift of slow petals.
‘Oh, Roddy, if only——! They’re so brief. I wish they were never quenched but went on falling and falling, so lovely for ever. Would you be content to burst into life and be a ten seconds’ marvel and then vanish?’
But Roddy only smiled. On his face was the mask behind which he guarded his personal pleasures and savoured them in secret.
Suddenly the willow-trees were revealed cloudily in a crude red light,—then an aching green one,—then one like the concentrated essence of a hundred moonlights. The three men on the lawn were outlined in its glare, motionless, with their heads up. She heard Martin cursing. Something was a complete failure: it spat twice, threw a thin spark or so and went out. Then the big rocket took wings with a swift warning hiss, left in its wake a thick firefly trail and broke at a great height with a velvety choke of fulfilment and relief, bloomed rapidly in perfect symmetry, a huge inverted gold lily,—then started dropping slowly, flower unfurling wide from the heart of coloured flower all the way down.
‘Roddy, look at that! Honestly, you feel anything so lovely must be made by enchantment and thrown into the air with no cause behind it except the—the stress of its own beauty. I can’t connect it with Bryant and May, can you?’
Then all was gone. There was a splash. A swan drifting near the canoe shook itself and swirled sharply, with puffed wings, into the shadows. Roddy picked a charred stick out of the water and held it up.
‘Signs and wonders!’ he said. ‘The swan had a revelation too. Here’s a remedy against fancy, Judy. Wouldn’t you like to keep it?’
‘Throw it away at once.’
He flipped it over his shoulder laughing.
The fireworks were over, and the three men were coming down towards the water’s edge.
Roddy whispered:
‘Shall we escape?’
‘Oh....’
It was too late.
‘Hullo! Hullo!’ called the cheerful voice of Martin. ‘Did you enjoy my fireworks?’
All at once there was much laughter and talk and greeting, and she was drawn out of their exquisite aloofness into the voluble every-day circle. Martin stretched an eager hand and out she stepped from the canoe among them all. Half-dazed, she saw shadows of men standing round, appearing and fading as in a dream, felt dream-like touches of men’s hands; heard unreal voices bidding good-evening to Judith; was conscious of dim confusion of movement towards the house. Did her own face rise so wanly against the darkness, deep-shadowed under the features, a firm-cut austere mask? Beneath the masks the hidden eyes held now and then a straying gleam from the fairy-lanterns. It was all so nearly a sleeper’s dream that to speak audibly seemed a vast effort.
Roddy strolled up from the river’s edge, having made fast the boat. He came close and stood behind her shoulder, just touching it; and at once the dream broke and every pulse was alert.
They went into the house for supper.
Tomato-sandwiches and cake, fruit-salad and bananas and cream, lemonade and cider-cup loaded the table. Martin had prepared the whole thing himself with a passion of judicious greed.
Tony Baring sat opposite and stared with liquid expressive blue eyes. He had a sensitive face, changing all the time, a wide mouth with beautiful sensuous lips, thick black hair and a broad white forehead with the eyebrows meeting above the nose, strongly marked and mobile. When he spoke he moved them, singly or together. His voice was soft and precious, and he had a slight lisp. He looked like a young poet. Suddenly she noticed his hands,—thin unmasculine hands,—queer hands—making nervous appealing ineffectual gestures that contradicted the nobility of his head. She heard him call Roddy ‘my dear’; and once ‘darling’; and had a passing shock.
There was a submerged excitement in the room. Mariella’s absence had noticeable effect: there was a lightness of wit, an ebullience of talk and laughter; gay quick voices answering each other.
The polished table was blotted over with pools of red candleshade, and pale pools from the white tulips picked in honour of the guest. The great mirror opposite reflected the table with all its muted colours; reflected too the back of Tony’s broad head and a bit of Roddy in curious profile, and her own face, lustrous-eyed, dark-lipped, long of neck and mysterious. When she looked at it she thought it was transfigured; and she knew who made the electric feeling.
It was time to go home.
But Roddy got up and started the gramophone; then caught her by the hand and led her out on the verandah.
‘One dance,’ he said.
‘And then I must go.’
‘You dance better than ever to-night.’
‘It’s because I’m so enjoying myself.’
He laughed and tightened his arm round her.
‘Judy——’
‘Yes? Oh, Roddy, I do love it when you say “Judy.” Nobody else says it like you.’
He bent his face to look into her lifted one with a soft hidden smile.
‘What were you going to say?’ she asked.
‘I forget. When you look at me with your enormous eyes I forget everything I mean to say.’
The gramophone stopped abruptly, with a hideous snarl; and the form of Julian darted forth like a serpent upon them.
‘You’ve waked the boy with that damned noise,’ he said. ‘I knew you would.’
He was gone; and in the succeeding shock of quiet the wail of Peter floated down to them. Quick footsteps sounded in the room above; and suddenly there was silence.
‘Oh, Roddy, he was cross.’
‘Yes,’ said Roddy indifferently. ‘He’s fussier than twenty old Nannies. The brat’s nurse has gone to see her sister buried, so he’s looking after him.’
‘It’s funny how Julian seems to take charge of him, rather than Mariella.’
‘Oh, Julian’s always got to know best. I expect he told her she couldn’t be trusted with him. I believe they had words,—I don’t know. Anyway she went off to London this afternoon to a dog show or something, and left Julian triumphant.’ Roddy chuckled. ‘God, he’s a peculiar man.’
‘I never can believe that baby belongs to Mariella—and Charlie.’
But he gave her no response to that; although, as she spokethe name, with stars, lights, voices, music, his shadowed face, all that was lovely life around her, the pathos of that death struck her so wildly it seemed he must feel it too and draw closer to her.
How he watched her!
‘Roddy, what are you thinking about?’
She pleaded silently, suffocated with strange excitement: ‘Let us be frank. There’ll never be another night like this and soon we’ll be dead too. On such a night let us not miss one delight, let us speak the truth and not be afraid. Tell me you love me and I will tell you. You know it’s true to-night. Never mind to-morrow.’
But he shook his head slowly, smiling.
‘I never tell.’
She turned to go into the house.
‘Nor I. But I think one day I will,—tell somebody, one person, something—the truth, just once,—just to see how it feels.’
He followed her in silence into the house.
Martin and Tony were lying in arm-chairs, looking sleepy.
‘Poor things—longing to go to bed. It’s all right, I’m going now. I want to say good-night to Julian.’
On such a night Julian must not be left angry, alone. There must be no failure on her part at least.
‘He’s with Peter.’
‘In his old room?’
‘Yes.’
‘I know. I’ll be back in a minute.’
She ran up the stairs. Dimmed light streamed through a door ajar in front of her. It was the room where Julian and Charlie had slept years ago. Softly she pushed the door open.
Julian sat by the window with the child on his knees. He had thrown a shawl over his head and out of its folds the pale face peeped, owl-like and still. In his little night-suit he looked absurd and touching.
Julian raised a face so haggard and suffering that she paused, half-ashamed, uncertain what to say or do.
‘Come in, Judith,’ he said.
‘Only for a minute.... Won’t he sleep?’
‘No. I think he’s feverish. He got a fright, waking up alone. He’s very nervous.’
He bent over the child, rocking him, patting his shoulder.
‘I expect he’s just playing up. You ought to put him back in his cot.’
‘No. He’d cry. I couldn’tendureit if he cried any more. I’ll keep him till he’s asleep.’
Solemn in his shawl, Peter bent his too-brilliant gaze upon her as she stooped to touch his cheek. He never smiled for her; but then neither did he greet her as he greeted most people with a clear: “Go ‘way.” He accepted her with grave politeness.
‘Do you like holding him?’
‘Yes,’ he said simply.
He was holding the child to comfort himself.
‘He’s very nice,’ she said. ‘What a different sort of childhood he’ll have from yours, with the others always round you! He’s likely to be the eldest of the next generation by a good deal, isn’t he?’
‘I should say so,’ he said bitterly. ‘I don’t mind betting not one of us provides a little cousin for him. I don’t see us breeding somehow. Unless possibly Martin....’
Not Roddy. No....
‘Well, you mustn’t let him be lonely.’
‘That’s her affair.’
‘Is it? She seems to let you take charge. Julian, does she love him?’
He was silent for a moment before answering: ‘I think she does.’ He put his hand to his head and said suddenly, very low: ‘O God, it’s awful! You know I quarreled with him—Charlie—over that marriage. I never saw him after it—we were never reconciled. But after the child was born, she wrote and told me he had said in his lastletter to her that if anything happened to him he would like me to be the child’s guardian.... So I suppose he forgave me.’
‘Of course, of course, Julian,’ she said, half-weeping at the look of his bowed head.
Was this the canker that gnawed Julian,—interminable thought of Charlie dead like that, without a reconciling word?
‘I blame only myself,’ he said, still in the low voice. ‘Shehas been very good. Never a word of—anything. Always that sweet empty unresentful way,—like a child. Sometimes I think she never knew—or never understood, anyway. I think she can’t understand that sort of thing. It’s a sort of insensitiveness. She might hate me over Peter, but she doesn’t seem to. Why doesn’t she?’
The expression she had surprised on Mariella’s face came back to her, still undecipherable.
‘I almost wish she would,’ he went on. ‘I wish I was certain she was jealous or even critical of me. I haven’t the least idea where I am.’ He rubbed his eyes and forehead wearily. ‘It’s odd how her presence affects me. She gets on my nerves to a degree! Nothing but this sweet blank passivity.... You know I like people with spikes and facets, people who thrust back when I thrust, brilliant, quick glittering people. And I like people who are slow and deep and warm; and I think you’re one of that sort, Judy. But what is she? Sometimes I think she’s watching me intently but I don’t know where from, and it makes me irritable. She’s got quality, you know,—incredible physical and moral courage. I think that must have been what Charlie loved in her. But cold, cold and flat—to me.’
He sighed and shivered.
‘Oh, Julian, you’re very tired, aren’t you? There’s nothing to worry about. You’ve got things on your mind because you’re so tired. Does your head ache?’
‘Yes. No.... I’m in a bad mood, Judith. You’d better leave me.’ But he spoke gently and raised his faceto smile at her. It was then she saw that he had been crying.
‘I will leave you, Julian. I only came to say good-night. And to say I was sorry I made you angry. I wouldn’t have waked him for the world.’
‘It’s all right. I’m sorry I was angry. Don’t worry.’
‘Good-night, Julian.’
‘Good-night Judith.... You look so lovely——’
She thought: ‘I shall never see him like this again. I must remember....’
They looked at each other deeply, and when she turned silently away she had in imagination stooped and kissed his cheek.
As she opened the door, laughter and talk came suddenly to her from below,—a faint roar of male voices that struck her with strange alarm, and seemed to threaten her. She took a step back into the room again, listened and whispered:
‘Julian, who is that Tony?’
He shrugged.
‘I don’t know. He doesn’t talk to me. He writes verse I believe. He’s just bringing out a book. I gather from his conversation he isquitethe thing at Cambridge—in certain circles.’
‘Is Roddy very fond of him?’
‘Oh, Roddy!Fondof him! I don’t know.’
‘He seems to be very fond of Roddy.’
‘Yes, it looks like it.’ He glanced at her sharply.
She knew then she had dreaded that he would answer in that way, give her just such a look. She remembered that Tony had been suddenly hostile; his eyes stony and watchful, had fastened on her when she came in from the verandah with Roddy.
The voices came up to her again, like a reiterated warning. ‘Keep away. You are not wanted here. We are all friends, men content together. We want no female to trouble us.’
Better not to go down among them all, safer to stay herein the quiet with Julian. She lingered, looking back in doubt and loneliness; but this time he did not tell her to stay. The muffled shining of the lamp filled the room, flowed over his form, his forehead bowed, drowsy and meditative, one great shoulder curving forward to support the white bundle lying against it. His pose suggested the something in him which it was hard to name,—a kind of beauty and nobility a little twisted. Close beside his narrow bed stood Peter’s cot, and Peter’s two plush animals lay upon the pillow.
Softly she closed the door upon that strange pair. If Mariella had seen them, would her face have changed?
Downstairs again.
It would not be Roddy who would offer to take her home. She saw in one glance that he had finished with her for to-night: he leaned against the mantelpiece, and Tony, beside him, had an arm about his shoulders; and Tony’s eyes, coldly upon her, said he was not for her. Something licked sickeningly at her heart: it was necessary to be jealous of the young poet Tony; for he was jealous of her. To her good-night Roddy replied with chilling mock-formal politeness, bowing his head, laughing at her. Martin put her cloak about her shoulders with reverent hands, and they went out.
The night was dark. All the blossoming things of earth were hidden, and the fragrances abroad seemed shaken from the stars that flowered and clustered profusely in the arching bows of the sky. They were back at her garden-gate. Above it rose a faint broken shadow where, by day, lilac and laburnum poured over in a wild maze to the lane. But when they came to the cherry-tree they found it still glimmering faintly,—a cloud, a ghost.
Judith stretched up a hand and picked a scrap of cherry and held it out to Martin.
‘That’s the secret of it all, I do think. Cherry blossom grows from the seeds of enchantment. Keep it and wish and you’ll have your heart’s desire. Wish, Martin.’
He snatched it and her hand with it. They waited. Heheld the spray and clutched her hand, sighed and said nothing. Their forms were shadows just outlined against the luminous tree.
‘What were you going to say?’ she whispered.
‘I—don’t know.’
‘No wishes?’
‘Too many.’
He was lost,—caught away, spell-bound, lost.
‘What a night! Isn’t it, Martin?’
‘It’s the very devil.’
‘I don’t feel a bit like myself, do you? There’s some sort of queerness about,—magic. Or is it just being young, do you think?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Don’t let’s ever be old. Could you bear it?’
‘I shouldn’t like it.’
‘Well wish that. Wish never to be old.’
Silence.
‘No,’ he said at last. He held her hand still and bent his head, twisting his bit of cherry. His voice came huskily: ‘I’ve wished something else.’
Gently she drew her hand away. She must run away quickly from whatever was happening: no emotional conflict with Martin must thrust across and confuse the path where all was prepared for one alone.
‘Don’t go in,’ implored Martin. ‘Can’t we walk?’
‘Oh, I must—I must go in.’
‘Oh, Judith!’
‘I must, Martin. Thank you for bringing me home, I must fly now. It’s so late——’ she said in panic.
‘When shall I see you again?’
‘Soon—soon.’
He was speechless. She called a soft good-night and left him and the darkness swallowed him up.
As she went towards the solitary light burning for her in the hall she thought with a sudden fear that he had implored her for assurance just as she mutely implored Roddyevery time he left her; and she had answered—oh, not, surely not, as Roddy would have answered?
‘Oh, Roddy, come out of your dark maze and make me certain!’
She must warm herself with the remembrance of the first part of the evening, ignore the little chill of those few last minutes. What were his eyes telling her when he bade her good-night? Surely they were whispering: ‘Take no notice. We know what has passed between us, we know what must come. Though we must keep our secret before others, we do not deceive each other.’
Yes, that was it.
She started running; and wondered why; and ran as hard as she could.
As she opened the front door, she stopped, aghast. The telephone bell was screaming, screaming, screaming.
Telegram for Judith Earle. From Paris.
‘Father died this evening. Come to-morrow. Mother.’
As she hung up the receiver silence in a vast tide flowed in and drowned the house, his house, as if for ever.
He had been deep in the business of dying while she, his daughter—— No. She must not think that way; she must just think of him dead. What an extraordinary thing.... Last time she had seen him had he looked as if he were going to die? There came a doubtful indistinct picture of him—yes—going upstairs to bed, early, not later than ten o’clock. She had looked up the staircase and seen him near the top, mounting with a hand on the bannister: going to bed so early, looking—yes—a little feeble; the bowed back and slow yielding step, the slightly laborious stair-mounting of a man getting old—yes—a delicate elderly man, a little frightening, a little pathetic to see unexpectedly: for could youth then really depart? He had been young and he had come upon old age. Some day she too—she too ... yes, for a moment she had thought that. And now he was dead.
She crept to the library and switched on all thelights and stared at the portrait of a young man. That beautiful youth had lived, grown old and died. He had begotten a daughter who was looking at him and thinking these things. But the cold portraits of people held them bound for ever in unreality; they could not die: they had not lived.
She sank into a chair, burying her face in her hands, seeking for a memory that would make her know that he had lived and died.
She was very small and he, very kind and noble, was taking her to hear the child-genius play. Her excitement was too great to bear: she too would be a child-genius; and when the violin came it wrought on her so violently that she was sick where she sat. He had been deeply disappointed in her, his kindness and nobility turned to disgust.
At night, every night for a long time, with the night light burning, he had sat on her bed and sung softly to her. He sang ‘Uncle Tom Cobley.’
“All along out along down along lea....”
“All along out along down along lea....”
“All along out along down along lea....”
“All along out along down along lea....”
Oh, the haunting echo, the loneliness of that! Over and over he sang the names of the mysterious company of men, but so softly that the slipping syllables wove round her hazily and fled before she caught them.
Then he sang of a golden apple.
“Evoe, evoe, wonderful wayFor subduing—subduing the hearts of men....”
“Evoe, evoe, wonderful wayFor subduing—subduing the hearts of men....”
“Evoe, evoe, wonderful wayFor subduing—subduing the hearts of men....”
“Evoe, evoe, wonderful wayFor subduing—subduing the hearts of men....”
Evoe, evoe.... The sound started a pang, a question, a stir of rich sadness that went aching on, through the twice-sung whisper of the sibilants, right on after the fall, the lingering soft pause and fall of the last words.
At the end he sang “Good-night ladies.” When he had finished she said “Again”; and he sang it again and yet again, always more low, till finally it was nothing but a plaintive sigh. She lay listening with eyes shut, weeping with sorrow and delight.
“Good-night, ladies, we’re going to leave you now—”
“Good-night, ladies, we’re going to leave you now—”
“Good-night, ladies, we’re going to leave you now—”
“Good-night, ladies, we’re going to leave you now—”
That was so sad, so sad!
“Merrily we’ll roll along, roll along, roll along,Merrily we’ll roll along on the deep—blue—sea.”
“Merrily we’ll roll along, roll along, roll along,Merrily we’ll roll along on the deep—blue—sea.”
“Merrily we’ll roll along, roll along, roll along,Merrily we’ll roll along on the deep—blue—sea.”
“Merrily we’ll roll along, roll along, roll along,Merrily we’ll roll along on the deep—blue—sea.”
She saw a dim swaying far-stretching line of lovely ladies all in white, waving good-bye upon a dark sea-shore. The great ship faded away over the waves, bearing further and further the deep-throated chorus of singers. The long line swayed, reached vainly forward. Their white hands glimmered. She saw them fade, alas! fade, vanish out of sight.
Oh, he had known how to stir mystery in a child. He had turned sound inside out for her, making undreamed-of music,—and pictures besides, and light and colour. He had seemed to forget her for weeks at a time, but when he had remembered, what a more than compensating richness had come into life! She had planned to grow so beautiful and accomplished that he would be proud of her and want her with him always. They were to have travelled together, famous father and not unworthy daughter, and they were to have discussed very intellectual topics and she was to have looked after him when the steps, going upstairs, started, really started, to have that feebleness.... He was to have lived to be very old and go upstairs on her arm, cherished by her.
No more lessons in Greek: no more hearing him softly open his door to listen to her playing,—(though he never praised her, what praise that had been!) No more talk—now and then, when he remembered her, when his eyes dwelt on her with interest—of books and pictures and music and famous people he knew. No second proud visit to Cambridge with him, no seeing him sigh, smile, dream from an old don’s window over Trinity Great Court in the sun, after the lunch-party. The three elderly bachelors had smiled at her, embarrassed by her presence, doubtful as regards the attentions due to a young lady. They had been shy with her,courteous, careful and elegant of speech, a little dusty altogether, but gentle like their rooms, like the old gold light falling outside on ancient buildings. She had listened to them all savouring and playing with words, quoting Greek, saying “Do you remember?” He had seemed so distinguished, so brilliant, a man ripe and calm with knowledge. And afterwards he had shown her the colleges and the Backs and promised to come often to see her when she came up. He had talked of his youth and for a moment they had trembled on the verge of shared emotions: no more of that, no hope of future rich Cambridge occasions.
No more watching his intent and noble profile in the lamplight, stooped hour after hour over his writing, opposite the bust of Homer. Once or twice he had looked up and smiled at her as though vaguely content to have her with him. His desk was empty for ever. That was pathetic; it would bring tears if dwelt on; it made him so human.
Did it hurt to die?
Now in a flash she remembered the question:
‘Daddy, does it hurt to die?’
Years ago. Grandmamma had just died. When he came to say good-night to her in bed, she had asked him that.
He had remained silent and brooding. His silence filled her with terror: her heart beat and, red and panic-stricken, she stared at him. He was going to tell her something dreadful, he knew something so terrible about Grandmamma, about death and the way it hurt that he could not speak.... He was going to die....Shewas.... O God! O Jesus!
At last he had sighed and said:
‘No, no. It doesn’t hurt at all to die.’
She had flung herself weeping into his arms, and he had clasped her in silence; and from his quiet, pressing shoulder, comfort had poured in and in upon her.
It did not hurt at all to die, it was quite all right, he had said. He had just died.
She looked about her, at the brooding room. Nothing butloneliness, helplessness, appalling silence. She was cold too, shivering.
A little while ago she had been next door. Now the house would all be dark, shut to her. Supposing she were to run back to them with her tidings, surely they would help, advise, console: for they were her friends.
‘Roddy, Roddy, Daddy’s dead.’
He was standing with Tony’s arm around his shoulders, remote, indifferently smiling. He did not like grief, and Tony kept him from her. Her time was far away and long ago.
‘Julian, Daddy’s dead.’
He was bowed over the child; and he raised his head to listen, but made no answer. He had plenty of his own sorrows; and he feared she would wake the child.
But Martin might be told, Martin would listen and comfort with large and inarticulate tenderness. He would be standing under the cherry-tree, waiting, just as she had left him. She ran to the window.
There was nobody in the garden. A faint light was abroad,—it might be the small rising moon or the dawn—making the cherry-tree pale and clear. It seemed to float towards her, to swell and tower into the sky, a shining vision.
Then death, lovely death, lay at the heart of enchantment. It was the core of the mystery and beauty. To-morrow she would not know it, but to-night no knowledge was surer. And he whom they were to mourn was—in one minute she would know where he was,—one minute.
She leaned out of the window.
Now! Now!
But the cherry-tree was nothing but a small flowering cherry-tree. Before her straining eyes it had veiled itself and withheld the sign.
JUDITH, looking dazed, shut the door of the mistress’s room behind her, and after a quarter of an hour’s wandering, found her way back to her own room. She sat on a hard chair and said to herself: Independence at last. This is Life. Life at last is beginning; but rather because it seemed so much more like a painful death than because she believed it.
She surveyed the four walls in which her independence was to flower. They were papered in sage green with perpendicular garlands of white and yellow rosebuds. There was a desk, a kitchen chair, a cane table, a narrow iron bedstead behind a faded buff curtain; and a distinctive carpet. It was of a greenish-brown shade, striped round the edge with yellow and tomato-colour, and patterned over with black liquorice-like wriggles.
‘But I can’tlivein ugliness....’
A clamorous bell roused her from a state of apathetic despair; and she opened her door and crept along in the wake of the click of heels and the laughter of many voices.
This was Hall—huge, bare, full of echoes and hard light, whiteness and cold blue curtains ... blue and high like twilight above ice and snow when the full moon is rising.
‘I can always think of that and not mind if nobody talks to me....’
Down one wall, a row of black frocks and white aprons at attention; at the top of the room, High Table beginning to fill up: black garments, grey, close-brushed intellectual heads, serious thin faces looking down the room, one young one, drooping a little: piles of chestnut hair and a white Peter Pan collar. Crowds of dresses of all colours, shapes and sizes, all running about briskly, knowing where to go; a sea of faces bobbing and turning, chattering, bright-eyed,nodding and laughing to other faces, sure of themselves.
‘Margaret, come and sit here ... here ... here! Next to me! Sylvia, next to me.... Is there a place for Sylvia?...’
‘I am lost, lost, abandoned, alone, lost,’ thought Judith wildly and pounced for the nearest chair and clung to it. She was between two girls who stared at her, then looked away again. She bowed her head: the old terror of faces engulfed her.
There fell a silence. A voice like a bell went through the room, calling:Benedictus, benedicat. And then came a roar,—a scraping, an immense yelling that rose to the ceiling and there rolled, broke, swelled again without pause. Beneath its volumes she felt herself lost again; but nobody else appeared to have noticed it.
‘Can I pass you the salt?’ said her neighbour.
‘After you,’ said Judith earnestly.
‘Thanks.’
The conversation swirled on around her.
‘Who d’you think’s engaged? Three guesses.... Let’s look at the tombstone. Soup....... how classically simple ... just soup.... Take a hundred dirty dishcloths, soak them in hot water, add a few onions.... Dorothy’s bobbed her hair. It suits her. It doesn’t suit her.... My dear, whoisthat girl next to you?... I’ve done six hours every day this vac.... May you be forgiven.... Well anyway, four regularly.... I’m going toworkthis term, seven hours solid, no dances.... I’ve got to ... you should have heard the jawing I got from Miss Marsh because I only got a third in Part I.... Well I think that was jolly good: I shall think myself jolly lucky if I get the same.... Old Marsh has lost every human instinct.... D’you know Sibyl Jones has done ten hours every day for two months?... She’sboundto collapse.... Third years ought to be more sensible at their age.... Isay, Idobelieve Miss Ingram’s dyed her hair. I’msureit’s a different colour.... D’you suppose she’s inlove?... I knew a girl at Oxford who overworked most fearfully, and she woke up one morning and every hair on her head had come off and was lying on the pillow beside her, looking like a nasty practical joke. Rather a jar, wasn’t it? But she took to a wig, my dears, a flaxen waved wig and it was such an improvement that she left off her glasses and became quite flighty and took to powdering her nose as well, so it was a blessing in disguise; and then her Maths coach proposed to her and they got married, and all I wonder is whether he got a shock or whether she’d warned him, because I s’pose she takes it off at night and she’s as bald as an egg without it; but I suppose anyway baldness doesn’t matter in true love.... It’s a warning isn’t it?’
‘Pleasant idiocy,’ said Judith very quietly in the yell of laughter that followed. ‘Idiotic pleasantry.’
‘Did you speak?’ said the girl on her other side.
‘N—no.’
‘I suppose you’ve come up for a little visit? I wonder whose guest?...’
‘No, no. I’ve come up for good—I’ve just arrived. I came up a day late. I——’
‘You mean you’re a fresher?’
‘Yes.’
‘But you’re at the wrong table!’ said the girl, horrified. ‘There’s your table at the other end of the room. This is a second year table.’
‘Oh, dear! How awful! Does it matter? I couldn’t recognize anybody and nobody told me anything.... I don’t know a soul....’ She felt the shameful tears coming. Such a bad beginning....
‘Never mind,’ said the girl almost kindly. ‘It doesn’t matter for once. And you’ll soon get to know people. Isn’t there anyone here from your school?’
‘I’ve never been to school. This is the first time I’ve ever been away from home....’ Stupid weakening thing to say, inducing self-pity, bringing more tears.
‘Oh, really?’ said the girl, and added politely after a pause:
‘Do you know Cambridge?’
‘A bit. I came once with Da—my father. He simply adored it. He was always coming back. That’s why he wanted me to——’
‘Oh, really? How naice. I expect he’ll often be running up to see you then, won’t he?’
She turned her head away in silence. Never, never would he be running up to see her, to rescue her. Why had she mentioned him? He had vanished and left her stranded among creatures who dared to assume he was still alive....
Trips. Labs. Lectures. Dons. Vacs. Chaperons. The voices gabbled on. The forks clattered. The roof echoed.
‘Ugly and noisy,’ muttered Judith. ‘Ugly and noisy and crude and smelly....’ You could go on for ever.
There were eyes staring from everywhere, necks craning to look at her....
‘But I can abstract myself. I can ignore their rudeness....’
It was the moonlight filling the blue that made it so cold and pure. Above the icefields and the snow lay the cold translucent pastures of the air....
She studied the row of faces opposite her, and then more rows, and more, of faces. Nearly all plain, nearly all with a touch of beauty: here and there well-cut heads, broad white placid brows; young necks; white teeth set in pleasant smiles; innocent intelligent lovely eyes. Accepting, revealing faces they were, with no reserves in them, looking at each other, at things—not inward at themselves. But just a herd, when all was said: immature, untidy, all dull, and all alike, commonplace female creatures in the mass. But boring it was! If you could see Mariella’s clear thorough-bred face among them,—would that too get merged?
That was where she should be humbly sitting, among those quieter heads, right at the end. There was a lightthere, flashing about: the tail of her eye had already caught it several times. She looked more closely. It was somebody’s fair head, so fiercely alive that it seemed delicately to light the air around it: a vivacious emphatic head, turning and nodding; below it a white neck and shoulder, generously modelled, leaned across the table. Then the face came round suddenly, all curves, the wide mouth laughing, warm-coloured.... It made you think of warm fruit,—peaches and nectarines mellowed in the sun. It seemed to look at Judith with sudden eager attention and then to smile. The eyes were meeting her own, inquiring deeply.
‘Who’s that?’ said Judith excitedly, forgetful of her position.
‘Oh, one of the freshers. I don’t know her name.’
Her name, her very name would be sure to have the sun on it.
All at once Judith found courage to eat her pudding.
Another scraping of chairs, and they were all on their feet. Someone, highly flushed, flew to the door at the edge of the däis and wrenched it open, holding it back while the Mighty streamed slowly out. They were gone. The girl returned, even more highly flushed.
‘My dears!Doyou think they saw me giggling? Bunny, youwerea beast to make me giggle! Did I do it all right? I thought I’d never get it open in time. Miss Thompson lookedsosevere: but did you see what a sweet smile I got from Miss Ingram? Oh, what an experience! Hold me up someone.’
Willing hands supported her limp form. The roar broke out again, pouring out of Hall along the corridors.
Judith went back to her room and sat by the window. Outside, the dusk was chill and deep. The treetops were all round her window. It was like being in a nest, to sit here with all the highest boughs swirling round the pane. If only the corridors did not echo with high voices and strange feet, if only you could forget the carpet, if only you could turn round and see Martin—(not Roddy—he was too unreal amemory to bring consolation) it might be possible to be comforted.
The feet were less frequent now, the voices quieter. What were the mysterious animals doing? The vast building was full of them, streaming in and out of their burrows, busy with their strange separate affairs.
Night, dropping across the flat fields of Cambridgeshire had blotted out a dim west slashed with fire. The tree trunks threw up their branches in a stiff black net and caught a few stars.
Now shut your eyes and see the garden at home, the summer sun wildly rich on the lawn, hear the hot whirr and pause of the mowing machine; smell the mown grass mixed with the smell of roses and pinks and lavender; see the white butterflies dancing above the herbaceous border; see Mamma, going slowly up the steps with a basket of sweet peas, pause and draw up the striped Venetian blind; because now it is evening; the sun is behind the massed, toppling dark-green luxuriance of the unmoving chestnut trees, has drained its last ray out of the rooms and left them warm, throbbing and wan. Now it is night. Go down to the river: they are all there, waiting in the dark for you.... Now there is only Roddy, coming close, just touching your shoulder, his head bent to look into your lifted one. Listen and hear him say: “Darling” ... of course it had been in fun. But his rich voice goes on whispering and repeating it.... His eyes drown again and again with yours....
Then all at once a far train-whistle roused her, cutting across this immense strangeness with a suggestion of ordinary familiar things; and Judith, faint with homesickness, sent towards it the desire of all her being to fly in its wake back to the life she knew....
Impossible to stay in this room. She opened the door and wandered down the corridor. At the far end was a great chatter of voices through a half-open door. Peering in she saw a cloud of cigarette smoke and a room full of girls sprawling in chairs and on the floor.
‘Who’s captain of hockey? Jane, of course you’re going to play hockey? And lacrosse.... Jane, I must say it’s topping to see you again.... Jane, your year looks a dull lot.... Who’s the one who planted herself at our table?... Oh, d’you think so? She’s got such a haughty expression ... sort of superior.... Perhaps she’s shy....’ A clear voice, high and extraordinarily resonant cut in. ‘She’s the most beautiful person I ever saw. I adore her.... Have some toffee someone.’
Judith half-saw half-imagined the flash of a head under the lamp as she fled past. If that voice ... that voice had the sun in it?
She went on downstairs, looked for the fifth time in the box labelled E for letters addressed to herself, knew for the fifth time there could be none, and went on again, wandering among the ground-floor corridors; desired in sudden panic to get back to her room and found she had lost her way.
A girl came out of a door carrying a hot water can. She wore a pink flannel dressing-gown.
‘Could you tell me,’ asked Judith. ‘How to get to a corridor called C?’
The girl looked at her closely and then beamed behind her glasses.
‘Oh, Miss Earle! Of course! We were up together for Scholarship Exams. Come in.’
Judith, helplessly conscious that this unpleasant dream was becoming a definite nightmare, followed her.
‘Sit down,’ said the girl. ‘I’m so glad you came to find me. You remember my name—Mabel Fuller.’
O God! The creature thought she had been singled out for the purpose of soliciting friendship....
‘I am so very glad you came to see me. I dare say you feel very strange?’
‘A little. But I’m quite all right, thank you.’
‘One feels very lonely at first. Never mind. Do you know any one else? No, nor do I.’ Her eyes glinted. ‘We must stick together till we’ve got our bearings. It’s agreat thing to—I had a friend here once. She said the life was very jarring—such a whirl. We must try to make our little rooms as restful as possible. Do come to my room and work whenever you like. I always think it helps, don’t you, to have somebody else in the room concentrating.’
Earnestly her eyes beamed and glinted behind their glasses. Presumably she was kind and well-meaning, but her skin was greasy and pink was not her colour; and her lank hair smelt; and when she talked she spat. The colourless face had nothing of youth in it. Perhaps this was what really clever girls looked like.
‘I’ve spent to-day putting my room to rights,’ said Mabel, looking happily round her. ‘I do enjoy having a little corner of my own, my own things round me and.... To-morrow I must start work in earnest. How do you feel about your work? You’re bound to waste time at first unless you plan out your day methodically. You must come and work in here. I won’t disturb you. I’m a very hard worker myself. I shan’t mix much with the other students. She flushed. ‘I shan’t have time. And then of course there’s getting into Cambridge for lectures and.... Do you ride a bicycle? I find since I had pneumonia it tires me so.... We must go to lectures together at first—keep each other company....’
‘Are you reading English too?’ said Judith with sinking heart.
‘Oh yes.’ Mabel bit her finger nervously. ‘I didn’t manage to get a scholarship, you know. It was a disappointment. I was feeling very poorly and altogether.... I didn’t do myself justice, Miss Fisher said. She wrote such a nice letter and ... I was so set on coming here, it meant so much to me, I want to teach, you know—if my health permits.... I haven’t very good health ... so with what I’d managed to save and a little help from mymother ... she couldn’t afford it really but when she saw what it meant to me ... so I must do well ... I can’t disappoint her.... Are you preparing to earn your living?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Judith blankly.
‘You don’t look like it,’ said the other hurriedly with a furtive half-hostile glance at Judith’s clothes. ‘Most girls who come here have got to depend on their brains for a livelihood, so of course no one’s got a right to come here just to amuse themselves, have they? But I dare say you’re going to do very well. Miss Fisher told me this morning you’d done very good work for the scholarship. Oh yes. She quite praised you. I thought perhaps ... some of my notes and essays might be of use to you.... I take very full notes—my memory rather fails me sometimes and then.... I thought perhaps if we worked together we might—you know—help each other.... Another mind coming fresh to a subject.... We might....’
Her eyes betrayed her: brain-sucker, probing for new full-blooded life. Judith thanked her politely and rose to go.
‘Don’t hurry,’ said Mabel. ‘I’ll make you a cup of cocoa. I always think cocoa’s so nourishing.’
She busied herself with a saucepan over the fire and breathed stertorously through her nose. Her skin glistened unhealthily in the firelight. The room was very close, full of pink casement cloth, and china ornaments. She had not minded the carpet: she had decorated the room to suit it. On the mantelpiece stood many photographs of creatures stoutly whaleboned about the throat or heavily whiskered and collared according to sex; and alone on top of the book-case was set the incongruous lovely photograph of a girl with curly bobbed hair. The large eyes laughed at you mischievously: the face insisted on being looked at—a soft face, sensuous and wilful, with a wide bow of a mouth; the smile a trifle consciously sweet, but irresistible.
‘Oh, how pretty!’ said Judith delightedly.
‘My sister Freda,’ said Mabel. ‘Yes, she’s generally admired.’ She glanced suspiciously at Judith, as if to intercept the look of one saying incredulously: ‘Yoursister?’ But Judith only looked dreamy.
For which minded most: Mabel because Freda was so pretty, or Freda because Mabel was so repulsive? Or were they fond of each other, sharing confidences and joking about Freda’s lovers?... And was Freda vain and heartless or....
‘Here’s your cocoa,’ said Mabel. ‘Drink it hot.’
It was thick and syrupy, and Judith gave up after a few sips; but Mabel drank hers with obvious relish and ate doughnuts greedily out of a bag.
And did Mabel’s mother console her by saying she was proud to have a clever daughter at College?—because she couldn’t say, for instance, with any truth: ‘Your hair, Mabel, is of a much finer quality than Freda’s’—there was nothing of that sort to be said. Or did she pet Freda and neglect Mabel?...
‘I really must go now,’ said Judith. ‘Thank you very much. Good-night.’
‘Would you like to go for a walk with me on Sunday after church? We might go and hunt for pretty autumn leaves and berries. I always think they make a room look so bright....’
‘Thank you very much.’
College leaves, college berries, picked with Mabel....
Supposing you looked like Mabel, would you love beauty even more passionately, or be so jealous of it that you hated it?
Her eyes yearned at Judith. It was curious: they had in them a sort of avid glint—almost like the eyes of old men in railway-carriages.... And did Freda maliciously encourage her to wear pink flannel? And....
‘One thing more,’ she said. ‘I do hope you won’t allow yourself.... I mean we mustn’t allow ourselves to—to get into a foolish set. It’s so difficult to know at first.... There’s a set here, I’m told’—she paused, flushing unbecomingly to her forehead—‘there’s a set here thatthinks a great deal too much about—about going out, and dancing, and—men—all that sort of silliness.... There, I’m sure you don’t mind my telling you. You can always come to me for advice.... I’m told the Mistress judges so by the people we go about with....
‘Good night, Miss Earle,’ she finished earnestly. ‘There’s your way: up the stairs and turn to the right. I’ll look out for you at breakfast to-morrow.’
Black Mabel. Haunted days and nights stretched out. No hope. No escape. Three years of Mabel settling down like a nightmare-bat, blotting out the light. Nobody but Mabel was going to speak to you for three years.
She passed two maids, flaxen-haired, red-cheeked, thick-featured Cambridgeshire types. They were turning out the lights in the corridors; and they smiled broadly at her. Maids were always nice, anyway.
‘Good night,’ she said shyly.
‘Good night, Miss.’
At the corner of the corridor she heard one remark to the other: ‘There’s a sweet faice.’
A little comforted, she came to her own room, undressed and dropped a few tears.
If he could have known how very unlike his Cambridge this place was! Too late now.... There was not a spire, not a light of Cambridge to be seen, not a whisper to be heard. Almost she could believe something Childe Rolandish had happened to it and it was gone; so that even its unseen nearness was no comfort.
‘Come in,’ she said in startled response to a tap at her door. Someone stood there in a dressing-gown, with bright hair rolling over her shoulders.
‘Oh!’ cried Judith in uncontrollable rapture. ‘I did hope....’
They gazed at each other, blushing and radiant.
‘I saw you at Hall.’
‘Yes. I saw you.’
‘I sat at the wrong table. It was awful.’
‘I wish you’d been sitting beside me.... What’s your name?’
‘Judith Earle. What’s yours?’
‘Jennifer Baird.’
Yes. Jennifer was the right name.
‘That’s a nice name.’
‘Why didn’t you come yesterday?’
‘I just forgot. I muddled the date.... Wasn’t it an awful beginning?’ They laughed.
‘I always make muddles, don’t you? I never remember dates and things.’
‘Nor do I.’
They laughed again.
‘I am thankful to find you, I can tell you,’ said Jennifer. ‘I was thinking I should be obliged to leave.’
‘So was I.’
They beamed at each other.
‘This is the third time I’ve come to find you. Where on earth have you been? I was afraid you’d locked yourself into the lavatory to cry or something.’
‘I’ve been....’ Judith laughed happily. ‘I’ve been with something awful.’
‘What?’
‘It’s called Mabel Fuller.’
‘My God! Fuller. Has she pounced on you already? She tried me this morning. It’s a funny thing,—she makes straight for the pretty ones. That sounds as if I meant I was pretty.’
‘So you are.’
‘I only meant I wasn’t so hideous as her and you’re lovely. She’s a vampire-bat. D’you know, I found out something: she’s twenty-seven at least. Think of it! I was rude to her. I suppose you weren’t. I should say you were much more well-bred than me.’
‘I wondered if she wasn’t atinybit pathetic?’
‘God, no! What an idea! She hasn’t a notion how revolting she is. She actually prattled about dress to me,—wondering how she’d look in a jumper like mine. As if anything but an Invisible Cloak would improve her. I can’t stand people who spit when they talk.’
‘I do wonder,’ pondered Judith, ‘how people like that get produced from quite normal parents. It must be the working-out of some ancient and fearful curse.’
‘She’s an ancient and fearful curse anyway,’ said Jennifer gloomily. ‘I’ll tell you another thing. I believe she’s got sex-repression.’ She stared impressively at Judith; then broke into loud whistling. ‘Have you got a cigarette? Never mind.... I’ve just learnt to blow smoke-rings. I’ll teach you.’ More whistling. ‘It’s terrible to be so swayed by appearances. I’m afraid it’s a sign of a weak character. Ugly people rouse all Hell’s devils in me. And beautiful ones make me feel like the morning stars singing together. I want beauty, beauty, beauty.... Don’t you? Lovely people round me, lovely stuffs, lovely colours—lashions and lashions of gorgeous things to touch and taste and look at and smell.’ She flung her head back on its round white throat and took a deep sighing breath. ‘O colours!... I could eat them. I’m awfully sensuous—I look it, don’t you think? Or do I mean sensual? I always get them muddled; but I know it’s unladylike to be one of them. I say—why didn’t you speak to me after Hall?’
‘Oh, how could I? You had people all round you. I passed your room, and there were dozens of girls in it.’
‘Oh yes! Creatures I was at school with. I had a year in Paris after I left school. I think it developed me. I feel so much more mature than my contemporaries. I used to hunt at Chantilly. Have you ever done that?... They were all talking about you.’
‘I heard them say I had such a haughty expression. I haven’t, have I?’
‘Of course not. That’s women all over. I wonder if men are really nicer? I suppose you’re not engaged?’
‘Oh no!’
‘Nor am I. I don’t suppose I shall ever marry. I’m too tall,—six foot in my stockings. It’s awful, because I’m sure I shall always be falling in love myself—and I’m terrified of getting repressions. Are you in love?’
Judith thought of Roddy, blushed and said no.
‘Oh well, you’re too young I suppose. I’m twenty and two months—God!... Perhaps we shall both get engaged while we’re here. Me first, I hope.’ She chuckled deeply.
‘But we shan’t have time for anything except work,’ said Judith. ‘Mabel says we’re expected to do at least eight hours a day.’
‘Christ! Does she though! Just the sort of miserable immorality she would feed you up with. We’re in the world to enjoy ourselves, not to pass exams, aren’t we? Well then ... I have a prejudice against intellectualism. It leads to all sorts of menaces. Perhaps you don’t know.... I dare say you were brought up in blackest ignorance,—like me. But I’ve managed to overcome all obstacles in the way of enlightenment. Do you call innocence a virtue? I don’t. I call it stupidity.’ She talked on so rapidly that her words ran into each other and got blurred. Leaning heavily on the mantelpiece she continued. ‘Are these photographs your people? They look divinely aristocratic. You’re not an Honourable are you? You look as if you might be. Come and see my room. I say, let’s make our rooms absolutely divine, shall we?’
‘Mother told me to get whatever furniture and things I wanted,’ said Judith. ‘But what’s the good with that carpet?’
‘I’ve turned mine upside down,’ said Jennifer. ‘It’s an artistic buff now. Come and look.’
She led the way back to her room and opened the door upon a scene of chaos. Her clothes had been half-unpacked and left about in heaps. The room was full of smoke and reeked of stale Gold Flakes. Gramophone records, biscuits,apples, cake-knives, spoons, glasses and cups smeared with cocoa-sediment were strewn about the floor.
‘It isn’t as nice as I thought,’ said Jennifer. ‘The swine have feasted and rioted;andleft me to clear up after them. Christ! What a spectacle! Have an apple.’
She sat down in her trunk and looked discouraged.
‘I say, Judith Earle, do you think you’re going to enjoy College?’
‘Not much. It’s so ugly and vulgar.’
‘It is. And the students are such very jolly girls.’
‘Yes. And I’m frightened of them. I don’t know a soul. I’ve never in my life been with a lot of people and I don’t feel I shall ever get used even to the smell of them. It’s different for you. You’ve heaps of friends already.’
‘Nonsense. There’s no one. I’ve been screeching like a parrot all the evening, pretending to be awfully jolly too; but it strikes me as pretty grim....’ She brooded and whistled. ‘More than a little grim....’ She drooped, flickered out completely.
‘We’d—we’d better stick it out together,’ said Judith with a blush, fearful lest her suggestion should condemn her to Jennifer—for Mabel had said it and she had felt sick.
‘I should say we will. A thing’s much less bloody if you can talk about its bloodiness to someone else. Do you mind the word bloody? I noticed you flinched. It’s all a question of habit.’ She revived—‘Christ! To think only a few days ago I was stalking in Scotland with my angel cousins! It’s a very broadening thing for a young girl to have boy-cousins of her own age. I’m indebted to them for a lot of useful information—about sex and one thing and another. One of them gave me a bottle of champagne as a parting present. We’ve been drinking it—out of tooth glasses. Ugh! I dare say I’m a little tight. Don’t you think so? One’s got to do something.... I’d offer you some, but I’m afraid the swine finished it. The bottle’s in the cupboard.’ She climbed over a trunk, opened the cupboard door and looked in. ‘As I thought. Not a drop....’
There was a silence. She lit a cigarette, formed her full and vivid lips into an O and struggled painstakingly with smoke-rings.
The suddenness, thought Judith—the sureness, the excitement!... glorious, glorious creature of warmth and colour! Her blue eyes had a wild brilliance between their thick lashes: they flew and paused, stared, flew again.... Oh, Jennifer!...
‘Isn’t it awful,’ said Jennifer, ‘to have enlightened parents? They never ask you whether you care to be enlightened too, but offer you up from the age of ten onwards as a living sacrifice to examiners. Andthenthey expect you to be grateful. Hmm!’ She glowered at the photographs of a pleasant-looking couple on the mantelpiece. ‘God! I’m tired. Give me a hand out of this trunk, and I’ll get to bed.’
She struggled up, slipped off her dressing gown and stood revealed in striped silk pyjamas.
‘Too late for my exercises to-night,’ she said. ‘Are you keen on muscle? It’s more womanly not to be. I’ve over-developed mine. I can lend you a book called “How to Keep Fit” with pictures of young men in loin-cloths. You look wiry. Can you run?’
‘Yes—and climb——’ said Judith excitedly.
‘Oh!... I can’t imagine you doing anything except wander about looking innocent and bewildered. We might have some tests to-morrow!’
She went to the window, opened it wide and leaned out. Judith came and stood beside her. The night was still, dark and starry.
‘The grounds are beautiful,’ murmured Judith.
‘Yes—great trees——’ she murmured softly back. ‘And nightingales, I believe, in spring.’
‘Nightingales....’
‘Oh, there’s lots of things to look forward to,’ saidJennifer, turning round and smiling full at Judith. Their eyes sparkled and flashed: sympathy flowed like an electric current between them. She went on:
‘Oh Lord! Look at my bedroom. I’ll just clear a space and sleep among the wreckage. Won’t my gyp be pleased? It’s best to begin as I shall certainly go on, so I’ll leave it to her. She’ll like it as soon as I’ve won her heart.... Good night, Judith. I must tell you most people call me Jane.’
‘I shall call you Jennifer. It’s delicious,—different from anyone else. It’s like you.’
From the pillow Jennifer’s face broke into shy smiles, like a gratified child’s.
Judith busied herself quietly in the sitting-room, tidying the cups and knives,—enjoying the novel sensation of rendering service. After a few moments she called:
‘You wouldn’t suppose from their conversation that these girls are intellectual—would you?’
There was no reply. After a few more minutes she peeped into the bedroom. Jennifer’s peaceful flushed countenance and regular breathing greeted her astonished senses.
She was sleeping the sleep of the slightly intoxicated just.