The Disturbing Charm

by Berta Ruck

  CHAPTER V

  FURTHER PLANS FOR THE CHARM

  "Je dirai qu'une femme ne doit jamais ecrire....

  "Je ne vois qu'une exception; c'est une femme qui fait des livres pour nourrier ou elever sa famille.

  "Alors elle doit toujours se retrancher dans l'interet d'argent en parlant de ses ouvrages, et dire, par exemple, a un chef d'escadron: 'Votre etat vous donne quatre mille francs par an, et moi, avec mes deux traductions de l'anglais, j'ai pu, l'annee derniere, consacrer trois mille cinq cents francs de plus a l'education de mes deux fils.'"

  Stendhal.

  Now so far one charm-sachet was accounted for. It was safety-pinned intothe high busk of Miss Walsh's almost obsolete corset. The second Olwennow hung about her own neck. Even in sleep she would never be partedfrom it. Let her absorb its potency every hour of the day or night!Therefore she sewed to the square of mauve satin a piece of pinkbaby-ribbon, tied it in a bow and slipped it over her head. _Her_ charm!

  There were (until she obtained more of that magic stuff) two sachetsleft.

  Over these she pondered, running her needle into the flannel leaf of herneedle-book.

  "There's one thing to be seen yet," she meditated. "I've seen it workonce. It's been a success all right with a woman. The question is--Willit work with a man? I must try."

  So the destination of the third sachet was decided. That young andpink-faced subaltern should have it; he who had such blushing struggleswith his French and who seemed to have no more friends than had MissWalsh; he who had told Mrs. Cartwright so frankly that he was an ex-shopassistant, with the joys of travelling first-class (and of living tomatch) gone to his boyish head. Yes; the disturbing Charm should beapplied to help him. She would think out the "how" tomorrow.

  But the fourth sachet? To whom should she give that?

  Perhaps it was the passing thought of her writer-friend that brought inits train a bright idea.

  Mrs. Cartwright!

  "Why shouldn't I give her the Charm? Why shouldn't she enjoy life alittle bit more before she's quite, quite an old woman?" thought thegirl. "Of course she's not young; older than Miss Walsh even. And notpretty--well, how could any one be pretty at forty--even though herclothes do seem to fit her, and she does run up and down those sandhillsas fast as I can. She's awfully jolly and nice, though; so kind, too! Idaresay she'd like to be married again. I daresay she's tired of alwayswriting and writing. Tired of living all by herself when those boys ofhers are at school. I daresay she'd like to have somebody nice and sortof settled-down to help her with them. Now if only she could attractsomebody! Somebody like that----"

  Here a second brilliant idea flashed into that well-willing, impulsivelittle black head of Olwen's. She uttered it aloud, the name of this"somebody" who might be suitably attracted by Mrs. Cartwright--even atforty.

  "_Uncle!_"

  All alone in her room, Olwen clapped her hands over this idea. Swiftlyit began to enlarge itself.

  "Yes; why not Uncle? The very person! He's old, but then that's all thebetter; for her. He's just the right age, in fact!"

  Professor Howel-Jones was a sturdy seventy; and to Nineteen the gapbetween forty and seventy, seen vaguely down the perspective of theyears, is scarcely noticeable, particularly when it is the man who isseventy--men generally being of themselves younger than women. (Or so weare told.)

  "Yes; it must be Uncle. He's such a dear. A widower, too; and I'm surehe ought to have somebody nice to be a comfort to him, always there. Notonly me. Besides, I might be----"

  She hardly dared yet to finish to herself the thought, "Besides, I mightbe getting married and leaving him any time now!"

  So she pursued her ingenuous scheme. "He ought to have a nice wife. Hereally ought. And Mrs. Cartwright would be splendid--for him. He doeslike her. He was talking to her for hours in the Forest the other dayabout that essay of his on Welsh Flower-names. He calls her 'My dearlady' always. And she likes him; why, only at lunch today she saidsomething about 'that wonderful-looking old Uncle of yours.' She admireshim. Now, if she only had enough Charm to _attract_ him," thought Olwen,"so that he would ask her to marry him, I'm sure she'd be only too gladto! I don't suppose any one else has ever asked her to marry again ...but I would so like her for a kind of Auntie," decided the young girl,hastily taking out her needle again and threading it with pink silk.

  Another length of narrow ribbon was stitched to one end of the fourthsachet.

  It was destined for the neck of Mrs. Cartwright.

  At Olwen's age a thing is considered better left undone, than not doneat once.

  At once she decided to take this gift to her friend.

  So, still dressed as she had left the _salon_, Olwen slipped quickly outof her room and down a sharply-angled corridor, passing as she went theold Frenchman with the red speck in his button-hole and the elder ladyin mourning.

  Olwen glanced up at the numbers on the doors.

  ... "22," that was Mr. Awdas's room; she had overheard him tellingMadame that he would remember _vingt-deux_ because it was his own age."23," next to it on the right; that was Mrs. Cartwright's. Olwen hopedthat she had not yet gone to bed.

  She tapped.

  "_Entrez!_" called Mrs. Cartwright's deep voice, rather absorbed.

  Olwen entered, to find the writer apparently ready for bed, but at work.

  Her green shaded lamp was alight on the table, where she sat with a padbefore her.

  Her brown hair hung down in two plaits over a Persian robe of raw whitesilk, almost seamless, gold-girdled, and with stars and islands workedin gold thread; a relic of her time in the East. Another relic, perhaps,was the mingling of faint discreet scents that hung about the room:sandal-wood, orris, kuss-kuss, and rose.

  She looked up; then sprang to her feet as she saw Olwen Howel-Jones,still dressed as she had gone to bed some time before.

  "My dear----Anything wrong?"

  "No! No, thanks," said Olwen. Then involuntarily and surprised, "Oh,Mrs. Cartwright! how wonderful you look in that dressing-gown! Your arm,when the sleeve fell back, was like a little statue my Uncle's got inLiverpool, copied from the British Museum. A Tanagra, he calls it. Youlook exactly like that statue, you do really."

  "Do I?" returned Mrs. Cartwright, with a passing glance down her ownlong outlines from the shoulder to the narrow Turkish-slippered foot onthe mat. It was no news to her that she possessed, even yet, some linesthat sculptors centuries dead would have loved. Like many anotherplain-faced woman (as she was self-admitted) she had her special vanity.Her own pride of limb was as arrogant as it was secret.

  "My boys are going to inherit my absurdly long legs, I think," was allshe said, lightly, smiling down into the vivid little face of the girlwho had come in, and wondering what had brought her there so late.

  Olwen held it out, the Charm dangling at the end of its long ribbons. Asshe was hastening along the corrider she had wondered what excuse shecould bring with it. Now she felt that it was unnecessary display, thatinvention of the Red Cross Charity Sale which she had palmed off uponpoor Miss Walsh. The truth--or a small portion of it--seemed to blurtitself out to Mrs. Cartwright.

  "I've got something here that I've made for you," explained Olwen,flushing a little. "It's--it's a luck-charm. Like a touchwood or aswastika, only--only different. There's something in the sachet thatwill bring you very good luck if you always keep it on where it can't beseen. Don't ask me what it is," she begged, lifting her earnest littleface that the elder woman found so touchingly pretty. "And please don'topen it. Only always wear it, will you, please?"

  "Thank you so much; of course I will. I can do with any good luck that'sgoing just now," smiled Mrs. Cartwright. She slipped the ribbon over herhead and tucked the sachet inside the soft folds of her Persian robe."There! It's like a scapular that the little French children have; Iremember seeing a flock of them once, trooping in to bathe off the coastof Normandy, wearing nothing else; their little bodies each marked bythe black scapula
r, were like pink tulips freaked with one darkstripe.... May I take it off when I wash? Good. Now I'll expect it'llbring me luck for finishing the last chapters of my serial."

  "Are you going to sit there and write all night?" asked Olwen, with aneye on the half-covered pad.

  "Oh dear, no! Just another hour or so, perhaps. I was only recopying aparagraph, and then I found I was in the vein and could go on. Butyou--you mustn't lose your beauty-sleep," she added, gently smiling atthe pretty creature in the doorway. "Good night!"

  "Good night!" said Olwen, with a final glance at the edge of that pinkribbon showing above her friend's unconscious neck. She sped away--todream, as she hoped, of all that Charm might be expected to bring her,but in reality to the dreamless perfect sleep that is Youth's heritage.

  The half-gentle, half-amused little smile hovered about Mrs.Cartwright's lips for a moment, then gave way gradually to the look ofblank absorption as she bent her brown head over her pad, writingrapidly, filling a page, tearing it off, to add to the pile at her feet,filling another.

  * * * * *

  It had been a long apprenticeship which she had served to this job ofhers, since she had first been left as a young widow, to fend forherself and two babies on the pension which her country judgedsufficient for the families of the (Old) Army. Ream after ream she hadwritten on the once so fully discussed subjects: What to do with theCold Mutton; and, How to Keep a Husband's Affection Warm.

  To say that this occupation thrilled her would be overstating the case,but Mrs. Cartwright had preferred it to the thought of letting someother man pay for her board and lodging, some man who was not her Keith.This alternative had been hers more than once (in spite of littleOlwen's conjecture that she had never been asked to marry again). Shehad refused; working on, in her poky "rooms." ... At all events, thosecold-mutton articles had put plenty of nourishing beef-gravy into littleKeith; and when Reggie had nearly gone out with bronchitis she hadsettled the doctor's bills with her brightly-written instructions as toalways keep a smiling face and a dainty blouse for when Hubby got backfrom a hard day's work in the office. A fortnight's fresh air atMargate had been supplied to the small convalescent by his Mother's"Chats to Engaged Girls," which discussed "how many and many a foolishdamsel brings shipwreck upon her life's happiness by her failure torealize that her fiance cannot be expected to give up for her sake everyhobby, every recreation, every chum that he possesses," etc. etc.

  When this sort of journalism became superannuated "Domestica" adaptedherself swiftly. Business-like columns on Emigration and Fruit Farmingfor Women paid for the boys' first reefer-coats. Their school-kits cameout of the long serials to which she had at last attained, and whichbecame a never-failing joke with those of her acquaintances who hadcultured literary tastes.

  "My _dear_ Claudia, I see you've been and gone and done it again, in the'Morning Mail,'" they had smiled. "Another of your sugary fullertons--Imean 'A thrilling new story, by Miss Claudia Crane! You can begintoday!' You don't expect US to, I hope?"

  "Oh no," Mrs. Cartwright had said, also smiling.

  After all, these literary tastes of her acquaintances were no more"superior" than the thickness of her new woollies that she was thengoing on to buy for her sons' wear.

  Moreover, the woollies were of more use.

  (Furthermore, they were harder to come by.)

  * * * * *

  At the juncture when Mrs. Cartwright enters this story she was able tomake any holiday pay for itself twice over; witness her "Wanderings inWestern France." It was about this time, too, that she had begun toafford not only the warmest underwear for Keith and Reggie, but thesilkiest for herself.

  Even yet, she discovered, silk "things" were a joy to her again. So wereher perfectly simple _suede_ shoes. All these years she had lived andtoiled for Reggie and Keith; she was only just beginning to find herselfin this toiler. She was beginning to discover other relics, beside theEastern embroideries and the scent, of the woman whom she had thought tobe left dead beside her merry soldier husband.

  Surprising.... Life was still surprising; interesting. Let people takeit out of her "fullertons" if it amused them....

  She completed the "sugary" paragraph that brought her instalment to therequided "curtain," wrote "_To be continued_" beneath it, and smoothedthe blotting-paper down over the pad with a sigh of relief.

  "There!"

  She rose, stretching the tall symmetry of herself under the Persianrobe, then glanced with raised eye-brows at her watch.

  So late? She had not realized the flight of the midnight hours.Everybody else in the hotel would be asleep.

  Mrs. Cartwright snapped off the lights. Guided by a thin streak ofmoonlight on the floor, she stepped to the window, flung first theshutters then the windows open, and stepped out, all shimmering andghostly, on to her balcony. She stood--accustomed to air abouther--looking out on the moon-bathed scene below. The _Baissin_ was asheet of silver; the belt of sandhills silver-grey. No words can givethe whiteness of the Biscay rollers, silent with distance, tossing theircolumns of foam to the vast and lambent sky. Stars were as pin-points.Reassuringly near, the lighthouse raised its taper finger, on which thelight sparkled like a jewel, now white, now red.

  Mrs. Cartwright, enjoying all this too much to feel cold, stoodwatching.

  Why did people sleep away the best part of the twenty-four hours? Whyscuttle away and hide from Beauty within the ugliness of their ownhouses? It was only once in months that a woman stood as she wasstanding at that virgin hour, able to lose herself in the solitude, thefreshness and silence and light. She stood, dematerialized, part nolonger of a woman's warm and pulsing body, but of the sea and skythemselves.... White, red.... White, red ... the phare light flashedalmost in time to the soft breathing, that could be heard, in thatperfect stillness of her body. _She_ was outside it.... _Ah!_ What wasthat?

  With a start so violent that it seemed to wrench her, Mrs. Cartwrightcame to herself again, and to--what Horror was this?

  Through that perfect stillness a cry had rung out, sudden as a shot.Close beside her; it came from the right. It was a man's voice cryinghoarsely, "_Got_ him!" Then another cry, of agony; a scream....

  What was it?