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THE MISSES MALLETT

E >> E. H. YOUNG >> THE MISSES MALLETT




'What do you give me?' she asked. 'I don't want it, you know, but tell
me.'

'I told you that night when you listened and took it all. I don't
think I can say it again.'

'No, but you're not to misunderstand me, and you mustn't go on giving
and getting nothing back.'

'That's just what I can do. Not many people could, but I can. Perhaps
it's the only way I can be great, like an artist giving his work to a
world that doesn't care.'

The quick sense she had to serve her instead of knowledge and to make
her unconsciously subtle, detected his danger in the words and some
lack of homage to herself. 'Ah, you're pretending, and you're enjoying
it,' she said. 'It's consoling you for not being able to do anything
else.'

'Who said I couldn't do anything else?'

'Well, you nearly did, and I don't suppose you can. If you could, you
wouldn't bother about me.'

He was silent and though she did not look at him she was very keenly
aware of his tall figure wrapped in an overcoat reaching almost to his
heels and with the big parcel under his left arm. He was always
slightly absurd and now, when he struck the top bar of the railing
with his left hand and uttered a mournful, 'Yes, it's true!' the
tragedy in his tone could not repress her smile. Yet if he had been
less funny he might have been less truly tragic.

'So, you see, I'm only a kind of makeshift,' she remarked.

'No,' he said, 'but I may have been mistaken in myself. I'm not
mistaken about you. Never!' he cried, striking the rail again.

They were alone on the hill, but suddenly, with a clatter of wings, a
bird left his nest in the rocks and swept out of sight, leaving a
memory of swiftness and life, of an intenser blackness in the gulf.
Far below them, to the left, there were lights, stationary and moving,
and sometimes the clang of a tramcar bell reached them with its harsh
music: the slim line of the bridge, with here and there a dimly
burning light, was like a spangled thread. The sound of footsteps and
voices came to them from the road behind the hill.

'But after all,' Charles said more clearly, 'it doesn't matter about
being acclaimed. It's just like making music for deaf people: the
music's there; the music's there. And so it doesn't matter very much
whether you love me. It's one's weakness that wants that, one's
loneliness. I can love you just the same, perhaps better; it's the
audience that spoils things. I should think it does!'

'So you're quite happy.'

'Not quite,' he answered, 'but I have something to do, something I can
do, too. Music--no, I'm not good enough. I'm no more than an amateur,
but in this I can be supreme.'

'You can't be sure of that,' she said acutely. 'If you wrote a poem
you might think it was perfect, but you wouldn't absolutely know till
you'd tried it on other people. So you can't be sure about love.'

'You mightn't be,' he said with a touch of scorn. 'You may depend on
other people, but I don't.'

She made a small sound of scorn. 'No, you'll never know whether you're
doing this wonderful work of yours well or not because,' she said,
cruelly exultant, 'it won't be tested.'

'Ah, but it might be. You've got to do things as though they will be.'

'I suppose so,' she said indifferently. 'And now I must go back.'

He turned obediently and thrust the parcel at her.

'But aren't you going to take me home?' she asked.

'No, I don't think I need do that. I shall stay here.'

'Then I won't have your chocolates. I didn't want them, anyhow, but
now I won't take them.'

'I don't understand you,' he said miserably.

'Doesn't the painter understand his paints or the musician his
instruments? No, you'll have to begin at the beginning, Charles Batty,
and work very hard before you're a success.'

She ran from him fleetly, hardly knowing why she was so angry, but it
seemed to her that he had no right to be content without her love; she
felt he must be emasculate, and the guilty passion of Francis Sales
was, by contrast, splendid. But for that passion, Charles Batty might
have persuaded her she was incapable of rousing men's desire and not
to rouse it was not to be a woman. Accordingly, she valued Francis and
despised the other, yet when she had reached home and run upstairs and
was standing in the dim room where the firelight cast big, uncertain
shadows, like vague threats, on walls and ceiling, she suffered a
reaction.

The scene on the road became sinister: she remembered the strange
silence of the trees and the clangorous barking of the dogs, the
hoarse voices from the encampment in the hollow. It had been very dark
there and an extraordinary blackness had buried her when she was in
that man's arms. It had been dark, too, on the hill, but with a
feeling of space and height and freedom. If Charles had been a little
different--but then, he did not really want her; he was making a study
of his sorrow, he was gazing at it, turning it round and over, growing
familiar with all its aspects. He was an artist frustrated of any
power but this of feeling and to have given him herself would simply
have been to rob him of what he found more precious. But she and
Francis Sales were kin; she understood him: he was not better than
herself, perhaps he was not so good and he, too, was unhappy, but he
did not love her for those qualities of which Charles Batty had talked
by the Monks' Pool, he wove no poetry about her: he loved her because
she was pretty; because her mouth was red and her eyes bright and her
body young: he loved her because, being her father's daughter, her
youth answered his desire with enough shame to season appetite, but
not to spoil it. And she thought of Christabel as of some sick doll.

Dinner was a strange meal that night. Caroline's chair was empty, and
the sighs of Sophia were like gentle zephyrs in the room. Henrietta's
silence might have been interpreted as anxiety about her aunt and
Susan informed the cook, truly enough, that Miss Henrietta had a
feeling heart.

It was only Rose who could have explained the nature of the feeling.
She was fascinated by the sight of Henrietta, her rival, her fellow
dupe. Rose looked at her without envy or malice or covetousness, but
with an extraordinary interest, trying to find what likeness to
herself and what differences had attracted Francis Sales.

There was the dark hair, curly where hers was straight, dark eyes
instead of grey ones, the same warm pallor of the skin, in Henrietta's
case slightly overlaid with pink; but the mouth, ah! it must be the
mouth and what it meant that made the alluring difference. Henrietta's
mouth was soft, red and mutinous; in her father it had been a blemish,
half hidden by the foreign cut of moustache and beard, but in
Henrietta it was a beauty and a warning. Rose had never properly
studied that mouth before and under the fixity of her gaze Henrietta's
eyelids fluttered upwards. There were shadows under her eyes and it
seemed to Rose that she had changed a little. She must have changed.
Rose had never been in the arms of Francis Sales; she shuddered now at
the thought, but she knew that she, too, would have been different
after that experience.

She looked at Henrietta with the sadness of her desire to help her,
the fear of her inability to do it; and Henrietta looked back with a
hint of defiance, the symbol of her attitude to the cruel world in
which fond lovers were despised and love had a hard road. Rose
restrained an impulse to lean across the table and say quietly, 'I saw
you to-night with Francis Sales and I am sorry for you. He told me I
should not let you meet him. He said that himself, so you see he does
not want you,' and she wondered how much that cry of his had been
uttered in despair of his passion and how much in weariness of
Henrietta and himself.

Rose leaned back in her chair and immediately straightened. She was
intolerably tired but she refused to droop. It seemed as though she
were never to be free from secrecy: after her release there had been a
short time of dreary peace and now she had Henrietta's fight to wage
in secret, her burden to carry without a word. And this was worse,
more difficult, for she had less power with which to meet more danger.
Between the candle lights she sent a smile to Henrietta, but the
girl's mouth was petulantly set and it was a relief when Sophia
quavered out, 'She won't be able to go to the Battys' ball! She will
be heart-broken.'

Rose and Henrietta were momentarily united in their common amazement
at the genuineness of this sorrow and to both there was something
comic in the picture of the elderly Caroline, suffering from a chill
and bemoaning the loss of an evening's pleasure. Henrietta cast a look
of scornful surprise at her Aunt Sophia. Was the Battys' ball a matter
for a broken heart? Rose said consolingly, 'It isn't till after
Christmas. Perhaps she will be well enough.'

'And Christmas,' Sophia wailed. 'Henrietta's first Christmas here!
With Caroline upstairs!'

'I don't like Christmas,' Henrietta said. 'It makes me miserable.'

'But you will like the ball,' Rose said. 'Why, if it hadn't been for
the ball we might have been in Algiers now.'

'With Caroline ill! I should have sent for you.'

'Shall we start, Henrietta, in a few weeks' time?' She ignored
Henrietta's vague murmur. 'Oh, not until Caroline is quite well,
Sophia. We could go to the south of France, Henrietta. Yes, I think we
had better arrange that.' Rose felt a slightly malicious pleasure in
this proposal which became a serious one as she spoke. 'You must learn
to speak French, and it is a long time since I have been abroad. It
will be a kindness to me. I don't care to go alone. We have no
engagements after the middle of January, so shall we settle to go
then?' There was authority in her tone. 'We shall avoid brigands,
Sophia, but I think we ought to go. It is not fair that Henrietta's
experiences should be confined to Radstowe.'

'Quite right, dear.' Sophia was unwillingly but nobly truthful. 'We
have a duty to her father, but say nothing to Caroline until she is
stronger.'

Henrietta was silent but she had a hot rage in her heart. She felt
herself in a trap and she looked with sudden hatred and suspicion at
her Aunt Rose. It was impossible to defy that calm authority. She
would have to go, in merest gratitude she must consent; she would be
carried off, but she looked round wildly for some means of escape.

The prospect of that exile spoilt a Christmas which otherwise would
not have been a miserable one, for the Malletts made it a charming
festival with inspired ideas for gifts and a delightful party on
Christmas Day, when Caroline was allowed to appear. She refused to say
that she was better; she had never been ill; it was a mere fad of the
doctor and her sisters; she supposed they were tired of her and wanted
a little peace. However, she continued to absorb large quantities of
strengthening food, beef tea, meat jelly and heady tonic, for she
loved food, and she was determined to go to the ball.

This was on New Year's Eve, and all that day, from the moment when
Susan drew the curtains and brought the early tea, there was an
atmosphere of excitement in Nelson Lodge and Henrietta permitted
herself to enjoy it. Francis Sales was to be at the ball. She forgot
the threatened exile, she ignored Charles Batty's tiresome insistence
that she must dance with him twice as many times as with anybody else,
because he was engaged to her.

'I don't believe you can dance a bit,' she cried.

'I can get round,' he said. 'It's the noise of the band that upsets
me--jingle, jingle, bang, bang! But we can sit out when we can't bear
it any longer.'

'That would be very amusing,' Henrietta said.

Susan, drawing Henrietta's curtains, remarked that it was a nice day
for the ball and then, looking severely at Henrietta and arranging a
wrap round her shoulders, she said, 'I suppose Miss Caroline is
going.'

'Oh, I hope so,' Henrietta said. 'She's not worse, is she?'

'Not that I know of, Miss Henrietta, but I'm afraid it will be the
death of her.' She seemed to think it would be Henrietta's fault and,
in the kitchen, she told Cook that, but for Miss Henrietta, the
Battys, who were close-fisted people--you had only to look at Mr.
Batty's mouth--would not be giving a ball at all, but they had their
eyes on Miss Henrietta for that half-witted son of theirs. She was
sure of it. And Miss Caroline was not fit to go, it would be the death
of her. Cook was optimistic. It would do Miss Caroline good; she was
always the better for a little fun.

The elder ladies breakfasted in bed to save themselves all unnecessary
fatigue, and throughout the day they moved behind half-lowered blinds.
Henrietta was warned not to walk out. There was a cold wind, her face
would be roughened; and when she insisted on air and exercise she was
advised to wear a thick veil. Both ladies offered her a shawl-like
covering for the face, but Henrietta shook her head. 'Feel,' she said,
lifting a hand of each to either cheek.

'Like a flower,' Sophia said.

'The wind doesn't hurt flowers. It won't hurt me.'

Fires were lighted in the bedroom earlier than usual. Caroline and
Sophia again retired to their room, leaving orders that they were not
to be disturbed until four o'clock, and a solemn hush fell on the
house.

While the ladies were having tea, Susan was busy in their bedroom
laying out their gowns and Henrietta, chancing to pass the open door,
peeped in. The bed was spread with the rose-pink and apricot dresses
of their choice, with petticoats of corresponding hues, with silken
stockings and long gloves and fans; and on the mound made by the
pillows two pairs of very high-heeled slippers pointed their narrow
toes. It might have been the room of two young girls and, before she
fluttered down to tea, Henrietta took another glance at the mass of
yellow tulle on her own bed. She wished Mrs. Banks and Miss Stubb
could see her in that dress. Mrs. Banks would cry and Miss Stubb would
grow poetical. She would have to write and tell them all about it. At
eight o'clock the four Miss Malletts assembled in the drawing-room.
Caroline was magnificent. Old lace veiled the shimmering satin of her
gown and made it possible to wear the family emeralds: these, heavily
set, were on her neck and in her ears; a pair of bracelets adorned her
arms. Seen from behind, she might have been the stout and prosperous
mother of a family in her prime and only when she turned and displayed
the pink patches on yellow skin, was her age discernible. She was
magnificent, and terrible, and Henrietta had a moment of recoil before
she gasped, 'Oh, Aunt Caroline, how lovely!'

Sophia advanced more modestly for inspection. 'She looks about
twenty-one!' Caroline exclaimed. 'What a figure! Like a girl's!'

'You're prejudiced, dear Caroline. I never had your air. You're
wonderful.'

'We're all wonderful!' Henrietta cried.

They had all managed to express themselves: Caroline in the superb
attempt at overcoming her age, and Sophia in the softness of her
apparel; Rose, in filmy black and pearls round her firm throat, gently
proud and distant; and Henrietta was like some delicately gaudy
insect, dancing hither and thither, approaching and withdrawing.

'Yes, we're all wonderful,' Henrietta said again. 'Don't you think we
ought to start? It's a pity for other people not to see us!'

With Susan's help they began the business of packing themselves into
the cab. Caroline lifted her skirts and showed remarkably thin legs,
but she stood on the doorstep to quarrel with Sophia about the taking
of a shawl. She ought to have a lace one round her shoulders, Sophia
said, for the Assembly Rooms were always cold and it was a frosty
night.

'Sophia, you're an idiot,' Caroline said. 'Do you think I'm going to
sit in a ball-room in a shawl? Why not take a hot-water bottle and a
muff?'

'At least we must have the smelling salts. Susan, fetch the salts.
Miss Caroline might need them.'

Miss Caroline said she would rather die than display such weakness and
she stepped into the cab which groaned under her weight. Another
fainter groan accompanied Sophia's entrance and Rose and Henrietta,
tapping their satin shoes on the pavement, heard sounds of bickering.
Sophia had forgotten her handkerchief and Susan fled once more into
the house.

The cabman growled his disapproval from the box. 'I've another party
to fetch,' he said. 'And how many of you's going?'

'Only four,' Henrietta said sweetly, 'and we shan't be a minute.'

'I've been waiting ten already,' said the man.

The handkerchief was handed into the darkness of the cab and Rose and
Henrietta followed. 'Mind my toes,' Caroline said. 'Susan, tell that
disagreeable fellow to drive on.'

They had not far to go, but the man did not hurry his horse. Other
cabs passed them on the road, motor-cars whizzed by.

'We shall be dreadfully late,' Henrietta sighed.

'I am always late for balls,' Caroline said calmly.

Rose, leaning back in her corner, could see Henrietta's profile
against the window-pane. Her lips were parted, she leaned forward
eagerly. 'We shall miss a dance,' she murmured.

Caroline coughed. 'Oh, dear,' Sophia moaned. 'Caroline, you should be
in bed.'

'You're a silly old woman,' Caroline retorted.

'But you'll promise not to sit in a draught; Henrietta, see that your
Aunt Caroline doesn't sit in a draught.' But Henrietta was letting
down the window, for the cab had drawn up before the portals of the
Assembly Rooms.

In the cloak-room, Rose and Henrietta slipped off their wraps, glanced
in the mirror, and were ready, but there were anxious little
whisperings and consultations on the part of the elder ladies and
Henrietta cast a despairing glance at Rose. Would they never be ready?
But at last Caroline uttered a majestic 'Now' and led the way like a
plump duck swimming across a pond with a fleet of smaller ducks behind
her.

No expense and no trouble had been spared to justify the expectations
of Radstowe. The antechamber was luxuriously carpeted, arm-chaired,
cushioned, palmed and screened, and the hired flunkey at the ballroom
door had a presence and a voice fitted for the occasion.

'Miss Mallett!' he bawled. 'Miss Sophia Mallett! Miss Rose Mallett!
Miss Henrietta Mallett!'

The moment had come. Henrietta lifted her head, settled her shoulders
and prepared to meet the eyes of Francis Sales. The Malletts had
arrived between the first and second dances and the guests sitting
round the walls had an uninterrupted view of the stately entrance.
Mrs. Batty, in diamonds and purple satin, greeted the late-comers with
enthusiasm and James Batty escorted Caroline and Sophia to arm-chairs
that had all the appearance of thrones. Mrs. Batty patted Henrietta on
the shoulder.

'Pretty dear,' she said. 'Here you are at last. There are a lot of
boys with their programmes half empty till you come, and my Charles,
too. Not that he's much for dancing. I've told him he must look after
the ugly ones. We're going to have a quadrille for your aunts' sake!'
And then, whispering, she asked, 'What do you think of it? I said if
we had it at all, we'd have it good.'

'It's gorgeous!' Henrietta said, and off the stage she had never seen
a grander spectacle. The platform at the end of the room was banked
with flowers and behind them uniformed and much-moustached musicians
played with ardour, with rapture, their eyes closing sentimentally in
the choicest passages. Baskets of flowers hung from the chandeliers,
the floor was polished to the slipperiness of ice and Mrs. Batty, on
her hospitable journeys to and fro, was in constant danger of a fall.

The society of Radstowe, all in new garments, appeared to Henrietta of
a dazzling brilliance, but she stood easily, holding her head high, as
though she were well used to this kind of glory. Looking round, she
saw Francis Sales leaning against a wall, talking to his partner and
smiling with unnecessary amiability. A flame of jealousy flickered
hotly through her body. How could he smile like that? Why did he not
come to her? And then, in the pride of her secret love, she remembered
that he dare not show his eagerness. They belonged to each other, they
were alone in their love, and all these people, talking, laughing,
fluttering fans, thinking themselves of immense importance, had no
real existence. He and she alone of all that company existed with a
fierceness that changed the sensuous dance-music into the cry of
essential passion.

Young men approached her and wrote their initials on her programme
which was already marked with little crosses against the numbers she
had promised to Francis Sales. Charles Batty, rather hot, anxious and
glowering, arrived too late. His angry disgust, his sense of
desertion, were beyond words. He stared at her. 'And my flowers,' he
demanded.

'Charles, don't shout.'

'Where are my flowers? I sent some--roses and lilies and maidenhair.
Where are they?'

'I haven't seen them.'

'Ah, I suppose you didn't like them, but the girl in the shop told me
they would be all right. How should I know?'

'I haven't seen them,' she repeated. Over his shoulder she saw the
figure of Francis Sales coming towards her.

'I ordered them yesterday,' Charles continued loudly. 'I'll kill that
girl. I'll go at once.'

'The shop will be shut,' Henrietta reminded him. 'Oh, do be quiet,
Charles.' She turned with a smile for Francis.

'She hasn't a dance left,' Charles said.

'Mr. Sales took the precaution of booking them in advance,' Henrietta
said lightly, and with a miserable gesture Charles went off,
muttering, 'I hadn't thought of that. Why didn't some one tell me?'



§ 5

That ball was to be known in Nelson Lodge as the one that killed Miss
Caroline, but Miss Caroline had her full share of pleasure out of it.
It was the custom in Radstowe to make much of Caroline and Sophia:
they were respected and playfully loved and it was not only the
middle-aged gentlemen who asked them to dance, and John and Charles
Batty were not the only young ones who had the honour of leading them
into the middle of the room, taking a few turns in a waltz and
returning, in good order, to the throne-like arm-chairs. Francis Sales
had their names on his programme, but with him they used the privilege
of old friends and preferred to talk.

'You can keep your dancing for Rose and Henrietta,' Caroline said.

'He comes too late for me,' Rose said pleasantly. He gave her
something remarkably like one of his old looks and she answered it
with a grave one. There was gnawing trouble at her heart. She had
watched his meeting with Henrietta. It had been wordless; everything
was understood. She had also seen the unhappiness of Charles Batty,
and, on an inspiration, she said to him, 'Charles, you must take pity
on an old maid. I have all these dances to give away.'

For him this dance was to be remembered as the beginning of his
friendship with Rose Mallett; but at the moment he was merely annoyed
at being prevented from watching Henrietta's dark head appearing and
disappearing among the other dancers like that of a bather in a rough
sea. He said, 'Oh, thank you very much. Are you sure there's nobody
else? But I suppose there can't be'; and holding her at arm's length,
he ambled round her, treading occasionally on her toes. He apologized:
he was no good at dancing: he hoped he had not hurt her slippers, or
her feet.

She paused and looked down at them. 'You mustn't do that to Henrietta.
Her slippers are yellow and you would spoil them.'

'She isn't giving me a single dance!' he burst out. 'I asked her to,
but I never thought I ought to get a promise. Nobody told me. Nobody
tells me anything.'

An icily angry gentleman remonstrated with him for standing in the
fairway and Rose suggested that they should sit down.

'You see, I'm no good. I can't dance. I can't please her.'

'Charles, you're still in the way. Let us go somewhere quiet and then
you can tell me all about it.'

He took her to a small room leading from the big one. 'I'll shut the
door,' he said, 'and then we shan't hear that hideous din.'

'It is a very good band.'

'It's profane,' Charles said wearily. 'Music--they call it music!' He
was off at a great pace and she did not try to hold him in. She lay
back in the big chair and seemed to study the toes on which Charles
Batty had trampled. His voice rolled on like the sound of water,
companionable and unanswerable. Suddenly his tone changed. 'Henrietta
is very unkind to me.'

'Is there any reason why she shouldn't be?'

'I do everything I can think of. I've told her all about myself.'

'She would rather hear about herself.'

'I've done that, too. Perhaps I haven't done it enough. I've given her
chocolates and flowers. What else ought I to do?'

Her voice, very calm and clear after his spluttering, said, 'Not too
much.'

'Oh!' This was a new idea. 'Oh! I never thought of that. Why--'

She interrupted his usual cry. 'Women are naturally cruel.'

'Are they? I didn't know that either.' He swallowed the information
visibly. She could almost see the process of digestion. 'Oh!' he said
again.

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