The Doll (5 page)

The girl rose from her chair.

‘Thank you for all your trouble,’ she said quietly. ‘I think I had better go now. I will write if I want anything.’

The Vicar shrugged his shoulders. She did not seem particularly grateful to him, what more did she expect, he wondered.

‘Good-bye, my child. I shall expect to hear from you in a few days, then.’

The door closed behind her. It had been a difficult interview, but it did not look as if she would bother Cranleigh any more.

The boy was well out of it anyway. He had rung up in the afternoon and left a message that he was going up to Scotland by the night train, and would probably stop there for about six weeks. He would soon forget the whole affair in Scotland. The Vicar glanced at the clock. Jove! he had no idea it was so late. He was due at the Duchess of Attleborough’s little dinner-dance at eight-fifteen.

‘James, you ought to be ashamed of yourself; how dare you make me laugh at your stories! Go away at once!’

The Duchess pushed the Vicar away from her with what she believed was a roguish gesture.

She was devoted to him, but she adored to pretend that he shocked her. He caught her hand, and would not let her escape.

‘Norah,’ he said reproachfully, ‘how can you be so unkind to me? You place me next you on purpose, and then you complain when I try to amuse you. Perhaps you would rather I went away and sat beside that very charming young lady in pink who is looking at us?’

The girl, whom he had met at dinner for the first time, heard his remark and blushed. She thought the Vicar was terribly attractive.

The Duchess laughed indulgently. ‘I won’t allow you to say a word to her unless you behave yourself.’

He whispered something in her ear, and she went into peals of laughter. ‘No, no; you are quite hopeless, and then you expect me to take you seriously when I come to St Swithin’s. What are you going to preach about to-morrow?’

‘Haven’t decided yet,’ he answered carelessly.

It was always a good pose of his that he never prepared his sermons. The Duchess shook her head at him, and very soon after she gave the signal to rise.

‘The band has come,’ she announced, ‘and you men have got to come up and dance. I give you ten minutes down here and no more.’

The men laughed, and rose clumsily from their chairs. As soon as she had left the room, followed by a little crowd of lovely women, they sat down again, leant back comfortably, and began to discuss their hostess. The women whose husbands were not present were picked to pieces, physically and morally, while those who were received just the right amount of flattery and attention.

Someone made a few witty remarks about a scandal that was centring round a prominent society beauty, while another man began to be very boring about old china. At his opening words, however, it was decided to go upstairs and dance, and the bore was cut short in the middle of a sentence.

A few of the women were not dancing, but were sitting about in a corner watching the others. The Vicar at once made his way towards them, and began to keep up his reputation as being one of the most amusing men in London.

He was serious, witty, and intimate in turn, and they would have kept him there all the evening had not the Duchess finally come to the rescue and commanded him to dance.

He did his duty with the few important people, and then his eye wandered in search of the girl in pink. He was a beautiful dancer, and though a keen follower of all the latest steps he knew that he was at his best when waltzing. There was something about the lilting time and the wail of the violin that appealed to him. He knew that all eyes were upon them as they swayed in the centre of the room. He could imagine their remarks: ‘What a lovely couple they make.’

Something of the kind was sure to be said. The Duchess was watching them from the doorway. Glorious woman, Norah, quite unique in many ways. She knew life, if anybody did; he could remember conversations with her – other things too – oh! yes, theirs had been a remarkable friendship. This child was as light as a feather. As they side-stepped in a corner he fancied that she leant a little against him. Delightful creature! He pressed her hand ever so slightly, and began to hum the tune under his breath.

Soon after midnight the Vicar left.

He did not believe in keeping late hours, they tired his brain and spoilt his temper.

However, he had enjoyed his evening.

The little girl had been very pretty, and amusing into the bargain; he flattered himself that he had made a very definite impression.

She was coming to St Swithin’s anyway.

As he sank into bed he remembered with relief that the Curate was taking Low Mass at eight the following morning instead of him.

His prayers said, his sins of the day acknowledged, he fell asleep in a state of grace.

The next day, when he rose and went down into his study, it occurred to him that he had not prepared his sermon.

He glanced through the Sunday paper at random, in the hope of finding an inspiration.

There were two paragraphs that caught his attention, and disturbed him.

One was the copy of an article from a Socialist newspaper, attacking the smart society women, declaring them to be mere expensive ornaments who had never done a day’s work in their lives, and who generally lived in idleness, immorality, and vice.

The other was shorter, and ran thus:

‘The body of a young girl that was taken from Regent’s Park Canal last night has been identified as that of a Miss Mary Williams, of 32 Clifton Road, St John’s Wood, by her sister, Mrs Datchett, who had become alarmed at the girl’s absence. It is believed that she stumbled in the dark and fell in, when walking home, and was instantly drowned. The inquest will be held on Tuesday.’

The Vicar stood silent for a while, his face white with emotion, his eyes gleaming.

‘But this is monstrously unjust!’ he cried aloud. He was thinking of the Socialist article.

St Swithin’s was always packed for eleven-o’clock Mass on Sunday mornings.

Most people had their own pews, and those who had not, generally found it difficult to get a seat at all. Large queues began to form about twenty-to-eleven.

The singing of course was famous, and musicians would go for the anthem alone.

Upon entering the church one was aware of the pleasant drugged atmosphere; a mixture of heavy-scented flowers and waves of incense filled the air. Then the organ would start, a deep sensuous throb, soft and low, whose sound would gradually swell louder until the plaintive notes echoed through the church, and then lost themselves in a dim, hushed whispering among the rafters in the roof. The sweet voices of the choirboys quavered, immeasurably high, amid the chanting of the tenors.

Then the Vicar would stand before the altar, a far-away, impressive figure in his vestments, guarded by a little crowd of boys in red, who bowed before him and shook incense in his face.

It was in his capacity of priest that he really found himself. He felt that he was a shepherd of souls, a saviour of humanity.

The vast mass of people in the congregation were listening to his voice, thirsting for the consolation that he would give them.

The Mass was a drama of which he was the chief actor. Each prayer was a speech in which he had learnt to put the fullest amount of expression, a depth of colour, a world of significance.

The choir and organ served but as complements to his own voice. Thus in the call to Confession, when he said the words, ‘Ye that do truly and earnestly repent you of your sins,’ his voice was that of a judge, stern and merciless, but who was himself stainless.

And with what compassion he faced the congregation afterwards, with what pity he pronounced the Absolution! The people would rise from their knees with the agreeable feeling that all was now well.

Of course he had favourite parts of the Mass.

The words ‘It is very meet, right, and our bounden duty’ were one of his best intonations, but he knew that his triumph, his moment of exaltation, and one that was waited for eagerly by his little band of followers, was ‘Therefore with Angels and Archangels, and with all the company of Heaven, we laud and magnify Thy Glorious Name, evermore praising Thee, and saying: “Holy, Holy, Holy”’ – the choirboys chimed in, swelling their voices to his.

This was great, this was magnificent.

To-day, however, victory was to come to him in the pulpit. He ascended the stairway with the light of battle in his eyes.

His sermon was indirectly a defence of those beautiful women who had been so ruthlessly attacked by the Socialist article.

His text was superb: ‘Consider the lilies of the field, they toil not, neither do they spin.’

From his first words his listeners were held.

A large number of the accused were present before him; he felt rather than saw the warm colour of pleasure mount into their cheeks.

They all hoped that he was addressing each of them personally, and they inwardly registered the vow to include him among the list of their most personal friends.

He knew this, his triumph was complete.

Not a sound disturbed the full rich tones of that glorious voice, the very air was breathless.

The little curate sat with bowed head. The doctor had told him that his wife must go to Switzerland, her right lung was already seriously affected and unless she could enjoy the benefit of another climate he would not answer for her life. But Switzerland meant hundreds of pounds, how was he to afford that?

For a week he had not slept, his head was nearly splitting with the agony of thinking.

And he was overwhelmed with work at the moment, the Vicar had entrusted the whole business of the Bazaar in aid of Unfortunate Women into his hands. If only there was someone he could turn to . . .

He looked up, a subdued giggle drew his attention to the choirboys. They were playing noughts-and-crosses amongst themselves. He frowned at them, but they replied by staring rudely at his feet.

He flushed – he knew the soles of his shoes were through. Oblivious of them all, the Vicar continued his sermon. He was drawing to the end now, he was finishing in a blaze of unparalleled eloquence. A sea of faces gazed up at him, the eager tools of his ambition.

Mary Williams was dead, he had forgotten her . . . The people he knew were before him, they would repay him for his noble defence. Words of flattery, words of praise seethed through his mind. Almost dazed, he heard the torrent of sound pour from him.

He lost himself in the beauty of his own voice. At last he paused, he ended on a note of supreme victory. The world was his. With a final gesture he turned his triumphant head:

‘And now to God the Father . . .’

A Difference in Temperament

H
e leant against the mantelpiece, nervously jingling the change in his pockets. He supposed there would be another scene. It was so unreasonable the way she minded him going out without her. She never seemed to realise that he just had to get away sometimes – for no particular reason, but because it gave him a sense of freedom. He loved to slam the front door behind him, and to walk along the street to a bus, swinging a stick. There was something about the feeling of being alone he could not explain to anyone, not even to her. The delicious sense of utter irresponsibility, of complete selfishness. Not to have to look at his watch and remember, ‘I promised to be back at four,’ but at four to be doing something quite different that she would not know. The feeblest thing. Even driving in a taxi she had never seen; to have the sensation of leaning back and smoking a cigarette without turning his head and being aware of her beside him. He would come back in the evening and tell her about it; they would sit in front of the fire and laugh; but at least it would have been his afternoon – not theirs, but his alone.

This was what she resented, though; she wanted to share everything. She could never imagine doing things apart from him. She had an uncanny way of reading his thoughts, too. If he was thinking of something that had no connection with her, she would know it at once. Only she exaggerated it in her mind. She would immediately think he was bored with her, that he did not like her any more. It wasn’t that, of course; it wasn’t that at all. Naturally, he loved her more than anyone in the world; in fact, there literally did not exist anyone but her. Why did she not realise this and be thankful? Why must she chain him to her, his mind, his body, his soul, without allowing the smallest part in him to stray, even for a little distance? She should understand that he would never go far, he would never go out of her sight – metaphorically; but surely just to the top of that hill, to see what was on the other side. No, even this she must share with him.

‘Don’t you see,’ she would explain, ‘that when I see anything or do anything there is no joy in keeping it to myself? I want to give everything to you. If I am alone and I see a picture that I love, or I read some passage from a book, I think to myself there is no meaning in this unless he knows it too. You are such a part of me that to stand alone leaves me dumb, without speech, without eyes. A tree with hatched branches, like someone with no hands. Life is valueless unless I can share everything with you – beauty, ugliness, pain. There must be no shadows between us, no quiet corners in our hearts.’

Funny! – yes, he saw what she meant, but he could not feel like this. They were on different planes. In the universe they were two stars, she far higher, burning with a steady light, but he flickering, unsteadily, always a little ahead – and in the end falling to earth, a momentary streak in the sky.

He turned to her abruptly.

‘I guess I’d better go and have lunch in Town to-day, after all. I promised that chap I’d see him again before he leaves, and I don’t want to offend him. I’ll be back early, of course.’ He smiled a shade too sincerely.

She looked up from the letter she was writing. ‘I thought you had arranged everything the last time you were together?’

‘Yes – more or less. But I feel I ought to see him again, just once. It’s a good opportunity to-day, don’t you think? I mean, we weren’t going to have done anything; you’re busy.’ He spoke easily, naturally, as if there was no question of her minding.

She was not deceived, though, not for a moment. Why was he never frank with her? Why not admit that he was no longer content to be with her, but must go out and seek any sort of distraction? It was his reticence that hurt her, his refusal to speak the truth. Like a wounded animal she spread out her claws to protect herself.

‘You enjoy his company so much, when you have only known him for three weeks?’ Her voice was hard and metallic.

He knew this voice. ‘Darling, don’t be ridiculous. You know I don’t care a damn whether I see this fellow or not.’

‘Why do you go, then?’

There was no argument to this. He yawned self-consciously and avoided her eyes.

She waited without saying a word. He pretended to lose his temper.

‘I’ve told you I don’t want to offend him. It’s a bit thick; there’s always this same old argument whenever I go out. Good God, it’s only for a few hours! If you had your way you’d leave me without a friend in the world. You seem to be jealous if I speak to a dog.’

Jealous! She laughed contemptuously. He had misunderstood her again. As if she could possibly be jealous of the people he knew. It would be different if there was someone worth while. But this careless, selfish way he left her for anyone, for some creature he might not even see again! She despised the weak manner in which he shifted responsibility from himself.

‘Go then,’ she said, shrugging her shoulders, ‘since it pains you to hurt a comparative stranger. I’m glad you’ve let me know. I shall remember in future. Perhaps you’ve forgotten that last Monday you promised this sort of thing would never happen again. I realise now that I can’t depend on you at all. I’ve been making rather a fool of myself over you, haven’t I? Well, aren’t you going?’

Her eyes were cold. She had wrapped herself in a sheet of armour.

He turned his back and looked out of the window.

‘Charming little scene for nothing at all,’ he laughed lightly. ‘It’s pleasant, isn’t it, living like this? Makes such an attractive atmosphere in the house. Scarcely a day passes without some sort of discussion, does it?’ He rocked backwards and forwards on his heels, whistling a tune. He knew that every word tore at her like a knife. He was pleased. He wanted to hurt her. He didn’t care.

She sat quite still, pretending to do accounts on a piece of paper. Calmly, dispassionately, she wondered why she loved him. His cruel, selfish nature, the way he took everything from her and gave nothing in return. If he would only realise that the smallest touch of recognition from him, the faintest sign that he would give up something unimportant for her sake, would send a flood of warmth to her heart. He did nothing. She felt herself drawing farther away from him, a lonely figure in an imaginary train. A grey shadow in a world of shadows. There was no one even to wave good-bye.

He watched her out of the tail of his eye. Why must she always parade her suffering before him? Not openly, not something that he could get hold of and flaunt in her face, but quietly, with the resignation of a martyr. A tear ran down her cheek and fell on to the blotting paper. Oh! hell – he wasn’t going to stand for it. It was damn selfish of her, spoiling his day.

‘Look here,’ he started, as if nothing had happened, ‘it’s too late to put the whole thing off now. If you’d said something earlier, naturally I’d have done so. I won’t be long, I promise. I’ll be back soon after lunch.’

Surely this was a compromise. He was going out of his way to be nice to her. He waited to see how she would take it.

‘Don’t forget your coat, there’s a bitter east wind,’ she told him, and went on writing.

He hesitated a moment, wondering what to do. Did that mean everything was all right? No, he knew her too well. She would suffer the tortures of the damned until he returned. She would imagine every sort of accident. She would bottle up this scene in her mind, making more out of it than there had been. Why didn’t he chuck away this footling lunch and stop with her? He didn’t want to go now at all. He never had, really, all the time.

Another tear fell on to the blotting paper.

‘Shall I not go after all? he suggested weakly, pretending not to notice the tear.

She made a movement of impatience. Did he think she was to be won as easily as this? He was trying to save himself. He was anxious to make up to her, to kiss and be friends like a child, and then forget all about it until the same thing happened again. Did he really want to stay with her? She gave him one more chance.

‘Do just as you think best. Don’t attempt to stay unless you feel like it.’ Her voice was cool, impersonal.

Damn it all, she might show some sort of emotion. He had offered to stop, and this was how she took it. No, he didn’t see why he should be always giving in to her. What a bore everything was. Why couldn’t they live in peace? It was all her fault.

‘Perhaps I’d better go, it looks rather rude,’ he said carelessly, and strolled from the room, banging the door on purpose. He wouldn’t bother to put on his coat, it would serve her right if he caught pneumonia. He had a vision of himself, stretched on a bed, coughing and gasping for breath. She bending over him with an agony of fear in her eyes. She would fight for his life, but she would lose. It would be too late. He could see her planting violets on his grave, a solitary figure in a grey cloak. What a ghastly tragedy. A lump came into his throat. He became quite emotional thinking of his own death. He would have to write a poem about this.

From behind the curtains she watched him walk to the end of the street. She was sure he had forgotten her already. She felt she did not care what he did any more. It was all over. She rang the bell and began to scold the maid for no reason.

He hated the lunch, the man was a bore – he couldn’t even listen to what he was saying. He felt ill, too. His wish was probably coming true, and he was catching pneumonia. What a God-forsaken fool he was to have come. There was no point in it at all. He had probably been and mucked up his life just for this. And all the while the fellow was rambling on about a whole lot of damned silly people he never wanted to see again. He’d cut everyone out of his life in future, nobody mattered but her. They’d leave this beastly country and go and live abroad. Perhaps when he went home he would find she had left him for good. There would be a note pinned on the desk. What would he do? He couldn’t live without her. He’d commit suicide, he’d chuck himself into the river. Surely she loved him too much to do this. He could imagine the house blank and silent, the wardrobes empty of her dresses, the desk bare. Gone, leaving no address behind her. No, she would not do it, it was impossible. It was cruel, it would kill him. What on earth was this idiot jabbering about?

‘I told her frankly I wasn’t going to stand for it. I haven’t the money for one thing, and, besides, I’ve got to consider my reputation. Don’t you think I was right?’

‘Oh! perfectly – absolutely.’ He hadn’t listened to a word. As if he cared about this fellow’s hellish reputation.

‘You know I must push off, I’ve got an appointment with my publisher,’ he lied.

Somehow he managed to get away. What did it matter if he was rude? The man had ruined his life anyway. He leapt into a taxi. ‘Drive like the devil!’ he shouted. Stop, though, he suddenly had a longing to buy her something. The most priceless jewel – the most marvellous furs – anything. He would like to shower gifts at her feet. Perhaps there wasn’t time for all this. It would have to be flowers after all. It was months since he had bought her flowers. How foul of him. He chose an azalea, an enormous one with pink waving buds. ‘This will last a month or more if it’s watered frequently,’ said the woman.

‘Will it really?’ He became quite excited, he walked out of the shop clutching the pot in his arms. She would be pleased with this. A month! Pretty good value considering. The buds were small now, but they would open a little every day, they would get bigger, the plant would grow into a small bush. ‘The symbol of my love,’ he thought sentimentally.

Supposing she had gone, though, supposing she had killed herself? He would go mad, he would scatter the petals of the azalea over her body with a wild, despairing cry. Rather an effective scene for the last act, he must remember this. No, by God, he would never write another line again, he would dedicate the whole of his life to her, to her alone. Oh! how he was suffering. If she only knew what he was going through. His heart was bursting, it had never happened to anyone in the world before. What had he done that he should suffer so? He was certain there would be an ambulance outside the door, they would be carrying her limp form on a stretcher. He imagined himself leaping from the taxi, and covering her pale dead hand with kisses. ‘My beloved – my beloved.’ No, the street was empty. The house seemed unchanged. He paid the taxi and opened the front door – silently, like a thief. He crept upstairs, and listened outside her room. He heard her move. Thank God! Nothing had happened then. He wanted to shout for joy. He burst open the door, a fatuous smile on his face.

Poor darling, had she been writing letters all day? Her face was white and strained. Why on earth was she looking so unhappy? Wasn’t she pleased to see him back?

‘Look,’ he stammered foolishly, ‘I’ve bought you an azalea.’

She did not smile, she scarcely noticed the flower. ‘Thank you,’ she said in a dull voice. How inevitable of him. How unfeeling and unintelligent. Would he never understand her? Did he think he could just go off and enjoy himself after having broken her heart, and then bring back this plant as a peace offering? She could picture him saying to himself. ‘Oh! I’ve only got to buy her a flower, and then kiss her, she’ll forget all about this morning.’

If only it was as easy as that. His attitude wounded her, distressed her beyond measure. He had no heart, no delicacy of thought.

‘Don’t you like it?’ he asked her, like a spoilt child.

Why had he bought the beastly thing? His agony at lunch, his terrible impatience in the taxi, meant nothing to her. Everything was a failure. The azalea looked foolish and conceited in its big pot. It seemed quite different in the shop. Now it mocked him, the colour was vulgar, much too pink. It was a hideous type of flower altogether. It didn’t even smell. He wanted to crash it to the ground.

‘Are you going to make a habit of this in future – a reminder for each time you hurt me?’ she asked him.

She loathed herself, she hated her words, she longed to say something entirely different. The atmosphere was terrible. Why couldn’t they be themselves again? He had only to make the first move. But her speech stung him, she insisted on ignoring every word he said.