“MissDear to see you Miss.”
“Is there anyone else in the waiting room?”
“No miss—nobody.”
Miriam went in briskly.... “Well? How is the decayed gentlewoman?” she said briskly from the doorway. She hardly looked. She had taken in the close-fitting bonnet and chin bow and the height-giving look of the long blue uniform cloak together with the general aspect of the heavily shaded afternoon room....
“Oh, she’s very well.”
Miss Dear had stood quite still in her place half way down the room between the sofa and the littered waiting room table. She made a small controlled movement with her right hand as Miriam approached. Miriam paused with her hand on a “Navy League,” absorbed in the low sweet even tone. She found herself standing reverently, pulled up a few inches from the dark figure. Suddenly she was alight with the radiance of an uncontrollable smile. Her downcast eyes were fixed upon a tall slender figure in a skimpy black dress, tendrils of fine gold hair dancing in the rough wind under a cornflower blue toque, a clear living rose-flush.... Something making one delicate figure more than the open width of the afternoon, the blue afternoon sea and sky. She looked up. The shy sweet flower pink face glowed more intensely under the cap of gold hair clasped flatly down by the blue velvet rim of the bonnet. The eyes, now like Weymouth Bay, now like Julia Doyle’s, now a clear expressionless blue, were fixed on hers; thehesitating face was breaking again into watchful speech. But there was no speech in the well-remembered outlines moulding the ominous cloak. Miriam flung out to stem the voice, rushing into phrases to open the way to the hall and the front door. Miss Dear stood smiling and laughing her little smothered obsequious laugh, just as she had done at Bognor, making one feel like a man.
“Well—I’m most frightfully busy,” wound up Miriam cheerfully turning to the door. “That’s London—isn’t it? One never has a minute.”
Miss Dear did not move. “I came to thank you for the concert tickets,” she said in the even thoughtful voice that dispersed one’s thoughts.
“Oh yes. Was it any good?”
“I enjoyed it immensely,” said Miss Dear gravely. “So did Sister North,” she added, shaking out the words in delicate laughter.
...Idon’t know ‘SisterNorth.’ ... “Oh, good,” said Miriam opening the door.
“It was most kind of you to send them. I’m going to a case to-morrow, but I shall hope to see you when I come back.”
“Sister North sported a swell new blouse” said Miss Dear in clear intimate tones as she paused in the hall to take up her umbrella.
“I hope it won’t rain,” said Miriam formally, opening the front door.
“She was noendof a swell” pursued Miss Dear, hitching her cloak and skirt from her heels with a neat cuffed gloved hand, quirked compactly against her person just under her waist and turned so that her elbow and forearm made a small compact angle against her person. She spoke over her shoulder, her form slenderly poised forward to descend the steps; “I told her she would knock them.” She was aglow with the afternoon sunlight streaming down the street.
Miriam spoke as she stepped down with delicate plunges. She did not hear and paused turning on the last step.
“It was toobadof you” shouted Miriam smiling “to leave my sister alone at the Decayed Gentlewomen’s.”
“I couldn’t help myself,” gleamed Miss Dear. “My time was up.”
“Did youhatebeing there?”
Miss Dear hung, poised and swaying to some inner breeze. Miriam gazed, waiting for her words, watching the in-turned eyes control the sweet lips flowering for speech.
“It was rather comical”—the eyes came round, clear pure blue;—“until your sister came.” The tall slender figure faced the length of the street; the long thin blue cloak flickering all over gave Miriam a foresight of the coming swift hesitating conversational progress of the figure along the pavement, the poise of the delicate surmounting head, slightly bent, the pure brow foremost, shading the lowered thoughtful eyes, the clear little rounded dip of the chin indrawn.
“I’m glad she gave me your address,” finished Miss Dear a little furrow running along her brow in control of the dimpling flushed oval below it. “I’ll say au revoir and not good bye for the present.”
“Good bye,” flung Miriam stiffly at the departing face. Shutting the neglected door she hurried back through the hall and resumed her consciousness of Wimpole Street with angry, eager swiftness.... Eve, getting mixed up with people ... it is right ...shewould not have been angry if I had asked her to be nice to somebody.... I did not mean to do anything ... I was proud of having the tickets to send ... if I had not sent them I should have had the thought of all those nurses, longing for something to do between cases. They are just the people for the Students Concerts ... if she comes again.... “I can’t have social life, unfortunately,” how furious I shall feel saying that “you see I’m so fearfully full up—lectures every night and I’m away every week end ... and I’m not supposed to see people here——”
Miriamhad no choice but to settle herself on the cane-seated chair. When Miss Dear had drawn the four drab coloured curtains into place the small cubicle was in semi-darkness.
“I hope the next time you come to tea with me it will be under rather more comfortable circumstances.”
“This is all right,” said Miriam in abstracted impatient continuation of her abounding manner. Miss Dear was arranging herself on the bed as if for a long sitting. The small matter of business would come now. Having had tea it would be impossible to depart the moment the discussion was over. How much did the tea cost here? That basement tea-room, those excited young women and middle-aged women watchful and stealthy and ugly with poverty and shifts, those tea-pots and shabby trays and thick bread and butter were like the Y.W.C.A. public restaurant at the other end of the street—fourpence at the outside; but Miss Dear would have to pay it. She felt trapped ... “a few moments of your time to advise me” and now half the summer twilight had gone and she was pinned in this prison face to face with anything Miss Dear might choose to present; forced by the presences audible in the other cubicles to a continuation of her triumphant tea-room manner.
“You must excuse my dolly.” She arranged her skirt neatly about the ankle of the slippered bandaged foot.
Anyone else would say what is the matter with your foot.... It stuck out, a dreadfully padded mass, darkin the darkness of the dreadful little enclosure in the dreadful dark hive of women, collected together only by poverty.
“Have youleftyour association?”
“Ohno, de-er; notpermanentlyof course,” said Miss Dear pausing in her tweakings and adjustments of draperies to glance watchfully through the gloom.
“I’m still a member there.”
“Oh yes.”
“But I’ve got to lookaftermyself. They don’t give you a chance.”
“No——”
“It’s rush in and rush out and rush in and rush out.”
“What are you going to do? ... what do you want with me....”
“What do you mean de-er.”
“Well I mean, are you going on nursing.”
“Ofcoursede-er. I was going to tell you.”
Miriam’s restive anger would not allow her to attend fully to the long story. She wandered off with the dreadful idea of nursing a “semi-mental” sitting in a deck-chair in a country garden, the hopeless patient, the nurse half intent on a healthy life and fees for herself, and recalled the sprinkling of uniformed figures amongst the women crowded at the table, all in this dilemma, all eagerly intent; all overworked by associations claiming part of their fees or taking the risks of private nursing, all getting older; all anyhow as long as they went on nursing bound to live on illness; to live with illness knowing that they were living on it. Yet Mr. Leyton had said that no hospital run by a religious sisterhood was any good ... these women were run by doctors....
“You see de-er it’s the best thing any sensible nurse can do as soon as she knows a sufficient number of influenchoo peopoo—physicians and others.”
“Yes, I see.” ... But what has all this to do with me....
“I shall keep in correspondence with my doctors and friends and lookaftermyself a bit.”
“Yes, I see,” said Miriam eagerly. “It’s asplendidplan. What did you want to consult me about?”
“Well you see it’s like this. I must tell you my little difficulty. The folks at thirty-three don’t know I’m here and I don’t want to go back there just at present. I was wondering if when I leave here you’d mind my having my box sent to your lodgings. I shan’t want my reserve things down there.”
“Well—there isn’t muchroomin my room.”
“It’s a flat box. I got it to go to the Colonies with a patient.”
“Oh, did you go?...” Nurses did see life; though they were never free to see it in their own way. Perhaps some of them ... but then they would not be good nurses.
“Well I didn’tgo. It was a chance of a life-time. Such a de-er old gentleman—one of the Fitz-Duff family. It would have been nurse companion. He didn’t want me in uniform. My word. He gave me a complete outfit,tookme round, coats and skirts at Peters, gloves at Penberthy’s, alovelygold-mounted umbrella, everything the heart could desire. He treated me just like a daughter.” During the whole of this speech she redeemed her words by little delicate bridling movements and adjustments, her averted eyes resting in indulgent approval on the old gentleman.
“Why didn’t you go?”
“Hedieddear.”
“Oh I see.”
“It could go under your bed, out of the way.”
“I’ve got hat-boxes and things. My room is full of things I’m afraid.”
“P’raps your landlady would let it stand somewhere.”
“I might ask her—won’t they let you leave things here?”
“TheywouldI daresay,” frowned Miss Dear “but Ihave special reasons. I don’t wish to be beholden to the people here.” She patted the tendrils of her hair, looking about the cubicle with cold disapproval.
“I daresay Mrs. Bailey wouldn’t mind. But I hardly like to ask her you know. There seems to be luggage piled up everywhere.”
“Of course I should be prepared to pay a fee.”
... What a wonderful way of living ... dropping a trunk full of things and going off with a portmanteau; starting life afresh in a new strange place. Miriam regarded the limber capable form outstretched on the narrow bed. This dark little enclosure, the forced companionship of the crowd of competing adventuresses, the sounds of them in the near cubicles, the perpetual sound filling the house like a sea of their busy calculations ... all this was only a single passing incident ... beyond it were the wide well-placed lives of wealthy patients.
“Miss Younger is a sweet woman.”
Miriam’s eyes awoke to affronted surprise.
“You know de-er; the wan yow was sitting by at tea-time. I told you just now.”
“Oh” said Miriam guiltily.
Miss Dear dropped her voice; “she’s told me her whole story. She’s a dear sweet Christian woman. She’s working in a settlement. She’s privately engaged to the Bishop. It’s not to be published yet. She’s a sweet woman.”
Miriam rose. “I’ve got to get back, I’m afraid.”
“Don’t hurry away, dear. I hoped you would stay and have some supper.”
“I really can’t” said Miriam wearily.
“Well, perhaps we shall meet again before Thursday. You’ll ask Mrs. Bailey about my box,” said Miss Dear getting to her feet.
“Fancy your remembering her name” said Miriam with loud cheerfulness, fumbling with the curtains.
Miss Dear stood beaming indulgently.
All the way down the unlit stone staircase they ralliedeach other about the country garden with the deck chairs.
“Well” said Miriam from the street, “I’ll let you know about Mrs. Bailey.”
“All right dear, I shall expect to hear from you; au revoir” cried Miss Dear from the door. In the joy of her escape into the twilight Miriam waved her hand towards the indulgently smiling form and flung away, singing.
“Regularfield-day, eh Miss Hens’n? Look here——” Mr. Orly turned towards the light coming in above the front door to exhibit his torn waistcoat and broken watch-chain. “Came for me like a fury. They’ve got double strength y’know when they’re under. Ever seen anything like it?”
Miriam glanced incredulously at the portly frontage.
“Fancy breaking thechain” she said, sickened by the vision of small white desperately fighting hands. He gathered up the hanging strings of bright links, his powerful padded musicianly hands finding the edges of the broken links and holding them adjusted with the discoloured ravaged fingers of an artizan. “A good tug would do it,” he said kindly. “A chain’s no stronger than the weakest link” he added with a note of dreamy sadness, drawing a sharp sigh.
“Did you get the tooth out” clutched Miriam automatically making a mental note of the remark that flashed through the world with a sad light, a lamp brought into a hopeless sick-room ... keeping up her attitude of response to show that she was accepting the apology for the extremities of rage over the getting of the anæsthetist. Mrs. Orly appearing in the hall at the moment, still flushed from the storm, joined the group and outdid Miriam’s admiring amazement, brilliant smiles of relief garlanding her gentle outcry. “Hancock busy?” said Mr. Orly in farewell as he turned and swung away to the den followed by Mrs. Orly, her unseen face busy with an interrupted errand.He would not hear that her voice was divided.... No one seemed to be aware of the divided voices ... no men. Life went on and on, a great oblivious awfulness, sliding over everything. Every moment things went that could never be recovered ... on and on, and it was always too late, there was always some new thing obliterating everything, something that looked new, but always turned out to be the same as everything else, grinning with its sameness in an awful blank where one tried to remember the killed things ... if only everyone would stop for a moment and let the thing that was always hovering be there, let it settle and intensify. But the whole of life was a conspiracy to prevent it. Was there something wrong in it? It could not be a coincidence the way lifealwaysdid that ... she had reached the little conservatory on the half landing, darkened with a small forest of aspidistra. The dull dust-laden leaves identified themselves with her life. What had become of her autumn of hard work that was to lift her out of her personal affairs and lead somewhere? Already the holiday freshness and vigour had left her; and nothing had been done. Nothing was so strong as the desire that everything would stop for a moment and allow her to remember ... wearily she mounted the remaining stairs to Mr. Hancock’s room. “I think” said a clear high confident voice from the chair and stopped. Miriam waited with painful eagerness while the patient rinsed her mouth; “that that gentleman thinks himself a good deal cleverer than he is,” she resumed sitting back in the chair.
“I am afraid I’m not as familiar with his work as I ought to be, but I can’t say I’ve been very greatly impressed as far as I have gone.”
“Don’t go any further. There’s nothing there to go for.”
Who are you speaking of? How do you know? What haveyougot that makes you think he has nothing?—Miriam almost cried aloud. Could she not see, could not both of them see that the quiet sheen of the green-paintedwindow-frame cast off their complacent speech? Did they not hear it tinkle emptily back from the twined leaves and tendrils, the flowers and butterflies painted on the window in front of them? The patient had turned briskly to the spittoon again after her little speech. She would have a remark ready when the brisk rinsing was over. There could be no peace in her presence. Even when she was gagged there would be the sense of her sending out little teasing thoughts and comments. They could never leave anything alone ... oh it wasthatwoman ... the little gold knot at the back of the cheerful little gold head; hair that curled tightly about her head when she was a baby and that had grown long and been pinned up, as the clever daughter of that man; getting to know all he had said about women. If she believed it she must loathe her married state and her children ... howcouldshe let life continue through her? Perhaps it was the sense of her treachery thatgaveher that bright brisk amused manner. It was a way of carrying things off, that maddening way of speaking of everything as if life were a jest at everybody’s expense ... all “clever” women seemed to have that,neverspeaking what they thought or felt, but always things that sounded like quotations from men; so that they always seemed to flatter or criticise the men they were with according as they were as clever as some man they knew, or less clever.Whatwas she like when she was alone and dropped that brightmanner.... “Have you made any New Year resolutions? I don’t make any. My friends think me godless,Ithinkthemlacking in common sense” ... exactly like a man; taking up a fixed attitude ... having a sort of prepared way of taking everything ... like the Wilsons ... anything else was ‘unintelligent’ or ‘absurd’ ... their impatience meant something. Somehow all the other people were a reproach. If some day everyone lived in the clear light of science, “waiting for the pronouncements of science in all the affairs of life,” waiting for the pronouncements of those sensual dyspeptic men with families who thought of womenas existing only to produce more men ... admirably fitted by Nature’s inexorable laws for her biological rôle ... perhaps she agreed or pretended to think it all a great lark ... the last vilest flattery ... she had only two children ... si la femme avait plus de sensibilité elle ne retomberait pas si facilement dans la grossesse.... La femme, c’est peu galant de le dire, est la femelle de l’homme. The Frenchman at any ratewantedto say something else. But why want to be gallant ... and why not say man; it is not very graceful to say it, is the male of woman. If women had been the recorders of things from the beginning it would all have been the other way round ... Mary. Mary, the Jewess, write something about Mary the Jewess; the Frenchman’s Queen of Heaven.
Englishmen; the English were “the leading race.” “England and America together—the Anglo-Saxon peoples—could govern the destinies of the world.”Whatworld? ... millions and millions of child-births ... colonial women would keep it all going ... and religious people ... and if religion went on there would always be all the people who took the Bible literally ... and if religion were not true then there was only science. Either way was equally abominable ... for women.
The far end of the ward was bright sunlight ... there she was enthroned, commanding the whole length of the ward, sitting upright, her head and shoulders already conversational, her hands busy with objects on the bed towards which her welcoming head was momentarily bent; like a hostess moving chairs in a small drawing room ... chrysanthemums all down the ward—massed on little tables ... aparrotsidling and bobbing along its perch, great big funny solemn French grey, fresh clean living French grey pure in the sunlight, a pure canary coloured beak ... clean grey and yellow ... in the sun ... a curious silent noise in the stillness of the ward.
“I couldn’t hear; I wasn’t near enough.”
“Better late than never, Isaid.”
“D’youknowI thought you’d only been here a few days and to-day when I looked at your letter I was simplyastounded. You’re sitting up.”
“I should hope I am. They kept me on my back, half starving for three weeks.”
“You look very pink and well now.”
“That’s what Dr. Ashley Densley said. You ought to have seen me when I came in. You see I’m on chicken now.”
“And you feel better.”
“Well,—you can’t really tell how you are till you’re up.”
“When are you going to get up?”
“Tomorrow I hope dear. So you see you’re just in time.”
“Do you mean you are going away?”
“They turn you out as soon as you’re strong enough to stand.”
“But—howcan you get about?”
“Dr. Ashley Densley has arranged all that. I’m going to a convalescent home.”
“Oh, that’s very nice.”
“Poor Dr. Ashley Densley, he was dreadfully upset.”
“You’ve had some letters to cheer you up.” Miriam spoke impatiently, her eyes rooted on the pale leisurely hands mechanically adjusting some neatly arranged papers.
“Node-er. My friends have all left me to look after myselfthis time but since I’ve been sitting up, I’ve been trying to get my affairs in order.”
“I thought of bringing you some flowers but there was not a single shop between here and Wimpole Street.”
“There’s generally women selling them outside. But I’m glad you didn’t; I’ve too much sympathy with the poor nurses.”
Miriam glanced fearfully about. There were so many beds with forms seated and lying upon them ... but there seemed no illness or pain. Quiet eyes met hers; everythingseemed serene; there was no sound but the strange silent noise of the sunlight and the flowers. Half way down the ward stood a large three-fold screen covered with dark American cloth.
“She’s unconscious today,” said Miss Dear; “she won’t last through the night.”
“Do you mean to say there is someonedyingthere?”
“Yes de-er.”
“Do you mean to say they don’t put them into a separate room todie?”
“They can’t dear. They haven’t got thespace” flashed Miss Dear.
Death shut in with one lonely person. Brisk nurses putting up the screen. Dying eyes cut off from all but those three dark surrounding walls, with death waiting inside them. Miriam’s eyes filled with tears. There, just across the room, was the end. It had to come somewhere; just that; on any summer’s afternoon ... people did things; hands placed a screen, people cleared you away.... It was a relief to realise that there were hospitals to die in; worry and torture of mind could end here. Perhaps it might be easier with people all round you than in a little room. There were hospitals to be ill in and somewhere to die neatly, however poor you were. It was a relief ... “she’s always the last to get up; still snoring when everybody’s fussing and washing.” That would be me ... it lit up the hostel. Miss Dear liked that time of fussing and washing in company with all the other cubicles fussing and washing. To be very poor meant getting more and more social life with no appearances to keep up, getting up each day with a holiday feeling of one more day and the surprise of seeing everybody again; and the certainty that if you died somebody would do something. Certainly it was this knowledge that gave Miss Dear her peculiar strength. She was a nurse and knew how everything was done. She knew that people, all kinds of people werepeopleand would dothings. When one was quite alone one could not believe this. Besides no onewoulddo anything for me. I don’t want anyone to. I should hate the face of a nurse who put a screen round my bed. I shall not die like that. I shall die in some other way, out in the sun, with—yes—oh yes—Tah-dee, t’dee, t’dee—t’dee.
“It must be funny for a nurse to be in a hospital.”
“It’s a little too funny sometimes dear—you know too much about what you’re in for.”
“Ilikeyourredjacket. GoodHeavens!”
“That’s nothing dear. He does that all the afternoon.”
“How can you stand it?”
“It’s Hobson’s choice, madam.”
The parrot uttered three successive squawks fuller and harsher and even more shrill than the first.
“He’s just tuning up; he always does in the afternoon just as everybody is trying to get a little sleep.”
“But I neverheardof such a thing! It’s monstrous, in a hospital. Why don’t you all complain.”
“’Sh dear; he belongs to Matron.”
“Why doesn’t she have him in her room? Shutup, polly.”
“He’d be rather a roomful in a little room.”
“Well—what is hehere? It’s the wickedest thing of its kind I’ve ever heard of; some great fat healthy woman ... why don’t thedoctorsstop it?”
“Perhaps they hardly notice it dear. There’s such a bustle going on in the morning when they all come round.”
“But hang it all she’s here to look after you, not to leave her luggage all over the ward.”
The ripe afternoon light ... even outside a hospital ... the strange indistinguishable friend, mighty welcome, unutterable happiness. Oh death, where is thy sting? Oh grave, where is thy victory? The light has no end. Iknow it and it knows me, no misunderstanding, no barrier. I love you—people say things. But nothing that anybody says has any meaning. Nothing that anybody says has any meaning. There is something more than anything that anybody says, that comes, first, before they speak ... vehicles travelling along through heaven; everybody in heaven without knowing it; the sound the vehicles made all together, sounding out through the universe ... life touches your heart like dew; that istrue... the edge of his greasy knowing selfish hair touches the light; he brushes it; there is something in him that remembers. It is in everybody; but they won’t stop. How maddening. But they know. When people die they must stop. Then they remember. Remorse may be complete; until it is complete you cannot live. When it is complete something is burned away ... ou-agh, flows out of you, burning, inky, acid, flows right out ... purged ... though thy sins are asscarletthey shall be white as snow.Thenthe light is there, nothing but the light, and new memory, sweet and bright; but only when you have been killed by remorse.
This is what is meant by a purple twilight. Lamps alight, small round lights, each in place, shedding no radiance, white day lingering on the stone pillars of the great crescent, the park railings distinct, the trees shrouded but looming very large and permanent, the air wide and high and purple, darkness alight and warm. Far far away beyond the length of two endless months is Christmas. This kind of day lived for ever. It stood still. The whole year, funny little distant fussy thing stood still in this sort of day. You could take it in your hand and look at it. Nobody could touch this. People and books and all those things that men had done, in the British Museum were a crackling noise, outside.... Les yeux gris, vont au paradis. That was the two poplars standing one each side of the little break in the railings, shooting up; the space between them shaped by their shapes, leading somewhere. Imusthavebeen through there; it’s the park. I don’t remember. It isn’t. It’s waiting. One day I will go through. Les yeux gris, vont au paradis. Going along, along, the twilight hides your shabby clothes. They are not shabby. They are clothes you go along in, funny; jolly. Everything’s here, any bit of anything, clear in your brain; you can look at it. What a terrific thing a person is; bigger than anything. Howfunnyit is to be a person. You can never not have been a person. Bouleversement. It’s a fait bouleversant.Christ-how-rummy. It’s enough.Du, Heilige, rufe dein Kind zurück, ich habe genossen dass irdische Glück; ich habe geleibt und gelebet.... Oh let the solid earth not fail beneath my feet, until I am quite quite sure.... Hullo, old Euston Road, beloved of my soul, my own country, my native heath. There’ll still be a glimmer on the table when I light the lamp ... how shall I write it down, thesoundthe little boy made as he carefully carried the milk jug ... going along, trusted,trusted, you could see it, you could see his mother. His legs came along, little loose feet, looking after themselves, pottering, behind him. All his body was in the hand carrying the milk jug. When he had done carrying the milk jug he would run; running along the pavement amongst people, with cool round eyes not looking at anything. Where the crowd prevented his running he would jog up and down as he walked, until he could run again, bumping solemnly up and down amongst the people; boy.
The turning of the key in the latch was lively with the vision of the jumping boy. The flare of the match in the unlit hall lit up eternity. The front door was open, eternity poured in and on up the stairs. At one of those great staircase windows where the last of the twilight stood a sudden light of morning would not be surprising. Of course a letter; curly curious statements on the hall-stand.
That is mother-of-pearl, nacre; twilight nacre; crépuscule nacre; I must wait until it is gone. It is a visitor; pearly freshness pouring in; but if I wait I may feel different. With the blind up the lamp will be a lamp in it; twilight outside, the lamp on the edge of it, making the room gold, edged with twilight.
Ican’tgo to-night. It’s allhere; Imuststay here. Botheration. It’s Eve’s fault. Eve would rather go out and see that girl than stay here. Evelikesgetting tied up with people. Iwon’tget tied up; it drives everything away. Now I’ve read the letter I must go. There’ll be afterwards when I get back. No one has any power over me. I shall be coming back. I shall always be coming back.
Perhaps it had been Madame Tussaud’s that had made this row of houses generally invisible; perhaps their own awfulness. When she found herself opposite them, Miriam recognised them at once. By day they were one high long lifeless smoke-grimed façade fronted by gardens colourless with grime, showing at its thickest on the leaves of an occasional laurel. It had never occurred to her that the houses could be occupied. She had seen them now and again as reflectors of the grime of the Metropolitan Railway. Its smoke poured up over their faces as the smoke from a kitchen fire pours over the back of a range. The sight of them brought nothing to her mind but the inside of the Metropolitan Railway; the feeling of one’s skin prickling with grime the sense of one’s smoke-grimed clothes. There was nothing in that strip between Madame Tussaud’s and the turning into Baker Street but the sense of exposure to grime ... a little low grimed wall surmounted by paintless sooty iron railings. On the other side of the road a high brown wall, protecting whatever was behind, tookthe grime in one thick covering, here it spread over the exposed gardens and façades turning her eyes away. To-night they looked almost as untenanted as she had been accustomed to think them. Here and there on the black expanse a window showed a blurred light. The house she sought appeared to be in total darkness. The iron gate crumbled harshly against her gloves as she set her weight against the rusty hinges. Gritty dust sounded under her feet along the pathway and up the shallow steps leading to the unlit doorway.
Her flight up through the sickly sweet-smelling murk of the long staircase ended in a little top back room brilliant with unglobed gaslight. Miss Dear got her quickly into the room and stood smiling and waiting for a moment for her to speak. Miriam stood nonplussed, catching at the feelings that rushed through her and the thoughts that spoke in her mind. Distracted by the picture of the calm tall, gold-topped figure in the long grey skirt and the pale pink flannel dressing-jacket. Miss Dear was smiling the smile of one who has a great secret to impart. There was a saucepan or frying pan or something—with a handle—sticking out.... “I’m glad you’ve brought a book” said Miss Dear. The room was closing up and up ... the door was shut. Miriam’s exasperation flew out. She felt it fly out. What would Miss Dear do or say? “I ’oped you’d come” she said in her softest most thoughtful tones. “I’ve been rushing about and rushing about.” She turned with her swift limber silent-footed movement to the thing on the gas-ring. “Sit down dear” she said, as one giving permission, and began rustling a paper packet. A haddock came forth and the slender thoughtful fingers plucked and picked at it and lifted it gingerly into the shallow steaming pan. Miriam’s thoughts whirled to her room, to the dark sky-domed streets, to the coming morrow. They flew aboutall over her life. The cane-seated chair thrilled her with a fresh sense of anger.
“I’ve been shopping and rushing about” said Miss Dear disengaging a small crusty loaf from its paper bag. Miriam stared gloomily about and waited.
“Do you like haddock, dear?”
“Oh—well—I don’t know—yes I think I do.”
The fish smelled very savoury. It was wonderful and astonishing to know how to cook a real meal, in a tiny room; cheap ... the lovely little loaf and the wholesome solid fish would cost less than a small egg and roll and butter at an A.B.C. How did people find out how to do these things?
“You know how to cook?”
“Haddock doesn’t hardly need any cooking” said Miss Dear, shifting the fish about by its tail.
“What is your book dear?”
“Oh—Villette.”
“Is it a pretty book?”
She didn’t want to know. She was saying something else.... How to mention it? Why say anything about it? But no one had ever asked. No one had known. This woman was the first. She of all people was causing the first time of speaking of it.
“I bought it when I was fifteen,” said Miriam vaguely, “and a Byron—with some money I had; seven and six.”
“Oh yes.”
“I didn’t care for the Byron; but it was a jolly edition; padded leather with rounded corners and gilt edged leaves.”
“Oh.”
“I’ve been reading this thing ever since I came back from my holidays.”
“It doesn’t look very big.”
Miriam’s voice trembled. “I don’t mean that. When I’ve finished it I begin again.”
“I wish you would read it to me.”
Miriam recoiled. Anything would have done; Donovan or anything.... But something had sprung into the room. She gazed at the calm profile, the long slender figure, the clear grey and pink, the pink frill of the jacket falling back from the soft fair hair turned cleanly up, the clean fluffy curve of the skull, the serene line of the brow bent in abstracted contemplation of the steaming pan. “I believe you’d like it” she said brightly.
“I should love you to read to me when we’ve ’ad our supper.”
“Oh—I’ve had my supper.”
“A bit of haddock won’t hurt you dear.... I’m afraid we shall have to be very knockabout; I’ve got a knife and a fork but no plates at present. It comes of living in abox,” said Miss Dear pouring off the steaming water into the slop-pail.
“I’ve had my supper—really. I’ll read while you have yours.”
“Well, don’t sit out in the middle of the room dear.”
“I’m all right” said Miriam impatiently, finding the beginning of the first chapter. Her hands clung to the book. She had not made herself at home as Eve would have done and talked. Now, those words would sound aloud, in a room. Someone would hear and see. Miss Dear would not know what it was. But she would hear and see something.
“It’s by a woman called Charlotte Brontë” she said and began headlong with the gaslight in her eyes.
The familiar words sounded chilly and poor. Everything in the room grew very distinct. Before she had finished the chapter Miriam knew the position of each piece of furniture. Miss Dear sat very still. Was she listening patiently like a mother, or wife, thinking of the reader as well as of what was read, and with her own thoughts running along independently, interested now and again in some single thing in the narrative, something that reminded her of someexperience of her own or some person she knew? No, there was something different. However little she saw and heard, something was happening. They were looking and hearing together ... did she feel anything of the grey ... grey ... grey made up of all the colours there are; all the colours, seething into an even grey ... she wondered as she read on almost by heart, at the rare freedom of her thoughts, ranging about. The book was cold and unreal compared to what it was when she read it alone. But something was happening. Something was passing to and fro between them, behind the text; a conversation between them that the text, the calm quiet grey that was the outer layer of the tumult, brought into being. If they should read on, the conversation would deepen. A glow ran through her at the thought. She felt that in some way she was like a man reading to a woman, but the reading did not separate them like a man’s reading did. She paused for a moment on the thought. A man’s reading was not reading; not a looking and a listening so that things came into the room. It was always an assertion of himself. Men read in loud harsh unnatural voices, in sentences, or with voices that were a commentary on the text, as if they were telling you what to think ... they preferred reading to being read to; they read as if they were the authors of the text. Nothing could get through them but what they saw. They were like showmen....
“Go on, dear.”
“My voice is getting tired. It must be all hours. I ought to have gone; ages ago,” said Miriam settling herself in the little chair with the book standing opened on the floor at her side.
“The time does pass quickly, when it is pleasantly occupied.”
A cigarette now would not be staying on. It would be like putting on one’s hat. Then the visit would be over; without having taken place. The incident would have made no break in freedom. They had been both absentfrom the room nearly all the time. Perhaps that was why husbands so often took to reading to their wives, when they stayed at home at all; to avoid being in the room listening to their condemning silences or to their speech, speech with all the saucepan and comfort thoughts simmering behind it.
“I haven’t had much time to attend to study. When you’ve got to get your living there’s too much else to do.”
Miriam glanced sharply. Had she wanted other things in the years of her strange occupation? She had gone in for nursing sentimentally and now she knew the other side; doing everything to time, careful carrying out of the changing experiments of doctors. Her reputation and living depended on that; their reputation and living depended on her. And she had to go on, because it was her living.... Miss Dear was dispensing little gestures with bent head held high and inturned eyes. She was holding up the worth and dignity of her career. It had meant sacrifices that left her mind enslaved. But all the same she thought excuses were necessary. She resented being illiterate. She had a brain somewhere, groping and starved. What could she do? It was too late. What ashame... serene golden comeliness, slender feet and hands, strange ability and knowledge of the world, and she knew,knewthere was something that ought to be hers. Miriam thrilled with pity. The inturned eyes sent out a challenging blue flash that expanded to a smile. Miriam recoiled battling in the grip of the smile.
“I wish you’d come round earlier to-morrow dear, and have some supper here.”
“How long are you going to stay here?” ... to come again and read further and find that strange concentration that made one see into things. Did she really like it?
“Well dear you see I don’t know. I must settle up my affairs a little. I don’t know where I am with one thing and another. I must leave it in the hands of an ’igherpower.” She folded her hands and sat motionless with inturned eyes, making the little movements with her lips that would lead to further speech, a flashing forth of something....
“Well, I’ll see” said Miriam getting up.
“I shall be looking for you.”
Itwas ... jolly; to have something one was obliged to do every evening—but it could not go on. Next week-end, the Brooms, that would be an excuse for making a break. She must have other friends she could turn to ... she mustknowone could not go on. But bustling off every evening regularly to the same place with things to get for somebody was evidently good in some way ... health-giving and strength-giving....
She found Miss Dear in bed; sitting up, more pink and goldthan ever. There was a deep lace frill on the pink jacket. She smiled deeply, a curious deep smile that looked like “a smile of perfect love and confidence” ... itwaspartly that. She was grateful, and admiring. That was all right. But it could not go on; and now illness. Miriam was aghast. Miss Dear seemed more herself than ever, sitting up in bed, just as she had been at the hospital.
“Are you ill?”
“Not really ill, de-er. I’ve had a touch of my epileptiform neuralgia.” Miriam sat staring angrily at the floor.
“It’s enough tomakeanyone ill.”
“Whatis?”
“To be sitoowated as I am.”
“You haven’t been able to hear of a case?”
“How can I take a case dear when I haven’t got my uniforms?”
“Did you sell them?”
“Node-er. They’re with all the rest of my things at the hostel. Just because there’s a small balance owing they refuse to give up my box. I’ve told them I’ll settle it as soon as my pecuniary affairs are in order.”
“I see. That was why you didn’t send your box on to me? You know I could pay that off if you like, if it isn’t too much.”
“No dear I couldn’t hear of such a thing.”
“But youmustget work, or something. Do your friends know how things are?”
“There is no one I should care to turn to at the moment.”
“But the people at the Nursing Association?”
Miss Dear flushed and frowned. “Don’t think ofthemdear. I’ve told you my opinion of the superintendent and the nurses are in pretty much the same box as I am. More than one of them owes me money.”
“But surely if they knew——”
“I tell you I don’twishto apply to Baker Street at the present time.”
“But youmustapply tosomeone.Somethingmust be done. You see I can’t, I shan’t be able to go on indefinitely.”
Miss Dear’s face broke into weeping. Miriam sat smarting under her own brutality ... poverty is brutalising, she reflected miserably, excusing herself. It makes you helpless and makes sick people fearful and hateful. It ought not to be like that. One can’t even give way to one’s natural feelings. What ought she to have done? To have spoken gently ... you see dear ... she could hear women’s voices saying it ... my resources are not unlimited, we must try and think what is the best thing to be done ... humbug ... they would be feeling just as frightened just as self-protecting, inside. There were people in books who shouldered things and got into debt, just for any casual, helpless, person. But it would have to come on somebody, in the end. What then? Bustling people with plans ... ‘it’s no good sitting still waiting for Providence’... but that was just what one wanted to avoid ... it had been wonderful, sometimes in the little room. It wasthatthat had been outraged. It was as if she had struck a blow.
“Ihavedone something dear.”
“What?”
“I’ve sent for Dr. Ashley-Densley.”
“There is our gentleman,” said Miss Dear tranquilly just before midnight. Miriam moved away and stood by the window as the door split wide and a tall grey-clad figure plunged lightly into the room. Miriam missed his first questions in her observations of his well-controlled fatigue and annoyance, his astonishing height and slenderness and the curiouswise softness of his voice. Suddenly she realised that he was going. He was not going to take anything in hand or do anything. He had got up from the chair by the bedside and was scribbling something on an envelope ... no sleep for two nights he said evenly in the soft musical girlish tones. A prescription ... then he’d be off.
“Do you know Thomas’s?” he said colourlessly.
“Do you know Thomas’s—the chemist—in Baker Street?” he said casting a half-glance in her direction as he wrote on.
“I do,” said Miriam coldly.
“Would you be afraid to go round there now?”
“What is it you want?” said Miriam acidly.
“Well, if you’re not afraid, go to Thomas’s, get this made up, give Miss Dear a dose and if it does not take effect, another in two hours’ time.”
“You may leave it with me.”
“All right. I’ll be off. I’ll try to look in sometime to-morrow,” he said turning to Miss Dear. “Bye-bye” and he was gone.
When the grey of morning began to show behind the blind Miriam’s thoughts came back to the figure on the bed. Miss Dear was peacefully asleep lying on her back with her head thrown back upon the pillow. Her face looked stonily pure and stern; and colourless in the grey light. There was a sheen on her forehead like the sheen on the foreheads of old people. She had probably been asleep ever since the beginning of the stillness. Everybody was getting up. “London was getting up.” That man in theRefereeknew what it was, that feeling when you live rightinLondon, of being a Londoner, the thing that made itenoughto be a Londoner, getting up, in London; the thing that made real Londoners different to everyone else, going about with a sense that made themalive. The very idea of living anywhere but in London, when one thought about it, produced a blank sensation in the heart. What was it I said the other day? “London’s got me. It’s taking my health and eating up my youth. It may as well have what remains....” Something stirred powerfully, unable to get to her through her torpid body. Her weary brain spent its last strength on the words, she had only half meant them when they were spoken.Now, once she was free again, to be just a Londoner she would ask nothing more of life. It would be the answer to all questions; the perfect unfailing thing, guiding all one’s decisions. And an ill-paid clerkship was its best possible protection; keeping one at a quiet centre, alone in a little room, untouched by human relationships, undisturbed by the necessity of being anything. Nurses and teachers and doctors and all the people who were doing special things surrounded by people and talk were not Londoners. Clerks were, unless they lived in suburbs, the people who lived in St. Pancras and Bloomsbury and in Seven Dials and all round Soho and in all the slums and back streets everywherewere. She would be again soon ... not a woman ... a Londoner.
She rose from her chair feeling hardly able to stand. The long endurance in the cold room had led to nothing but the beginning of a day without strength—no one knowing what she had gone through. Three days and nights of nursing Eve had produced only a feverish gaiety. ItwasLondon that killed you.
“I will come in at lunch-time” she scribbled on the back of an envelope, and left it near one of the hands outstretched on the coverlet.
Outdoors it was quite light, a soft grey morning, about eight o’clock. People were moving about the streets. The day would be got through somehow. Tomorrow she would be herself again.
“Has she applied to the Association to which she belongs?”
“I think she wishes for some reason to keep away from them just now. She suggested that I should come to you when I asked her if there was anyone to whom she could turn. She told me you had helped her to have a holiday in a convalescent home.” These were the right people. The quiet grey house, the high church room, the delicate outlines of the woman, clear and fine in spite of all the comfort.... The All Souls Nursing Sisters.... Theyweredifferent ... emotional and unhygienic ... cushions and hot water bottles ... good food ... early service—Lent—stuffy churches—fasting. But they would not pass by on the other side ... she sat waiting ... the atmosphere of the room made much of her weeks of charity and her long night of watching, the quiet presence in it knew of these things without being told. The weariness of her voice had poured out its burden, meeting and flowing into the patient weariness of the other women and changing. There was no longer any anger or impatience. Together,consulting as accomplices, they would see what was the best thing to do—whatever it was would be something done on a long long road going on forever; nobody outside, nobody left behind. When they had decided they would leave it, happy and serene and glance at the invisible sun and make little confident jests together. She was like Mrs. Bailey—and someone farther back—mother. This was the secret life of women. They smiled at God. But they all flattered men. All these women....
“They ought to be informed. Will you call on them—to-day? Or would you prefer that I should do so?”
“I will go—at lunch-time” said Miriam promptly.
“Meanwhile I shall inform the clergy. It is a case for the parish. You must not bear the responsibility a moment longer.”
Miriam relaxed in her capacious chair, a dimness before her eyes. The voice was going on, unnoticing, the figure had turned towards a bureau. There were little straggles about the fine hair—Miss Jenny Perne—the Pernes. She was a lonely old maid.... One must listen ... but London had sprung back ... in full open midday roar; brilliant and fresh; dim, intimate, vast, from the darkness. This woman preferred some provincial town ... Wolverhampton ... Wolverhampton ... in the little room in Marylebone Road Miss Dear was unconsciously sleeping—a pauper.
There was a large bunch of black grapes on the little table by the bedside and a book.
“Hullo you literary female” said Miriam seizing it ... Red Pottage ... a curious novelish name, difficult to understand. Miss Dear sat up, straight and brisk, blooming smiles. What an easy life. The light changing in the room and people bringing novels and grapes, smart new novels that people were reading.
“What did you do at lunch time dear?”
“Oh I had to go and see a female unexpectedly.”
“I found your note and thought perhaps you had called in at Baker Street.”
“At your Association, d’you mean? Oh my dear lady.”
Miriam shook her thoughts about, pushing back. “She owes money to almost every nurse in this house and seems to have given in in every way” and bringing forward “one of our very best nurses for five years.”
“Oh I went to see the woman in Queen Square this morning.”
“I know you did dear.” Miss Dear bridled in her secret way, averted, and preparing to speak. It was over. She did not seem to mind. “I liked her” said Miriam hastily, leaping across the gap, longing to know what had been done, beating out anywhere to rid her face of the lines of shame. She was sitting before a judge ... being looked through and through.... Noo, Tonalt, suggest a tow-pic....
“She’s a sweet woman” said Miss Dear patronisingly.
“She’s brought you some nice things” ... poverty was worse if you were not poor enough....
“Oh no dear. The curate brought these. He called twice this morning. You did me a good turn. He’s a real friend.”
“Oh—oh, I’m so glad.”
“Yes—he’s a nice little man. He was most dreadfully upset.”
“What can he do?”
“How do you mean dear?”
“Well in general?”
“He’s going to do everything dear. I’m not to worry.”
“How splendid!”
“He came in first thing and saw how things stood and came in again at the end of the morning with these things. He’s sending me some wine, from his own cellar.”
Miriam gazed, her thoughts tumbling incoherently.
“He was most dreadfully upset. He could not write his sermon. He kept thinking it might be one of his ownsistersin the same sitawation. He couldn’t rest till he came back.”
Standing back ... all the time ... delicately preparing to speak ... presiding over them all ... over herself too....
“He’s a real friend.”
“Have you looked at the book?” There was nothing more to do.
“No dear. He said it had interested him very much. He reads them for his sermons you see” ... she put out her hand and touched the volume ... John’s books ... Henry is so interested in photography ... unknowing patronising respectful gestures.... “Poor little man. He was dreadfully upset.”
“We’d better read it.”
“What time are you coming dear?”
“Oh—well.”
“I’m to have my meals regular. Mr. Taunton has seen the landlady. I wish I could ask you to join me. But he’s been so generous. I mustn’t run expenses up you see dear.”
“Of course not. I’ll come in after supper. I’m not quite sure about to-night.”
“Well—I hope I shall see you on Saturday. I can give you tea.”
“I’m going away for the week-end. I’ve put it off and off. I must go this week.”
Miss Dear frowned. “Well dear, come in and see me on your way.”
Miss Dear sat down with an indrawn breath.
Miriam drew her Gladstone bag a little closer. “I have only a second.”
“Allrightdear. You’ve only just come.”
It was as if nothing had happened the whole week. She was not going to say anything. She was ill again just in time for the week-end. She looked fearfully ill. Was she ill? The room was horrible—desolate and angry....
Miriam sat listening to the indrawn breathings.
“What is the matter?”
“It’s my epileptiform neuralgia again. I thought Dr. Ashley-Densley would have been in. I suppose he’s off for the week-end.”
She lay back pale and lifeless looking with her eyes closed.
“All right, I won’t go, that’s about it,” said Miriam angrily.
“Have another cup dear. He said the picture was like me and like my name. He thinks it’s the right name for me—‘you’ll always be able to inspire affection’ he said.”
“Yes that’s true.”
“He wants me to change my first name. He thought Eleanor would be pretty.”
“Isay; look here.”
“Of course I can’t make any decision until I know certain things.”
“D’you mean to say ...goodness!”
Miss Dear chuckled indulgently, making little brisk movements about the tea-tray.
“So I’m to be called Eleanor Dear. He’s a dear little man. I’m very fond of him. But there is an earlier friend.”
“Oh——”
“I thought you’d help me out.”
“I?”
“Well dear, I thought you wouldn’t mind calling and finding out for me how the land lies.”
Miriam’s eyes fixed the inexorable shapely outlines of the tall figure. That dignity would never go; but there was something, that would never come ... there would be nothing but fuss and mystification for the man. She would have a house and a dignified life. He, at home, would have death. But these were the women. But she had liked the book. There was something in it she had felt. But a manreading, seeing only bits and points of view would never find that far-away something. She would hold the man by being everlastingly mysteriously up to something or other behind a smile. He would grow sick to death of mysterious nothings; of things always centering in her, leaving everything else outside her dignity. Appalling. Whatwasshe doing all the time, bringing one’s eyes back and back each time after one had angrily given in, to question the ruffles of her hair and the way she stood and walked and prepared to speak.
“Oh...! ofcourseI will—you wicked woman.”
“It’s very puzzling. You see he’s the earlier friend.”
“You think if he knew he had a rival. Of course. Quite right.”
“Well dear, I think he ought toknow.”
“So I’m to be your mamma. What alark.”
Miss Dear shed a fond look. “I want you to meet my little man. He’s longing to meet you?”
“Have you mentioned me to him.”
“Well dear who should I mention if not you?”
“So I thought the best thing to do would be to come and ask you what would be the best thing to do for her.”
“There’s nothing to be done for her.” He turned away and moved things about on the mantelpiece. Miriam’s heart beat rebelliously in the silence of the consulting-room. She sat waiting stifled with apprehension, her thoughts on Miss Dear’s familiar mysterious figure. In an unendurable impatience she waited for more, her eye smiting the tall averted figure on the hearthrug, following his movements ... small framed coloured pictures—very brilliant—photographs?—of dark and fair women, all the same, their shoulders draped like the Soul’s Awakening, their chests bare, all of them with horrible masses of combed out waving hair like the woman in the Harlene shop only wavingnaturally. The most awful minxes ... his ideals. What a man. What a ghastly world. “If she were to go to the south of France, at once, she might live for years” ... this is hearing about death, in a consulting-room ... no escape ... everything in the room holding you in. The Death Sentence.... People would not die if they did not go to consulting-rooms ... doctors make you die ... they watch and threaten.
“What is the matter with her?” Out with it, don’t be so important and mysterious.
“Don’t you know, my dear girl?” Dr. Densley wheeled round with searching observant eyes.
“Hasn’t she told you?” he added quietly with his eyes on his nails. “She’s phthisical. She’s in the first stages of pulmonary tuberculosis.”
The things in the dark room darkled with a curious dull flash along all their edges and settled in a stifling dusky gloom. Everything in the room dingy and dirty and decaying, but the long lean upright figure. In time he would die of something. Phthisis ... that curious terrible damp mouldering smell, damp warm faint human fungus ... in Aunt Henderson’s bedroom.... But she had got better.... But the curate ought to know. But perhaps he too, perhaps she hadimaginedthat....
“It seems strange she has not told such an old friend.”
“I’m not an old friend. I’ve only known her about two months. I’m hardly a friend at all.”
Dr. Densley was roaming about the room. “You’ve been a friend in need to that poor girl” he murmured contemplating the window curtains. “I recognised that when I saw you in her room last week.” How superficial....
“Where did you meet her?” he said, a curious gentle high tone on the where and a low one on the meet as if he were questioning a very delicate patient.
“My sister picked her up at a convalescent home.”
He turned very sharply and came and sat down in a low chair opposite Miriam’s low chair.
“Tell me all about it my dear girl” he said sitting forward so that his clasped hands almost touched Miriam’s knees.