WEEK after week passed on, and now
monotony drew her stifling cloak over Victoria.
Cairns was still in a state of beatitude which made
him an unexciting companion; satisfied in his egoism,
it never came into his mind that Victoria could tire
of her life. He spent many afternoons in the
back garden under a rose-covered pergola. By his
side was a little table with a syphon, a decanter
of whisky, and a box of cigars; he read desultorily,
sometimes the latest motor novel, at other times the
improving memoirs of eighteenth century noblewomen.
Now and then he would look approvingly at Victoria
in plain white drill, delightfully mischievous under
a sun-bonnet, and relapse into his book. Once
he quoted ‘A flask of wine, a book of verse.
. . .’ and Victoria went into sudden fits of
laughter when she remembered Neville Brown. The
single hackneyed line seemed to link malekind together.
Cairns was already talking of going
away. June was oppressively hot and he was hankering
after some quiet place where he might do some sea-fishing
and get some golf. He was becoming dangerously
fat; and Victoria, foreseeing a long and very cheap
holiday, favoured the idea in every way. They
could go up to Scotland later too; but Cairns rather
hesitated about this, for he neither cared to show
off Victoria before the people he knew on the moors,
nor to leave her for a fortnight. He was paying
the penalty of Capua. His plans were set back,
however, by serious trouble which had taken place
on his Irish estate, his though still in the hands
of Marmaduke Cairns’s executors. There had
been nightriding, cattle driving, some boycotting.
The situation grew so tense that the executors advised
Cairns to sell the estate to the tenants but the latter
declined the terms; matters came to a deadlock and
it was quite on the cards that an application might
be made under the Irish Land Act. It was clear
that in this case the terms would be bad, and Cairns
was called to Limerick by telegram as a last chance.
He left Victoria, grumbling and cursing Ireland and
all things Irish.
Left to herself, Victoria felt rather
at a loose end. The cheerful if uninteresting
personality of Major Cairns had a way of filling the
house. He had an expansive mind; it was almost
chubby. For two days she rather enjoyed her freedom.
The summer was gorgeous; St John’s Wood was
bursting everywhere into flower; the trees were growing
opaque in the parks. At every street corner little
whirlwinds of dry grit swayed in the hot air.
One afternoon Victoria indulged in the luxury of a
hired private carriage, and flaunted it with the best
in the long line on the south side of the Park.
Wedged for a quarter of an hour in the mass she felt
a glow come over her. The horses all round her
shone like polished wood, the carriage panels were
lustrous, the harness was glittering, the brass burnished;
all the world seemed to radiate warmth and light.
Gaily enough, because not jaded by repetition, she
caused the carriage to do the Ring, twice. She
felt for a moment that she was free, that she could
vie with those women whose lazy detachment she stirred
for a moment into curiosity by her deep eyes, dark
piled hair and the audacity of her diaphanous crepe
de chine.
Cairns was still in Ireland, struggling
conscientiously to pile up unearned increment; and
Victoria, thoroughly aimless, suddenly bethought herself
of Farwell. She had been remiss in what was almost
a duty. Surely she ought to report progress to
the man who had helped to open her eyes to the realities
of life. She had misapplied his teaching perhaps,
or rather remoulded it, but still it was his teaching.
Or rather it was what a woman should know, as opposed
to what Thomas Farwell preached; if men were to practise
that, then she should revise her philosophy.
At ten minutes to one she entered
the Moorgate Street P.R.R. with a little thrill.
Everything breathed familiarity; it was like coming
home, but better, for it is sweeter to revisit the
place where one has suffered, when one has emerged,
than to brood with gentle sorrow on the spot, where
there once was joy. She knew every landmark, the
tobacconist, the picture shop, still full of ‘Mother’s
Helps’ and of ‘artistic’ studies
in the nude; there was the red-coated bootblack too,
as dirty and as keenly solicitous as ever. The
P.R.R. itself did not chill her. In the crude
June sunlight its nickel shone gaily enough.
Everything was as before; the cakes had been moulded
in the old moulds, and here was the old bill of fare,
unchanged no doubt; even the marble-topped tables
and the half cleaned cruets looked kindly upon her;
but the tesselated red and blue floor aroused the hateful
memory of another Victoria on her hands and knees,
an old sack round her waist, painfully swaying from
right to left, swabbing the tiles. Little rivulets
of water and dirt flowed slowly across the spectre’s
hand.
As she went down the steps into the
smoking-room she crossed with the manageress, still
buxom and erect; but she passed unnoticed, for this
was the busy hour when the chief tried to be simultaneously
on three floors. The room was not so full as
it had once been. She sat down at a little table
and watched the familiar scene for some minutes.
She told the girl she would wait a minute, for she
did not want to miss Farwell. The world had gone
round, but apparently the P.R.R. was the axis.
There in the corner were the chess players; to-day
they only ran four boards, but at one of them a fierce
discussion was going on as to a variation of the queen’s
pawn opening. On the other side of the room were
the young domino players, laughing and smoking cigarettes.
The fat and yellow Levantine was missing. Victoria
regretted him, for the apocalyptic figure was an essential
part of the ugly past. But there was ’old
dry toast’ all alone at his little table.
He had not changed; his white hair still framed thickly
his beautiful old brown face. There he sat, still
silent and desolate, waiting for the end. Victoria
felt a pang of sorrow. She was not quite hardened
yet and she realised it angrily. There must be
no sympathy and no quarter in her game of life.
It was too late or too soon for that. Victoria
let her eyes stray round the room. There were
the young men and boys or some of the same breed, in
their dark suits, brilliant ties, talking noisily,
chaffing one another, gulping down their small teas
and toasted scones. A conversation between two
older men was wafted in to her ears.
‘Awful. Have you tried annelicide?’
At that moment a short broad figure
walked smartly down the steps. It was Thomas
Farwell, a thin red book under his arm. He went
straight through to the old table, propped his book
against the cruet and began to read. Victoria
surveyed him critically. He was thinner than ever;
his hair was more plentifully sprinkled with grey
but had receded no further. He was quite near
her, so she could see his unbrushed collar and his
frayed cuffs. After a moment the girl came and
stood before him; it was Nelly, big and raw-boned
as ever, handsome still like the fine beast of burden
she was. She wore no apron now in proud token
of her new position as head waitress. Now the
voices by her side were talking holidays.
’No, Ramsgit’s good enough
for me. Broadstairs and all these little places,
they’re so tony ’
Maud passed quickly before Victoria.
The poor little girl was as white as ever; her flaccid
cheeks danced up and down as she ran. The other
voice was relating at length how its owner had taken
his good lady to Deal. Nelly had left Farwell,
walking more slowly than the other girls, as befitted
her station. Victoria felt herself pluck up a
little courage, crossed the room followed by many
admiring glances, and quickly sat down at Farwell’s
table. He looked up quickly. The book dropped
suddenly from the cruet.
‘Victoria,’ he gasped.
‘Yes,’ she said smiling.
‘Well . . .’ His
eyes ran over her close fitting tussore dress, her
white kid gloves.
‘Is that all you’ve got
to say to me?’ she asked. ’Won’t
you shake hands?’
Farwell put out his hand and held
hers for a second. He was smiling now, with just
a touch of wistfulness in his eyes.
‘I’m very glad to see you,’ he said
at length.
‘So am I,’ said Victoria.
’I hope you don’t mind my coming here,
but I only thought of it this morning.’
‘Mind,’ snapped Farwell.
’People who understand everything never mind
anything.’
Victoria smiled again. The bumptious
aphorism was a sign that Farwell was still himself.
For a minute or so they looked at one another.
Victoria wondered at this man; so powerful intellectually
and physically; and yet content to live in his ideals
on a pittance, to do dull work, to be a subordinate.
Truly a caged lion. Farwell, on the other hand,
was looking in vain for some physical ravishes to justify
Victoria’s profession, for some gross development
at least. He looked in vain. Instead of
the pale dark girl with large grey eyes whom he had
known, he now saw a healthy and beautiful woman with
a clear white skin, thick hair, red lips.
‘Well,’ he said with a
laugh, ‘can I invite you to lunch with me?’
‘You may,’ she said.
’I’ll have a small coffee and . . . a sunny
side up.’
Farwell laughed and signed to Nelly.
After a minute he attracted her attention and gave
the order without Nelly taking any interest in Farwell’s
guest. It might be rather extraordinary, but her
supervisory duties were all-absorbent. When she
returned, however, she stole a curious look at Victoria
while placing before her the poached egg on toast.
She looked at her again, and her eyes dilated.
‘Law,’ she said. ‘Vic!’
‘Yes, Nelly, how are you?’
Victoria put out her gloved hand. Nelly took
it wonderingly.
‘I’m all right,’
she answered slowly. ‘Just been made head
waitress,’ she added with some unction.
Her eyes were roving over Victoria’s clothes,
valuing them like an expert.
‘Congratulations,’ said
Victoria. ‘Glad you’re getting on.’
‘I see you’re getting
on,’ said Nelly, with a touch of sarcasm.
‘So, so, things aren’t
too bad.’ Victoria looked up. The women’s
eyes crossed like rapiers; Nelly’s were full
of suspicion. The conversation stopped then,
for Nelly was already in request in half a dozen quarters.
‘She knows,’ said Victoria smoothly.
‘Of course,’ said Farwell.
’Trust a woman to know the worst about another
and to show it up. Every little helps in a contest
such as life.’
Farwell then questioned her as to
her situation, but she refused him all details.
‘No,’ she said, ’not
here. There’s Nelly watching us, and Maud
has just been told. Betty’s been shifted,
I know, and I suppose Mary and Jennie are gone, but
there’s the manageress and some of the girls
upstairs. I’ve nearly done. Let me
return the invitation. Dine with me to-night.
. .’ She was going to say ‘at home,’
but changed her mind to the prudent course. . . .
’at, well, anywhere you like. Whereabouts
do you live, Mr Farwell?’
‘I live in the Waterloo Road,’
said Farwell, ’an artery named after the playing
fields of Eton.’
‘I don’t know it well,’
said Victoria, ’but I seem to remember an Italian
place near Waterloo Station. Suppose you meet
me at the south end of Waterloo Bridge at seven?’
‘It will do admirably,’
said the man. ’I suppose you want to go
now? Well, you’ve put out my habits, but
I’ll come too.’
They went out; the last Victoria saw
of the P.R.R. was the face of the cook through the
hole in the partition, red, sweating, wrinkled by the
heat and hurry of the day. They parted in the
churchyard. Victoria watched him walk away with
his firm swing, his head erect.
‘A man,’ she thought, ‘too clever
to succeed.’
Being now again at a loose end and
still feeling fairly hungry, she drove down to Frascati’s
to lunch. She was a healthy young animal, and
scanty fare was now a novelty. At three o’clock
she decided to look up Betty at her depot in Holborn;
and by great good luck found that Betty was free at
half past five, as the Holborn depot for unknown reasons
kept shorter hours than Moorgate Street. She whiled
away the intervening time easily enough by shop-gazing
and writing a long letter to Cairns on the hospitable
paper of the Grand Hotel. At half-past five she
picked up Betty at the door of the P. R. R.
’Thank you again so very, very
much for the sweater and the dressing gown,’
said Betty as she slipped her arm through that of her
friend.
‘Don’t be silly, Betty,
I like giving you things.’ Victoria smiled
and pressed the girl’s arm. ‘You’re
not looking well, Betty.’
‘Oh, I’m all right,’ said Betty
wearily.
Victoria looked at her again.
Under the pretty waved sandy hair Betty’s forehead
looked waxen; her cheeks were too red. Her arm
felt thinner than ever. What was one to do?
Betty was a weakling and must go to the wall.
But there was a sweetness in her which no one could
resist.
‘Look here, Betty,’ said
Victoria, ’I’ve got very little time; I’ve
got to meet Mr Farwell at Waterloo Bridge at seven.
It’s beautifully fine, let’s drive down
to Embankment Gardens and talk.’
Betty’s face clouded for a moment
at the mention of Farwell’s name. She hated
him with the ferocity of the weak; he had ruined her
friend. But it was good to have her back.
The cab drove down Chancery Lane at a spanking rate,
then across the Strand and through a lane. The
unaccustomed pleasure and the rush of air brought all
her face into pink unison with her cheeks.
The two women sat side by side for
a moment. This was the second time they had met
since Victoria had entered her new life. There
had been a few letters, the last to thank Victoria
for her Christmas present, but Betty did not say much
in them. Her tradition of virtue had erected a
barrier between them.
‘Well, Betty,’ said Victoria
suddenly, ‘do you still think me very bad?’
‘Oh, Vic, how can you? I never, never said
that.’
‘No, you thought it,’
answered Victoria a little cruelly. ’But
never mind, perhaps you’re right.’
‘I never said so, never thought
so,’ persisted Betty. ’You can’t
go wrong, Vic, you’re . . . you’re different.’
‘Perhaps I am,’ said Victoria.
’Perhaps there are different laws for different
people. At any rate I’ve made my choice
and must abide by it.’
‘And are you happy, Vic?’ Anxiety was
in the girl’s face.
‘Happy? Oh, happy enough. He’s
a good sort.’
‘I’m so glad. And . . . Vic
. . . do you think he’ll marry you?’
‘Marry me?’ said Victoria
laughing. ’You little goose, of course not.
Why should he marry me now he’s got me?’
This was a new idea for Betty.
‘But doesn’t he love you
very, very much?’ she asked, her blue eyes growing
rounder and rounder.
‘I suppose he does in a way,’
said Victoria. ’But it doesn’t matter.
He’s very kind to me but he won’t marry
me; and, honestly, I wouldn’t marry him.’
Betty looked at her amazed and a little shocked.
‘But, dear,’ she faltered,
’think of what it would mean; you . . . he and
you, you see . . . you’re living like that .
. . if he married you. . . .’
‘Yes, I see,’ said Victoria
with a slight sneer, ’you mean that I should
be an honest woman and all that? My dear child,
you don’t understand. Whether he marries
me or not it’s all the same. So long as
a woman is economically dependent on a man she’s
a slave, a plaything. Legally or illegally joined
it’s exactly the same thing; the legal bond has
its advantages and its disadvantages and there’s
an end of the matter.’
Betty looked away over the Thames;
she did not understand. The tradition was too
strong. Time went quickly. Betty had no tale
to unfold; the months had passed leaving her doing
the same work for the same wage, living in the same
room. Before her was the horizon on which were
outlined two ships; ‘ten hours a day’ and
‘eight bob a week.’ And the skyline?
As they parted, Victoria made Betty
promise to come and see her. Then they kissed
twice, gently and silently, and Victoria watched her
friend’s slim figure fade out of sight as she
walked away. She had the same impression as when
she parted with Lottie, who had gone so bravely into
the dark. A wave of melancholy was upon her.
Poor girls, they were without hope; she at least was
viewing life with her eyes open. She would wrench
something out of it yet. She shook herself; it
was a quarter to seven.
An hour later she was sitting opposite
Farwell. They were getting to the end of dinner.
Conversation had flagged while they disposed of the
earlier courses. Now they were at the ice and
coffee stage. The waiters grew less attentive;
indeed there was nobody to observe them save the olive-skinned
boy with the mournful eyes who looked at the harbour
of Palermo through the Waterloo Road door. Farwell
lit the cigar which Victoria forced upon him, and
leant back, puffing contentedly.
‘Well,’ he said at length, ‘how
do you like the life?’
‘It is better than the old one,’ she said.
‘Oh, so you’ve come to that. You
have given up the absolutes.’
‘Yes, I’ve given them up. A woman
like me has to.’
‘Yes, I suppose you’ve
got to,’ pondered Farwell. ’But apart
from that, is it a success? Are you attaining
your end? That’s the only thing that matters,
you know.’
‘I am, in a sense; I’m saving money.
You see, he’s generous.’
‘Excellent, excellent,’
sneered Farwell. ’I like to see you making
out of what the bourgeois call vice that which will
enable you to command bourgeois respect. By-and-by
I suppose you’ll have made a fortune.’
‘Well, no; a competency perhaps, with luck.’
’With luck, as you say.
Do you know, Victoria, this luck business is grand!
My firm goes in for mines: they went prospecting
in America twenty years ago and they happened to strike
copper. That was good. Other men struck
granite only. That was bad. But my boss is
a City Sheriff now. Frightfully rich. There
used to be four of them, but one died of copper poisoning,
and another was found shot in a gulch. Nobody
knows how it happened, but the other two got the mines.’
Victoria smiled. She liked this piratical tit
bit.
‘Yes,’ she said, ’luck’s
the thing. And merit . . . well I suppose the
surviving partners had merit.’
‘Anyhow, I wish you luck,’
said Farwell. ’But tell me more. Do
you find you’ve paid too high a price for what
you’ve got?’
‘Too high a price?’
’Yes. Do you have any of
that remorse we read about; would you like to be what
you were? Unattached, you know . . . eligible
for Young Women’s Christian Associations?’
‘Oh, no,’ Victoria laughed.
’I can’t pay too high a price for what
I think I’ll get. I don’t mean these
jewels or these clothes, that’s only my professional
uniform. When I’ve served my time I shall
get that for which no woman can pay too much:
I shall be economically independent, free.’
‘Free.’ Farwell looked
towards the ceiling through a cloudlet of smoke.
’Yes, you’re right. With the world
as it is it’s the only way. To be independent
you must acquire the right to be dependent on the world’s
labour, to be a drone . . . and the biggest drone is
queen of the hive. Yet I wish it had been otherwise
with you.’ He looked at her regretfully.
Victoria toyed with a dessert knife.
‘Why?’ she asked.
’Oh, you had possibilities .
. . but after all, we all have. And most of them
turn out to be impossibilities. At any rate, you’re
not disgusted with your life, with any detail?’
’No, I don’t think so.
I don’t say I’ll go on any longer than
I need, but it’s bearable. But even if
it were repulsive in every way I’d go on if
I saw freedom ahead. If I fight at all I fight
to a finish.’
‘You’re strong,’
said Farwell looking at her. ’I wish I had
your strength. You’ve got that force which
makes explorers, founders of new faiths, prophets,
company promoters.’ He sighed.
‘Let’s go,’ he added, ‘we
can talk in the warm night.’
For an hour they talked, agreeing
always in the end. Farwell was cruelly conscious
of two wasted lives: his, because his principles
and his capacity for thought had no counterweight
in a capacity for action; Victoria’s, because
of her splendid gifts ignobly wasted and misused by
a world which had asked her for the least of them.
Victoria felt a peculiar pleasure
in this man’s society. He was elderly,
ugly, ill-clad; sometimes he was boorish, but a halo
of thought surrounded him, and the least of his words
seemed precious. All this devirilised him, deprived
him of physical attractiveness. She could not
imagine herself receiving and returning his caresses.
They parted on Waterloo Bridge.
‘Good-bye,’ said Farwell,
’you’re on the right track. The time
hasn’t come for us to keep the law, for we don’t
know what the law is. All we have is the edict
of the powerful, the prejudice of the fool; the last
especially, for these goaled souls have their traditions,
and their convictions are prisons all.’
Victoria pressed his hand and turned
away. She did not look back. If she had
she would have seen Farwell looking into the Thames,
his face lit up by a gas lamp, curiously speculative
in expression. His emotions were not warring,
but the chaos in his brain was such that he was fighting
the logical case for and against an attempt to find
enlightenment on the other slope of the valley.